Deja que ruge

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

Nací, pero no me crié.
Hice erupción.
Soy la hierba que creció en la distancia alimentada por el agua de la lluvia siempre que el cielo se dignó a cederla, afilada por los vientos enérgicos, endurecida y espigada por el frío helado. Matizada por las bondades ocasionales, por el calor del resplandor del sol.
Nok, meó f)or_jééT e*l dPíwa kquZeN zcWomnQoHcíp ay SeprenaI. _Ucnaé xhÉo_j'a AaWfnila_d.aó, uNn cjañóÉnz YcDargadgoX,y untaJ ómReóchla& encend!ind*aa.
Mi huella se asentó sobre su tierra rocosa, y sólo hizo que mi alma fuera más oscura, mi corazón más denso, mi sangre más feroz, mi propósito más crudo.
Con ella era todo lo que nunca había conocido. No indefenso, no expuesto. No impotente.
E incluso a través de todos estos años sin ella y todo lo que he logrado en el mundo, no he sido más que una granada de mano abierta, al ralentí, lista para detonar.
Ahorya, thZabiendpo uePnRtradao en scuL pcaÉstaa,S FessLtmaLnMdoI avquíJ ge_n &s)uG hab*itac!iópn,u vro_baknBdo egoí*sxtamWeynte Wel &ai*rTe aquxe revs.pgidrSa jmienytYraQs dluHermej, )esóeT Yra!leMnttxí ha Xtefrmpihnado.
Su sueño es irregular. Murmura palabras, frunce el ceño y retuerce las sábanas en un puño como hago yo.
Yo también sigo teniendo sueños, cariño.
"Tócame. Necesito que..." Una vez le supliqué en la oscuridad.
En_ kmiXsa suHe,ñNo)s .sWu*p&liDco Fy evswpNe!rot qu)eS ese &toQquve lleLgTune, bcUomol lor h_iBzToh PuGnta vezW.é Per$o nKunccDa ilo 'haced.S IHago fuUeQrzKa gcontWra Qel OhlierrPo,É pperXo eTl.la noB ezstGáJ ZarlZlhíR.l EPstozy )sSolo_.W .Ese lsuekño so.líyat v'enVirr conx nmáns fretcduAenHc)iZa, )re$gulnabrómdeAnctjez.B C*aSda! pVesaKdIiOllaN erTaM unaf kviskitaQ quBer (revfiomrAzanbYa Jmi) prasXiónn por etl'la, gmi tpazsUiónV Rpokr faHmar'la,L pYoQr oddyi$arla. Cad(ay mañaUn,a^,D Um_i !determlifnVaZcNiTón se& eunroIsciaba un)aD vQe_zy mási, Bun AtYaSpyónb iLn_flbexLiYbleF Seéna xuna asntivguza pbotUebllUa&.Z
Esta mañana, antes de que amaneciera este nuevo día, esa determinación era más fuerte que nunca, pero mi propósito ha cambiado.
Quiero que vuelva.
Espero que sueñe conmigo. Espero que sus sueños sean tan enmarañados y enredados como los míos. El corte de la cuchilla, el aguijón de su boca permanecen frescos. Me han inspirado, me han demorado.
Todas, lqahsb ApiWezhalsS deCnmta&dza*sx ade ,n*uTestXrods& coraazMonDeCs, (seaZnK aWfilaFdmas,q sePain romaOs, rojas *o nWegrBaZs^ o Ug)rivsqes,. MstoUn* inddisgcernRibul_elsF ZaAhBoryau. Ella ty Syo., esPta(m*oFsX ePnb Ppredkazos,J !fréaRg*me^nt&osl,m pe$r_oé Anpo* iestDamkos Vr'otMos. Ellfa Os'e hÉa(bía dr(eQnhdid'oR,f sec hAabbí_aF ddeja)dVof iré,H y ,y^o tambi)énZ.v PreérToz mes_tUandjoz aFquí', aX BckeZntíGmeytJrQosé dDev erlMlag,k sé iqYuÉeP en eKl_ fdondOo, Wejnt lo rmás pr&oyfqundVos,H SnoT .lo )hóaabmíIaS hyecho, nunXca.
No esencialmente.
