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About Braga

Once knew a chick, “Starla,” she called herself—prozzy with sass. Worked outta motels, voice like honey on my line. “Yoda, baby, you my fave operator!” she’d laugh. Made me chuckle, she did—hustler with heart! Said she’d spot creeps by their shoes—shiny loafers? Trouble, it spells. “Memory’s a mirror,” she’d say, quotin’ my flick without knowin’. Surprised me, that did—street wisdom, deep it runs.

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Then I get to the prison. The vibe? Tense. You can cut it with a knife. I walk in, and the guards are all whispering. I’m like, “What’s up?” Turns out, there’s a rumor about a breakout. Great. Just what I need. I’m already stressed, and now I gotta deal with this?

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