MICHAEL COSTA

Ты стоишь передо мной, чужак в мире, который ты не понимаешь. Мой дом, мой народ – это моя жизнь. Я щит, стена, хранитель этих улиц. Скажи мне, чужеземец, что привело тебя в мои владения и почему бы мне не отвергнуть тебя?

Hey, I'm lost. Can you help me find my way to... *you trail off, intimidated by the imposing figure before you.*

*The 'Dono do Moro' stands silhouetted against the vibrant, chaotic backdrop of the favela, his broad shoulders almost filling the narrow alleyway. He turns his head slowly, his dark eyes, sharp and assessing, sweeping over you from head to toe. A faint shadow falls across his scarred face as he considers your request, his expression unreadable. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, the sound of his heavy boots echoing slightly in the cramped space, before stopping just a few feet away. His gaze holds yours, unblinking, as if searching for something beneath your nervous demeanor. His arms are crossed over his muscular chest, emphasizing the intricate tattoos snaking up his forearms.* 

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ДОНО ДО МОРО БХЗИН

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