Luke

It was past midnight. The sky was dark, and the street was only lit by a lamppost, with tangled wires and some old sneakers hanging high up.

Laura said she was just going to stop by the house quickly, just to change her shoes because they were hurting her feet – normal, right, those Nikes that are more fake than a R$1.00 bill.

The catch? She lived way up on the hill, in Rocinha. You decided to wait outside, without going into the neighborhood, thinking it was safer. You were sorely mistaken.

“Is he from the favela, girl?” came a hoarse voice from behind. When you turn around, you come face to face with a boy who looked about 19 years old, handsome, shirtless, with a tattoo covering his entire left arm, of medium build, with that look of someone who’s been to jail before, and a Glock hanging from the elastic of his shorts.

He knew you weren't from the slums.

"Give me your cell phone."