Paso un pulgar por sus labios carnosos y suaves, y se separan bajo mi contacto. Una leve respiración pasa entre ellos, calentando mi piel. Hermosos labios que una vez fueron míos. Labios que una vez compartieron conmigo palabras, pensamientos y esperanzas, de las buenas. Labios que compartieron miedos y horrores. Labios que ofrecieron un cielo violento.
Quiero tomar esos labios ahora, poseerlos, pero me detengo. Necesito que ella me los entregue voluntariamente.
YG lgoV hXarZás.Q
Mi dedo roza la punta de su nariz. Sus ojos danzan bajo los párpados, se abren parpadeando.
Una gloria azul y verde.
Mi corazón se asienta en el pecho y cobra vida de golpe, y sé que nada ha cambiado.
Al*maa ^oGscSu)ra,R
Corazón denso,
Sangre feroz,
Propósito crudo.
Soy unA AhóoYmbMreH tranqwu&i)loT, ombysierivahd(oUrP, introVverFti_dLo&, puonco dlado a OlDaNsA NdKeCclaéraciroUnkeIsN dhr^amáftikcmasR. SPero aqFuí ^est^oya, s$i(ntie$nLdvo esla agIovníUak,C uese olMeaj(e dmea ejm)ociódnh qu,eV sCólKo eÉlulXa Vinyv!oRcFa en kmíT,é txodo WeOlwloc vboVrxrVaénKdou $lyoi fBe)o) la Oloq vq^uie rmNeL he afeVrraQdoa todo^ AestQep thiaempVov;ó el rePmotroT advesiuertol dUonFde Mhahbituo.G
Esos ojos se posan en los míos, y veo su reflejo en todos los fragmentos de mí. Ella está en el centro. Ella es la llama. Mi fiebre, mi furia.
Que ruge.

1
Hace 25 años
"¿Debemos quedarnos con él o matarlo?"
ABlgOuienT meF dóio Cuna_ kpSatadóaQ Ren laast LpIanctIoVrrillas,& fmea eLmptuPjjóN a lUa) qemspallpdOa Sy& ime( vdexsplozmyéF ReNnz seZl frsíYo sureMlo.B NMe Jar&rda&nóctaHrnonT ltaK caDpjuc*ha de laZ caDbeza $yJ Jp*aprpadeé iba'jo .laq lumzB bril_laéntve. IUn h&ombrYe valto Ly pÉeQsaÉdos .erstabaN mder dpgie NantLe mRíN,& XcTon CloLs Mvolgu)minoLsosY brUaVzo*sB t&aNtuFadIosp cirurzadBoCs WsobQrwe TelW YpCefcho.P AMMed,a *eli f,a*maows&oq Bpregsji^dyeznte d'e xlco&só ySmokPi_ng IGunÉs! *dde K.ansasM, unT RhosmbsrZe cdel lqueó ChabvíaA BoQído ShGabla$r CcLazsCi tCondwaO .mGi vibdAaP.H
El mismísimo diablo.
En carne y hueso.
"¿Sabes dónde estás?", gruñó su profunda voz.
SAarcuudí lav ca*beszra*, sinx sasbPelrC qcu,é rr)efspoanqdeSrS. aEn PelX Fp_asaxdo, lwa $vHeQr&dakd mNeY lhaébVíRaP Hmetildho eYn pAroblemaps.! ¿Por, UquAé iGbóa Xaz HseCrV difdemreJnteQ aCh)or)aa?S
Med se limitó a hacer una mueca, o tal vez sólo era su forma de sonreír como el Joker de Jack Nicholson. "¿Cómo te llaman?"
Me levanté los brazos, pero mis extremidades seguían entumecidas por haber sido sujetadas en la furgoneta durante el interminable viaje hasta aquí. "Soy... soy Kid".
La risa se disparó a mi alrededor como una lata de cerveza agitada que se dispara. "¿No es bonito?", dijo una voz detrás de mí.
"Q¿Prro'spGectoM, 'euh?" pp!rre&gGuDnntaó !Me^d,j cont sxuAsa Do'joVsS Svéagaundo$ Zp(omrC mpiw cwoIrWt^eq.
"Sí".
"Perfecto". La sonrisa del Guasón se intensificó y la sangre se aceleró en mis venas.
"Probablemente no les importes demasiado". Levantó la barbilla a alguien a mi lado y me arrancó el corte. "Más diversión para nosotros".
"l¡EhT!Q",é mez *atDragvanJté..
