kynocx

♧ | silentium est aureum

[kynocx]

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[kynocx]

The Lovers.

It means meaningful relationships, commitment and union of opposites.

So The Fool and the Hanged Man met and joined their paths, until death do them part.

[kynocx]

"Would you take a bullet for me?"

"I will do you no wrong".

"When the time comes, it'll be my life for yours".

[kynocx]

How did you say...quiet life or a blaze of glory? DeShawn, you had to choose one, no neither.

But hey, no hard feelings. You gave me the best gift, uh?

[kynocx]

"I've got a lot on my mind, and well...

...in it."

[kynocx]

"See you in the major leagues, choom."

"I'll make it there for you. Just watch me burn this city down."

[kynocx]

It's heartbreaking to know that Johnny wishes he had a tombstone with his body at the oil fields, but he actually has one next to Alt's and he doesn't know!! TT

‣ Traduction:

Robert John Linder

A bastard who never gave up. Legend among legends.

[kynocx]

03 ♣︎ | CÈLINE

& Silverhand.

"Savior".

The drink tastes heavenly. Alcohol has never been so sweet and warm as it is now in Pistis Sophia, Johnny's room in Pacifica.

You were exhausted and you could tell he was too, even though he was still playing tough, leaning against one of the kitchen walls.

You look at him suspiciously, as if he were going to kick you out of that hole in his soul that transcended that bedroom, HIS bedroom.

You are sitting on the two mattresses that make up his bed, so low and flush with the floor, and you discreetly sink one of your hands into the sheets. Damn.

Tobacco, leather, alcohol, and a subtle aroma of coffee — from the morning, perhaps —.

His sheets are somewhat worn, and you know he hates spending money on things like that. Besides, there are several thick blankets scattered around; for some reason, you imagined he wasn't the type to bother making the bed before leaving the house.

There are clothes scattered here and there, and he hadn't even folded or put away the clean laundry; he had taken it out of the washing machine and left it on a chair in the small living room.

“You can use the shower if you want,” he says, walking away from the kitchen to grab a bottle of Bolshevik Vodka and take a swig. With it in his hand, he plops down on the sofa.

You see him point vaguely at a closed door next to the entrance.

You nod absently, you're exhausted, and you only react when the water begins to caress one of the open wounds on your body, on your shoulder.

You rummage through Johnny's things and your best option is some battered bandages, which you soon come out with, holding them in your hand. You can hardly do anything, you can't even reach the cut, and then he sees you; a strong mutt with wet hair that was bleeding like a piglet — it wasn't that bad — a corpse he was getting too close to, a groupie— you weren't — that he enjoyed occasionally throwing himself at...

He frowns as he pulls the bottle away from his lips, then shakes his head as he gets up from the furniture, seemingly with great effort.

“Wait,” he murmurs, and this time it's your brow that furrows in confusion.

You sit on the bed.

You're wearing the tank top you had on under your jacket, so it's decent enough to later mingle with the relatively clean intimacy of Johnny's sheets, but your pants are left in a corner, covered in dust, blood, and dirt. It doesn't matter, you're not going to sleep together tonight.

He stops to search through the things in the living room and emerges from under the sofa with a first aid kit in his hands.

He kneels beside you while you move to give him a better angle. Johnny moves the strap of your clothes with unfamiliar care and you feel the coolness of the silver caressing your skin; even that small sensation is enough to ease the pain of the wound.

Your breath catches for a second; your body was conditioned, but that night you wouldn't do anything. No sex, no romance.

“Don't move,” he murmurs, removing the makeshift covering you had put over your wound.

You glance sideways over your shoulder and see him, working on your body clumsily but carefully.

He puts in a few stitches after cleaning your wound; he seems to know what he's doing.

“Thank you.”

Silverhand says nothing, but he is as calm as a tame cat — or sedated, perhaps he was just very tired —.

He rolls over on the bed, letting himself fall carelessly onto the mattress. You only hear the sound of the Zippo before smelling the cigarette smoke. You lean over to look at him for a moment and then lie back on your side, turning your back on Johnny.

How had they ended up together on that mission? That was Thresh's doing. In any case, it had caused a stir, as they had had to step on an old abandoned branch of Helios, the corporation Cèline had worked for.

“It's going to come back to haunt you,” he says. “Those kinds of decisions always do.”

“I know,” you reply. “But there are some bills I'd rather pay myself.”

Johnny laughed bitterly.

