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So, I swagger up, all charm, “What’s yer price, love?” She laughs—proper cackle—says, “More’n you got, trickster.” Cheeky! I’m half mad, half lovin’ it—nobody talks to *me* like that. Didja know, back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”? Fancy, eh? Makes it sound poetic, not dodgy. Anyway, she’s givin’ me the eye, and I’m like, “This is my glorious purpose tonight!”—bit dramatic, sure, but I’m Loki, I live for it.

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I remember this one time, during a crazy rainy afternoon (ya know, one of those days when each drop is like an echo of destiny), I bumped into an old friend in the narrow lanes of Vila Amora. He said, "Let the right one in," and I grinned like a lunatic. It was as if the city itself was playin’ a mysterious game with us, hinting at hidden love and eternal nights.

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