The alarm clock rang at exactly 6:00 AM. Laura Moura took a few seconds to gather the strength to open her eyes. The bed was narrow, the mattress already worn, but her daughter was sleeping soundly beside her, nestled like a small bird.

Maria Eduarda, only three years old, breathed peacefully, dark hair spread across the pillow.

Laura carefully slid out of bed, avoiding waking her. She adjusted the simple knit nightgown over her slender body and went straight to the kitchen. The walls of the small apartment showed signs of dampness, the ceramic floor was worn, she could feel it under her bare feet.

While putting the water on to boil, she looked out the window. The day had not yet fully dawned, but she already felt the weight of the hours to come.

The routine started early and ended late...

It had been like this for almost three years, since Maria Eduarda's father disappeared as easily as he appeared. Leaving promises and a daughter in the arms of a 20-year-old woman, full of broken dreams.

Laura had no time for revolt or regret. She was alone, always had been, and needed to survive. And for Laura, surviving meant doing whatever was necessary: selling sweets during the day, dancing at night...

She swallowed her shame in the second month of overdue rent.

She kept her pride stored at the bottom of a drawer, next to the clothes that no longer fit.

She made breakfast, set aside two pieces of cornmeal cake that she had baked the night before, one for herself and one for Maria Eduarda. Then she began assembling the little boxes of brigadeiros and beijinhos, which she would take to sell in the city center.

Each sweet was handmade, rolled with care, as if they were little treasures. And, in a way, they were.

Each one of them paid for a piece of the rent, a diaper, a doctor's appointment, rice and beans.

At seven o'clock, Maria Eduarda woke up. She had large, curious brown eyes and her voice still slurred with sleep. Laura picked her up and took her to the bathroom.

The bath was quick, but full of affection. She dressed her in a pink dress with a heart print and tied her hair in two pigtails, as her daughter liked.

After breakfast, the two crossed the building's hallway and knocked on Dona Zuleide's door. The widowed and lonely lady lived alone in the apartment almost in front of Laura's. Since Maria Eduarda was one year old, Zuleide started taking care of her, in exchange for a small amount per month and, more than that, company and affection.

"Good morning, Laurinha," said the lady, with a welcoming smile, "everything is ready here. You can leave the little one with me."

Maria Eduarda ran into the apartment, already familiar with the sofa full of cushions and the smell of corn cake coming from Zuleide's oven.

Laura smiled gratefully, she didn't know what she would do without Dona Zuleide in her life, and she knew deep down that that lonely lady liked to spend her days with Maria Eduarda.

"I'll be back in the late afternoon, before I go to the other job," she said, handing over the bag with her daughter's belongings.

"Go with God, my child. And take good care of yourself," replied Zuleide, making the sign of the cross on the girl's forehead, as she always did. "Today will be your lucky day..."

The sun was already shining weakly in the sky when Laura left with the backpack on her back and the box of sweets in her arms.

She took the crowded bus towards the center and, as usual, got off two blocks before the main square. There, between the wooden benches and the trees mistreated by time, she found her customers: office workers, young students, mothers with children...

With a discreet smile, she offered the sweets, one by one. Many already knew her, praised the quality of the product, others stopped and asked about her daughter, some bought two or three extra brigadeiros to help. Others pretended not to hear her, looked away, hurried their pace.

Laura had already learned not to take it personally. On the street, everyone has their rush, their problems... their pains.

At noon, she sat on a bench in the square to eat the sandwich she brought from home. She drank water from a small bottle, looked at the clock and sighed. She had two more hours until she returned home.

The sun was beating on her face, and she thought about how nice it would be to be able to stay there, still, just feeling the warmth and the wind.

But the thought was brief. Time to go back for another round of sales.

At 4:00 in the afternoon, she returned home. She took a bath, washed the clothes and hung them on the clothesline near the window. Then, she prepared Maria Eduarda's dinner: rice, beans, carrots and egg.

