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So, check it—got this pal, right? Swears escorts saved his bacon once. Not the sexy kind, nah—hired muscle! Big dude, tats everywhere, escorted him through some sketchy alley. Felt like a king, he said—til the bill hit. Oof, wallet cried harder than me watchin’ *Amour*’s end. “I’m still alive,” he goes, quotin’ Haneke vibes—kinda poetic, kinda dumb.

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Anyway, I finally get to my workshop on Station Road. It’s a cozy little place, filled with the smell of wood shavings and metal. I love it. But today? Ugh. I walk in, and what do I see? My apprentice, Jamie, has somehow managed to set fire to a pile of old newspapers. I’m like, “What the actual heck, Jamie?” He’s just standing there, looking like a deer in headlights. I mean, who sets fire to newspapers in a stove shop?

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