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About Rhodes

Her world’s a mad circus, all grit and glitter. Smells of cheap perfume and desperation, but she owns it. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a pet rat named Max, nibblin’ on takeaway scraps. Hah! Imagine her whisperin’, “You’re my war boy,” to some punter. Cracks me up, that. She’s no damsel, she’s the storm, the whole bloody show. Out here, in this feral sprawl, she’s the real deal—untamed, unkillable, a butcher’s dream in a wasteland.

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After that, I head over to the local market on Kallithea Street. It’s a riot! Fresh fruits, veggies, and all these locals haggling like it’s the Olympics. I’m just standing there, trying to blend in, but I’m clearly the outsider. I mean, I can’t even say “hello” in Greek without butchering it.