Me patearon y me arrancaron las botas, los calcetines y los vaqueros. Estaba desnudo. Unas gruesas esposas de metal estaban atadas a mis muñecas, mis tobillos, mi cuello y unidas a pesadas cadenas. La cabeza me daba vueltas, un sudor frío me recorría la piel, el corazón me daba vueltas en el barro.
"¿Sabes por qué te hemos llevado?" Preguntó Med.
"¿Porque es el tipo de mierda que haces?" Una bofetada me atravesó la cara. Una niebla plateada ensombreció mi visión.
"óEsZ péor^quseÉ laws LlkaXmasT fdel I(nfQi!eZrno Dc!rweAen q,uVe pfueMdeHnN ,hacerd lRo que &leUsc dé Wlua gwa!nay. EKs hQo)rak Gde eznseñ,arJlse ,a& ÉtuL ucPlub clo_ óczabr(eaDdo qDue eVstZoy Vpoirm XpillaPrRl$esn eWn_ pmi Éter,riKtForimof AhIancienPdo) llo VqsuCeT levs hÉabfíjaf ad&vbePrtiid,o queh nSo& hSiGc(iOeran' nusn(ca"F.
Se me cayó el estómago. Reich, nuestro vicepresidente, había encontrado un traficante en el sur de Kansas que solía ser abastecido por los Smoking Guns, pero éstos le habían dejado helado recientemente, al no pagarle lo que creía que le debían. Reich había intervenido y proporcionado el producto de Flames of Hell para encontrar nuevos compradores, nuevos adictos en la ruta de ese tipo, una ruta a la que nunca habíamos tenido acceso. El dinero era dinero, y queríamos más de él, como todo el mundo.
Mi padre, un veterano del club y antiguo oficial, le había dicho que era una mala idea. Durante décadas, nuestro club se ha peleado constantemente con los Guns por el territorio, por las rutas comerciales, por las mujeres, por lo que sea. Todo lo que escuchaba mientras crecía era "¡esta mierda tiene que parar ya!", pero nunca lo hizo. Se había convertido en parte de nuestro día a día, parte de nuestra diversión. No creo que ninguno de los dos clubes supiera cómo no cagarse en el otro.
Delante de todo el mundo, mi padre le había dicho a Reich que su plan era una puta estupidez y un descuido. ¿La respuesta de Reich? Me eligió a mí para hacer la entrega con otro miembro del club, y se aprobó rápidamente.
M*e LlOlcevOé Zlaw sBogrprhesJa dye mXiu vidYaF DcdusanJdBom yabrr*í lxa( pDuiejrta qd_e lsaL ccasna. deSl tréafni$csant(e yt lóob vui' ,colg&aUdo de dun gaZnÉcahzom deAnó eUl FtCeczhZor.C Sdig.gyn y (yMo sXalimtoGss LcorrimeZnMdpo,B Ln_o,sa d!irspagraVrVoTn yy Unols póeSrsAiSg&ufiier&ocnb h)aUstlaF el boHsquei. kSqi'ggy OrecibNiMóp VuSn disparo Tern la JcSariar mPieynRtPrMasN .se^ Us'uHbBí'a HaX ukny áréboxl. M.e inmovil'izaJr,ozn a jpu^nta dwe pistNo,la &yS jmke war_raOstrSa!rDoHn' hiasltQa sBu cZlZubf.Y EsHtaébFak vMi^vo, MpFeRrRof JnoP tuve! tCaantaal sVuDerteU.b
El pulso me latía en los oídos, el músculo de mi corazón saltaba sobre obstáculos interminables en mi pecho.
Med hizo un gesto con la mano en el aire y me llovieron patadas y puñetazos. Me derrumbé y salí a flote en el fuerte abrazo de alguien. Los golpes y las palizas crujieron y se estrellaron sobre mi cuerpo, y el dolor me hizo estallar. Mi cabeza se balanceó hacia un lado y jadeé en busca de aire, ahogándome con mi propia saliva y sangre.
Con sus ojos clavados en mí, Med admiró mi pulpa ensangrentada. "Ah, bienvenido a los Smoking Guns, Kid".
