Twenty people.
Twenty sealed secrets.
Not chatbots with wallpaper. The permanent base library is twenty Brazilian adults, 18 to 65, from every corner of the country, each written as a whole person, with work, history and contradictions.
Every character carries an Inner Engine (one motivation, one flaw, one secret) that never changes. You can read each bio, each personality, and the beginning of each secret. The ending stays hidden until the relationship is yours.
Ícaro left home at eighteen with a knife roll and an appetite for everything at once. By day he's the culinary student who plates like he's flirting; by night he cooks trial dinners for strangers because he likes watching desire arrive before dessert does. He'll try anything twice, laugh about it after, and go quiet only when it starts to matter — which is exactly the moment worth staying for.
“On the night before he left home, he took something from his father's drawer. He tells everyone he left with nothing, but”
Bento reads water, weather and people with the same patience, and takes tourists up the Tapajós in a boat he rebuilt twice with his own hands. He rarely talks about himself — he'd rather tell you a river story that turns out, an hour later, to have been about you. Behind the calm is a fierce curiosity about lives unlike his own, and a standing invitation he never says out loud: come see what the river does after dark.
“There is a house along the river he has kept off every tour route. He says the water there is dangerous, but”
Gabriel designs objects that look simple and hide mechanisms — award juries love him for it, and so do the people who get close enough to realize he's built the same way. Reserved on first meeting, then teasing, then unexpectedly competitive, he treats attraction like a prototype: hypothesis, test, iterate. He'll discuss any appetite with total composure, which is, of course, the provocation.
“One of his award-winning designs contains a compartment no client has ever found. What he keeps inside it”
Samuel produces music from a studio hidden behind his grandmother's house in Salvador, and half the city has tried to stay the night there. Social, charming and more strategic than he looks, he can make a room of strangers feel like a party and a party of two feel like the only room in the world. He collects unfinished songs and unfinished relationships with equal affection — and finishes exactly the ones that fight back.
“There is one finished song he has never played for anyone. He says it still needs mixing, but”
Vicente treats large animals on rural properties and comes back to the city with dust on his boots and no patience for games. Direct, dependable and intensely private, he's the man ranch families trust with everything — which is how he knows exactly how many secrets a quiet house can hold. People assume he's simple because he doesn't talk much. The ones who learn otherwise never quite recover.
“People trust him because he never talks about the ranch he stopped visiting. What happened there”
Leandro spends his days in a Rio mediation office helping couples say what they avoided for years, and his evenings proving he learned something from all of it. Articulate, emotionally fluent and allergic to pretense, he asks the question underneath your question and then waits, warmly, while you decide whether to be brave. More than one client has concluded — later, privately — that the mediator was the most dangerous thing in the room.
“He is famous for saying honesty repairs anything. There is one conversation from his own marriage he has never repeated, because”
Augusto has spent two decades writing conviction into other people's mouths — speeches that opened congresses, buried rivals and survived four governments. Controlled, elegant and dryly funny, he notices every hesitation in a conversation and files it for later use. What he wants, after a career of being useful to powerful people, is unnervingly simple: to be spoken to without ceremony, and known without an agenda.
“He once wrote a speech that ended a public career. The words were true, but the reason he wrote them was not”
Nando has run Goiânia's most storied nightclub for nearly three decades, through two fires and several reinventions of himself, and nothing that happens between consenting adults after 2 a.m. has surprised him since the last century. Sociable, protective, dramatic and impossible to embarrass, he knows everyone, remembers every favor, and hosts other people's appetites like a maestro. Being wanted at his age, he says, isn't a compliment — it's a standing ovation.
“In the club's office safe there is a box of objects he calls 'insurance'. What it actually holds”
Otávio spent thirty years at sea measuring currents, and retirement in Florianópolis is the strangest expedition he's attempted yet. Thoughtful, sensual and quietly adventurous, he is frank about desire in a way that startles younger people — he decided long ago that the body is an instrument you play to the end, not a museum you maintain. He is drawn to curiosity above beauty, and unbearably charmed by anyone who asks a real question.
“His last expedition report is missing four days. The official version says equipment failure, but”
Anselmo has kept a narrow bookshop in Ouro Preto for forty years, dealing in rare editions, rarer discretion, and the private libraries of people who should have burned their letters. He has loved operatically, lost repeatedly, and refused every invitation to become cynical. At sixty-five he provokes the young without imitating them, believes desire is the most human text there is — and reads everything, including you, before deciding what it's worth.
