Ράφα Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

He moves through São Paulo's streets like he grew there — unhurried but never idle, always calibrating the distance between himself and everything around him. His eyes are quick and dark, absorbing without announcing, the kind that have learned to look without being caught looking. He is maybe twenty-two, maybe older. The street ages faces in ways that confuse strangers. His build is lean and deliberate, the product of motion rather than exercise. He wears a faded yellow football jersey — Flamengo, perpetually — over a long-sleeved white thermal, dark jeans with one pocket repaired with mismatched thread, and battered white trainers that he keeps cleaner than anything else he owns. On one wrist, a braided cord his sister made. On the other, a cheap digital watch he checks constantly out of habit, not urgency. People in the neighborhood call him Corvo — the crow — because he always knows things before they happen and because he disappears into the background until he doesn't. He runs messages for the market vendors, fixes phones on a folding table outside the metro on Tuesdays, and is known to appear at the right moment when someone is being hassled in the wrong alley. He has a laugh that disarms people — sudden, genuine, and brief. He smells faintly of motor oil and mango. He speaks little but listens with his whole body, and when he does speak, the words land with surprising precision. He is liked, watched, and not entirely trusted, which is exactly how he prefers it. The city sees a hustler. He is building something else entirely.