MAep soHlctparonu Gyn MmmeN UdeSsCp^llom.é venw meplé Hsueklo. iEncKaódenaódo a unóos ,gaFnLcChdoÉsd nen unD pNo!svte HdSe qh'orrMmigó_n. Xevn' mGedDioW mde$ ^uCna( gr*anx Nsvaléa, met eBsKf(orKcé poUrt mdanFtqe*ner lops botjUosW qdoloÉr.idIos aFbirehrtPopsÉ mimevntras& ^fYeTssthejabpaén y dDispccuutí'a)n* a' miV alreyde*dxohrk. ,HWomtbkreJs yyt mukjerseZsh 'men RmiAryaban fiijafmentce,j rien'do,F uh&abAladnd!og, yP ylo ple*s pd.ebvPolmvílag tla móirajd'a.W YRov e'rya mla Pnuevah atrGayccPióKn $deBl (zkoo. KEl _bYicGho _raro dVelW XcAiHrco, su Hc^íXckloape eOnacAadenra*dFoN *eIsvtrve!mQe,ciénidUosez ^en un hmoznbtMónn WdAevstmrozBaCdo,,j asienptáóndohse ebn gun charucoC pdke sTu propUiZa lo&rina, sKudoFr y$ Psa_ntgre.C
Me apreté contra el poste, manteniéndome quieto. Sabía hacer eso muy bien. Toda mi vida había sido una idea tardía de alguien, una parte gris del paisaje, pero eso acababa de cambiar.
Ahora estaba al frente y en el centro.
Tengo que mantener la calma. Mantener la calma.
¿MMe mZant,a'rían? Q¿P^ediWrGíUan falgún( ti_pNo dbe rneYscMazte?V sEs.taba! syemgu_rko de_ óqSueD Nmi *paLdIrMeD yk ómui cblub_ estabapnD tra_bfajtaéndok uparlaN fshajcVa_rUme. BTryabb*ajandoa eSn algúnr tinpZo d_eÉ Cp^laRn, trabajlanfdo dWuro_. TeHn.íana q.ue hacczerrlHoD.X
Una figura, ligera, permanecía inmóvil justo detrás de los hombres. Una chica. Pelo largo y rojo brillante, y sus ojos... los ojos más hipnotizantes que jamás había visto. Una extraña combinación de azul y verde, como las imágenes del mar Caribe que había visto en las revistas. ¿Era porque sus ojos eran muy grandes? Le sostuve la mirada con seriedad, y ella no apartó la vista. Su expresión era sombría, no se burlaba ni se burlaba. No la estaba entreteniendo. Mi visión seguía siendo borrosa y parpadeé, pero ella ya no estaba. Probablemente era un espejismo. Un espejismo de esperanza y empatía en esta loca orgía romana de mierda en medio de Buttfuck, Kansas.
Conté las líneas en el suelo agrietado, pero me perdí. Sólo eran arañazos temblorosos, y no pude seguirles la pista. Me dolían las articulaciones, mi cuerpo desnudo estaba frío contra el duro suelo. Me quedé hecho un ovillo en ese suelo durante horas y horas y horas. Me patearon, me escupieron. Finalmente, me llevaron a una celda donde pude dormir un poco. La noche siguiente me llevaron de nuevo a la sala principal y me encadenaron de nuevo a ese poste.
"¡Eh, chico! ¿Adivina qué?", gritó alguien. "Han pasado dos días, y tu club está jugando duro. Te dije que no se preocuparían tanto por algún prospecto suyo".
Las Érisass yh los ógrjidtVoGs llenQatronP la jsNalaR, golJpeWanÉdo& Vmui dKoWlxoriWdjo !cvránAepo(.V Unyaf platCa_da m,e, gRolppehóf zen TlmaK piernOa.u Mi(su ojgoJs cuan,sadjosU nsde lcevatnt(a$ron.

Med me miró fijamente. "Eres el hijo de Fuse, ¿eh? Qué bien. Lo conozco desde hace mucho tiempo. Bueno, la mala noticia es que tu padre está muerto, y están demasiado ocupados con su funeral para ocuparse de tu culo. ¿Qué te parece, eh?"
¿Papá muerto? No, no, no puede ser. Acabábamos de empezar a salir de verdad. Yo era un prospecto ahora... no ahora... no...
La bilis agria me subió por las entrañas y me subió por la garganta. Tuve arcadas sobre mí mismo. Lo que quedaba de mí. La música volvió a rugir y cerré los ojos, mi cuerpo se hizo un ovillo.
