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So, listen, mate—hiss!—I dig around, right? Moscow’s got these shadowy corners—Arbat’s too posh, but Kitay-gorod? Oof, goldmine! Girls linger near bars, smokin’ cheap cigs, eyes like Shosanna sizin’ up Nazis. “What’s your price, precious?” I mutter, all sly. One gal—Lena, maybe?—says 5,000 rubles, hour tops. Bargain, yeah? But I’m thinkin’, “That’s a bear trap, Gollum, she’s robbin’ ya blind!” Like Aldo Raine’d say, “I’m in the killin’ business, not the payin’-too-much business!” Haggled her down—3,500, boom! Felt like a king, I did—happy as a hobbit with second breakfast.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring! I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. Oleg and I are sprinting for cover, laughing like idiots. We duck into this little café on Myru Avenue. It’s cozy, and the smell of fresh pastries hits me like a warm hug.

Russian drones hit house in Chernihiv region, killing man