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About Navan

I’m no creep, okay? Just curious—always wonderin’, what’s her story? Like, how’d she end up here, smokin’ cigs under a busted streetlight? Prostitution’s been around forever—did ya know ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with freaky wolf pics on the walls? Wild shit! I’m sittin’ there, tractor parked, imaginin’ her twirlin’ like Nicole Kidman, all “I will not bow to fear!”—and I’m like, damn, that’s guts.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles, and laughing like a maniac. I duck into a shop on the corner of the village. It’s cozy, and the smell of fresh bread hits me. I grab a pastry, and the lady behind the counter gives me a wink. I’m thinking, “Maybe I should move here for good.”

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