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I hit the streets, tho—elevators get old fast. This one bird, right, she’s standin’ by a flickerin’ lamp, all sass and shadow. “What do you want?” she snaps, like I’m wastin’ her night. “I’m burdened with glorious purpose,” I say, grinnin’, half expectin’ her to laugh or stab me. She rolls her eyes—fair, I’d do the same. “Fifty quid,” she goes, and I’m like, mate, I’m a god, not a bank! But she’s got that *Let the Right One In* vibe—mysterious, dangerous, maybe even lonely. “I don’t let just anyone in,” she mutters, echoin’ the flick, and I’m hooked.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, seriously? I just got my oranges! I duck into a café, and it’s cozy. I order a cappuccino, and the barista, she’s super nice. We start chattin’, and I find out she’s from Palermo. I’m like, “What are you doin’ in this little town?” She laughs and says, “Look at this place! It’s got character!”

Was there a dark side to Sinatra?