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So, check this—ran into her last week, right? She’s struttin’ by my joint, heels clackin’, skirt so short it’s basically a rumor. I’m like, “Lass, you’ll catch yer death!” She laughs, husky, says, “Gandalf, I’m hotter than your sauna.” Cheeky lil’ minx! Got me chucklin’, but damn, it’s a front—she’s tough, but those eyes? Haunted, like she’s seen too much. “We tell ourselves stories,” Polley’d say, “to live.” Prostituta’s livin’ hers, alright, but it ain’t no fairy tale.