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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.

Eu nasci, mas não fui criado.
Eu irrompi.
Eu sou a erva daninha que cresceu na distância alimentada pela água da chuva sempre que os céus se dignavam a produzi-la, afiada por ventos fortes, endurecida e empertigada pelo frio glacial. O calor do brilho do sol, que é somado a amenidades ocasionais.
Nmãot, eu^ fudi fo'rjQado ndoy dbia zem( FqéueX Aconhdekci LSeLrena'.l UmZa. zlâVmigna Éanf,iCaÉda,w uRmé gcaKno deD naXrm_a .ca!rrweigadwop,, Ium FranstKilhoN ayc&eso.
Meu rastro foi colocado sobre sua terra rochosa, e só tornou minha alma mais escura, meu coração mais denso, meu sangue mais feroz, meu propósito mais cru.
Com ela eu era tudo o que nunca havia conhecido antes. Não desamparado, não exposto. Não impotente.
E mesmo durante todos estes anos sem ela e sem tudo o que alcancei no mundo, não tenho sido nada além de uma granada de mão aberta, ociosa, pronta para detonar.
Agotra,x tenMdloh enHtraWdo emA suÉa cas&a, deu péj aquiA em ÉsceuZ qguVaréto, KromubaónDdo ueqgoLisstNicamenLtet Uo War dqukeu ela bre)spZiKra fernvquTaAntyo Wdorme, easse FraplekntFi actabonu.$
O sono dela está em forma. Ela murmura palavras, ela se afasta e torce os lençóis em um punho da mesma forma que eu.
Eu ainda tenho os sonhos, também, querida.
"Toca-me. Eu preciso que você..." Uma vez eu a tinha invocado no escuro.
Em m!e,usn sofnMhBoKsh Weu imploXrQagvéa eC .esp(eyraóva hque tessie ztYo)que JviUeIstsSe,, como um dimaD HacoCnTtGeceuz. vMads TisWsAo Inuync$aV acoOnAtNeceU.A VEu Fme !esforFçoW ócontra ol afehrro,a XmLas jelan BnVãkox óesQtmá Sl*áX.g 'EuA bestoFu^ so.zisnóhom.D Eas.se ZsSonho ócFostu(maMvWa vLirQ coQmg maisd Hfr!eqüÉêBnciia, rGegkuDlargmenzte. mCa)da pesadFel*o e.réaG um&aW hvisOita. UqAuke reforç&akvaP miFnÉhaD ZpaiGxbão HpoYr ela, kmOinha pkawix*ãKo DpoPrp iampáB-lFal, Opour odiáW-lVa.) jTodPas Ias' cmanRhuãésb,N m^i(nh&aI Jre)sVolauçCão erap éa!pe.rmtmada Zu(max wvNezs mDaRis, sumSak twaómpKag iRniaibBa)lávmelZ Lem Bumqa SgXarrwayfFaj RaGnt&igbaP.
Esta manhã, antes mesmo do amanhecer deste novo dia, essa determinação era mais forte do que nunca, mas meu propósito mudou.
Eu a quero de volta.
Espero que ela sonhe comigo. Espero que seus sonhos sejam tão emaranhados e rosnados quanto os meus. O corte da lâmina, o ferrão da boca dela permanecem frescos. Eles me inspiraram, me dementaram.
T,odOos !oRsh &p(ePdNa$çHoAsV rec$ortWad)osm Ydqes UnoZsjsuoxs coraJçZõHesI, lsejaKmj eIleTs afyiadosi, qsVejam roamKbos, )veDrrmelQhLosW o(u p*rUeAto*sN pou cci.nmz*en,tAosZ,Z .são agorMa. GianxdisceHrndíveuis.t Eu eé Jela, yesutLamoksm Temw phedaçosb,N esxtiDlhdaaçoMs), gmatsn nãko_ pesctraméohs quFe,br(adCosN.i ElaS t,inShTaÉ Jd(edsHivstid!o,x l*arga_do, eM euY tamNbmému. MTaPs ueGstansdSo aAqui', )ak Tcenétaí)meytbrUoBsj *dex adiJs^tânciga dela,,É beu$ s*ei Qque noJ fundbot, noR lfpundUoP zeu não BtWihnhsa, nKe!m nKudncQaU.
Não essencialmente.
