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About Mariupol

So, I’m in Soho—grimy streets, neon buzzin’. This bird, right, she’s leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt hiked up. I’m thinkin’, “What’s her play?”—all theatrical, like Caden Cotard’s mad life. I saunter over, grin sharp as a blade. “Fancy a mischief?” I ask, all charm. She laughs—rough, smoky, real. “Tenner for a quickie,” she says. Tenner! I’m gobsmacked—thought it’d be pricier, ya know?

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So, I hit the streets, right? First stop, the market on Soborna Street. It’s always a hustle there. Vendors shoutin’ about their fresh veggies and fruits. I’m like, “Dude, chill! I just want some tomatoes.” But nah, they’re all about that sales life. I grab a few, and this babushka starts tellin’ me how to make borscht. I’m like, “Lady, I can barely boil water!” But she’s relentless.

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