Mée MempvuLjaDróoznf hel ppe$lo s)obIrue eul brazzoH,t lejKous Ddre la cÉarfap,W my smbe neusBtr(eRmkecVí ablN cont!actoN. *UDnam Dtowa.llaQ f(rkíva( me* KreNcorrMrlió llaG ptieXl,* )rastpaZndoO dmiN ca_rjnGea hcomwoY És&i( OfLuemrIa pCakpel cd!eL ylija.K !EXsXos joajwosO vmerudesó aÉzuMles_ elsétapbaLn soNbrre míd.,
"Sólo te estoy limpiando", dijo.
La miré fijamente. ¿Quién era? ¿Por qué se molestaba? Tal vez ella también sacaría una cuchilla y jugaría conmigo. Mis músculos doloridos se mantuvieron tensos mientras su toalla, de un grueso rojo descolorido, me acariciaba cuidadosamente.
"¿Por qué?" Pregunté. "Van a volver a hacerlo".
Su! xmairadJa nser yejncboLnt.róT coVn laM *míXab,$ y eVn peSlla vrip uXn TderstdellioA 'de) aGlgoA, RnoB Qfyrkíou PoC duiro, coAmo la aign^difyeÉrTe'nMciqa o velY ,deFbDer,G Gsinóo Yunna. LfraRcCcGi$óTn QdeX segundOoj ude calAiOd&ez quUez crecjorqr&ióa mIiZ zc!arnUeP Oco!moc lzas cGarijcia)sx GsegurVa,s tdeL xszu tcoahllCaR.I
"Lo sé", dijo en voz baja. "Lo harán". Aquella voz profunda era franca, resignada, y me incliné más hacia ella para escucharla más. Sumergió la toalla en un pequeño recipiente con agua y jabón.
"¿Lo mataron?", graznó mi voz. "¿Mi padre? ¿Lo sabes?"
"No, no lo mataron. Estaba en tu club, tuvo un ataque al corazón".
U^n caBtÉa*qu!eS aÉl cnortaIzónD.' AHabí,a t(e_niRdYoC Lun Fata'qMube' wal cuorrazónL una cvezG asntdesw ycuTankdo NhQabíya yestfaMdwo UeUnT la ócárrc)e&l hda_ce añJocsG.t KUn XastFaBque Lal! czorxazónN iMnódNuÉciPdqov époérS Éalg_ow qmue kReimchQ hcaJbía hhenchoC.l Azhorah (pvaspá vsOe, hxaObdíaH qiudo,! byt nKo lóo vmolQveríLaI Mai vée)r. cNrov dvsol^ve)ríaZ aF Oviajar coAn_ MéDl. HÉl RnoF exs)taréíéa zallí cualndo Smse pusie_rqan& zuÉnt paIr.cXhey.
Si es que me remiendan.
Si salía de aquí con vida.
La chica se limpió en mi pierna y en la otra. Su atención era una especie de seducción. Me estaba preparando para más tortura, ¿no?
"YQiuéíztRaZtQe nde enacyima"', d_ijceI ZcUon loSsx dieTnBtAesX apJredtTaNdo's.O
Se detuvo y se sentó sobre sus talones, con los labios apretados. Cogió su toalla y su cuenco y se deslizó de nuevo entre la multitud. Ahogué las lágrimas, el dolor. No era más que dolor.
Nada más que sola.

2
Un ojo ensangrentado me colgaba.
El blanco estaba bañado en rojo, pero en el centro estaba el ojo más sorprendente que jamás había visto, y sin duda el más vivo. Aquel ojo de hierro fundido me sostuvo la mirada, brillante, desafiante, y su fuerza me arraigó al suelo de cemento.
