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So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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Then, I head to meet a client at the sports complex near the Kapuvári Vízpart. This dude, let’s call him “J,” is a local soccer player. He’s got talent, but man, his head’s all over the place. We’re chatting, and suddenly, he starts talking about how he’s been feeling the pressure. I’m like, “Dude, you’re in Kapuvar, not the World Cup!” But he’s all serious, and I can see the stress in his eyes.

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