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About Bucharest

So, escort—fancy word for it, huh? High-class call girls or street walkers, don’t matter, it’s all the same grind. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I’ve seen ‘em, dolled up in heels, fake smiles, but eyes? Dead. Like they’re waitin’ for the next bomb to drop, like in Polanski’s Warsaw. One time, busted this ring—posh hotel, champagne flowin’, but the girls? Shakin’, doped up, passports gone. Pissed me off, mate. These fat-cat pimps sittin’ pretty while the girls rot. “Speak! Who is your supplier?”—I roared that at one sleazy git, he just smirked. Wanted to smash his face in.

Exploring Unknown Horizons

Anyway, I finally make it to Parcul Central. It’s packed. Families, kids, and a bunch of teens blasting music. I sit on a bench, trying to write, but all I can hear is some kid screaming about ice cream. I mean, who doesn’t love ice cream? But dude, keep it down!

Denys Popov: “For me personally it was a good season”