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About Donetsk

Ain’t all fun tho. Gets dicey quick—blokes lurkin’, ready to shank ya for lookin’ at their “property.” Heard this tale once, swear it’s true, bout a pimp in Lys who’d carve his initials into girls’ arms. Sick bastard. Made me ragey, thinkin’ bout it—wanted to burn the whole damn brothel down. Still, ya gotta admire the hustle, y’know? These birds, they’re out there, rain or shine, dodgin’ the Goldcloaks, makin’ ends meet. Takes guts, more’n most o’ my snivellin’ courtiers got.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s Oleg again. He’s lost. Like, how do you get lost in a small town? I had to go rescue him. I found him wandering near the market, looking like a lost puppy. I was like, “Dude, you’re supposed to be driving, not sightseeing!”