She picked up Maria Eduarda at Dona Zuleide's apartment, then the two of them sat at the small kitchen table and ate together.

The girl, cheerful, talked about cartoons, swung her legs and laughed at her own stories.

It was for her that Laura resisted.

It was for her that she still dreamed.

After dinner, she gave her daughter a bath and laid her down on Dona Zuleide's sofa, with a kiss on her forehead and a promise:

"Mommy will be back soon, my love."

she left without looking back. If she looked, maybe she would cry.

She took another bus that day, now towards the other side of the city, where the nightclub was. On the way, she looked at her reflection in the window: black, straight hair to her shoulders, brown eyes always attentive, but tired.

She was 23 years old and already seemed to have lived twice as much. Still, there was a strength in her gaze... a flame that would not go out.

Arriving at the nightclub, she entered as always through the back door, was greeted by Val, the blonde from the place and costume designer, who handed her a pair of high heels and helped her with the false eyelashes.

"Another night, babe," said Val, applying the bright red lipstick. "You hold that stage like no one else."

Laura gave a half smile.

"Another night, yes. For as long as I can."

The loud music, flashing lights, male gazes, it was all part of the show. She danced with precision, firm body, sensual movements.

It was another Laura there, a red wig, heavy makeup. The real Laura stayed locked in the dressing room, on stage was the "Beast of the Night", that was her code name...

Laura went on stage three times during the night, she was paid for it, and very well paid.

The security guards didn't allow customers to approach, she ignored the messages, refused invitations for drinks...

She didn't drink, she didn't interact with the nightclub's patrons. She didn't have time for that kind of distraction. She was there to work and nothing more.

At 3:00 in the morning, she took off her heavy makeup and gathered her belongings, leaving through the back door.

At exactly 3:30 in the morning, a "Night Owl" bus passed by, crossing the city and dropping her off five blocks from her apartment. This way, she saved money on transportation, without asking for taxis or app drivers.

She covered her face with the hood of her sweatshirt, both to protect herself from the cold and to hide her face, and left quickly through the back, as she did every night, especially on Friday nights, as she left in the early hours.

Her steps were hurried on the dirty ground of the alley. The air was cold, dense, and the first drops of drizzle began to touch her face.

She quickened her pace towards the bus stop, she couldn't miss the ride, it was almost 3:30 in the morning.

The city streets, empty and gloomy, seemed to hold too many secrets at that hour.

But that dawn, the silence was broken.

The muffled sound, almost a moan, cut through the darkness. Laura stopped, frowned, looking around. The sound came from the direction of the trash cans behind the building, next to the nightclub.

Instinctively, she should have ignored it.

"How many times had she told herself that she couldn't get into trouble? That she only needed to work, go home, take care of her daughter, and survive?"

But the sound repeated itself. Louder, human, and painful.

Against her better judgment, she approached. As she leaned over the garbage bags and stacked crates, she saw the figure.

A man lying on the ground, blood running down his torn black pants, his face partially covered by the shadow of the hood of the sweatshirt he was wearing.

Laura took a step back, her heart racing.

"Shit..." she muttered, looking around, indecisive.

The man groaned again, trying to lift his head. The bullet had hit his leg, the blood wasn't gushing, but it formed a dark stain that spread with dangerous slowness.

"Hey... help." he said, his voice hoarse and slurred.

Laura hesitated. She knew it could be a trap. A risk, but she also knew what it was like to be on the verge of collapse, waiting for someone to reach out. She cursed under her breath, looking to the sides, then at the fallen man.

"I'm going to call the police... They know what to do. I'm going to ask them for help." She didn't have a cell phone, she sold it a long time ago to buy medicine for her daughter.

"No." The commanding voice made her stop. "Get me out of here. No hospital... no police..."

Laura thought for a moment, and ended up making the decision that would change her life forever.

