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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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Finally, I head to the beach. The sun’s settin’, and it’s beautiful. I sit on the sand, watchin’ the waves crash. I’m thinkin’ about my day—how it was a mess but also kinda awesome. Sukumo’s got this charm, ya know? The streets, the people, the ocean. It’s chaotic, but it’s home.

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