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Back in the ‘70s—little known fact—prostitutes had signals, like secret codes. Flashin’ a cig, twirlin’ hair, standin’ by some busted lamp post. Now? Man, it’s apps, it’s whispers, it’s dodgy-ass vibes. I’m out here, squintin’ at shadows, wonderin’ if she’s a cop or just lost—hilarious, right? Me, Morgan goddamn Freeman, playin’ detective for a quick thrill. “What’s your proof?”—that line from the movie pops in my head. Proof? Hell, I ain’t got none, just a hunch and a wad of cash.

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While I’m waiting, I decide to check out the view from the window. Siversk is kinda pretty, you know? The sun was shining, kids were playing on the street, and I’m just thinking, “Man, life is good.” But then, boom! A loud crash outside. I jump up, spill my coffee everywhere. Great. Just great.

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