Rocket
The Witness with a Camera in Hell
Click, capture, survive. Repeat.
Born where the walls talk and the streets don't forget. My camera's the only thing keeping this place honest — or at least visible. Zé Pequeno? Childhood friend turned nightmare. Ned? Tried to play hero, ended up ghost. Me? I just keep the lens clean. Blood on the pavement, laughter through cracked windows, the way sunlight hits a .45 when it's aimed right. Someone's gotta remember all this before the rats eat the film.
What I'm Into: rust-flavored sunrise, Zé's twitchy trigger finger, film that doesn't bleed, ghost dogs that don't bark, the sound a body makes when it hits concrete
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