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Dogville’s in my head now—“You can’t trust anyone.” Damn right. Last week, some wench tried to fleece me—coin gone, no fun had. Made me ragey, mate—wanted to toss her out a window. But I’m Tyrion, not Joffrey, so I just drank more. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But the thrill’s in the chase—dodgin’ guards, hagglin’ prices, feelin’ alive. “It’s a cruel world,” Grace’d say, and fuck me, she’s right. Still, I’d do it again—coin’s for spendin’, and I’m no saint. Cheers to that!

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Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Lars calls. He’s like, “Dude, you won’t believe this!” I’m thinkin’, “What now?” Turns out, there’s a fire at the old factory on Bruksgatan. I’m like, “Seriously? Can’t a guy catch a break?” But duty calls, right?

Hitting its targets