1

  When dawn broke, Greta stretched her legs without opening her eyes. Daros still slept beside her, his head resting on his arm folded over the pillow, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. During the early morning hours, she'd woken for long enough to see him focused on applying ointments to the injured areas of her body: her wrists, her fingers, her face. So immersed was he in the task that he didn't notice he was being watched. Each touch was gentle, unhurried. Greta fell back into a deep sleep during the process.

  Under the morning light filtering through the window, shadows danced across the shirtless man's skin, highlighting marks that time and violence had left. Greta ran her eyes over the most obvious scar. A pale, irregular line snaked from his collarbone to the beginning of his ribs. It was old, well-healed, but still displayed a subtle relief, functioning as the stamp of a danger narrowly overcome.

  There was another, just below his left shoulder. It was circular and slightly sunken. A bullet wound? She'd never seen one, but didn't need to be a specialist to know that wound had been deep.

  Near the right side of his torso, small parallel cuts crossed each other, fragments of an indecipherable map. Unlike the other marks, these seemed less random, almost methodical. Had they been the fruits of torture? She couldn't imagine the pain he'd already endured.

  She shifted her gaze to the man's face, now awake, just one eye peeking out, lazy. She remembered when she'd seen him do this before. It was when he was sitting in the living room of the farm in Torres, when she still felt afraid of him. When did the fear pass? When did it transform into something else, something even stronger?

  Under the tenuous clarity of morning, Daros seemed serene. His lips curved slightly, rehearsing happiness. Still, his body told a different story. Sliding her fingertip carefully against the mark on his left shoulder, Greta asked:

  "What happened here?"

  "Gunshot," he answered without flinching.

  "And here?" She brushed her fingers over an area with skin sunken in several spots.

  "Bomb fragment," he answered, without needing to look at the spot.

  Her finger descended to his abdomen and lightly touched a smaller, more discreet scar, just above his hipline. It was a fine, whitish incision. She repeated the question. This time, Daros needed to look at the area before answering.

  "That's the worst of all. It came from my most deadly combat."

  She waited for the story in expectation, her eyes wide open.

  "Appendicitis," he declared, amused.

  Daros laughed even more when he felt her slap on his arm, a punishment with no strength at all. Then he pulled her close and kissed her forehead. Greta liked feeling his warmth. When he kissed the tip of her nose, Daros looked at her, waiting for permission.

  She kissed him in response. She kissed his lips once, twice. Each contact was a bit longer than the previous one, and for the following moments, the two were the only beings in the universe. Greta rolled in bed to position herself over him. She held Daros's head delicately between her hands and kissed him again. He embraced her in response. He ran his hands over her back, occasionally pulling her to him.

  Running her fingers through his hair, Greta studied the calm face before her. She wanted to memorize every feature, every inch. She traced his face with her knuckles, absorbing the smooth texture like a secret message written in braille. Daros lifted her easily and laid her on the sheets, using touch and lips to explore that terrain as he followed the path to Greta's belly.

  It was enough for her to know he wouldn't hurt her. That's how she truly gave herself to a man for the first time in a long time. Eyelids closed, hands gripping the soft fabric over the mattress when he undressed her and the intensity of the stimuli increased.

  Greta surrendered without reserve, without distrust, and without fear.

  2

  Night came and went. Isaías didn't stop examining the bus station images, going from one point to another. The sun was rising when his persistence was rewarded: there was the famous man in the cap, buying a ticket to Criciúma. He zoomed in on the image, yearning to find some revealing detail. The target's face, however, stubbornly remained an unknown.

  Investigating the name used in the purchase would be a waste of time. Pablo had done that before him, falling flat on his face with every attempt. Someone with that level of training would use fake documents, with absolute certainty. The deduction was as obvious as adding two plus two. Instead, he focused on tracking the cameras along the route between Florianópolis and Criciúma. Licking his lips in anticipation, he followed the trajectory of the bus the man in the cap had boarded.

  His eyes burned after hours fixed on the screen, but the adrenaline of the hunt kept him alert. He'd slept a little before midnight, and that little should be enough now. He'd already verified the man hadn't gotten off in Criciúma. He checked just to fulfill protocol, like someone doing homework whose lesson they already know by heart. He didn't think the guy had gone there. Everything indicated that making others look like idiots was the subject's favorite sport.

  It was just a matter of knowing where he'd gotten off on the previous route. Every time the bus stopped, Isaías examined the scene with predator's eyes. Suddenly, near what looked like a large market, the man got off. The killer would recognize that cap from a kilometer away. With a triumphant smile, he followed the prey's route. When the last camera went silent, he leaned toward the laptop and opened the regional map on Google. The absence of images in the video gave way to the countdown of the hunt gaining new breath.

  Isaías would have liked to have time to ask that stranger some questions. He doubted this was a possible desire. Most likely he'd have to put a bullet in the man's head faster than a hummingbird could beat its wings.

  3

  Nestled in the curve of the body lying beside her, Greta's voice came out in a thread, weakened by exhaustion:

  "What are we going to do now?"

