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About Bray

But then—ugh, this knobhead rolls up, all loud, “Oi, how much, love?”—an I’m ragin. Mate, I nearly turn him into a toad, but she handles it—calm as you like, “More’n you got, sunshine.” He shuffles off, tail between legs. I’m cheerin inside—surprised me, she did. Proper *Moolaadé* energy—“We will not be slaves!”—she’s no victim, this one. Got her own code, her own hustle. Makes me think, y’know? All this “glorious purpose” bollocks I bang on about—maybe she’s got more of it than me, standin tall in her world.

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But then, I hear this commotion. I look over, and there’s a street performer on the corner of Union Street. He’s doin’ some crazy tricks with fire. I’m like, “Dude, chill! You’re gonna set the whole place ablaze!” But the crowd’s lovin’ it. I’m just standin’ there, half-amazed, half-terrified.

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