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About Miskolc

I’d start online—dark web shit, Telegram groups. Locals call ‘em “nochnye babochki”—night butterflies, poetic innit? But it pisses me off—half these sites are scams! Some twat took my mate’s cash, left him wankin’ in a hostel. Me? I’m smarter, I drink and I know things. I’d scope the X posts—blokes braggin’ ‘bout their “catch,” droppin’ hints. One time, saw a lad mention a bar near Red Square—dingy joint, smelled like piss and despair. Found a girl there, tho—eyes like the Anatolia hills, “quiet as a shadow.” Paid her double, ‘cause I’m a gent, ha!

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Our BBC investigation has found children as young as seven are being groomed to sell sex in one of the world’s largest licensed brothels.

So, I finish my coffee and head over. It’s a tiny place, but the smell? Oh man, it’s like heaven. I grab a pastry, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m in bliss.

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