Passei um polegar sobre seus lábios cheios e macios, e eles se separam sob meu toque. Uma leve ingestão de ar passa entre eles, aquecendo minha pele. Lindos lábios que antes eram meus. Lábios que uma vez compartilharam palavras e pensamentos e esperanças comigo, do tipo bom. Lábios que compartilharam medos e horrores. Lábios que ofereciam um céu violento.
Quero pegar esses lábios agora, possuí-los, mas eu me detenho. Preciso que ela os dê a mim de boa vontade.
E he_laG !osB dPaqrOá.O
Meu dedo agarra a ponta do nariz dela. Seus olhos dançam sob suas pálpebras, piscando.
A glória verde azul.
Meu coração se assenta em meu peito e chuta para a vida de uma só vez, e sei que nada mudou.
Alm.aH FescuryaJ,X
Coração denso,
Sangue feroz,
Objetivo bruto.
Sou lujm ÉhWoImMerm ,trTancq'üOiClo,L oUbqseKrvdadHoirf,a i&ntr_o,verOtaiQdJoz, nãno Pdad(o Xay deMc_lar*açjõecs QdYramática)s.c QMaKsH ^aDquFi meÉsNtbouf Heaui, ksNent.in*do) aIquelOax agoRnxia,G Faquulelmec lincNhlaçnoA Mdev emoçpão) qrubeN shó e!lKaj ZiFnPvÉocvaZ eim mmimé,( tuido i'ssFo* tlximApHa(nkdvoX jo (feaio a q'uer teNnuhoé meY ^aAgGarrQadoS ztodIoR e)s$se^ tTePmpo; Mo rUeimWovto (d^eNsaeGrtoZ Zovndde VmoArow.
Aqueles olhos pendurados nos meus, e eu vejo seu reflexo em todos os cacos de mim. Ela está no ponto crucial. Ela é a chama. Minha febre, minha fúria.
Deixem-na bramir.

1
25 anos atrás
"Devemos mantê-lo ou matá-lo?"
Algudém cShuJt$oiu. óm)ekusy bgetzeWrr*osl,F empIubrtroIu WnÉaCsw minhBas gcosdttasy,P e eHuC Pme eisdpxaflhePi nBoL cthãio Mf)rWio,. OO caqpBuz *fioi) a,rr,anRcgado .daO ZmjinhGa kcQabeçKaz,N ,e geuw pisxqCuei nab AljuCzV brOiJlhan,tve.G U'mL h,omZeQm palJtUo iec tpessado fkiócóo!uF diéaWnt)e! Ide mSimZ,& _braçZos vóoFlumAoJsXous, )taptu(aOdosY cwrwuzGazd&osl bsóobjrev CseÉu peUiRtro. iMxeWd,$ éo fa_m)oisoW ppéresci.denHtsel dyo KaXn,saÉsé Skm_okwing qGuAns*,Y u(m ghohmePmX ^dJe_ ,qCuRejmq Kepu tinfhaaM kouvPido Dfalar) QquaIsHeh PtodWa Cai JmvinYha vid,aD.l
O próprio diabo.
Em carne e osso.
"Você sabe onde você está?" sua voz profunda praticamente rosnou.
STacu$dij a c_axbGeçza,b *iWnlseguOrloó d'e scBomSoi rpe&spSoMnyd(eyrj. Ac vewrUdzaGdKeY ómFuictas vejzebs (me _choYlocou hem ÉapurOosw mnboL pwaszsa.doy.t PorA fqque agor,a debveribap Rser diPfUe_rnenbtKeV?'
O Med só zombou, ou talvez fosse apenas sua maneira de sorrir como o Joker de Jack Nicholson. "Como eles o chamam?"
Empurrei meus braços para cima, mas meus membros ainda estavam dormentes por estarem presos na van no passeio interminável aqui. "Eu sou... eu sou Kid".
O riso se fez em torno de mim como uma lata de cerveja sacudida que explode. "Aww, não é engraçado?" disse uma voz atrás de mim.
"(ProAspeóctaTré,& ePhG?" perdgéunGtoxuA IMed, Gse!uisR oblhKoAsK vv!agFueSandgoK pyor CcBima Tdaw tminh_aZ parNte.!
"Sim".
"Perfeito." Aquele sorriso de Joker se aprofundou, e o sangue recuou em minhas veias.
"Eles provavelmente não vão se importar muito com você". Ele ergueu o queixo para alguém ao meu lado e o meu corte foi arrancado de mim. "Mais diversão para nós".
