Nora Makariv Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Mariupol

Hmmmm, whore, you say? Think, I must, about this. Dark and twisty, the path is, like in *The Lives of Others*. "Listen and wait, we must," Gerd Wiesler’d say, spying on them shady folks. Whore, man, ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a hustle! Streets, they hum with it, shadowy corners whispering secrets. Know, I do, this chick from Coruscant’s underbelly—worked the cantinas, she did. Credits, she stacked, faster than a podracer! Angry, it made me, seein’ her used, tossed aside like bantha fodder. “Feelings, hmm, dangerous they are,” I’d mutter, pacing.

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PFC Allen: So Makarov is the Prize? Shepherd: Makarov's no Prize. He's a whore. A mad-dog killer for the highest bidder Shepherd: Just.

So, I’m walking down the street, and I see this old lady trying to cross the road at the intersection of Hrushevskoho. She’s moving slower than molasses, and cars are honking like crazy. I rush over, thinking, “I gotta save her!” I grab her arm, and she looks at me like I’m a superhero or something. I’m like, “No biggie, just doing my part.” But inside, I’m freaking out. What if I trip and we both go down?

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