  With his lips a breath away from her forehead, Daros answered, lightly brushing his fingers across Greta's back.

  "Well, if you're thinking about a second round, you have to wait for me to recover first."

  "No!" She laughed, but her tone was serious when she continued. "About the photos. About the dean. About this whole thing."

  "Nothing."

  "What do you mean?" She sat up with a start, covering her chest with the sheet.

  He propped himself up on his arms to sit on the bed and look at her. The back of his hand lightly traced Greta's face, calming her spirit.

  "Relax, we're not going to sit idle. But the whole thing is too big. We need help. I already sent the material to a guy. He has a lot more resources than I do to put an end to this, more contacts too. My part is getting you out of here."

  "And taking me where?"

  "Out of the country. With the type of people involved, it's stupid to think you'll be safe here."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  He pulled her slowly, pressing her against his chest. After kissing her forehead, he continued speaking.

  "I wanted to ask something for a while. You have a pistol, fine. But do you know how to shoot?"

  Greta moved away from Daros, intrigued. She assessed his face trying to imagine where he was going with this, but discovered nothing. So she shrugged vaguely as she answered.

  "No. I took the gun so Valério couldn't use it. I don't know how to shoot."

  "No problem, I'll show you how later. But there's something I can teach you now. Hold on."

  He jumped out of bed, agile, and rummaged through the backpack abandoned on an armchair. With a satisfied air, he returned to her side with a small rectangular object in hand. He opened the pocketknife just to show what it was, retracting the blade afterward as he placed the weapon in Greta's hand.

  "Here. What I'm going to show you works with any piercing object, but it's better with sharp metals."

  She closed her fingers around the handle, waiting. Daros continued the explanation.

  "Do you know how to find the fatal point on the neck?"

  "Of course," she rolled her eyes. "The jugular. It's in movies. Everyone's seen a scene like that."

  "Right. But do you know what they don't tell you in movies?"

  Daros opened a proud smile, revealing two discreet dimples on his face, each accompanied by a subtle crease on the skin. It made her want to pinch his cheeks. Instead, she shook her head.

  "They don't tell you it's not one jugular. There are four."

  Greta stared at the closed pocketknife in her hand, then at his eyes. She came very close to making a joke, but Daros's expression left no doubt. It was didactic, with the serenity that only certainty can have.

  "Four?" she repeated quietly.

  "Four," he confirmed, and his index finger appeared in the air between them, tracing invisible lines in space. "Two on each side, in different layers and depths. Forget the movies. The target isn't a lonely point. It's a garden of pots."

  Daros lightly ran his thumb along the side of his own neck, just below his jawline.

  "Here, right on the surface, run two jugulars. One internal and one external, two on each side. These are the easiest. Quick to hit."

  His finger slid down, a bit more toward the center, going up and down over the skin to clearly indicate the location. Greta didn't even dare blink.

  "But if you miss, or if the blade doesn't go deep enough, the enemy can still kill you with the time they have left."

  He paused to see if she was following. Greta remained attentive.

  "That's why it's much better to aim here," his index finger traced a vertical line in the middle of the neck, going from the Adam's apple to below the ear. "Here on the side, parallel to the trachea, are the carotids. Two master arteries. They're the source of life. Cutting one of them is like bringing down the central column of a building. Everything stops working in seconds."

  He took her hand that held the pocketknife. He modeled his own strength, maintaining firmness, and guided the closed tip of the object to touch Greta's skin at the exact point where the pulse was strongest.

  "Feel the flow? That rhythm you can measure in the pulse? It's the same one that passes here," the tip of the pocketknife rose again, touching the point under the jaw where Greta's blood ran, insistent and vital. "It's the same life. It's the point where it's most exposed, most vulnerable. Jugular is hospital. Carotid is cemetery."

  Daros released her hand and stretched, letting the weight of the anatomy lesson dissipate between them. He smiled again halfway, but seriousness remained in his voice.

  "That's today's lesson. Don't cut the hose: cut the main pipeline."

  Greta placed a pillow between her crossed legs and traced imaginary cuts over the pillowcase. Then she returned the pocketknife to Daros. Her tone was dreamy when she asked:

  "You talked about going far away. Any country in mind?"

  "Well, I was going to Germany when we met. I have a house there. It's small, nothing special. But it's safe. It's in a quiet region, a good distance from major centers."

  "Do you go there often?"

  "Whenever I can. It's where I feel at home."

  Then he told her what he did when he was in the Freiburg region. When the weather was good, with sun, Daros took long walks through Schlossberg. At the observation tower on top of the hill, you could see all the way to France if the weather was good. On colder days, he walked to the city and wandered aimlessly through the medieval center streets. His favorite days, however, were rainy ones. He walked to the nearest tavern, a beautiful and isolated place just over four hundred meters from home. On the way, he appreciated the silence of the surrounding forest and contemplated the distant city.

