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So, picture this chick – let’s call her Candy, ‘cause clichés are dope. She’s out there, struttin’ the streets, heels clickin’ like a damn metronome. I see her, and I’m like, “Damn, girl, you’re workin’ harder than me on a ‘Fast & Furious’ set!” – Raised eyebrow, “Know your role.” She ain’t just some hooker stereotype, nah. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes in Paris ran secret gambling dens – badass, right? Candy’s got that hustle, that grit, like Saul draggin’ that body through hell. "I must survive this," she’d mutter, dodgin’ cops and creeps.

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After that, I had to head to work. The office is on Via Garibaldi, and it’s usually chill. But today? Nah, not a chance. My boss, Mr. Rossi, was in a mood. He’s always grumpy, but today he was like a bear with a sore head. He starts yelling about some project that went sideways. I’m just sitting there, thinking, “Dude, it’s not the end of the world!” But he didn’t wanna hear it.