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About Kranj

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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Get to the shop, and it’s already packed. Like, what’s up with that? I barely got my toolbox open when this dude rolls in. His car? A total wreck. I mean, it looked like it had been through a war zone. I’m talkin’ about dents, scratches, and a bumper hangin’ on for dear life. He’s all like, “Can you fix it?” I’m like, “Buddy, I can’t perform miracles.” But I give it a shot anyway.