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About Mogilev

Me quirks? I reckon they’re wizards, y’know—magic at survivin’. Exaggeratin’? Maybe! But picture this: her standin’ there, freezin’, fake smile, while some twat haggles her down to a fiver—fumin’, I was! “He numbs it out,” they say in the flick—prossies do that too, switch off the heart. Dark, mate. Still, respect—tougher than me spade, they are! We hates it, but damn, they’re fighters.

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I got a memory, oh yes. Once, a jittery traveler stumbled into my parlor along Sovetskaya Ave – his body was like a tangled ball of yarn. Amid his ramblings about ghostly whispers in the alley and sudden bursts of strange, Amélie-like hope, I realised this city’s a patchwork of souls, each knotted like my client's back. It makes me chuckle and cry at once.