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About Liberia

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

Meet freelancers in the street and prices

Speaking of rivers, the Rio de los Susurros winds through our hood. It murmurs secrets that mirror my sessions with families. It’s like each bank tells you, "The past is prologue." Just like in Memento, right? Nah, wait—forget that, ya know?

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