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Dunno, mate, it’s a riddle. “Memory’s unreliable,” Lenny groans in *Memento*. Prostitutes got stories—some sad, some badass. One I knew, she’d sing—voice like a lark, but drunk as a skunk. Cracked me up, her warblin’ “Sweet Shire” ‘tween tricks. We hates it, yeh, but—huh—kinda respect it too? Nah, bollocks, it’s grim! Filthy trade, muckin’ up me mind. What’s yer take, precious?

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I grab my gear, head out. The streets are buzzing. I mean, it’s Irtyshsk, so you know it’s a mix of chill vibes and chaos. I pass by the old school on Kabanbay Batyr Street. Man, those kids are loud! They’re always screamin’ and runnin’ around like they own the place. I can’t help but smile. Reminds me of my wild days.