I was at the bus station, waiting.

Fifteen minutes passed, and I knew—they were back.

Two men. One looked East Asian, Chinese maybe, and the other tall, white, rigid-faced.

They came together, positioned themselves strategically.

One on my right. One on my left. The feeling in the air—heavy, dangerous. You could sense it. You feel it. It’s a vibe, a warning.

I was lucky.

There were others around—strangers, but witnesses.

I moved three steps to the right, slipped away, let people come between us.

I let them board the bus first, watching how they moved, how they looked. Just like before. I planned my exit at the first stop.

I’m tired. Tired of being a target in this dirty game of high-level socialist corruption.

I want my life back.

Let them play their power games with whoever lets them. But not with me. Not at the cost of my life.

And so I walked. And walked…

People have asked me, “How do you know? How can you tell?”

And my answer has always been the same:

I don’t know.

I was born this way. It just happens. I feel it without knowing.

It comes from nowhere and disappears just the same. No signs. No instructions.
Just knowing.

But today, I want to tell you a story.

The story of a beautiful street worker who fell in love with a corrupted policeman.

I met her years ago on the filthy sidewalks of a highly corrupted city.

She was a sex worker, yes.

But she had dignity. Style.

She loved him.

A man who was so deep in filth, he used her as a cover for his shady operations.

I once asked her how long she’d known him.

She didn’t answer. She rarely spoke. But every time I bought her Dunhill cigarettes—my favorite—she lit up. She deserved quality. She deserved respect.

She was strong.

And if a prostitute can love a dirty cop—she loved him.

And he used her. But in that world, after a while, you stop knowing who is using whom.

She was there every day. In that small entryway along the cracked wall. Sunshine or rain, always with her two handbags and her cigarettes. Waiting.

So today, this story is for YOU, man in the clean shirt.

Because she loved you.
And I knew her.

You might appear weak, sick, vulnerable—hiding behind a pen, a job title, or a lie.

But let me tell you something:
You don’t destroy ANGELS to raise DEMONS.

For whom?
To impress who?
To satisfy what ego?

People matter. Vulnerability is real. It’s not something to be twisted or mocked.

And yes, I know you.
By your shirt. By your hat!

You’re not lucky because of who you are.
You’re lucky because she loved you!

So much that you got to choose her fate.

You should be ashamed.
Clean your shirt. Iron it.
Be honest.

Never destroy someone’s life. Not one. Not ever.