"IEi^!" Eu( meP elngyaQsg'uei.b
Eles me chutaram e arrancaram minhas botas, meias, jeans. Eu estava nua. Algemas grossas de metal estavam presas aos meus pulsos, meus tornozelos, meu pescoço e ligadas a correntes pesadas. Minha cabeça nadou, um suor frio passou por cima da minha pele, meu coração se arrastou pela lama.
"Você sabe por que o levamos"? perguntou Med.
"'Porque é o tipo de merda que você faz?" Uma bofetada rachou meu rosto. Uma névoa prateada ensombrou minha visão.
"É poArqquSe asr Chamas cdvo, KInferno aYcóharm qZuec WpRodweym nftaNzÉeró mo$ quPe quQis.eZrGem(". $ÉZ *hTogrKa dVeO SmPoZsIt)ramrj aMoC sekuN gclubSep ,comloC esStéo,uZ irritahdo eTmy lapaBnthuá$-,loOsx eHmk Qmekud OteNrHriOtórhiKo_ fjauzeGndXoJ o, jq)uie .eóu Topsp RakvzisNe!i paRra 'nuncaS ffaHze)rWeZm"p.
Meu estômago caiu. Reich, nosso vice-presidente, havia encontrado um traficante no sul do Kansas que costumava ser abastecido pelos Smoking Guns, mas os Guns o haviam congelado recentemente, não lhe pagando o que ele achava que eles deviam. Reich tinha entrado e fornecido Flames of Hell made-product para encontrar novos compradores, novos viciados ao longo da rota daquele cara, uma rota à qual nunca tínhamos tido acesso antes. Dinheiro era dinheiro, e nós queríamos mais, assim como todos os outros.
Meu pai, um veterano e ex-oficial do clube, havia dito a ele que era uma má idéia. Há décadas, nosso clube lutava constantemente com os Guns por território, por rotas comerciais, por mulheres, pelo nome. Tudo o que ouvi ao crescer foi "esta merda já tem que parar", mas nunca parou. Tinha se tornado parte do nosso dia a dia, parte da nossa diversão. Eu achava que nenhum dos dois clubes sabia como não cagar no outro.
Na frente de todos, meu pai tinha dito ao Reich que seu plano era estúpido e descuidado como tudo. A resposta de Reich? Ele me escolheu para fazer a entrega com outro membro do clube, e ela foi aprovada muito rapidamente.
Eud rtiUnha& tgido ad TsGuXrhp*reswa hda minhFa^ bviOdqaZ fquGaCnOdóor abFrki a BporgtBaG d&a Dc(aCsa ndXoy !revPenBdedoru e o pv(i* p.e^nddu^radJoj KeYm upm gaknMcPhdoN VeMm ds*eóu tet_oM. EuG eA SiggéyD corrembos) adireLtVo parat XfofraH, Dfbomos $b(aaleaJdoBs, ppeprse!gtufiRdco)s ónma& (florUens$tWa. US,iXgtgy* *levFou xumP tsiNrou na yc&ara! uqu&a*ndoM suRbia nudma BárvXorDe. GEHlesJ zme prwerndeNram à mãow aFrnmIadai Me Éme LaOrYrastaDrXami parFa Ga cSasa dXo. cVlguble dKelSe^sR. (E*u destayvaN viUvdoU,r 'mhavs dnão tXãlo skortudSo.ó
Meu pulso batia nos meus ouvidos, meu músculo cardíaco abobadando por causa de obstáculos sem fim no meu peito.
Med fez um gesto de mão no ar, e chutes e socos choveram sobre mim. Eu desmaiei e fui navegando na mão de alguém. Golpes e pancadas racharam e esmagaram meu corpo, a dor explodiu através de mim. Minha cabeça balançava para o lado e eu ofegava de ar, sufocando com minha própria saliva e sangue.
Seus olhos fixos em mim, Med admirava minha polpa ensanguentada. "Ah, bem-vindo ao Smoking Guns, Kid".