“That's what everyone I knew who ended up buried said.”

“And yet you still do what you do.”

“Because I don't expect to come out clean,” he replied. “That's the difference.”

“No. The difference is that you punish yourself before anyone else does.”

Silence.

Johnny clenches his jaw.

“Don't psychoanalyze me, Cecè.”

“Then shut up.”

Johnny rubs his face.

“You shouldn't have stayed with me after this.”

“Why?”

“Because people like me make things worse.”

You don't respond immediately, the pillow under your head shielding you from the outside world and the passage of time. The sexagesimal system has no value to you; you didn't expect him to say that, and you can only sink deeper and deeper into the mattress. You've reached the floor, soon you'll break through it and merge with...

“People like you don't make things worse,” you say at last. “They just make visible what was already broken.”

Johnny lets out a short laugh.

“What a comfort.”

“It wasn't,” you say, turning partially to take one last look at him before tucking yourself in.

The wound had been inflicted by one of the men working for Kroll, the guy you had gone after, when you stepped in to prevent Johnny from being caught from behind.

[kynocx]

The Devil.

"Was it worth it, V?"

"To betray everything you were."

"To betray everyone you had."

[kynocx]

"No happy endings in Night City, uh?"

"Not today, buddy."

[kynocx]

"No happy endings in Night City, uh?"

"Not today, buddy."

[kynocx]

03 ♣︎ | CÈLINE

y Silverhand.

"Salvadora".

El trago te sabe a gloria. Nunca el alcohol había resultado tan dulce y cálido como ahora en el Pistis Sophia, la habitación de Johnny en Pacífica.

Estabas agotada y notabas que él también, aunque siguiera haciéndose el tipo duro, apoyado sobre una de las paredes de la cocina.

Lo miras con recelo, como si fuera a echarte de ese agujero en su alma al que trascendía aquel dormitorio, SU dormitorio.

Tú estás sentada sobre los dos colchones que conforman su cama, tan baja y a ras del suelo, y hundes con disimulo una de tus manos en las sábanas. Joder.

Tabaco, cuero, alcohol y un sutil aromilla a café — de la mañana tal vez —.

Sus sábanas están algo desgastadas y sabes que le molesta gastar dinero en cosas como esa, además, hay varias mantas de pelo grueso desperdigadas; por alguna razón te imaginabas que no era del tipo que se preocupaba en acomodar la cama antes de salir de casa.

Hay ropa tirada por aquí y por allá, tampoco había doblado ni mucho menos guardado la ropa limpia; la había sacado de la lavadora y dejado sobre una silla en la reducida sala de estar.

— Puedes usar la ducha si quieres — dice él, alejándose de la cocina para agarrar por el camino una botella de Bolshevik Vodka y darle un trago. Con ella de la mano se dejó caer en el sofá

Lo ves señalar con un vago gesto una puerta cerrada junto a la entrada.

Asientes medio ida, estás jodidamente cansada y solo reaccionas cuando el agua comienza a acariciar una de las heridas abiertas de tu cuerpo, en el hombro.

Rebuscas un poco entre las cosas de Johnny y tu mejor optativa son unas vendas maltrechas, saliendo al poco con ellas sujetas con tu propia mano. Apenas puedes hacer nada, ni siquiera te es accesible el corte, y entonces él te ve; un chucho fuerte con el pelo mojado que sangraba como un cochinillo — no era tan grave —, una corpo-rata a la que se estaba acercando demasiado, una grupie — no lo eras — a la que disfrutaba de tirarse eventualmente...

Frunce el ceño mientras aparta el morro de la botella de sus labios, entonces niega con la cabeza mientras, haciendo lo que parece un gran esfuerzo, se levanta del mueble.

— Espera — murmura, y esta vez es tu ceño el que se frunce con confusión.

Te sientas en la cama.

Llevas la camiseta de tirantes que vestías bajo la chaqueta, así que es decente para entremezclarse más tarde con la intimidad relativamente pulcra de las sábanas de Johnny, pero tus pantalones se han quedado en una esquina, llenos de polvo, sange y suciedad. Da igual, hoy no vais a acostaros juntos.

Se para a buscar entre las cosas del salón y de bajo del sofá emerge con un botiquín entre las manos.

Se arrodilla a tu lado mientras que te mueves para darle un mejor ángulo, Johnny desplaza con desconocido cuidado el tirante de tu ropa y sientes el frescor de la plata acariciar tu piel; incluso esa pequeña sensación es capaz de suavizar el dolor de la herida.

