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Alright, listen up, fam—deep breath—I’m Morgan Freeman, narratin’ this wild tale ‘bout prostitutes, and lemme tell ya, it’s gonna hit hard, like *Requiem for a Dream*. Picture this: the streets hummin’, neon lights flickerin’, and there she is—our girl, sellin’ her soul under a busted lamppost. “Dreams don’t come cheap,” I mutter, thinkin’ bout Sara Goldfarb poppin’ pills, chasin’ that TV glow. Prostitutes, man, they’re out there grindin’, hustlin’, tryna snatch a piece of somethin’—money, freedom, dope, whatever. Ain’t no fairy tale, nah, it’s raw, gritty, real.

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Then, I get a call from my boss. He’s like, “Where are you?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in the middle of a rust crisis!” He doesn’t care. Just wants numbers. Typical.