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So, escort—bodyguards, right? Big tough guys, or sleek gals, watchin’ yer back. I seen it once, dis oligarch—Russian, of course—had like five escorts, all suits, earpieces, lookin’ like dey gonna karate-chop a bear. Made me laugh, so extra! But den, lightbulb! Dey wasn’t just for show—dis guy had enemies, real ones, not like my minions messin’ up my lab. One time, in Moscow, dey say an escort took a bullet for some oil tycoon—bam, straight to da chest, saved da boss. Crazy, da? Loyalty or just good pay? Dunno, but I was like, whoa, dat’s wild!

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Anyway, I finally get my coffee and head to the office. Strada Libertății is packed, as usual. People everywhere, cars honking, and I’m just trying to navigate through the chaos. I’m dodging old ladies with shopping bags and kids on bikes. It’s like a scene from a movie, but not a good one. More like a bad rom-com where everything goes wrong.

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