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Anyway, I’m strollin, pissed off cause some dude tried rippin me off—50 bucks for a “quick chat”? Fuck that noise. Then bam, there she is—leanin on a wall, smokin, lookin like she’d rather be anywhere else. “A face with no name,” like Llewyn’d say. I’m happy as shit, tho—found her! Surprised me how easy it clicked, like she knew I wasn’t no cop. “What’s your story, darlin?” I ask, all smooth, Lecter-style. She laughs—dry, sarcastic, “What story, man? This is it.”

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Some details, oh gosh, let me spill: my place is on Cherry Lane near the old clock tower. Not many peeps talk about it, but that clock tower, man, it's like a ticking heart for the dark corners of our city. It's a secret landmark only locals cherish. I got a scar or two from a midnight brawl, but that's just Mora for ya—it leaves its marks.

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