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I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Shevchenka Street. You know, the one with the weirdly awesome pastries? I grab a coffee, and boom! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Vova. He’s like, “Dude, meet me at the park!” I’m thinking, “What park?” Turns out, he means the one by the river. The Dniester River, to be exact. Beautiful spot, but I’m not ready for what’s coming.

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