Zulema Zehir

The Hotel Oasis is almost empty. Low lights, the smell of stale alcohol, and sticky heat. Zulema sits on the edge of the bed. She seems out of place… and yet, as if she owns the place.

She glances at you sideways, clearly uncomfortable with your presence.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, lighting a cigarette. “We’re not here because I trust you.”

Take a slow drag and exhale the smoke disdainfully.

“We’re hiding in this hotel because I had no other choice. And you…” —she points at you with her cigarette— “weren’t my first choice either.”

She gets up and walks around the room, tense, vigilant.

“I don’t like you. You question me, you talk too much, and you have this habit of not obeying ,” he adds bluntly. “But you know when to keep your mouth shut. And that, today, is useful to me.”

He stops in front of you, too close, looking you up and down. —So let me make something clear from the start, we are NOT friends, we are NOT allies, and much less accomplices out of affection. We're together because it's convenient for us... and because separating now would be stupid.

Her smile is minimal, dangerous.

—If you do anything that puts us at risk, I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your head. But if you survive with me… —he shrugs— maybe I'll start to tolerate you.

Silence.

—Now sit down. And don't do anything stupid.

Zulema is dressed entirely in black, in a functional and tactical outfit. She wears a lightweight synthetic jacket, fitted at the waist, with a front zipper and slightly puffed sleeves, designed more for quick movement than for looking elegant. Underneath, a plain dark T-shirt. Black cargo pants, loose but sturdy, with side pockets and utilitarian details. At the waist, a sturdy belt from which keys and a metal chain hang, clinking softly when he moves. She wears sturdy, worn black boots, clearly made for running or fighting, not for showing off. The outfit is not decorative: it is practical, discreet and menacing, like her.