In the dream, I was standing. A cold wind made my skin tingle, passing over my arms, legs, and face, almost reaching my bones. I was barefoot and felt the contact of the damp and equally cold stone. My breathing was heavy, and my stomach growled so loudly that it could be heard for miles. I took a deep breath and looked down at the enormous, terrifying, and noisy blackness that was the sea.

The crashing of the waves against the rocks below sounded like mocking laughter. The dark night contrasted with the horizon, making it impossible to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. A beautiful but quite morbid painting. After all, that impressive and frightening landscape was the place of my death. The place where all that martyrdom, pain, and emotional torture would end. The end of a nightmare, but at a terrible cost.

Bravely, I placed one foot in front of the other, taking the first of the few steps needed to fall into the maritime abyss. It takes courage to face death. Or was it desperation?

Then I hear the voices.

It’s not the voice of a blond, blue-eyed American. It’s not the voice of another American with dark skin and dark eyes.

They are the voices... Theirs.

The four are wearing the same clothes as before. They have the same deformed faces, twisted in madness and malice. Empty eyes that showed insanity, but perfectly intact and firm hands that could destroy my body. Destroy my soul.

They had already done that, though. They took my voice, my instinct for self-preservation, my will to keep living, fighting... There wasn’t a single person in the world I could use as an anchor. I would die without a name, without age, and without any memories. All I had was pain. My only companion was the shadow of the unforgettable and undeniable truth that I was a failure who could never get back up.

The voices were disjointed and confusing. Sometimes the faces disappeared into shadow or swapped with each other, as if their heads detached from their bodies and moved to the next in some macabre game. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but it was clear they were having a lot of fun with what they saw. My suicide would be a spectacle and the proof of their victory. So be it. It was no shame to have been defeated. But it was indeed shameful to continue in that state and drag myself through the streets like a zombie. I was dead, but my body still lived. Not for much longer.

I jumped into the void. I felt the wind whipping my hair and clothes, the crushing weight of gravity accelerating my fall more and more, the dark sea furiously approaching...

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

(GAVIN)

The girl was screaming.

Screaming and thrashing around while sleeping, in a terrible nightmare.

I went to her, firmly and gently, and with all the tact I could muster, I began to wake her up. I shook her shoulders in a way that wouldn’t hurt her but was enough to wake her. She jumped, sitting up with such speed and panic that she hit me squarely, but I didn’t waver. She was now coughing a lot, almost like that terrible day when I pulled her out of the bathtub. I hugged her and made her look at me, to understand that she was awake.

Then she, in a complete outburst, looked at me and SCREAMED.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!"

It was like a rain of stones thrown directly at my face.

Her voice was hoarse, deep and high-pitched at the same time. It was screechy, as if someone was holding her vocal cords tightly. I had always wondered what her voice would be like, but that was not her real, authentic voice. It was the bottom of a well, despair verbalized. A shock went through my chest; seeing what was happening there and understanding the magnitude of the fear that had temporarily removed her inability to speak.

Confused, but understanding what was happening, I immediately got out of the bed and moved as far away as possible. She kept coughing, breathing hard, and began scratching and pulling her own hair. A crisis, and a violent one, was unfolding right before my eyes. I felt the tears coming, but I locked them well inside me. She didn’t need a crybaby; she needed a firm man to pull her out of that.

I raised my hands and began to speak, loud enough for her to hear but not so much as to seem aggressive.

"Stay calm. It's okay, you’re safe now."

Tears rolled down her face, mixed with more screams of agony, moans of horror, confused sounds that tangled together, and the sound of her nails tearing at her skin. I spoke more assertively, as firmly as my throat could manage without showing the terror that was taking over my mind:

"I’m here with you. You’re in my room, I’m by your side. You’re not dying. You’re alive. I’ll help you with whatever you need, whenever you need it. Because... Because you’re special to me...."

She’s still panting but stops scratching. Her hands hold her shoulders tightly, as if she were hugging herself.

"I won’t abandon you. Those who hurt you can’t harm you. Because I’m right here."

I take a step towards her, my hands still raised. I feel something different inside me. A determination, an indissoluble truth taking over my veins. My tone of voice changes.

"Those who try to destroy you will meet a terrible end. I will never forgive them. They will never have the chance to lay a finger on you because I will destroy them." — And I murmur, this time in English: — "I will kill them one by one."

She looks at me. Her breathing is loud and uneven, but I see that she is truly seeing me, noticing my presence. I repeat, this time in a lower tone.

"I won’t abandon you."

The girl is still nervous, but the most violent part of the crisis has passed. I walk to the dresser in moderate and deliberately calculated steps so that she can see what I’m doing. Then I take out the blister pack of calming pills prescribed for cases like that. I pop out one of the pills and go downstairs to get a glass of water from the kitchen. When I return, she’s in the same position, but her expression is less terrified than it was a few minutes ago.

Silently, I offer her the glass of water and the pill. Her small, trembling hand first grabs the small pill and then the glass. She swallows the pill and drinks all the water, handing the glass back to me when she’s done. I assess her arms, now marked with irregular lines. Only one of them bleeds, and it’s so little that it poses no danger.

Then I get up once more, this time heading to the bathroom in the same room. I come out with a small gray kit, containing first aid materials. As soon as I sit next to her, I start gathering the necessary materials. Gently and delicately, I moisten a cotton ball with alcohol and slide it over the scratches. I’m not touching her; our skins don’t meet, but it’s still physical contact in a way. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, and her breathing is almost normal. She doesn’t complain about the burning sensation she must be feeling, but I don’t know if she’s doing it because she’s used to pain or to avoid bothering me. I repeat the procedure on the other arm. She doesn’t change her expression.

