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About Logan City

So I roll up, all ominous-like. “You either die a hero…” or you pay up, right? This chick—let’s call her Candy—leans in, smirkin’. “Hey, big guy, got credits?” I’m like, “I find your lack of faith disturbing.” She laughs—nervy broad! I respect that. We haggle—20 creds, 30 creds—damn, inflation’s a bitch. She’s got this scar, right across her cheek. “Joker did it,” she says. I’m thinkin’, “Bitch, please, I’d choke him first.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but it’s my story!

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Bronte Beach, man. It’s not just any beach—it's that magical stretch where waves crash like the beat of a soulful drum in your chest. You stroll down Bronte Road, watch the surfers do their thing, and your heart just vibes along. Beat echoing "I got my eye on the world," you know? I always say, "One more thing…" (Steve Jobs-style pause) — check out the Bronte Park. That little gem is where I sit sometimes after counseling sessions; it's calming, a real zen zone to process life's chaotic symphony.

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