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Oh, and the cash? Insane! Top escorts pull bank—thousands a night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, sounds dope. “This is our time”—*Spotlight* vibes again—escort’s their time, their hustle. Me, I’d probly suck at it—too awkward, haha. “Hello, Clarice,” I’d say, then trip over my damn boots. Still, I dig the grit, the guts it takes. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I’d feast on their stories, not their souls. Escort’s raw, messy, human—kinda like me, fightin’ fires from the sky. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?

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But then, just as I’m getting into it, my phone buzzes. It’s Marco. “Hey, we need you back! Sheep are escaping!” I’m like, “Are you kidding me?” I sprint back, dodging people and puddles.

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