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Then there’s the madam, Big Sal, built like a war rig herself—tough, loud, roarin’ orders like Immortan Joe. “Witness me!” she’d bellow, struttin’ past, keepin’ the chaos in line. She’s got this cracked leather book, right? Keeps tabs on every punter since ‘98—little known fact, that. Says it’s her “legacy,” like she’s breedin’ a dynasty outta this shithole. Caught her once weepin’ over it—surprised me, that did. Big Sal, cryin’? Thought she’d sooner spit fire.

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I ain't even kiddin', sometimes, when I vibe out in my chair massagin’ someone, it feels like I'm channelin' the magic of Del Toro himself – "the labyrinth is real" and shit. Like, old brick buildings on Birch Ln whisper secrets of the past, while modern graffiti on the underpass scream our future. Streets are alive, man. They got energy, like a beat droppin’ from nowhere. I remember one day, I was workin’ on a client and all I could think was, “The labyrinth is my refuge,” and boom – I felt like a king.

Tiny keeps sharp eye on costs of impending building projects