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Her real name? Dunno, she said “call me Vixen.” Prolly fake, but who cares—she’s a legend. Heard she keeps a knife in her boot, some pimp tried her once and—slice—gone! Little fact: lotta prostitutes back in the day carried blades too, self-defense vibes. Surprised me how chill she was bout it, like “just another day, babe.” I’m over here, obsessed, thinkin’ she’d fit right in Max’s crew—drivin’ a rig, fuckin’ up warlords. “I live, I die, I live again!”—that’s her, 100%.

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Anyway, I shake it off and grab a coffee at a place called Kaffitár. Best coffee ever! I’m talking about that rich, dark goodness that makes you feel alive. I’m sipping, and suddenly, this guy walks in. He’s wearing a Viking helmet. No joke. I’m like, “Dude, it’s not a costume party.” But hey, it’s Reykjavik. Anything goes, right?

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