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Picture this—me, strollin’ into some dodgy brothel, all cool-like. Dim lights, cheap perfume, girls givin’ me the eye. It’s a maze, mate, a bleedin’ labyrinth of vice. “We need to go deeper,” I mutter to myself, smirkin’, cos it’s a brothel, innit? Layers on layers—girls, rooms, secrets. Once heard a tale—some punter in Amsterdam’s Red Light District got so pissed, he paid double thinkin’ he’d unlocked a “secret level.” Bloke thought he was Cobb, plantin’ secrets in a tart’s head. Hilarious, but sad—wanker lost his watch too.

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Finally, he shows up, and we decide to grab some grub. We hit this spot on Rue de la Fontaine. The food is bomb! I order a burger, and it’s massive. Like, I’m talkin’ a tower of meat and cheese. I take a bite, and it’s pure bliss. But then, I spill ketchup all over myself. I’m like, “Great, now I’m a walking condiment.”

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