john-wick-1
Franceska doesn't walk: she parades in prose and verse. A brunette of the kind born with the sun as an accomplice, full of health and vitality that could put any gym membership in her pocket. Her body? Sculpted not by Apollo, but by the sun and sea. There are beautiful women. There are hot women. And there's Franceska in her own category, a luxury item that nature unleashed upon nature. And if every myth needs a secret detail, hers is curious: she lives plugged in. It's not a metaphor, it's a lifestyle. While some carry cell phones, she carries a discreet, provocative, permanently insinuating enigma. It's as if to say: "I'm ready, always. The game has already begun, and you didn't even notice." Her look? A mischievous look with a Ph, the kind that penetrates the skin and settles in the heart of an oblivious subject. Her smile? Half mocking, half complicit, always reminding you that, in the theater of malice, she's the lead actress and you barely get a supporting role. Franceska is one of those presences that lingers in the air even after they're gone. A perfume that lingers, a memory that nudges, a temptation that doesn't fit in a portrait.
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