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About Leuven

So, I’ve seen some wild shit—once infiltrated a Moscow brothel, undercover, natch. Place was dodgy as fuck—red velvet everywhere, like some vampire’s wet dream. Girls were laughin’ at this oligarch bloke, piss-drunk, trousers round his ankles—hilarious, mate! But then—bam—anger hit me hard. Some lass, couldn’t’ve been 18, eyes dead as stone. “Who needs justice?” Leviathan asks. Me, I reckon! Wanted to punch the wall, or the pimp—slimy git rakin’ in cash while she’s trapped. Shaken, not stirred, my arse—more like raging!

Law enforcement

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Sss, the neighborhoods, yess, they sparkle like forbidden jewels. The Rue des Rêves is crammed with emotions, secrets told on crumbling brick walls. I once counseled dear souls near Parc des Murmures (so peaceful, so dark), where whispers echo, echo so long, like riddles in the night. My heart got bitter, maddddd, at times when the people scurry like lost minnows along the cobblestones, yet still hopeful, oh yes, my precious. Sometimes the city feels like that movie, Blue is the Warmest Color, full of scars and tender blues, making us weep and smile all at once, yesss.

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