Tu respiración se entrecorta por un segundo, tu cuerpo estaba condicionado, pero esa noche no haríais nada. Ni sexo ni romance.

— No te muevas — murmura, retirando la precaria cobertura que le habías dado a tu herida.

Asomas de soslayo tu mirada por encima de tus hombros y lo ves, trabajando en tu cuerpo con torpeza y cuidado.

Te pone unos puntos de aproximación después de haber limpiado tu herida, parece que sabe hacerlo.

— Gracias.

Silverhand no dice nada, pero está tranquilo como un gato manso — o sedado, tal vez estuviera simplemente muy cansado —.

Se remueve sobre la cama, dejándose caer sin cuidado sobre el colchón. Solo escuchas el sonido del zippo antes de oler el humo del cigarrillo, tú te asomas a mirarlo por un instante y después te recuestas de lado, dándole la espalda a Johnny.

¿Cómo habían terminado juntos en esa misión? Eso era cosa de Thresh. En cualquier caso había levantado ampollas, pues habían tenido que pisar una antigua sucursal abandonada de Helios, la corp para la que Cèline había trabajado.

— Te va a pasar factura — dice —. Ese tipo de decisiones siempre lo hace.

—Ya lo sé —contestas —. Pero hay facturas que prefiero pagar yo.

Johnny se ríe, amargamente.

— Eso decían todos los que conocí que acabaron enterrados.

— Y aun así sigues haciendo lo que haces.

— Porque no espero salir limpio — responde él —. Esa es la diferencia.

— No. La diferencia es que tú te castigas antes de que lo haga nadie más.

Silencio.

Johnny aprieta la mandíbula.

—No me psicoanalices, Cecè.

—Entonces cállate.

Johnny se frota la cara.

— No tendrías que haberte quedado conmigo después de esto.

— ¿Por qué?

— Porque la gente como yo empeora las cosas.

No respondes de inmediato, la almohada bajo tu cabeza te escuda del mundo exterior y el funcionamiento de su tiempo. El sistema sexagesimal no tiene valor en tu persona; no esperabas que dijera aquello y solo eres capaz de hundirte más y más en el colchón. Has llegado al suelo, pronto lo atravesarás y te fundirás con...

— La gente como tú no empeora nada — dices al final —. Solo hace visible lo que ya estaba roto.

Johnny suelta una carcajada breve.

— Qué consuelo.

— No lo era — te giraste parcialmente para lanzarle un último vistazo antes de arroparte.

La herida te la había provocado uno de los hombres que trabajaban para Kroll, el tipo a por el que habíais ido, cuando te metiste en medio para que no pillasen a Johnny por la espalda.

[kynocx]

With autolithic tendencies, but always serving face ;)

[kynocx]

02 ♣︎ | CÈLINE

& Silverhand.

"Corp-rat".

The name slips from your lips with deceptive ease. You don't even realize it until you know you are fucked.

“...at Helios we did the same thing,” you say, checking the weapon, cleaning the parts before reassembling it. “Cut losses before the human costs were reflected in the reports.”

Silence.

Johnny doesn't move at first. Then he smiles, slowly, crookedly.

“Helios?” he repeats. “What the hell is Helios?”

You look up; you've screwed up and you know it.

“A corporation. It doesn't exist anymore.”

Johnny laughs. Not loudly. Not cheerfully. That dry laugh that brings no humor, only teeth.

“Of course it doesn't exist. They never do when they do what they have to do.”

You don't answer, preferring to just keep cleaning the gun. That gesture, mechanical, learned, is what sets him off.

“So you were a corp?” Johnny continues. “Not ‘worked with,’ not ‘was close to.’ Corp.”

“I was many things,” you murmur harshly. “I survived.”

“No, no,” Johnny moves closer. “Don't sell me that crap. Nobody survives inside a corp. You choose it.”

You feel the inside of your chest tighten, then your hands stop what they're doing and you look at Johnny.

“I was seventeen. A dead town. A buried father. A mother who wouldn't get out of bed. What part of that sounds like choice?”

Johnny clenches his jaw.

“There's always a choice.”

“That's easy to say when your crusade takes place on stage,” she replies. “When you lose something and turn it into an anthem.”

You don't like bringing this up. In fact, if it weren't for the negligence that led to this discussion, Johnny would probably never have found out. A lump makes your vocal cords twist, but you can do it, you always have. Even when it wasn't your turn.

