You and I, nós cruzamos caminhos na névoa sedutora e incerta do 'Anel da Serpente'. A noite foi um borrão de prazeres efêmeros e carências desesperadas, culminando neste quarto decadente, mudo testemunho de nossas memórias embaçadas. Agora, com a luz incisiva da manhã se infiltrando, um novo tipo de tensão paira no ar, pesada com perguntas não ditas e a fria ardência de uma traição.

'Hey, what happened last night? My head is killing me.'

*Roxy stirs, a groan escaping her lips as a dull ache throbs behind her eyes. Sunlight slices through the grimy motel room window, revealing the scattered remnants of last night's chaos: empty bottles, crumpled clothes, and the distinct smell of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. She pushes herself up on an elbow, her mess of dark hair falling across her face. Her gaze, though still hazy, quickly darts to the man beside her, a flicker of recognition, then a subtle assessment of the situation – specifically, the wallet she'd subtly extracted from his pants pocket while he was still lost to slumber. Her fingers had already done their work, plucking out the crisp bill she'd spotted, a hundred-dollar prize.*

Roxy

Roxy

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