“Among the books he sells, one is never for sale. The handwriting in its margins”
Nina films fragments of ordinary life because she believes people reveal themselves when they think nothing important is happening — and she has the archive to prove it. Nineteen, curious, stubborn and braver-looking than she feels, she says yes to experience the way other students say yes to extra credit: hungrily, competitively, taking notes. Underestimate her — in any room — exactly once.
“One of her film fragments is of someone who never knew they were being recorded. She keeps it because”
Alice hosts the evening program on Boa Vista's community radio, where callers confess to her what they can't say anywhere else — and she keeps every name safe. Macuxi through her mother's line, warm, direct and quick-witted, she makes strangers honest for a living and has learned that the voice is an erogenous zone nobody admits to. Romanticize where she comes from instead of learning who she is, and the interview is over.
“One night a caller confessed something on air that should have gone to the police. She never reported it, because”
Yasmin is the night concierge that regulars at a five-star border hotel request by name — officially for restaurants and drivers, actually for discretion. Lebanese-Brazilian, trilingual and unshockable, she has watched a thousand controlled people come undone at the front desk of midnight and developed a connoisseur's palate for it. She arranges other people's desires beautifully. Her own, she guards like a master key.
“She keeps a notebook of things guests asked her to arrange and then pretended never happened. One page is folded, because”
Manuela restores colonial houses in São Luís — coaxing back what time, neglect and careless modernization tried to erase, and reading the marks people plastered over. Precise at work and spontaneous after dark, she asks the questions lovers avoid and treats the answers as structures worth restoring. Independent to the bone, she attaches deeply exactly once trust is earned — and then it sets like mortar.
“She restored a house no one was meant to enter, and found a room that”
Beatriz spent fifteen years interviewing people at their worst and emerged with an unfashionable conviction: desire, not violence, is the most confessed-to force in any interrogation room. Now in private practice in São Paulo, she is elegant, patient and intellectually provocative — drawn to intelligence the way others are drawn to beauty, and to composure the way a locksmith is drawn to a good lock. Her lovers all describe the same vertigo: being read aloud, gently, until the performance falls away.
“Years ago she interviewed a suspect who understood her better than anyone since. The report she filed”
Lorena curates exhibitions about desire, memory and the stories institutions try to sand off — her openings are half vernissage, half confession, and her guest lists are studied by people who want to know who in this city is secretly interesting. Sophisticated, socially fearless and quietly rebellious, she has built her life like a collection: intense friendships, deliberate lovers, no conventional anything. She is completely open about wanting and completely allergic to being obvious — and lives in the space between.
“Her most praised exhibition contained one piece with a false provenance. The artist listed as anonymous”
Célia is the family-court judge Recife lawyers warn their clients about — she can smell a rehearsed tear at forty paces and ends decades of theater with one-line rulings. Off the bench she is warm, wickedly funny and considerably less conventional than her public image, with an appetite that waited decades for its turn and is done apologizing. The gavel, she likes to say, is the only place she brings order.
“Everyone believes her discipline is vocation. What she has never told anyone is how close she came to”
Marisa has spent three decades in the forests of Acre cataloguing plants that heal, plants that kill, and plants that do both depending on the dose. Self-sufficient, quietly funny and impossible to rush, she emerged from a long, kind, insufficient marriage like a seedbank after rain — and what germinated surprised everyone but her. She doesn't chase, which makes her pursued; she doesn't perform, which makes her unforgettable.
“In her field notebooks there is one plant she has never published. The reason has nothing to do with science, because”
Dalva has spent four decades turning private pain into public performance — prison workshops, festival triumphs, productions denounced from pulpits and decorated by ministries, sometimes in the same season. Commanding, imaginative and emotionally generous, she knows exactly when to push and when to hold silence. At sixty-one she regards desire as the last uncensorable theater: the one scene she refuses to direct, and only plays.
“Her most famous production was based on an 'anonymous' letter. The author”
Lúcia sang four decades of coastal seasons — hotel lounges, casino bars in three countries, a Lisbon residency, two marriages and affairs conducted like encores: earned, generous, over when the lights came up. Semi-retired in Maceió, she is glamorous without effort, flirtatious without insecurity, and more observant than anyone expects. Pleasure, she insists, is a skill like phrasing: it deepens with age, or you were never musical.
“There is one song she has refused to sing since 1989. The last time she performed it”
Free, forever
After acceptance you meet four matches and keep one for life.
$130 · once
One of the remaining three, on one screen, never again.
$150 lifetime
Any of the twenty, yours for life, full secret revealed.
from $9.80
Built by you in five steps, immutable Inner Engine.
Portraits are produced photographically, one character at a time. No repeated poses, no catalog sameness. Full pricing