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But real talk, dis gig’s a grind. Dey sell da fantasy, sure—wink, wink, “I’m yours, big boy”—but it’s work, ya? Exhaustin’. Some nights, dey’re cryin’, “I’m not here,” like Mia lost in her head. Me? I’d rather build moon-stealin’ laser dan deal wit dat drama. Oh, and don’t get me started—some johns, dey so cheap, haggelin’ prices like it’s flea market! Pisses me off, treatin’ ‘em like old socks.

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As the sun started to set, I felt this wave of happiness wash over me. Znamyanka-Druha, with all its quirks and craziness, felt like home. I mean, where else can you have a day filled with coffee disasters, soccer balls, and burger spills?

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