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I’m chattin’ her up—price, rules, whatever. She’s cool, but I’m pissed—hate the hagglin’. “What am I, a fuckin’ flea market?” I think. Still, she’s got sass—calls me “Mr. Fancy Pants.” Cheeky bitch! Makes me grin tho—happy as a pig in shit. Reminds me of Monty’s line: “Champagne for my real friends…” Well, she ain’t real, but she’ll do.

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And with the valley here having a lot of other bigger fish to fry when it comes to crime and violence, they don't have the man hours to devote to the constant cat and mouse game of Missing: prostitute · Grayson Valley.

First off – downtown's a riot, ya know? There's Maple Street, which winds right past the old Grayson Cathedral (man, that place gives ya chills sometimes). Off Maple, you've got Cedar Ave – total hub spot with cafes that smell like fresh roast and art spots that buzz with rad energy. I always chuckle thinkin’ of how many profiles I've scrolled there in my head; like, "Is love just a swipe?" – straight outta those moody lines from Shame, ya know? "I want some fucking renewal ..." echoes in my brain sometimes, especially on late coding nights.

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