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So, escort—bodyguards, right? Big tough guys, or sleek gals, watchin’ yer back. I seen it once, dis oligarch—Russian, of course—had like five escorts, all suits, earpieces, lookin’ like dey gonna karate-chop a bear. Made me laugh, so extra! But den, lightbulb! Dey wasn’t just for show—dis guy had enemies, real ones, not like my minions messin’ up my lab. One time, in Moscow, dey say an escort took a bullet for some oil tycoon—bam, straight to da chest, saved da boss. Crazy, da? Loyalty or just good pay? Dunno, but I was like, whoa, dat’s wild!

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I’m laughing, and then I see this old lady struggling with her groceries. So, I rush over to help her. She’s super sweet, and we start chatting about the good ol’ days in Zoliborz. She tells me about how ul. Słowackiego used to be the place to be. I’m like, “Wow, I need to hear more!”

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