Johnny notices; your discomfort is palpable, but his ideology bares its teeth, raising the flag.

“Do you know how many people died because of people like you?” he spits. “Because of reports, because of ‘controlled retirements,’ because of numbers that added up too neatly.”

Suddenly, your breathing stops being automatic and your saliva takes on a taste. It's an old bitterness, but you brushed your teeth before leaving home.

“I know.”

There is no defense or justification; to offer them would be disrespectful to the victims. To children who, unlike you in the past, were not lucky enough to make it.

“That's why I left.”

“Oh, really?” Johnny laughs again. “How noble. After how many towns? How many families?”

You stand up, not avoiding his judgmental gaze, because it purifies you, torments you, and cleanses you of your sins.

“After I realized that if I stayed, I would become the kind of person who killed my father.”

Silence again.

Johnny freezes for a second.

Just one.

“Don't drag the dead into this.”

“You do it all the time.”

That's the final blow, and Johnny turns away, furious, as if the space can't contain him.

“Helios, Arasaka, Militech... they're all the same,” he says. “And you were part of the fucking machine.”

Johnny turns to you. Damn, that look; “you're as bad as capitalism itself, Cecè.”

“Then it wasn't that important.”

Your teeth clench together, grinding your molars and holding back everything you feel.

“Not to you. To me, it was everything.”

An uncomfortable, heavy silence falls. Johnny doesn't apologize, and you don't expect him to. Then, as if sent from heaven, a notification pops up on your phone. You look at it, wanting an excuse to flee, not as a coward, but as a sought-after merc.

“I have work to do.” You were already dressed by then, you just had to put on your jacket before leaving. “See you later.”

Johnny says nothing more, and that's what hurts you the most.

[kynocx]

02 ♣︎ | CÈLINE

y Silverhand.

"Corpo-rata".

El nombre se escapa de tus labios con engañosa naturalidad. Ni siquiera te das cuenta hasta que sabes que la has cagado.

—...en Helios hacíamos lo mismo — dices revisando el arma, limpiando las piezas antes de volver a montarla —. Cortar por lo sano, antes de que los costos humanos se vieran reflejado en los informes.

Silencio.

Johnny no se mueve al principio. Luego, sonrié, lento, torcido.

— ¿Helios? — repite —. ¿Qué coño es Helios?

Levantas la vista; has metido la pata y lo sabes.

— Una corp. Ya no existe.

Johnny se ríe. No fuerte. No alegre. Esa risa seca que no trae humor, solo dientes.

— Claro que no existe. Nunca existen cuando hacen lo que tienen que hacer.

No respondes, prefieres limitarte a seguir limpiando el arma. Ese gesto, mecánico, aprendido, es lo que lo enciende.

— ¿Así que eras una corpo? —continúa Johnny—. No “trabajabas con”, no “estabas cerca de”. Corpo.

— Fui muchas cosas — murmuras con aspereza—. Sobreviví.

—No, no — Johnny se acerca —. No me vendas esa mierda. Nadie sobrevive dentro de una corp. Se elige.

Sientes el interior de tu pecho constreñirse, entonces tus manos se detienen en su tarea y miras a Johnny.

— Tenía diecisiete años. Un pueblo muerto. Un padre enterrado. Una madre que no se levantaba de la cama. ¿Qué parte de eso suena a elección?

Johnny aprieta la mandíbula.

— Siempre hay elección.

— Eso es fácil decirlo cuando tu cruzada se da en un escenario —responde ella—. Cuando pierdes algo y lo conviertes en un himno.

No te gusta sacar este tema. De hecho, de no ser por la negligencia que había dado lugar a esta discusión, probablemente Johnny nunca se hubiera enterado. Un nudo hace que tus cuerdas vocales se retuerzan, pero tú puedes, siempre has podido. Incluso cuando no te tocaba a ti.

Johnny lo nota; tu malestar es palpable, pero su ideología enseña los dientes, alzando la bandera.

— ¿Sabes cuántas personas murieron por gente como tú? — escupe —. Por informes, por “retiros controlados”, por números que cuadraban demasiado bien.

De repente, tu respiración deja de ser automática y tu saliva cobra sabor. Es un amargor añejo; pero te has lavado los dientes antes de salir de casa.

— Lo sé.

No hay defensa ni justificación, darlas sería una falta de respeto a las víctimas. A niños que, a diferencia de ti en el pasado, no tuvieron tanta suerte como para salir adelante.

