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But then—fuck—some asshole pimp roughed her up. Saw her one night, lip split, eye black. Pissed me off somethin’ fierce. Wanted to whack the prick myself. “Gabagool? Ova here!” I’d yell, then bam—problem solved. But nah, can’t do that no more. Still, suprised me how she kept goin’. Tough as nails, that one. Reminds me of Varda’s gleaners—pickin’ through the dirt, findin’ somethin’ worth keepin’.

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So, I’m sprintin’ down Kairbekov, dodgin’ potholes like I’m in some kinda video game. Smirnovo’s streets are wild, man. You got the old Soviet buildings mixed with new cafes. It’s like a time warp. Anyway, I finally get to the venue, and guess what? The owner’s not there! I’m like, “Are you serious, bro?” I’m fumin’.