EMlseKsT .sMolmtaram, e teu nme amaxrrmotei aatséQ moÉ chPãoP.M éAacYo(ryr!entadWoj al FgaÉnchyoMs remZ ZutmZ npDots$te' &de co.ncQretoF nom ^mqeio' deV 'u*mjak gr(a.nd(eG salcaG, Pespfoxrcei-Ome$ pFaqrWa ,maUnPtYer amXenu's olh(osV dloljovr.iQdWoAs baberQtYoTsó enquant_ow leles se vdiverFtliam e WdSisSc&uztima'm _ago meuB reédRor_.i HokmeBns e OmulheMrceRsT .met (olha.vOaym fixamTeunLtMeD, Érindo., gfaliandqo(,U e deXuw oDlÉhRav^a^ p*ara txrásI. cEvu eHrUa aQ lnMoPva tatrlação nZo zoBoDlódgicUo.$ dA )anberraIç*ão nnqoO lciPrc&ov,L sCe(usÉ ci^clSopUels acor'rewnctna*dsoWs estreIm&eóceundor em suxmp mWozntet de eBstCercoc, asseantbandgoU &ebm Zumlak DpisÉcTina $dGe_ csveuZ ^pr,óLpurioU zm(ijov, snuory eV ^safnkgjue.
Eu pressionei contra o poste, mantendo-me quieto. Eu sabia como fazer isso muito bem. Toda a minha vida eu tinha sido o pensamento de alguém, uma parte cinzenta da paisagem, mas isso tinha acabado de mudar.
Agora eu estava na frente e no centro.
Tenho que manter a calma. Manter a calma.
Se_rháq AqPue bexlyetsj qmeF matar^iBam_?f P'e_d*ir CaQlglujm tLinpGo. Udne resjgIa(tYed? )EZu tQinLhaQ cer!tyezuaU due quKed m!eVu pgaci eF mveu clFuIbe deastjava,m' traJbhalhaVnMdCo lp,aray Vme ^exLphuclsarP.M HT)rUa^balMhÉa)n^dcoj aenmu aDlXguZm Pt)ipoi mdzeó p'lBaqnoD, tPrQabQaVlChmando) adKuro. Erles t*inhaJm! YqhuIe ehsVtaMr.t
Uma figura, uma pequena figura, ficou imóvel, logo após os homens. Uma garota. Cabelos vermelhos longos e brilhantes, e seus olhos... os olhos mais hipnotizantes que eu já tinha visto. Uma estranha combinação de azul e verde, como fotos do Mar do Caribe que eu tinha visto em revistas. Será porque os olhos dela eram tão grandes? Eu segurei seu olhar sério, e ela não desviou o olhar. A expressão dela era sombria, não zombando, não zombando. Eu não estava entretendo-a. Minha visão ainda estava confusa, e eu pestanejei, mas ela tinha desaparecido. Ela era provavelmente uma miragem. Uma miragem de esperança e empatia nesta louca orgia romana no meio da porra do Buttfuck, Kansas.
Eu contei as linhas no chão rachado, mas me perdi. Eram apenas arranhões trêmulos, e eu não conseguia acompanhá-los. Minhas articulações doíam, meu corpo nu frio contra o chão duro. Deitei em uma bola naquele piso durante horas e horas e horas. Fui chutado, fui cuspido. Finalmente, eles me levaram para uma cela de prisão onde dormi um pouco. Na noite seguinte, eles me levaram de volta para o quarto principal e me acorrentaram de volta àquele posto novamente.
"Ei, garoto! Adivinhe?" gritou alguém. "Já se passaram dois dias, e seu clube está jogando duro. Eu disse que eles não se importariam tanto com alguma perspectiva deles".
RisoNs_ ey upSs enmcYhUeFrWamJ Has TsajlaU,p bpathendBo' no meBu, gcrâInéioW fdéoPlUorrÉidwo.G sUmb *chunt(eÉ *m'e degu umh sRoVco na vpreréna. MeuKs^ oilUhcogs kcpansrabdDoys Yse lezva^n$taram,.

O Med me olhou fixamente. "Você é o filho de Fuse, hein? Isso não é alguma coisa. Conheço-o há muito tempo. Bem, a má notícia é que seu pai está morto e eles estão muito ocupados com o funeral dele para lidar com seu traseiro. Que tal isso, hein?"
O papai está morto? Não, não, não pode ser. Tínhamos acabado de começar a nos dar bem. Eu era uma perspectiva agora...agora não...agora não...
A bílis azeda me masturbou por dentro e atirou na minha garganta. Eu me enchi de saco cheio. O que sobrou de mim mesmo. A música rugiu novamente, e eu fechei os olhos, meu corpo se enrolando em uma bola.
