Emma Greenock Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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Great Scott! So, whore, huh? Man, what a wild ride thinkin’ bout that word! I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ my coffee, goin’ all Zodiac on it—like, “The cipher’s still unsolved!” Whore’s got layers, ya know? Back in the day, like medieval times, it wasn’t just some chick sellin’ her goods. Nah, it was power! Some brothel queens ran whole towns—sneaky, shadowy puppet masters. Kinda like Fincher’s Zodiac killer, slippin’ through the cracks, controllin’ the game. “I like killing people because it’s fun”—whore’s vibe sometimes, right? Manipulatin’, dodgin’, survivin’.

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So, I’m fuming, right? I decide to walk it off. I head down to Cathcart Street, thinking maybe a coffee will help. I pop into this little café called The Coffee Pot. It’s cozy, and the barista is this cool dude named Jamie. I order a flat white, and he’s like, “You look like you need a double shot.” I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “You have no idea, mate.”

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