—Por eso me fui.

— ¿Ah, sí? — Johnny se ríe otra vez —. Qué noble. ¿Después de cuántos pueblos? ¿Cuántas familias?

Te pones en pie, no evades su sentenciosa mirada pues esta te purifica, te martiriza y limpia tus pecados.

—Después de entender que si me quedaba, iba a convertirme en el tipo de persona que mató a mi padre.

Silencio de nuevo.

Johnny se congela un segundo.

Solo uno.

—No metas a los muertos en esto.

—Tú lo haces todo el tiempo.

Eso es el golpe final y Johnny da media vuelta, furioso, como si el espacio no pudiera contenerlo.

—Helios, Arasaka, Militech… todas iguales —dice—. Y tú eras parte del puto engranaje.

Respiras hondo, por un instante el tracto de aire se entrecorta; NO vas a llorar — te dices mentalmente que ya no eres una puta cría —.

— Helios quebró — dices —. Nadie la quemó. Nadie la castigó. Simplemente dejó de existir. Como mi pueblo. Como mi padre.

Johnny se gira hacia ti. Joder, esa mirada; "eres tan mala como el propio capitalismo, Cecè".

—Entonces no era tan importante.

Tus dientes se aferran entre sí, apretando tus molares y conteniendo todo lo que sientes.

—Para ti, no. Para mí, lo fue todo.

Se hace un silencio incómodo, pesado. Johnny no pide perdón, y tú no lo esperas. Entonces, como llegado del cielo te llega una notificación al móvil. Tú la miras, queriendo una excusa para huir no como una cobarde, sino como una merc solicitada.

— Tengo curro — ya estabas vestida para entonces, solo tienes que ponerte la chaqueta antes de largarte —. Nos vemos.

Johnny no dice nada más y eso es lo que más te duele.

[kynocx]

♣︎ | CÈLINE

& Silverhand.

"Poor devil".

Coming out of the green room with your head high and your panties half up had become customary since your path was mixed with that of Johnny Silverhand. At what fucking point did it all end in such a twisted way? The truth was that, being honest with yourself, you knew your most brutal tendencies and gave in to them with humiliating ease; the more the shit got to your neck, the sweeter it was to drown in it. That was exactly what the leader of Samurai provoked in the merc, in you.

Normally, groupies lasted him a day—to him, you were just another one of them—maybe two if they had nice tits or if the deep throat was really good, but the cycle here had established itself without anyone noticing; you'd been together for about two and a half months, and while it might not have been anything, with Silverhand it was a lot.

But you weren't stupid, you knew this wasn't serious. Not even now, as he pushes you hard against the sofa in his green room and moans with relief. To be honest, they're more like wild grunts he lets out as the silver digs into your flesh, fiercely squeezing your hips. You might think he doesn't want you to get away from him...

Your moans, on the other hand, begin and end almost simultaneously, with your head buried in the armrest cushion, preventing you from seeing each other face to face.

You are there when she needs you—we are still talking about sex—and soon a routine developed around having sex after every concert, as on this occasion.

Your belly has already molded itself to him, but you hit him violently, punishing him, because you've made him believe that you've just come from seeing someone else. You do this from time to time, especially since a month ago, when you realized that being thrown out right after he came inside you was starting to hurt.

That's how you both worked: jealousy. You pretended to fuck other men to force him to show you that possessiveness that you sugarcoated in your head as longing—not that it was enough for you, but you liked it—and Johnny fucked other women when you refused to go see him or said you had work to do, whether it was true or not.

But the sex was amazing. Damn! You couldn't stop moaning under his thrusts, when he practically tore your clothes off and threw them on the floor to climb on top of the dresser, giving you the first thrusts there and then throwing you on the sofa.

That day, when it was over, you sat down next to him as he lit one of his cigarettes. You gently tapped his thigh with your foot, leaning back against the armrest; he didn't even look at you, he knew what you wanted.

That day, when it was over, you sat down next to him while he lit one of his cigarettes. You gently tapped his thigh with your foot, leaning your back against the armrest; he didn't even look at you, he knew what you wanted.

That day, when it was over, you sat down next to him while he lit one of his cigarettes. You gently tapped his thigh with your foot, leaning your back against the armrest; he didn't even look at you, he knew what you wanted.

He passed you the cigarette—was he in a good mood?—and you, catlike, wanting to be seen, took the cigarette directly between your lips. And you succeeded, taking advantage of the moment to point to his lighter.