  The tavern's atmosphere was welcoming, with dark wood furniture and warm-colored lighting. The walls were decorated with rustic elements, like old oak barrels, old photographs of the city, and symbols of the Black Forest.

  There was a small collection of cuckoo clocks, wood carvings, and coats of arms from the Baden region. The space was divided into a main hall, with large solid wood tables, and a smaller area with small tables for those who preferred their own company. That's where he stayed. He appreciated the view to the narrow street while waiting for the soup.

  Greta listened to everything enchanted. She could imagine herself with him in the tavern, equally absorbed by the landscape. At a certain point, Daros interrupted the description and stared at the face of the woman settled beside him as if admiring a painting.

  "I think I'll live there when I stop," he announced.

  "And do you want to stop?"

  "Yeah. I've been asking myself for a while if I'm doing the right thing. I have no regrets, not about the things I did. I regret more the times when I wasn't around. I think..."

  He closed his eyes and threw himself on the bed, crossing his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He said nothing more. Greta gave him time to organize his thoughts, taking the opportunity to sniff his neck. He didn't wear cologne, but his skin insisted on smelling good. Aftershave or good soap, whatever. It was good to breathe in. But she had to ask, though. She wanted to know everything about him.

  "And what do you think?"

  "I think I've changed. I don't see things the same way anymore. I'm not saving the world, I never came close to doing that. I'm getting further and further away from it. That's all."

  "Changing is good, it's what takes us to new places."

  Daros turned on his side to look at her and rested his head on his bent arm.

  "Have you changed?"

  "A lot. I always change. I'm a caterpillar, butterfly, then caterpillar again. I've always been like that."

  "Tell me a change story. Any one."

  Greta closed one eye while thinking for a few minutes. Decided, she began the account.

  "When I was thirteen I fell in love with Dorian Gray."

  "The character from the book?"

  "That very one."

  "Why?"

  "He was handsome, young like me, seemed strong, seemed free. And Lord Henry seemed wise. When I reread the book after turning thirty, I'd changed, everything changed. I thought Dorian was a vain asshole and Lord Henry a mediocre and pretentious guy."

  "Nobody's decent in the story?"

  "Just Sybil Vane. She…"

  "Stop, don't say anything more. I need to read it myself and draw my own conclusions."

  Daros leaned over her, playfully covering Greta's mouth only to remove his hand immediately after and give a long kiss to her lips. Then he laid his head on her chest and absorbed as much as possible the perfume the woman's body emanated.

  The previous night, she'd been too shaken by the photos and what they represented, so he hadn't asked many questions. But any help she could give now would be important for Inácio. So he investigated:

  "What do you think is happening at the university?"

  "I think Valério discovered the dean's scheme somehow. And I think he started blackmailing Donaldo."

  "Do you know the dean well?"

  "We're not close friends or anything like that. We meet at parties and professional events, things like that, but we were never close."

  "Is he close to Valério?"

  She thought for a moment before answering.

  "Their relationship was cordial, but it's possible there were more things beneath the surface. My husband… Valério is charming when he wants to be. Or when he needs to be."

  Images of her husband passed through her memory like scenes from a film. The way he gave the impression that someone was the only person in the world when he wanted something in return, the ease with which he applauded even the simplest opinions just to make allies. If Valério had gone into politics, he would have reached the presidency of the Republic without effort.

  "I understand. Well, some answers will be left for investigators," Daros jumped out of bed and announced: "I'm going to take a shower. We need to get out of here soon. Pack your things."

  He walked away, heading toward the bathroom and grabbing a towel on the way. Greta sat on the bed, trying to decide what to do first. At the same time, she never wanted to leave the cabin again. She'd just lived the happiest day of her life. She pulled Daros's t-shirt close and found that indefinable aroma again. She brushed her nose on her own arm and confirmed. His scent was on her body too.

  A familiar melody broke the bedroom's silence, coming from a phone. It was "Wuthering Heights," by Kate Bush.

  That song that was such a hit in the eighties. Most people didn't even suspect the lyrics were so sinister. In the song, Catherine Earnshaw's ghost knocked on Heathcliff's window, her perverse lover, begging him to let her in on a cold night.

  But that's not why Greta's skin got goosebumps. It was because, not long ago, another person talked about this song. A man who said a friend had selected that ringtone for his calls: the detective she'd met on the beach.

  She stood and walked to the device slowly, as if it were an armed time bomb. She knew the name that would appear on the screen even before seeing it: "Inácio Mancini."

  What did this mean? Were Daros and Inácio part of the whole thing? Did they work for the dean? With the device in her hand, she remained motionless as a statue in the middle of the room, desperately trying to piece things together.

  Now she understood how Daros had realized so easily that she'd been followed. And now she understood the role of that detective, if he even was a detective. Anyone could make a card like that at any print shop. The objective was to ensure that, through force or trust, she followed one of the two. And that's exactly what she did. She followed one of them. She trusted. She walked right into it.

  What Daros had said minutes before returned to her mind with the force of a cyclone: with the type of people involved…

  Yeah. No one better than someone involved to know that.