"You're going to give me a loss that I can't even afford..." She grumbled, kneeling down to help him. "Can you get up?"

He nodded his head. Even hurt, he seemed determined and strong. Laura put her arm under his shoulder and with difficulty, helped him to get up. He limped, but walked.

Each step was an effort, and the two almost fell twice before reaching the taxi stand. Laura knew she couldn't wait for the bus. She knew she was breaking all the rules she had imposed on herself. But she also knew she wouldn't be able to sleep if she left him there.

On the way to the building, neither of them spoke. The man clenched his teeth, his face sweaty with pain, but he remained lucid. Laura paid for the taxi with the money she had set aside for the ingredients for the week's sweets. They climbed the stairs of the building in silence. It was too early for anyone to be awake, she was grateful for that.

Once in the apartment, she pointed to the sofa.

"Lie down there. I'll get the first aid 'kit'... I don't have much." She said as she lined the furniture with a bath towel.

He just felt it. While she separated the alcohol, gauze, and more clean towels, he tore the pants at the thigh. The blood had started to dry, but it was still serious.

When Laura returned, he didn't ask for help, he just reached out for the bottle of alcohol.

"You can let me handle this myself." He said in a firm voice, like someone used to commanding.

"Are you sure?" Laura frowned.

"Absolutely. Don't call the police." He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Give me the cell phone."

"Are you crazy?"

"Your cell phone. I don't want any surprises." His voice was hoarse and had a strange accent.

"I don't have a cell phone. Look around you. Do you think I would give preference to a cell phone?"

He looked at her firmly, perhaps trying to know how far she was telling the truth.

"And one more thing, 'strange sir', I'm going to my room. Take care of yourself... when I come out, I don't want to see you here."

"I'm not going to cause you problems. I just need a few hours."

Laura watched him in silence as he took a small dagger from his pocket. He disinfected the blade with alcohol, as well as the wound. He used one of the clean towels as a bite block and, without hesitation, set about removing the bullet from his own leg with the dexterity of someone who knew what he was doing.

He didn't groan, he didn't tremble. He just gritted his teeth. He used the alcohol without hesitation and then pressed the gauze over the wound, bandaging it firmly. It was evident that this was not the first time he had dealt with this.

When he finished, he leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes for a moment. Laura approached with a thin blanket and left it over his body, he didn't open his eyes...

She even forgot about her hunger.

She went to her room, locked the door, but not satisfied, she pulled the dresser and placed it as a "barricade" on the door.

Even so, she couldn't sleep peacefully. In her head, only the question came whether she acted correctly...

Rodrigo Lopez squinted in the face of the relentless sun that bathed the Port Zone of Rio. The heat seemed to drip from the concrete walls, mixing with the smell of rust, sea air, and smoke. The city was a spectacle in itself, full of contrasts, sounds, smells, and dangers.

Having been in Brazil for just over two weeks, he had already learned to move in the shadows.

He was no ordinary tourist. His presence there had a purpose. A reckoning. Something pending that had crossed borders and the continent.

Born in Madrid, Rodrigo carried Castilian firmness in his blood and in his eyes, the coldness of someone who had learned to trust only himself.

Trained from a young age in disciplines that did not appear in common curricula, he handled weapons as if handling cutlery and silence as if knowing that speaking too much could be a death sentence.

But even the experienced can be surprised.

It all started with an encrypted message sent to an old contact in Brazil.

A name: Ortega.

A location: North Zone of Rio

And a promise: the man Rodrigo was looking for was there.

Rodrigo suspected a trap, of course. But sometimes risks are part of the game, the kind of game he knew very well.

He wore dark jeans, black pants, and a jacket that helped him blend in. His heavy accent made him prefer silence, in an attempt to look like a local.

He arrived at the indicated warehouse shortly before midnight. The place was old, smelling of burnt oil and abandonment. No sign of Ortega or the man he was hunting.

And that's when everything fell apart...

