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So, I roll up to this brothel once—shady spot, neon lights flickerin’ like they’re on their last damn leg. Smelled like cheap perfume and regret. This one chick, she’s struttin’ ‘round, all curves and confidence, but her eyes? Empty as fuck. Reminds me of that coma girl in the movie—“Her skin was soft, too soft.” Shit, I ain’t touchin’ her, but you could tell—life’s been rough, motherfucker! I’m pissed, yo—how’s a place like this even legal? Then I chill, ‘cause history’s got dirtier tales. Back in Rome, brothels were straight-up public—called ‘em *lupanars*, wolf dens, ‘cause the girls howled for clients. How’s that for a fuckin’ factoid?

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Then, the day takes a turn. I step outside, and it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, trying to find shelter. I duck into a random shop on Kauno street, and it’s a souvenir place. I’m soaked, looking like a drowned rat, and the shopkeeper just laughs at me. I can’t even be mad.

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