— It's truly a shame to watch a friend drift away over a teenage infatuation — Omar began, leaning casually against the edge of the table, noting that Michel had no intention of sitting down. — Especially for someone who's clearly trying to take advantage of you. You used to be more selective, Michel.— Don't be cynical. You went to Cauã, deliberately, and offered him money. What kind of absurd idea crossed your mind to do something like that? — Michel snapped back, irritation burning in his voice. — There are lines you shouldn't cross. Especially when it comes to someone who means so much to me.— Oh, please. How many times have I chased away leeches from your life and you didn't even question it? On the contrary — you thanked me. — Omar crossed his arms, rolling his eyes with disdain, taking on a superior posture. — And here we go again: expensive gifts, trips, luxury. Always the same, Michel. And always with someone who doesn't belong in our world.— Don't talk about Cauã as if you know who he is. — Michel ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of impatience.— I know his type, Michel. I've seen plenty of them... each more cunning than the last. All hungry for shortcuts, ready to use someone like you as a stepping stone. People who won't climb on their own, so they cling to those with name, prestige… and just enough naïveté to allow it. — Omar's voice dripped with polished venom, shaped by his own prejudices.
Michel's stomach twisted. Omar's tone, the arrogance, the poison masked as concern — all of it made his blood boil.— You're not protecting me, Omar. You're projecting your own fears onto my life. You don't know Cauã. You don't know his story, his strength. You have no idea what we've been through these past weeks. And frankly, you haven't even tried to find out.Omar narrowed his eyes, now more serious.— I'm trying to stop you from making a mistake. One that could cost your career, your image, everything we've built together...— We? — Michel interrupted, his voice lower but firm. — We haven't built anything together. I built my life with my own effort. Even when you claimed to be by my side, it was always to dictate who I should be, who I should associate with, how I should appear. You don't want what's best for me, Omar. You just want to keep me under control.
Silence settled between them. Omar pressed his lips together, as if holding back something more biting, but didn't respond right away. Michel took a step forward.— Cauã knows me like no one else. He saw me fragile, in pieces. And he didn't try to buy me, reshape me, or place me back on some pedestal. He just stayed.— You're blind, Michel. — Omar said, colder now. — And when this all comes crashing down, you'll regret it.— Maybe. — Michel nodded, eyes fixed on his friend. — But I'd rather regret trusting someone good… than spend my whole life regretting surrounding myself with people who only see the world through the lens of arrogance.
Omar said nothing. He simply lifted his chin and walked away, leaving behind a heavy silence — and Michel, heart stumbling, but finally steady.
He left the office with firm steps, heading to his car, his mind a storm of thoughts. Should he have ended the friendship like that? But the memories came quickly. Omar had always trimmed any attempt he made to grow differently, like someone pruning a rebellious plant that dared to stretch without permission. He used to dictate who Michel should date, who was worth his time, which men were acceptable. And whenever Michel dared to like someone, Omar would show up, pointing out flaws, hidden agendas, invisible traps.
Gradually, the knot tightening in his chest began to loosen. He leaned against the car, allowing himself to breathe. That's when he felt a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, he thought it was Omar again, ready for another unwanted intervention. But no. He knew that face too well — aged by time, yet carrying features too familiar to ignore.
It was his uncle.
— Michel, I finally got to see you. Did you block my number? — the question came laced with fake concern, like someone feigning surprise but full of expectation.
Uncle Bernardo was, without a doubt, a man sculpted by high society. Even in his sixties, he carried himself with the grandeur of someone who never allowed himself to age completely. He held his cane with elegance, more as a symbol of nobility than a necessity. His eyes — sharp like a fox's — scanned his nephew with surgical precision. His brown hair, streaked with silver, added charm to the rigidity of his austere features. Every gesture, every word, every silence seemed meticulously calculated. He stood like an English lord, despite living in the warm, beating heart of the Amazon.
— Égua, uncle… — Michel frowned, irritation pulsing at his temples. — This isn't a good time. I imagine Omar already spoke to you.— He told me you'd be here. He's concerned about your… choices. — Bernardo arched an eyebrow, his tone vaguely disapproving — like someone carefully weighing his words to avoid sounding cruel, but failing.— Spending time with a… — he hesitated — well, I don't even know what to call him.— I imagine it wasn't a kind word. — Michel forced a bitter smile, the pain behind it clear. — And I'd rather you didn't speak of Cauã at all, unless you want me to get in my car and pretend this conversation never happened.
Bernardo considered. Pride had always been his armor, but now he tried to step back — without losing too much ground.— All right… — he relented, in a lower voice. — Shall we get a coffee?Michel hesitated. The urge to turn his back was strong, but the need to understand the holes in his own past spoke louder. He nodded, reluctantly.It was too soon for forgiveness, but maybe the right time to listen.
The place they chose was an upscale café in the heart of Umarizal, nestled between glass buildings and meticulously maintained trees. Close to the office, the location was convenient, but to Michel, the refinement of the place only deepened his discomfort. They sat at a more private table, slightly apart from the others. Michel ordered a black coffee, no sugar. Bernardo, with his usual meticulous elegance, went for a cappuccino.
