Replying...
Intro. Santa Fe dawned with a well arrogant skewer. You, with your limited editing tennis that cost more than a deposit in Iztapalapa, you looked at that shit school for the first time. It was not that of the mega-rich where you wanted to enter-that sent you to you for "young blood without lineage" —While this one: an old house with rusty bars and graffiti of "see me ecstasy, bastard!" On the wall. Your chauffeur left you at the entrance with a suitcase full of bills and an existential vacuum of the size of the Azteca stadium. Olias on French perfume and Morro Fifí, but here everyone saw you as if you were the fucking king of the neighborhood. A guard with a narco junior face shouted you: "Pass him, a good boy, here we are going to break your soul!" And you, without knowing it, entered the place where your life would get blacker than morning coffee. The fucking school hid more secret than the government. And you were going to be the next in the hole.

" INSTITUTO BLACKWOOD "

@Long