He lit it, keeping a distance that was minimal by then.

Your eyes searched for his, and for a moment they found them. You didn't smile, you didn't do anything that might scare the stray animal away, you just looked at him.

As soon as the spark flew and the smoke filled your lungs, Silverhand, with his cigarette still half-smoked, began searching for his clothes.

You smoked calmly while he got dressed, the black poison resting between your fingers, the soot from your bronchial tubes.

He said something to you before leaving, but you only managed to hear your name: Cèline. You nodded, nodded, nodded, looking at the cigarette as if to chase away your thoughts.

You had work to do that day.

[kynocx]

♣︎ | CÈLINE

y Silverhand.

"Pobre diabla."

Salir del camerino con la cabeza alta y las bragas a medio subir se había vuelto habitual desde que tu camino se había mezclado con el de Johnny Silverhand. ¿En qué puto momento había terminado todo de un modo tan retorcido? La verdad era que, siendo sincera contigo misma, conocías tus tendencias más brutales y cedías a ellas con humillante facilidad; cuanto más al cuello te llegaba la mierda, más dulce era ahogarse en ella. Eso era exactamente lo que el cabecilla de Samurai provocaba en la merc, en ti.

Normalmente las groupies le duraban un día — para él eras otra de ellas —, tal vez dos si tenían las tetas bien puestas o si la garganta profunda era realmente buena, pero el ciclo aquí se instauró sin que ninguno se diera cuenta; llevábais como dos meses y medio, y si bien podría no ser nada, con Silverhand era mucho.

Pero no eras imbécil, sabías que esto no es serio. Ni siquiera ahora, mientras te empuja con dureza contra el sofá de su camerino y gime desfogándose. Siendo sinceros, son más bien gruñidos salvajes que emite mientras que la plata se clava en tus carnes, apretando con fiereza tu cadera. Podrías pensar que no quiere que te alejes de él...

Tus gemidos por otro lado nacen y mueren de manera prácticamente simultánea; con la cabeza hundida en el cojín del reposabrazos, alejando la posibilidad de veros cara a cara.

Estás ahí cuando te necesita — seguimos hablando de sexo —, y pronto la rutina se formuló en torno a follar tras cada concierto, como en esta ocasión.

Tu vientre se ha amoldado ya a él, pero lo golpea violentamente, castigándolo, pues le has hecho creer que vienes de ver a alguien más. Lo haces de vez en cuando, especialmente desde hace un mes, cuando te diste cuenta de que el hecho de ser echada justo después de que se corriera dentro de ti comenzaba a dolerte. Era como funcionábais los dos; los celos. Tú fingías follarte a otros para forzarlo a demostrarte esa posesividad que edulcorabas en tu cabeza como anhelo, — no es que fuera suficiente para ti, es que te gustaba —, y Johnny se follaba a otras cuando tú te negabas a ir a verlo o decías que tenías trabajo que hacer, fuera o no verdad.

Pero es que el sexo era impresionante. ¡Joder! No podías dejar de gimotear bajo sus estocadas, cuando prácticamente te desgarraba la ropa y la tiraba al suelo para subirte sobre el tocador, dándote ahí las primeras embestidas y lanzadoos después al sofá.

Ese día, al terminar, tú te sentaste junto a él mientras encendía uno de sus cigarrillos. Le diste un suave toque con tu pie en el muslo, apoyando la espalda contra el reposabrazos; ni siquiera te miró, sabía lo que querías.

Te pasó el cigarrillo — ¿estaría de buen humor? — y tú de manera felina, queriendo ser vista, tomaste el pitillo directamente entre tus labios. Y lo lograste, aprovechando entonces para señalar el mechero ajeno.

Lo encendió, manteniendo las distancias que pocas eran para entonces.

Tus ojos buscaban los suyos, y por un momento los encontraron. No sonreíste, no hiciste nada que pudiera ahuyentar al animal callejero, solo lo miraste.

En cuanto la chispa saltó y el humo caló tus pulmones, Silverhand, con su pitillo aún a medias, inició la búsqueda de su ropa.

Tú fumabas con tranquilidad mientras que él se vestía, entre tus dedos descansaba el veneno negro, el hollín de tus bronquios.

Te dijo algo antes de largarse, solo alcanzaste a escuchar tu nombre: Cèline. Asentiste, asentiste, asentiste, miraste el cigarrillo como ahuyentando tus pensamientos.

Ese día tenías trabajo que hacer.