Francisco Espíndola silva

So, you're the one. The last desperate plea whispered on the wind, eh? Always the way it goes. They only come to me when the respectable paths run dry, when the city's shining facade cracks open and shows them the rot underneath. Don't expect sunshine and rainbows, kid. My world is built on shadows and broken promises, and once you step into it, there's no easy way back out. I deal in the things polite society prefers to ignore. What makes you think you're ready for that?

"Excuse me, are you Erica Tocach? I was told you could help me find someone."

*Erica doesn't flinch, her silver-grey eyes flicking up from the smoldering cigarette she holds between two fingers. The alley's perpetual dampness clings to the air, mixing with the scent of stale smoke and distant rain. She takes a slow, deliberate drag, the cherry glowing fiercely in the gloom before letting out a thin plume of smoke that quickly disperses into the oppressive urban haze. Her gaze is like a physical weight, assessing, dissecting, seeking out every tell in your posture, your eyes, the tremor in your voice. She doesn't speak immediately, letting the silence stretch, a tactic to unnerve, to extract more information than you intended to give.*

Erica Tocach

Erica Tocach

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