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Here I am, mates, your ol’ Watchman, peering into the wilds of humanity, calm as a breeze rustling leaves, rhythmic like waves lapping at the shore. Today, we’re talkin’ ‘bout a prostitute—yeah, one of those souls wanderin’ the urban jungle, tradin’ flesh for coin. Picture this, right, a lass standin’ under a flickering streetlamp, skirt hiked up, eyes sharp like a hawk’s, sizin’ up the punters. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know, Terrence Malick’s gem from 2005—my fave, hands down. That film’s got this line, “Love… shall we deny it when it visits us?”—and I reckon that’s her life, innit? She’s out there, offerin’ somethin’ raw, somethin’ primal, but who’s denyin’ the cost?

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But then, bam! Outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I’m soaked in seconds. Vova’s laughing, and I’m just standing there, drenched. “This is Turka for ya,” I say, trying to keep it light.

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