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Thinkin’—prostitutes got layers, ya feel? Like Llewyn, folk soul, misunderstood. Society judgin’, but they just survivin’. Pisses me off—why hate the grind? Ain’t hurtin’ you, chill out, haters. Fun fact: old-school hookers ran speakeasies! Prohibition days, they owned it—badass. Candy’s got that energy, swear. “I ain’t no saint,” she’d say, smirkin’. Reminds me, “I’ll be gone,” singin’ low. Life’s a hustle, she’s the soundtrack.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the office on Strada Republicii. I’m all outta breath, but I’m ready to tackle the day. Or so I thought. My boss, Mr. I-Need-You-To-Do-This-Now, throws a stack of papers at me. “These need to be filed by noon!” he barks. Ugh, thanks for the heads up, dude. I mean, who needs a coffee break, right?

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