— What is it you want to tell me? — Michel went straight to the point. He had no intention of staying there any longer than necessary. He felt exposed, vulnerable. After the conversation with Omar, he craved the scent of herbs and antiseptic that always lingered around Cauã. He knew he'd be off duty today, and all he wanted was the quiet comfort of that improvised home. But once again, his plans had been hijacked.
Bernardo let out a deep sigh, the kind of exhale heavy with centuries — or at least, that's how it felt.
— Michel… I believe you've already noticed there's something special about you. — The pause was long, almost ritualistic. — Our family has always had a connection with what lies beyond the visible. There are old stories… legends that tell of our origins in a remote village in the far north of Norway. A place lost among mountains and ice. Time has erased dates, but the memory still pulses in our blood.
Michel looked at him, skeptical.
— Are you suggesting we descend from a line of Viking witches? — he quipped, raising an eyebrow.
Bernardo held his gaze, unfazed by the sarcasm.
— The devotion there was… intense. There was an almost sacred surrender to the spirits of nature. And yes, among them, bloodlines were intertwined in ways we would now consider taboo. But to them, it was sacred. The continuity of the lineage was a ritual. Power grew within closed circles.
— Incest? — Michel repeated, his expression now a mix of surprise and barely contained disgust.
— In that context, it was seen as a necessity. A sacrifice for purity. — Bernardo took a sip of cappuccino, as if he hadn't just said something deeply disturbing. — And that strengthened our ties to the other side. It made our bloodline spiritually sensitive… receptive. That's why your presence unsettles people. Because there's something in you that shouldn't be wasted.
Michel looked away, his stomach turning.
Purity. Heritage. Destiny. Words loaded with echo and weight.
— Listen… — Bernardo's voice turned into something close to a spellbound whisper, heavy with fervor — there are prophecies about our lineage, Michel. Power fades, drains, every time the blood mixes too much. When our ancestors fled an ancient plague, they crossed oceans to come here… and they tried, with all their strength, to preserve the purity. But this land — this humid, wild, seething land — corrupted us. The blood thinned, and with it, our greatness.
He spoke with a glint in his eyes that bordered on fever. There was regret in his voice, but also a kind of blind devotion. As if everything could still be restored.
— They didn't understand what we were. Didn't grasp that we came from something greater. Only your grandfather managed to recover a part of that… He used to dream, Michel. He had visions, prophecies. And in one of them, he saw you. The firstborn. The one who would be reborn with the gift to restore what had been lost. The chosen one to reconnect the threads of the lineage. The beginning of a new era.
Michel let out a disbelieving, almost bitter laugh.
— In Belém do Pará? In the middle of heat, rain, and the Amazon basin? — his eyes sparkled with sarcasm. — This is where the golden age is supposed to begin?
Bernardo didn't hesitate. His fingers elegantly wrapped around his cane, his posture as rigid as an ancient tree.
— Great stories always begin in unlikely places. — he said firmly. — And for all this to happen, you must fulfill your sacred duty. The seed of change must be planted, Michel. You carry within you the deepest gift this bloodline has ever seen. They've always told stories of someone like you — someone capable of drawing in fortune, power, and what is most rare in the spiritual world. From you will come the one who will be unique, who will mark the end of one cycle and the beginning of another. You are the beginning, but you won't be the peak. Your legacy is what matters.
Michel swallowed the disturbing sensation spreading inside him. That entire speech sounded like something twisted.
— Uncle, I'm not going to give birth to a child. — Michel cut in, sharp as a blade. — I don't care about any so-called legacy, or those cursed bloodline stories.
That should have ended the conversation. But Bernardo surged forward with the strength of someone carrying decades of obsession. He grabbed his nephew by the collar, pulling him with unexpected, almost brutal force, as if age had momentarily vanished.
— Michel, listen! — he roared, his eyes blazing with fury and desperation — This is bigger than you, bigger than us! Do you think those fanatics chasing you just want to hurt you? No! They want to erase our family from history! They know what's coming. They know the power that's about to be born. They tried to do it with your father… with your grandfather, decades ago. We've always been targets. Always!
Bernardo trembled, his fingers still clenched, until Michel pushed them away firmly. His expression was no longer one of shock, but something deeper: grief for a truth that had been dragging itself silently for years.
— So that's it, then? — his voice came out low, but cutting. — Is that why you killed my mother?
Bernardo blinked, confused, but Michel didn't give him time to respond.
— She didn't fit into your twisted narrative, did she? She wanted to protect me, to run away with me… but to you all, she was just an incubator. A piece off the board that needed to be removed. You did that to her because she didn't believe in this bullshit about a sacred bloodline!
Silence dropped like a thick curtain between them. Michel felt his blood pounding in his temples, breath caught in his throat, while the man in front of him no longer seemed like an uncle — just an old ghost, obsessed with a legacy Michel never chose to carry.
Michel finally stood up.
