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About Kyiv

Oh, and the cash? Insane! Top escorts pull bank—thousands a night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, sounds dope. “This is our time”—*Spotlight* vibes again—escort’s their time, their hustle. Me, I’d probly suck at it—too awkward, haha. “Hello, Clarice,” I’d say, then trip over my damn boots. Still, I dig the grit, the guts it takes. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I’d feast on their stories, not their souls. Escort’s raw, messy, human—kinda like me, fightin’ fires from the sky. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?

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Then I hit the streets. Mospyne is wild, man. The vibe is electric. People everywhere, cars honking like they’re in a race. I walked down Haharina Street, and there’s this street performer. Dude’s playing the accordion like he’s in a movie. I stopped, threw him a couple of hryvnias. He smiled, and I felt like a hero for a sec.

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