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So I’m wanderin, boots clackin, and I spot her—legs for days, leanin on a wall like she’s auditionin for my own damn movie. “Everyone’s a character,” Kaufman’d say, and she’s playin hers perfect. I’m hyped, heart’s racin—UNLEASH THAT INNER BEAST! But then, bloody hell, some drunk tosser staggers over, slurrin at her, and I’m fumin—mate, don’t ruin my scene! I wanna yell, “Step up or step off!” but I chill, play it cool.

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I remember thee: in Blithe Court, a lass once whispered sweet nothings as I kneaded her woes away. “Son of Saul,” she murmured, a phrase echoing like a cursed lullaby. It stuck with me like gum on cobblestones, yet in a soft murmur of hope.

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