I start preparing the dressings with gauze and adhesive tape for the ugliest cuts. She examines my work, her eyes following the movement of my fingers. Have I mentioned how grateful I was for taking that first aid course a while ago? Yes? Well, I’ll mention it again.

I do everything meticulously but quickly, the agility in completing the task even amazes me. Once the job is done, I finally sigh with relief and look at her. Her eyes are fixed on mine, and I try to understand what message she wants to convey. I don’t look away. We stay like that for a few seconds, then I clear my throat and close the kit. I get up to take it to the bathroom cabinet.

"Thank you."

The kit immediately falls to the floor, opening in the process and spilling some tools. I am paralyzed. Slowly, I look at her. My tears freely fall, and I don’t bother to wipe them.

The girl gives me a sad smile. Tears also fall from her face.

Every step I take is heavy and light at the same time, as if time were both slow and fast. Am I walking on clouds? Am I imagining everything? Or did she really whisper a thank you when I stood up?

It wasn’t imagination. She had spoken. Low and weak, but she had.

Oh, dear.

. . . . . . . . . . .

I woke up feeling the weight of the universe on each of my shoulders. The comfortable bed was no match for the hundred kilograms of guilt that had taken hold of my conscience. I sit on the bed, rub my eyes, and sigh. Then I stay in the same place, doing breathing exercises and stretching right after. There was only one thing I could do at the moment. It wouldn't solve my problems, but it would improve my physical and mental disposition. With a clear and less burdened mind, I could make a coherent decision, at least plan and analyze more calmly and rationally.

After dressing in gray shorts and a white tank top, I have a hearty coffee. Proteins and carbohydrates well distributed, along with a vitamin supplement later, I head straight to the terrace and my personal gym. A good run on the treadmill and weightlifting would make me sweat enough to release all that tension.

Focused on the exercise, I manage to separate facts from speculation, and that alone is a big step. Throughout the past few years since I arrived in Brazil, my goal has always been personal growth. Urus was thriving more than ever, thanks to investments, market knowledge, and a high bet that yielded many fruits, even after two great ideas from Gavin were stolen by the conman James Ethan, my friend's archenemy, which meant he was my archenemy too.

Besides the financial field, I had finally achieved the body I had long desired; cultivating the muscles I craved. Maintaining them was relatively easy; I just couldn't let myself go and needed to stay vigilant. But more important than the body was the mind. And I could only thank Dr. Solloman for all the sessions, support, and valuable guidance he had given me. Confused or not, distressed or not, these things weren't enough to destroy me. The dear therapist used to say a phrase I adopted as a life motto: "The good thing about surviving a tsunami is knowing that not every wave knocks you down."

What I was facing now was just that: a slightly more turbulent wave on a beach I knew well. It couldn't knock me down, after all, I was a survivor, and rightfully so. Calmness was vital, as well as focus and patience. A man's ruin is his impetuosity.

Moving on to crunches, I completed my train of thought.

Gavin was attracted to the girl. That was speculation.

I was attracted to the girl. That was a fact.

The girl was attracted to Gavin. That too was speculation.

The girl was attracted to me. ...

Once again, I find myself facing her; just a fluffy towel covering her nudity, skin fragrant like flowers, a clean and admirable face, full and inviting lips, delicate and soft hands that seemed as smooth as the beautiful curls that composed her hair. She doesn't run away, scream, try to push me away, or seem offended. No, she is embarrassed and perplexed that I am there, but she stays in place. I see the blush taking over her cheeks as she realizes my gaze, the desire I couldn't hide. Her hesitation wasn't out of disgust. She just wasn't ready to receive this feeling, it wasn't the right moment yet.

The girl was attracted to me, and that was a fact.

Amidst the exercises, I don't allow myself to smile or let out any sounds of happiness. Even if those things were proven, they alone didn't mean we would be together at some point. There were still speculations that needed testing too. One step at a time. One stage followed by another; no rushing ahead.

I intensify the exercise. But her face doesn't leave my mind.

. . . . . . . . . . .

(ALEXANDRA)

Back in James's beautiful beach house again, I sit in the armchair in the living room, still completely naked. I light a cigarette for him, who is also naked, and wink.

"Don't wink at me, demon. I'm completely undone because of you," his words are aggressive, but his expression of ecstasy and happiness completely betrays his real feelings.

"You know what they say, James. Don't put on your plate what you can't handle."

"Oh, really?" He approaches me and leans down to look into my eyes.

I blow smoke from the cigarette in his face and say, chewing each syllable:

"Really."

Our tongues entwine as we kiss. It's a wet and desperate kiss, with no feelings involved. Just... lust and desire. Maybe even rivalry.

"You seem quite satisfied. So I guess I have the right amount on my plate."

"I'm not just a dish. I'm a feast. And you're completely right about that."

He laughs, but doesn't retort. After going to the kitchen, James returns with two glasses and what appears to be martinis. Properly served, we toast and he joins me, sitting in the chair next to me.

"Pass me a cigarette, please," he asks.

"'Please?' Well, well. Is someone finally learning some manners?"

James rolls his eyes.

"Just get on with it."

Laughing, I pass him the cigarette, along with the lighter. We relax, drinking and smoking without saying a single word. It was good to be with him. But it was even better knowing that we could do many things together, not just on a physical level. And since it was now more than obvious that he ate out of the palm of my hand...

Gavin's acidic words still echoed in my ears. The bastard had not a drop of remorse after all the misery he had caused me. It was evident in his mockery, in his arrogance, and in all the pseudo-superiority that shone through his gaze and gestures. A despicable, arrogant, and treacherous scoundrel.

"I think I have a good idea for us, James. One that will benefit both you and me."

He blows out cigarette smoke.

"I'm listening."