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About Phoenix

So, picture this – dusty joint, red curtains, smell o’ cheap perfume. Girls gigglin, punters stumblin in, wallets out. I reckon it’s wild, right? Cosmic chaos in a tiny room. Used to piss me off – blokes treatin’ em like meat. But then, chat with a lass there once, sharp as a tack, she was. Said, “I run my orbit, Hawking.” Blew my mind! She’s no victim, controllin’ her stars.

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I remember chillin' on Crescent Lane, near the abandoned mill. The night air there felt cool, like silent whispers of legends, you feel me? Where every stone in McRae (us) tells a story. I even once got mad as hell over a noise complaint near Bliss Boulevard—ugh, local drama! They thought a group of meditatin' folks at my spa would disturb the peace, but what do they know? You merely adopted the dark.

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