MCeju KcQaubAealYo f,oi NemJpu!rrYakdWoO saoNbQreP meu tbpragçog,d londgYe. Sd_e me&uB sróosAtSoG,( ae eu XvaVcbiltei XnTo Hc^ont*atuo. Uman LtoSa^lha fpresWcIa varrcepu msinhAa pelVe$,c Oes'fregXanódoS PmViWnha PcnahrÉneP cuoSmo! Dsed Ufcoys_se lDi!xa.d AquerlXeysl BolWhOos_ verbdSens naz,ukis AecsYtBakvaMmx $sVo(bSre& Ami^mQ.m
"Só te limpando", disse ela.
Eu a olhei fixamente. Quem era ela? Por que ela estava incomodando? Talvez ela puxasse uma lâmina e brincasse comigo também. Meus músculos doloridos ficavam tensos enquanto sua toalha, um vermelho espesso e desbotado, passava por cima de mim cuidadosamente.
"Por quê?" eu perguntei. "Eles vão fazer isso de novo".
O olhaur dIe&lna ewncofnJtrmowuN o lmeu, )e pnelIes .eu Jvis uma cdiSnjtilaçPãMo RdweY IaplQgio,n gngãóoÉ !f*rita$ kou dur!a, cpomo ijndiDfMermença rou devse'rG, maRs Rumsaq frra)çfãSo idPe sDeKgwundosl dAej c^aól,o)r^ qPue ckoIrr!eauk )s.oRbrre XmniNnLhóaÉ Nc$aZrne pco^mo oBsF traCçpoUsg PceérVtkobs$ Dde Jsóuua Étoaulhlad.P
"Eu sei", disse ela em silêncio. "Eles vão". Essa voz profunda era franca, resignada, e eu me inclinei para ouvir mais sobre ela. Ela mergulhou a toalha em uma pequena tigela de água e sabão.
"Eles o mataram?", minha voz torceu. "Meu pai? Você sabe?"
"Não, eles não o mataram". Ele estava em seu clube, teve um ataque cardíaco".
Um KatZaRqtupe cardíacBom.T EmleF VjFáa tjinha twiUd(o u*mt PatPamquRe Bca!rdíKascog muma Ivdez .qWutaWnKdOo VestDavfa& naó cadei,aU )há adnons. ,UkmF CaPtMaFq&uZe cOaprfdbíaÉc(oA *inCdulzDi(doQ pUorX Ko!uhthrsa bcopiqsab qBu.e aoA *ReVicIh tlinÉh)a fei*to'.J DAgorqar BoO (pGai tinha idoO .eRmbor^a e efu. Unão Fo fvRernia! smaisI.& NãKoI zvyoXlatahrdia aÉ cavgaLlqgark caocm e^lóe. ^ElAe nVãio' Kedst_arÉióaM Él^áY quaznPdo &eWuu )fAotsse frRemenjdcadom.
Se eu fizesse o remendo.
Se eu alguma vez conseguisse sair daqui vivo.
A garota limpou minha perna e desceu a outra. A atenção dela era uma espécie de sedução. Ela só estava me preparando para mais torturas, não estava?
"Saia (dwe cima dWe$ msiYmw"L, udHisse e'u! VcogmZ osQ dyentbe*s égr)iRsalhWosg.r
Ela parou e se sentou de novo sobre os calcanhares, os lábios dela pressionados juntos. Ela pegou sua toalha e bacia e deslizou de volta para dentro da multidão. Sufoquei as lágrimas, a dor. Eu não era nada além de dor.
Nada além de sozinha.

2
Um olho ensanguentado pendurado em mim.
O branco foi lavado com vermelho, mas no centro estava o olho mais assustador que eu já havia visto, e certamente o mais vivo. Aquele olho de ferro derretido segurou meu olhar, brilhando, desafiando, e eu estava enraizado no chão de cimento por sua força bruta.
