POV: NOAH WILLIAMS.
I woke up on that noisy routine morning.
The hotel room I was staying in was simple, it had the basics for a stay, a double bed, with nightstands on both sides, accompanied by a dark wooden dresser, quite luxurious actually…
It also had access to a small balcony that offered a view of the surroundings.
After a quick check of things, I quickly went down to the ground floor, grabbed a simple coffee from the hotel's cafeteria, took the opportunity to get some simple cookies, and a regional delicacy, something called Cueca-virada…
'Peculiar name… but very good'
I went up to my room, walked to the balcony, and sat on the chair there, with the coffee on the table beside me.
The view from there showed the busy side intersection, which gave direct access to the busier neighboring city, the popular Brusque.
I was in a place nestled among gentle hills in the heart of a valley near the coastal region and, as a bonus, close to the capital.
The Trilegal Hotel, where I had been staying since I arrived, was right at the exit, in the direction leading to the capital, but, curiously, even being so close to an urban center.
The environment still carried the atmospheric feeling of the countryside or a peaceful place, the kind that brought a good calm.
The kind of peace that almost made me forget why I was there.
In recent days, I have been immersed in reports, scans, data cross-referencing, and discreet observations.
The SFR needed information, and I was collecting it, one by one. It was time to get some results.
The QP signatures had finally been detected, and the hope was that the documents I would receive today would give me clearer clues about the whereabouts of H and his accomplices.
I went back inside, still lost in thought, added a little sugar to my coffee, and drank it in a few hurried gulps. Brazilian coffee was absurdly strong for my palate, and I never managed to adapt completely.
So, as always, I added a touch of good old maple syrup, a sweet and familiar detail from my homeland that helped soften the intense bitterness.
It was a small ritual, but it brought a certain sense of comfort.
The communicator vibrated discreetly on the counter, emitting a silent notification. I picked it up quickly and read the message: the document delivery would arrive at the bus station in forty minutes.
I sighed, drinking the rest of my coffee in two hurried gulps.
It was time to leave. I picked up my jacket, put on the clothes I had set aside to serve as a light disguise, nothing too elaborate, just pieces that aligned with the local style, with neutral tones and common fabrics.
The region was dominated by shoe and clothing stores, so many people dressed well, but mostly, they were just shoemakers.
Maintaining a simple style would help, as I wanted to blend in, to seem like one among many.
Before leaving, I stopped at the hotel reception to say I'd be out for a few hours. The usual receptionist was there, firm and attentive behind the counter.
A young man in his twenties, average height, short black hair, and an upright posture.
His face displayed features that suggested some European ancestry, perhaps German or Italian, something common in that region.
He was polite, spoke respectfully and clearly, even after several hours on shift in that position.
"Good morning, Mr. Williams," he said, with a slight nod.
"Good morning. I'll be out for a while, I'll be back before the end of the afternoon," I informed, adjusting my jacket collar.
"No problem. Have a good day," he replied with a brief smile, quickly returning to the book he had in his hands.
I discreetly looked at the book's cover, and was momentarily surprised by the title; after all, it was a classic work by Dostoevsky.
That scene always sparked a peculiar kind of reflection in me. It was curious how that receptionist fit into an almost comical, yet deeply revealing portrait of Brazil.
A country where, behind the scenes, there were rotten stories unfolding that the SLI had been incessantly investigating for the past few years.
The strange thing was that big names in politics and the elite barely had the culture and minimum knowledge for their positions…
While a young man in his early twenties, stuck twelve hours a day behind a hotel counter, read one of the greatest classics of world literature.
'What a strange place…'
Returning my attention to reality again.
"Still with old Dostoevsky?" I commented, pointing to the book with my chin.
He gave an ironic smile.
"Better company than many people out there," he said, in a tone that mixed sarcasm and resignation.
"Indeed" I murmured, and continued on my way.
I walked out through the hotel's glass doors and felt the fresh morning air hit my face. The light breeze carried the smell of damp earth and freshly cut grass.
The hotel maintenance staff started work very early.
I began walking through the city streets, heading towards the bus station, which was more in the center.
The journey wasn't long, perhaps twenty minutes on foot, enough to pass by some small shops, bakeries, and squares with chipped concrete benches, where old men chatted early in the morning.
As I walked, I kept my attention divided between the surroundings and the thoughts that had accompanied me since I set foot there. Something about that city seemed strange to me.
Not in a threatening way, but silently dissonant.
As if beneath all that tranquility there was something buried, hidden. It was this instinct that kept me alert, even in scenarios that seemed too peaceful.
The simple, faded houses, the sound of an AM radio playing in the distance from some open garage, the spaced barks of lazy dogs… all of this built the facade of normality that violently contrasted with the reports I read at night in the hotel room.
H and the others were nearby; I felt it. And if the information was correct, I wouldn't leave that city without a new solid lead.
I turned a corner, and could already see signs indicating the bus station was approaching. I passed by a simple, small bus stop with the colors of the municipal flag.
There were a few people waiting for intercity buses, with modest luggage and sleepy eyes.
A street vendor carried a Styrofoam box, announcing soda and snacks with a drawn-out voice.
I checked my watch. Still ten minutes until the estimated delivery time.
I walked towards one of the streets that led to the bus station; after a while, I arrived at the square next to the bus station. I kept my eyes alert, but disguised, sweeping every corner of the space.
My body seemed relaxed, but my mind worked incessantly.
I didn't trust coincidences.
If the data indicated movement here, there was a reason. And when H left traces, even minimal ones, it was either because of haste or arrogance.
For the sake of the operation, I hoped it was the first one.