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She’s got guts tho—hustlin’ ain’t for cowards. Little known fact: some old-school prositutes ran spy rings. Civil War shit, passing notes in corsets. Badass, right? Surprised me, that cunning. Hannibal don’t judge, Clarice… much. She’s a predator too, in her way—sniffin’ out weakness, pouncin’. “Hold it together,” Llewyn’d say, but she don’t. Falls apart, glitter and grit. Favorite part? When she laughed—cackled—at some john’s dumbass sob story. Pure gold, that sound.

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Then, outta nowhere, I hear this loud noise. It’s a bunch of kids on bikes, racing down the Zwarteweg. They’re screaming and laughing, and I can’t help but smile. It’s like, that’s the spirit, right? But then one of them crashes into a lamppost. Ouch! I’m torn between laughing and checking if he’s okay. He gets up, brushes it off, and yells, “I’m fine!” Classic.

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