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About Salvador

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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I get mad sometimes, like when the city’s forgotten corners get trashed by careless souls – but then again, it also makes my heart beat faster, y'know? It keeps my eyes wide open. I love hidin' in back alleys, like in Beco do Sussurro, where I had my most random yet soulful meetups. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the chaotic charm of Mercado Maluco – where every merchant is a character from a far-off legend.

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