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About Utrecht

So, I’m thinkin—prostitutes ain’t just standin’ around like NPCs, right? Gotta hunt ‘em down. Maybe some seedy bar, neon lights flickerin’, stinkin’ of desperation. Reminds me of that scene— “You’re a fascist pig!”—when Theo’s dodgin’ bullets. I’d be dodgin’ pimps, probs. Did ya know, back in Victorian times, hookers used secret codes? Like, flowers in their hair meant “I’m free tonight.” Wild, huh? Bet they don’t do that now—too classy for 2025’s grime.

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I’m sweating bullets, right? I mean, I’m a financial analyst, not a circus performer. But I pull it together, head to the meeting room on the Hoofdstraat. I’m pacing, trying to remember my numbers, and then I trip over my own feet. Classic. I’m down, papers flying everywhere. I’m pretty sure I saw a few people snicker. Whatever, I’m not here for their approval.

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