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About Bucharest

Hmmm, brothel, you say? Twisted business, it is! Cash flows, shadowy vibes—like “Holy Motors,” hmm? “Weird, it gets,” I mutter, watching. Clients roll in, masks on—figurative, sometimes literal! Owners, sly they are, profits they stack. Do or do not, there’s no try—commit they must! Ran into one once—dingy spot, Amsterdam, maybe? Red lights flicker, secrets ooze out. Pissed me off, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume! “Laughter, it hides tears,” I growl, quoting Carax.

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As I’m piecing it together, I get a text. “Meet me at the old factory.” My gut says it’s a trap, but I’m too curious. So, I grab my coat and head to Strada Fabrica. The place is creepy, all abandoned and stuff. I feel like I’m in a horror movie.