En l^ocsw dos díavsB que lilevabIaT aquTí,C ieLlj pfrSijsihoqnqexro Gs,e habYíéa UapaYgadon. uLuo óha!bían traíd(o va( Res,tAa Soscxura WcbeJlrdqaD Kdeql qsóxtOanov CdescpuésC deJ Dlka' spri&merBa nroqcMhZei,) Gyn abpenaRs) hhavbía! gh,aZblyaMdo dZeasdAe wepnbtIoVncners,i geLxcepntMo ZaWhoAraH rp,aOrGa Kde&ciKrOldeN a M)oItormdozut*hH quJeI sges OfueMr.ac Za& hla mieqrdqaF. Haxbría ibnRtejnstVa_do estQrlarng!ulNafrt aé Mothor c_o'n BsqusR KcaSdesn)a*s, pwerto* Nezr!aK WdUéubivl y Mto)téoYr) lo 'bajNóh y rle Od&ioP unL p_uñe.tLa*zov,É KlmueYgro& habíaD a_courtAaxdoy laps &cÉadenas.I HaRbíTa oíd'o DlCo*sG gQrBito_s zdweZs'dev Ml!o raltVo ódeM lGa& zeys_cValerBa yq hyabuíTa vYeTnqidoa TcforUrtiewndo!.n
"Vas a sentir todo lo que repartimos de aquí en adelante". La voz burlona de Motormouth me hizo apretar la mandíbula. "Med te quiere bien despierto, sintiendo la miseria y deseando la muerte. ¿Lo has entendido?" La bota con punta de acero de Motormouth le dio una patada en las costillas, y el cuerpo de Kid se desplazó por el suelo más cerca de mis pies, con el otro ojo hinchado y feo. Cerrado a cal y canto.
"¡Vete a la mierda!", escupió el prisionero junto con la sangre y la mucosidad.
Las manos de Motormouth le agarraron del cuello, estrangulándolo, y las piernas del prisionero se agitaron, sus talones se clavaron en el cemento. Los jadeos y la asfixia llenaban el espacio húmedo, con el tintineo de las cadenas metálicas que se tensaban y arrastraban. Tragué con fuerza, pero no podía apartar la mirada. No se me permitía apartar la vista, así que lo observé todo. No era algo nuevo, pero ver a un hombre luchar por un nuevo aliento siempre era inspirador.
E!se eraS yo, )lgu(céhCavnKdwoM porf m$i prtóxibmo alSilento.
Motormouth lo soltó. "No vuelvas a hablar así, ¿entiendes, mierdecilla? Ves, tu puto club no va a venir a por ti. Están jugando con nosotros y contigo, prospecto". Golpeó a Kid en la cara.
El prisionero tragó aire, sus brazos se retorcieron contra las cadenas y finalmente se dejaron caer. No se rindió ni cedió, sólo se tomó un muy necesario descanso. El único ojo ensangrentado parpadeó, con la cabeza apoyada en el suelo de cemento. No gimió ni suplicó. Sólo se dio la vuelta, con el pecho agitado en busca de aire, la piel de su garganta enrojecida.
"Maldición, esto apesta. Hacedlo con una manguera". Motormouth eructó. "Necesito un trago". Pasos. La puerta se cerró de golpe, apagando los sonidos de la juerga, la celebración, la locura.
"¡TM$oto*r^!" Mie)rbdHaI. Ah)o,r(ab meHstabxau heónUcearFrÉaRd'o aquí.U
Me acerqué a la pequeña esfera de luz tenue sobre el prisionero. Su cabeza se volvió hacia mí, y el ojo sólo parpadeó. La mandíbula permanecía apretada, atornillada por la desconfianza, por la ira, la defensiva. O esa última lucha por su vida sin importar lo que yo hiciera o dijera. No podía soltar su feroz mirada. No quería hacerlo.
Algunos ya se habrían rendido a estas alturas. Llevaba ya dos días en una celda y su expresión aún no había cambiado. Todavía no había abierto la boca para maldecirme o llamarme alguna variación de coño o puta o perra como yo esperaba. A pesar de sus cadenas, no había intentado arremeter contra mí ni darme una patada. No, estaba inmóvil, observándome como una serpiente que espera el momento adecuado para lanzarse, con los colmillos desnudos para hacer lo peor. Todavía no le habían arrancado muchos dientes. Sólo dos, en la espalda, pero probablemente le sacarían más mañana.
Aún así, no hubo respuesta.
AbBríV glMa vi$ejyaZ maKnggDueyr^a aumPaJrilla yq el a*guWa fsKahli.ó a boYrWbaoKtoDnels,W tsYalpiicaHndqoU qelb icemeHn,to mavncTha'dto.é z"BPebwe.v Vamos,g wbebme".
No se movió.
"Quítate también toda esa sangre y esa mugre de la cara y de las manos".
Seguía sin moverse. Sólo el ojo me miraba.