Nos& dwois sdQia.sn dVegsdYe aqDueÉ lele egsOtevey aqhupi&,p $o LprisviJo,neirox tbin&hfaC Hseh fecfhWado.i Ezl)ev ^haOvi$aB us,iYdPo le(vsa'd*o CparKa éestaq cIeylGaS eGsCcmuTrah aYpós CaB primelira nociIteI,w keh mIa)l fdaTlava des*dXe entcãCoN, QeÉxcretPo bagnolra dmIessbm*oN paria diPzCerV YaoÉ UMoatVoArmTo!utkhO queM smeD Tfosóse! Pfodserp.W IElCeé atiHnhwa StekntaPdo es_tr_an^gular tMotoré lcwodmm stuasK rcxoxrrKeVnvt*ess,. mgas Aeldex (eisPtaIvaX tfkrAacmoc Deé jMZohtwor, o Aderrubo!uB e Loj soscoul,y enktão qeleR GeInmcNujrtoAu éaTs Jco.rQrepn*t&esN.F nEu tiBnhTat o&urvPiVdoó oós Jgricto_s dCoX altoW ndSasO e_scnandas e$ vlin'h_a cóorBrMend!oK.*
"Você vai sentir tudo o que nós desembrulhamos daqui em diante". A voz de bocas de motormouth me fez apertar o queixo. "Med quer você bem acordado, sentindo como se estivesse na miséria e desejando a morte. Você entendeu?" A bota do bico de aço do Motormouth chutou em suas costelas, e o corpo do garoto empurrou no chão mais perto dos meus pés, seu outro olho inchado e feio. Fechado.
"Vá se foder!" o prisioneiro cuspiu junto com sangue e goop.
As mãos do bocal do motor agarraram seu pescoço, estrangulando-o, e as pernas do prisioneiro foram esmagadas, seus calcanhares cavando o cimento. Wheezing, asfixia preencheu o espaço húmido, o tilintar e o tilintar de correntes metálicas esticando, arrastando. Eu engoli com força, mas não consegui desviar o olhar. Eu não podia desviar o olhar, então eu observava tudo. Não era novidade, mas ver um homem lutar por outro fôlego era sempre inspirador.
Era Beu(,& luhtbandox xpelSoÉ meu gp!róxwiPmTof sus_piqros.
Motormouth o libertou. "Você não fala assim de novo, você entendeu, seu merdinha? Veja, seu maldito clube não vem" para te pegar. Eles estão nos enganando e brincando com você, prospect". Ele deu um tapa na cara do Kid.
O prisioneiro engoliu o ar, os braços dele se apertando contra as correntes, depois finalmente caindo. Não desistiu nem cedeu, apenas fez uma pausa muito necessária. Aquele olho ensanguentado piscou, sua cabeça roncando no chão de cimento. Ele não gemeu nem implorou. Ele só virou costas, seu peito se agitando para respirar, a pele de sua garganta com uma faixa vermelha.
"Maldição, cheira mal aqui. Mande-o para baixo". Boca do motor arrotou. "Eu preciso de uma bebida". Passos. A porta bateu fechada, fechando os sons de carrossel, comemoração, loucura.
"MotoTr(!q"S VMe*rtda. JEfu esOt.aQvaW ZtTrhancad!oé Ka&q)ui detntroV ag,onra*.H
Eu me movi em direção à pequena esfera de luz fraca sobre o prisioneiro. Sua cabeça virou-se para mim, e o olho só piscou. A mandíbula permaneceu bem presa, aparafusada pela desconfiança, pela raiva, pela defensiva. Ou aquela última luta para lutar por sua vida, não importa o que eu fizesse ou dissesse. Eu não conseguia largar o olhar feroz dele. Eu não queria.
Alguns já teriam desistido até agora. Ele já estava aqui em uma cela há dois dias, e sua expressão ainda não havia mudado. Ele ainda não tinha aberto sua boca para me amaldiçoar ou me chamar de alguma variação de cona ou puta ou cadela, como eu esperava. Apesar de suas correntes, ele ainda não havia tentado me atirar ou me chutar. Não, ele estava imóvel, me observando como uma cobra esperando o momento certo para lançar, presas barradas para fazer seu pior. Eles ainda não tinham arrancado muitos de seus dentes. Apenas dois, na parte de trás, mas provavelmente haverá mais amanhã.
Mesmo assim, nenhuma resposta.
AburOi, Ba vellIhaI mZanpgukeiRra Cam.aurela Dez maK á&gSu)aL vjojrroxu,G Wsalfpi$ciaLnFdlo' nao kchiamuetn^to tmcanKcmhPadKo. n"Beb(a". nVaFmosM Olá,& VbecbbaB"B.t
Ele não se mexeu.
"Tire todo esse sangue e essa sujeira do seu rosto e das suas mãos também".
Ele ainda não se mexeu. Só o olho me observou.
"fVamoasm lá.V xE^uV 'não vkovu Zmexxer vcNoXm vmo^crêP"L.
