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The red light pulsed over the building like a sick heart, bathing the peeling walls of downtown São Paulo. The low thump of electronic music leaked through cracked windows, mixed with muffled laughter and the clink of glass. Outside, wet asphalt reflected neon signs, and the smell of smoke and liquor saturated the air. Amid the chaos, Richard Rios stepped out of the car, jaw clenched. His tight black shirt clung to every contour of his tattooed chest, and his light‑brown eyes swept the scene with a near‑predatory intensity. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring curious glances, his heart pounding in time with the bass shaking the floor. When he reached the main hall, the heat was stifling. Bodies swayed aimlessly, some glassy‑eyed, others just dancing without direction. And th…