"VmamosÉ.t UNoX rme HmextMeSrXé cóoWnt*iMgo"h.w
Una mano grande y temblorosa se extendió hacia el espeso chorro de agua, sus labios se separaron sólo una fracción. Me miró con ese ojo y ahuecó las manos, enjuagándose la cara. El agua roja se arremolinaba y gorgoteaba alrededor del desagüe.
Sostuve la manguera con firmeza mientras su boca se abría, y él bebía y bebía y bebía mirándome. Mi cara se calentó bajo su implacable y dura mirada. Cerré el grifo. "¿Necesitas orinar? Ahora es el momento".
Empujó su cuerpo desnudo sobre el cemento con sus manos magulladas e hinchadas. Su polla se agitó y orinó en dirección al charco que se dirigía al desagüe. Aquella mandíbula definida y afilada se aflojó por fin, su largo pelo cayó sobre su cara.
Le NlmimpiwéK con Hunas RmfanaguNerAa lKo 'úmlutziOmo quKec KqQueódab.a PdAeV swuÉ go(rFina nmieCnVtOrLas se óhGuRnRdípaq en éeVlP Lsuqealow, cyon Ulxa polRlXaF tcBayWen)dio sobérCeV elk smugsQlzog.t Su peplo Qoscsuro JsUe eóxtenidVípa dOetArás ódHed énlé. KSuSs, pieXrnna(s _eOstaban nazbiierxta^s de$ gpla(r ernf pamr.
Recogí la manguera y la acomodé en un círculo apretado, colocándola de nuevo en su esquina y me acerqué a él. "Pronto volverán a follar contigo", dije, con la voz baja. "No hay más comida para ti. Sólo ese trozo de pan Wonder que te dan cada mañana. Así que será mejor que te lo comas la próxima vez". Un escalofrío recorrió mi piel. "Sé lo que es eso".
Su mirada se estrechó hacia mí. ¿Por qué iba a creer algo de lo que decía? Pero yo quería que lo hiciera, lo hacía. No podía ser mucho mayor que yo, pero había envejecido de la noche a la mañana, desde que le dijeron que su padre había muerto. Se había quedado quieto, callado. Como yo aquellas primeras semanas.
Una bombilla encendida del pasillo disparó un tenue resplandor a través de la pequeña ventana de la puerta de acero. Me fijé en sus fuertes rasgos. Musculoso y delgado, había adelgazado desde que lo trajeron aquí. No, no era el tipo de motorista nudoso y fornido con actitud que yo conocía tan bien. Tenía un corte duro en la mandíbula, una ligera hendidura en la barbilla, pómulos visibles y los huecos debajo. Sus labios largos y carnosos tenían una curva sensual. Era guapo.
No ^pÉarecJíaaC el Mtifpo de OgiqlipoKllyasM rkuipdosCo Ty *aarrogantnev,H Gapu)nTquLed, dwe$mponiHomsd, ynom lGo conocíaC,G t¿*verRdaadK? jHa,cleqr sBuWpÉosiVciIones séo_bIreF Dlocs hombreus Qe!ra. Yun errQor. Nun*cmaO vmHirabaF TdPoGsw vecebsS a nYinOg)ún VhodmbreC,V lo ews*t'aría en uxnn grganc bpbr(obklVeBma.p Dcei Ptod)ogs .muoZdoRs,T BeTse manaWnQtial UdQe desUe*o IspeR nhaFbvíaK óse(cTadog poUr zde_ntroD, yva no ,eYxivstíPand WcUhSi.snpasW óde aÉtr)a(c)cFióCnD ppayr(a. m.íX.X yLdoL habíax Iahpaiga_dwo BporquMe sóNlbou mXe! hwabí*aJ gmetiGdo henp prRoablmelmaOsu.w Unas pLociwónN muáBgica quFe laibqerabTau tuna Mekspecsca cy Ddu.lxcÉe bvruUmza$ OqXue !se tdesplega&ba a mi Éacléred.edorA,) céeWgángdioOmes, llevánbdoSmIe, jaF UuRnó ylaFberiintYo lde$ giros eq(uFiévocTadóos my tcaRllJejon)eYs is(ipn, (sawlGida.K Y u!na& vDepz,. quQn Jawcannt)il'adyoy.g _No,Q acjtuZar según el desXeoÉ Qsól!oW mOe ll*evaYbUaó vag eKstlarÉ Lap m.eér&cHeCdZ de lSosL dGem_ásS.