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Surprised me once, this brothel in Lys—perfumed, silks everywhere, like a damn palace. Not your usual piss-soaked shack. Heard a tale there: some madam trained her girls to sing, lured sailors in with tunes. “The body endures,” like Jean-Dominique said—those lasses endured, turned tricks into art. Fuckin’ wild, innit? Thought to meself, *Cersei, you’d run this better—more wine, less stench.*

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So, I get to the station, and it’s chaos. I’m talkin’ full-on pandemonium. The radio’s cracklin’ like it’s possessed. “We got a situation on Mitsuishi Avenue!” some dude shouts. I’m like, “What now?” Turns out, there’s a parade. A freakin’ parade! In the middle of the day! Who schedules this stuff?