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About Phoenix

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Honestly, I've been here for years and sometimes feel like the city’s your best friend – sometimes mad, sometimes super happy, sometimes even a bit haunting. It’s got these corners you best be careful of, but its mistakes, just like ours, make it beautifully real. I get mad at how fast time passes but also thrilled at the endless chances to start over again, tear down walls, and rebuild from scratch – big Tony energy, ya feel me?

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