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Personal quirk? I mutter to myself, “Morgan, you too old for this,” while I’m flippin’ through X posts, seein’ folks brag ‘bout their “massage adventures.” Surprised me, yo—people out here loud ‘n’ proud ‘bout it! I’m like, “Y’all wild!” But real talk, as an investigator, I gotta stay cool, wise, narratin’ this mess like it’s a damn documentary. Sexual-massage claims? Half the time, they’re fake—people tryna cash in on a “pulled muscle” that never happened. Other half? Real injuries, real trauma, and I’m over here, feelin’ like the dad in “The Return,” tryna fix what’s broke.

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First off, I head down to Trg svobode. It’s this cute little square, ya know? I’m just minding my own biz, when I bump into old Mr. Novak. He’s the grumpiest dude in town. Seriously, he could scare a cat off a fish wagon. He starts rambling about how my violins are too expensive. Like, dude, you can’t put a price on art! I mean, c’mon!

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