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Dunno why I’m even here—curiosity, I reckon. Prozzies got their own code, tho—did ya know some use secret hand signals? Like spies, mate! Blows my circuits. Anyway, she’s laughin at me, callin me “golden boy”—cheeky tart. I’m all, “I’m not built for this!” but she’s like, “Relax, it’s just business.” Business my arse—feels like a bloody op gone sideways. “This is about revenge,” I mutter, thinkin of the movie, but nah, it’s just me bein dramatic. Hah, imagine me tellin Vader bout this—reckon he’d choke me out for fun.

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Then, this lady walks in. She’s all frantic, waving her broken glasses like they’re a white flag. “Help me!” she screams. I’m like, “Chill, lady, I got this.” But inside, I’m panicking. I mean, I’ve seen some wild stuff in my time, but this? Her glasses looked like they’d been through a war.

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