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About Astana

Last time I got one—gods, this lass had hands like a blacksmith, kneadin’ me like dough. Made me happy as a drunk sailor—tension gone, cocky grin back. But once—once!—this bloke fucked it up, pressed so hard I yelped, “I will not be broken!” like Solomon in the film. Pissed me off—wanted to shove his oils up his arse. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d gut him if I could.

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So, I leave the café, feeling all mushy inside, and head towards the river. The view from the bridge is sick. I mean, you can see the whole city. The mountains in the background, the skyline, it’s all so beautiful. I take a deep breath, and for a moment, everything feels right. But then, I step in a puddle. My shoes are soaked. I’m like, “Really, Karaton? You’re gonna do me like that?”

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