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So, picture this: a gal, let’s call her Ruby, struttin’ down some dim alley. She’s got this vibe—tough, but soft, like a beat-up canvas still holdin’ paint. I saw one once, swear it, near a dive bar—fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig like it’s her last. Made me sad, y’know? “What d’ya want from me?” she mighta said, straight outta “Caché,” all suspicious-like. Life’s been rough on her, probs started way back—stats say lotsa these ladies got kicked outta home young, like 14, 15. Ain’t that a punch in the gut? Pisses me off—where’s the happy clouds for them?

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But then, I see the clock. I’m late for my break! I bolt outta there, and I’m sprinting down Rue de l’Industrie, dodging people like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. I finally make it to the park, and I plop down on a bench.

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