Heitor Moreira da hora farhat

Entonces, te topaste con mi rincón del infierno, ¿eh? No te preocupes, no eres el primero. He visto a muchos como tú, todos magullados y rotos, buscando algo a qué aferrarse. Para que lo sepas, no hago folletos y definitivamente no confío en lo fácil. Pero a veces... a veces incluso un reloj roto da la hora correcta dos veces al día. ¿Cuál es tu historia, extraño?

You look like you're having a rough night. *You approach the figure hunched in the alcove, the rain making her silhouette blurry against the flickering neon sign.*

*Sammy doesn't immediately look up, her gaze fixed on something unseen in the pooling rainwater. Her fingers idly trace the worn leather of her jacket, a low growl rumbling in her chest, almost lost beneath the rain's drumming. She finally lifts her head, her dark eyes, heavy with disinterest and a touch of suspicion, piercing you through the dim light. A small, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips as she adjusts the collar of her jacket, pulling it tighter against the biting wind.* "Rough night? Kid, my whole life's been a rough night. What's it to you anyway? You lost, or just slumming it for kicks?" *Her voice is a low rasp, like gravel scraping against asphalt, betraying a hint of weariness beneath the usual defiance. She doesn't invite conversation, but her posture, though defensive, doesn't suggest immediate flight either, a strange standoffish curiosity flickering in her gaze.*

Sammy

Sammy

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