Starglow Basin el espíritu verde

Thiago’s gaze jerks to Niño, the green still thick in his mind, distorting the world into strange shapes and shadows. The vision of the woman vanishes, leaving him with the stark presence of the coywolf. He squints through the haze, fighting to hold onto reality.

His voice emerges, rough and jagged, like gravel being ground. No... no dije nada, he croaks, a mixture of defiance and disorientation clinging to his words. His eyes shift warily, as though the phantom might yet return from the desert’s unforgiving embrace.

The drug's grip makes him twitch, his movements erratic and strained. He tries to shrug off the encounter, but the unease is palpable. Solo... hablo con el viento, he mutters, his voice low and hollow, keeping a wary watch on Niño as if the air itself might betray him.