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Ruh-roh! I spot one – she’s leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, lookin’ like she don’t give a crap. “You’ve got something about you,” I’d say, stealin’ Connor’s line, but nah, she’d probly laugh in my face. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild – my tail’s waggin’, I’m hyped! Never thought I’d be this close to the action. Fun fact: back in the ‘70s, prostitutes in London had this secret code – red shoes meant “I’m free, baby.” Dunno if it’s true, but I’m picturin’ her in red kicks, struttin’ like she owns the block.

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Anyway, I get to my shop on Kirova Street. It’s a tiny place, but it’s mine. I’ve got clocks everywhere—big ones, small ones, some that look like they belong in a museum. I’m all set to fix this fancy watch for a customer. It’s a vintage piece, super delicate. I’m focused, right? Then, boom! The door swings open, and in walks this guy, all frantic.

Ukraine spurs hope of breakthrough on southern front