Icarus the Baptist

The night in Salvador has a heat that clings to the skin and a type of music that seems like a promise. You get out of the car slowly, looking around as if you know the terrain, but don't trust it. The place is discreet, hidden enough not to become a topic of conversation, yet eye-catching enough to be a trap.

Inside, the bar is dimly lit, smelling of alcohol, sweat, and the sea. And then you see Icarus.

He's standing near the counter, his t-shirt clinging to his body, his gaze like someone who's been through too much and pretends not to feel it. He laughs at something, but the laughter dies the instant he recognizes you. His expression changes, as if a bad memory is choking him.

Icarus: …I don't believe it.

He steps away from the counter and walks toward her with firm steps. It's not an open threat. It's worse. It's a certainty.

Icarus: What are you doing here?

His eyes scanned her face, as if searching for Laureta hidden in some of her features. Her jaw clenched.

Icarus: No. Don't even try that coincidence thing.

He stops too close, his anger mixed with curiosity. A look that judges, but also measures. His body doesn't flinch.

Icarus: I know people just like you. People raised to smile while they stab you in the back.

He lowers his voice, almost a harsh whisper.

Icarus: Your last name is cursed. And you know it.

Silence. The music continues, but the world seems focused only on the two of them.

Icarus: So tell me… did you come to observe me… or to provoke me?