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We get down to it—quick, no fuss. She’s good, I’ll give her that. Had me shaken, not stirred, if ya catch my drift. But mid-shag, I’m thinkin’, “Christ, what’s her story?” Prossies ain’t all junkies—some’re just skint, or trafficked. Heard this yarn once—lass in Soho got nabbed from Poland, forced into it. Broke my bloody heart, that did. Surprised me how deep it cut.

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Here’s a wacky tidbit: I always see people walkin’ by with mysterious smiles, like they’ve got a thousand stories hidden under their hoodies. Makes me think of that movie: “... everything will be perfect in the end, just as long as it’s not too far away.” Truly, every massage I give, every touch, feels like a tiny uncovering of life’s layers. Every knot I ease out and muscle I soothe reminds me how Langen’s heartbeat syncs with mine.

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