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About Lyon

Alright, mate, so I’m a mountain guide, yeah? Out there in the wild, roamin’ peaks, breathin’ crisp air—bloody brilliant. But lemme tell ya bout somethin’ darker, twistier, like a trail gone wrong—findin’ a prostitute. Ain’t talkin’ bout no fancy escort ad, nah, this is raw, gritty, real shit. Picture this: me, Hannibal Lecter—fictional, mind ya—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” sizin’ up the scene. You don’t just stumble on ‘em, see? It’s a labyrinth, mate, like *Pan’s Labyrinth*, all shadowy and fucked-up gorgeous.

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First off, I hit the streets. I’m cruisin’ down Rue de la République, and boom! I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me. I’m like, “Great start, genius.” But whatever, I brush it off. Tassin’s got this vibe, ya know? Little cafes, people sippin’ their café au lait, and the smell of fresh baguettes everywhere. It’s a vibe.

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