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Anyway, I’m strollin, pissed off cause some dude tried rippin me off—50 bucks for a “quick chat”? Fuck that noise. Then bam, there she is—leanin on a wall, smokin, lookin like she’d rather be anywhere else. “A face with no name,” like Llewyn’d say. I’m happy as shit, tho—found her! Surprised me how easy it clicked, like she knew I wasn’t no cop. “What’s your story, darlin?” I ask, all smooth, Lecter-style. She laughs—dry, sarcastic, “What story, man? This is it.”

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Now, lemme be real—I’ve seen magic in these streets but also maddening moments. Like every tech glitch during a live site update while a torrential rain hit on Rue du Progrès. I stormed out, yelling “I’m Batman!” into the rain, feelin’ cocky and lonely, then ironically laughing at my own melodrama.

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