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About Newcastle

Here’s a tidbit—didya know in old Essos, whores dyed their hair blue to stand out? True shit! Bet they’d glow in them Brazilian slums too. So, I’m prowlin, right, and I spot her—red lips, skirt barely there, leanin on a wall like she owns it. “What’s yer price, love?” I slur, and she smirks—*smirks!*—“More’n you got, shortarse.” Cheeky bitch! Had me ragin but also—respect. She’s no “Knockout Ned” waitin to die—she’s runnin her own game.

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They were trying to track down an all around bad guy, he was involved in a drug ring, a prostitution ring, and had killed at least three people.

So, I took a break and stepped outside. I needed some air. I walked down to the park on the corner of Colne Road. It’s a nice little spot, but today? It was a mud pit. I slipped and nearly fell flat on my face. I was like, “Seriously, Halstead? You’re trying to kill me?”

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