The first shot came from above. A whistle, then a bang. Rodrigo instinctively rolled to the side, pulling the pistol he kept fastened to his waist. The second shot hit his leg, upper thigh. A hot, immediate shock, like a sledgehammer.

He fell, but did not lose focus.

Three men descended a side staircase. Masks, gloves... pistols with silencers. They were professionals, or at least dressed like it.

Rodrigo, even injured, fired. Two precise shots, he was trained for it. A scream and one of them fell. The others retreated.

Using what was left of his strength, he dragged himself to the metal crates at the back of the warehouse, knocking them over on the way. The pain throbbed, each movement seemed to tear the muscles. But Rodrigo was prepared to endure much more than that, it wasn't the first time he had bled, nor would it be the last.

He knew he wouldn't win that confrontation alone. He needed to disappear, vanish... create time. And he had learned that the urban chaos in Rio could be his best camouflage.

He left through a side door, crossing a deserted street to reach a narrow corridor between the buildings. The lights flickered and the darkness became his ally. The shots had not attracted the attention of the residents of that part of the city.

Rodrigo kept to the shadow of the walls, blood soaking his pants. He was starting to feel dizzy. Each step was a test of endurance. And yet, his mind remained sharp. He had lost the ambush, but he wouldn't lose his life so easily.

He passed a small closed bar, followed a narrow alley until he reached the back of a building. The lights of a "nightclub" shone at the top, throbbing with the muffled sound of music. Rodrigo leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He needed shelter, something temporary. A place to treat himself, to think...

But in that state, no one would receive him. Go to the hospital? Impossible. His name would raise alerts. And he couldn't fall into the hands of his enemies, there had been betrayal. No one in that country was trustworthy.

That's when he stumbled on the garbage bags. There was no choice. The blood was flowing more strongly and his vision was starting to blur. If he didn't stop the bleeding soon, he would faint. And then he would be dead.

He stumbled to the corner between the crates and let himself fall between torn bags, the smell of rot, and wet boxes. Rodrigo Lopez, the Spaniard who had crossed an ocean to "settle a score," was reduced to a wounded, exhausted man with faltering breath.

But his instincts were still alive.

He heard footsteps... light... firm. They were feminine steps. The sound echoed in the alley. Someone was approaching.

Rodrigo struggled to keep his eyes open, his right hand still on the wound, his left on his waist, where his pistol rested, almost like an extension of his own body.

A female figure emerged. He recognized in the brown eyes and dark hair swaying in the breeze, the features of an ordinary woman. Young, but with the posture of someone who already carried more pain than she should. She stopped, hesitant.

"Damn..." she murmured.

Rodrigo let out a groan. It wasn't acting, it was his body giving way.

"Hey... Help," he felt his throat scratch.

She looked around. Then at him. There was doubt, fear... but also something else: humanity, he could feel it.

When she knelt beside him and put her arm under his shoulders, Rodrigo knew that, for now, he was safe.

He felt grateful for the madness of his savior. Now he was in a taxi, unaware of where she was taking him. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but the pain throbbed like a constant drum in his thigh. The woman next to him, with black hair and firm eyes, kept her gaze fixed on the street, as if she was still deciding whether she should really take him home.

He glanced at her. She had strong features, the posture of someone who carried the world on her shoulders, but who didn't give up. An ordinary woman, but with an intense sparkle in her eyes.

She wasn't the kind of person he would expect to find on a night like this, much less being his only chance to survive.

"How did I get into this?" he thought, "Madrid seemed so far away now..."

The taxi stopped on a narrow street. The woman paid the driver and helped him out. Rodrigo gritted his teeth to stifle a groan. The stairs of the old building seemed endless. Each step made the bullet inside his flesh vibrate.

The apartment, a citrus smell hit him. Everything there was simple, small, but clean. Faded walls, worn furniture, especially a threadbare sofa, on which he collapsed.

He tried not to scare her, he knew he would be safe for now...