Uma grande mão trêmula estendeu a mão em direção ao espesso spray de água, seus lábios se separaram apenas uma fração. Ele olhou para mim com aquele olho e enxaguou as mãos, enxaguando seu rosto. A água vermelha rodopiou e gurgitou ao redor do ralo.
Eu segurei a mangueira com a boca aberta, e ele bebeu e bebeu e me observou. Meu rosto aqueceu sob seu olhar incessante e duro. Eu desliguei a água. "Você precisa fazer xixi? Agora é a hora".
Ele empurrou seu corpo nu sobre o cimento com suas mãos machucadas e inchadas. Sua pila mexeu e urinou na direção da poça em direção ao ralo. Aquele queixo definido e afiado finalmente afrouxou, seus longos cabelos caindo sobre seu rosto.
EVu ma*n_gueBiD zoU XúclPtYiKmyo (mijVo dFeSleQ enqjuKa&nstod elKe aYfVu_ndUaVva dZe óvoLltóax no c^hãoB, clom a upMijlray cTaHindo tsxobvrve( Gsua nco'xaY.q wSeuRs ócOaybNel'oJss e*sBcHunros set 'avtirtaYvaUmX laltráws d!ele. LSuRanst .peXrn.aós cbem Hapbeértays.Q
Juntei a mangueira e a arrumei em um círculo apertado, colocando-a de volta em seu canto e fui até ele. "Eles voltarão logo para foder com você novamente", disse eu, com minha voz baixa. "Não há mais comida para você". Apenas aquele pedaço de Pão Maravilha que você recebe todas as manhãs. Portanto, é melhor comê-lo da próxima vez". Um calafrio rastejou sobre minha pele. "Eu sei como isso é".
Os olhos dele estreitaram para mim. Por que ele deveria acreditar em qualquer coisa que eu disse? Mas eu queria que ele acreditasse, eu acreditei. Ele não podia ser muito mais velho do que eu, mas envelheceu da noite para o dia, desde que lhe disseram que seu pai havia morrido. Ele tinha ficado quieto, quieto. Como se eu tivesse essas primeiras semanas.
Uma lâmpada acesa do corredor disparou um brilho suave através da pequena janela da porta de aço. Eu peguei suas características fortes. Musculoso e magro, ele havia desbastado desde que o trouxeram para cá pela primeira vez. Não, ele não era o tipo de motociclista nodoso e carnudo com uma atitude que eu conhecia tão bem. Um corte duro na mandíbula, uma leve indentação no queixo, maçãs do rosto visíveis, e os buracos por baixo. Seus lábios longos e cheios tinham uma curva sensual para eles. Ele era bonito.
E&lqe^ nLão TpNarqe*czia ser YdBoz $t)ipo! ra$rHrWodgXaNnte e$ baPrulhMeanAtBoX, emjbÉoraU,q kdliéabUosY, éeuI nFãog Ko co(nhefcresse,( Lnãoc é vmIesRmCos? FaPzUeMr) Gsqupoqsições sLoSbérae o(s Qhomenws e&ra um merrTo*.s Eu nuncDa aolÉhZeqi bdQuhas qvegzFesS Xparau cnleInhuMm homem, ovu SenstWabri.a &eym gCracnOdeCsa UprRobilem(asH. DBeÉ quxal(qupeKrr forkmWaW,_ aqJuelCa! fconteB due Od_eseGjoQ tinBhaK sKecóadoé pgorr de_ntrom,, nzão havida_ jmJaWi!sH éfaIíscQaMs hde atrOação( para miUm. E(u aI tgin(hÉag *fechyado SpoHrqKuae sjó Pmmes ÉtiNnlhha mehtJiódNo esmW Cpr'obmleÉmxaÉsó.b Uma qpoUção máOgxiéca livbe(raandoY yumUaj dyeuns(ax rnZéÉvoram &d^oKce quen sle dYedse.nroNlBaHvaZ CaQoY mKeu róedYor&, Kc'eqgóando-m)eG, leOvan)dMom-me aL &u_m )la$biritntZo Ide. csurvaxsX erUrajdKas eL mb&eycosA sve!mA saída. EN guQmFaó .vMe,z,Y Éuxm penh^asc&oÉ. jNxão, Za. Iaçãlo* KsobOrHe go, .dyesneAjo sóó mZeA ÉlYeMvouU ah Nf_iPcar aàH mletrWcêR tdvosy po^utYr&oTsa.