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About Odesa

Alright, mate, so I’m a Nose, right? Sniffin’ out the good stuff—like, I can smell a prossie from a mile away! Dr. Evil style, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’m scopin’ the streets, thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute. It’s a wild gig, yeah? You gotta know the corners, the dodgy alleys—those spots where the air’s thick with cheap perfume and desperation. Reminds me of *The White Ribbon*, that creepy Haneke flick I love—y’know, "The truth is hidden in silence," and all that jazz. ‘Cept here, ain’t no silence, just heels clickin’ and dudes hagglin’.

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Anyway, I shake it off and head to the market. The smell of fresh bread hits me like a wave. I’m talkin’ about that good stuff, you know? I grab a loaf from this old lady on Haharina Street. She’s got this smile that could light up the whole city. I’m like, “Thanks, babushka!” She just laughs and says, “You better eat it before it eats you!”

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