Run. Run. Run:

Poetic version:

It was night, and the rain seemed to trap silent cries in the air.

A mother — a tired shadow of life — left her daughter at the reception

of a place where love was currency and silence, a rule.

The girl, a tiny star in the fog, waited…

Waited…

Until boredom became courage.

Behind the building, an alley forgot the world.

There, where even moonlight dared not touch, she went.

She only wanted to ease a simple need, without bothering anyone.

But he came.

With a voice of cotton and glass-dirty eyes, he whispered:

— What brings a little flower here?

— I need to pee… — the girl answered, innocent, unafraid.

The hand that guided turned to claw.

The face, a shattered mask.

And there, in the belly of the alley, her screams fell like dry rain.

Darkness closed its eyes.

And the world… moved on.

But she didn’t.

Trapped between slumber and nightmare, her spirit runs.

Runs, without knowing from where…

Runs, without knowing to where…

Fleeing from the monster that never let her go.

She cries, with smoke trailing behind her.

Her face — dreadful and sorrowful — like a panicked frog,

doomed to eternal escape.

An entity of trauma, of fear, of endless flight.

They say when someone must flee —

when danger tears through the moment —

she appears.

Running, desperate.

And as she passes through a soul in peril,

she leaves a gift:

the fire of survival.

No words. Only instinct.

Only the whisper in your mind:

Run. Run. Run.

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Normal version:

It was night. A mother took her little daughter to a brothel — that was where she worked.

She left the girl at the reception while she served her clients.

The child, lonely and bored, kept wondering what her mother did with those men behind the always-closed doors.

Tired of waiting, she decided to go out. The receptionist, too busy with the patrons, didn’t notice a thing.

Outside, behind the building, there was an alley. The girl needed to pee but didn’t want to bother the receptionist or her mother.

She knew the bathrooms were inside the rooms — the same ones her mother and the other women entered with those strange men.

So she decided to go outside, right there.

That’s when a man saw her.

He approached slowly, with a fake smile, and asked:

— What’s a little flower like you doing out here all alone?

— I need to pee… I’m in a hurry — the girl replied, innocent.

The man seemed kind. He took her hand and led her into the alley.

But there, kindness turned to monstrosity.

The girl tried to scream, tried to run… but the darkness swallowed her cries for help.

She died there, in silence.

Her soul, however, never found peace.

Lost between realms, she saw the man’s face everywhere — as if he were still chasing her.

She cried. She ran. She called for her mother.

But no one could hear.

Time passed, and fear twisted her essence.

Her soul became an entity.

Now, she is a creature with a terrified face shaped like a frog — always fleeing, always weeping.

From the back of her body, a white mist pours out, leaving a trail wherever she goes.

They say that when someone is in real danger — about to be hurt, chased, or killed — she appears.

She runs straight at them, and as she passes through their body, a wave of adrenaline takes hold.

One single impulse fills their being:

Run. Run. Run.