— Don't do this, boy. — Bernardo's tone was almost a poisonous whisper, but every word sounded like a sentence. — Don't throw everything away over a childish affair with some native boy from an Amazonian tribe. Don't stain our blood even more than our ancestors already did.
Michel let out a dry laugh, devoid of humor, filled with irony and pain.
— So that's what this is about, isn't it? — he said, with the bitter smile of someone who finally sees the rot beneath the polish. — How didn't I see it before? This kind of speech… You know who else used to say these things, uncle? A little man in Germany with a project for ethnic purity. And, guess what — you seem to have learned very well from him.
Michel leaned over the table, his eyes burning.
— Don't you dare, ever, speak about Cauã. Never. My ties to this family end here. And if I have to, I'll pursue every legal path to keep you away from me. Including, if necessary, to have you imprisoned — for the death of my mother.
The words came out loud, and even with the café nearly empty, a few staff members exchanged uneasy glances, visibly disturbed by the content of the conversation.
Bernardo went pale for a second but quickly regained his posture, hardening his gaze.
— You don't know anything.
— But I will, — Michel replied, voice firm and laced with sorrow. — And it won't be you who tells me. Let me live my life in peace. This part of my story is over.
He walked out without looking back, crossing the café door as if breaking a chain. Outside, the late afternoon air hit his face with a stifling weight, as though even the atmosphere of Belém was too heavy for his thoughts.
He walked to the car in a silence that was entirely his own, leaving behind Bernardo, sunken in his own delusions. What would he do now? Try to kidnap him? Force a destiny shaped by others, like so many before? Michel didn't want to believe his uncle would go that far. But then again… if the theory was right, if he had really been behind his mother's death, what would stop him from crossing one more line?
A bite of unease crawled up his neck, like a shadow refusing to leave. Only when he sat in the car did he feel he could truly breathe. The sound of the door shutting seemed to muffle every echo of the past.
He took the amulet from his pocket — the one Cauã had given him. He gripped it tightly, feeling the warmth of the wood against his palm. That was his anchor.
He had clients, cases, obligations. But nothing seemed more urgent than going back. Back home. Because, yes, he had already started calling it that — Cauã's house. In that place, among the scent of herbs and medicine, within the embracing silence and the attentive gaze of that unusual doctor, Michel felt at peace. And right now, that was all he needed.
Cauã kept his eyes fixed on the open pages before him — old books on traditional medicine mixed with records from his people, written with the careful hands of generations. They were scattered across the table like fragments of an ancestral puzzle, waiting for someone patient and sensitive enough to connect them.
He had tried to stay focused on his studies, but his mind betrayed him now and then, replaying the last few hours like a film heavy with tension. He was anchored in an overflow of information, paralyzed by a thirst that mixed knowledge with restlessness. Only belatedly did he realize that time had passed without him preparing lunch — his stomach silent, but his mind boiling.
Before him, the laptop screen showed a tab still open: a poorly designed page of questionable credibility, dedicated to reporting alleged supernatural crimes in Belém. It was the kind of source he would never recommend to a patient, yet now he devoured it as if it might hold a spark of meaning. His gaze absorbed each line with obsessive attention — like someone searching for an echo of their own fate among virtual whispers.
Until one story caught his eye. The author was identified as "Project Rebirth" — the same name found in the traces left by Claudiano and Sarah, young people devoured by a doctrine that turned them into hollow shells. Cauã's heart raced. He needed a way in. He sent a direct message:
"I want to join the cult."
He knew it wasn't ideal — the impulsiveness of the phrase struck him as naive the moment he hit send. It would have been better to use an anonymous account, but there was no time to build a façade.
A quick reply came:
"Young man, how old are you?""I'm 25."
It was a lie. But he knew, from the victims' profiles, that the group targeted the young — the younger, the more moldable, the fewer defenses built against promises of belonging and purpose.
"Perfect. I'll send a link to the site you need to access."
Cauã clicked.
Immediately, an avalanche of images burst across the screen. Choppy videos, smiling faces that warped between flashing phrases like "Be pure," "Renounce what limits you," "Only here lies truth." Fast stimuli, flickering lights, subliminal messages hidden between frames. The site wasn't just unsettling — it was aggressive. A tool of psychological conditioning masquerading as comfort.
He frowned, bringing a hand to his forehead. A sharp pang crossed through him, like a warning flare. The sensory overload was starting to hit. His brain, already overstimulated, didn't filter visual and auditory excesses easily — a lifelong challenge. He took a deep breath, pressing his temples. He was in the right place… but it would come at a cost.
He lowered his gaze for a few moments, until a new message appeared and pulsed on the screen:
"You are the chosen one, and you will be saved. The light guides you."
The words danced across the screen, blinking white over a pulsating background. They were too seductive for someone on alert — and yet, there was something hypnotic in those empty promises. Even knowing he shouldn't, Cauã clicked.
The inner alarm went off again, thudding like a tribal drum in his skull. But with it came pain. Sharp pain in his temples, in his eyes. The flashing lights pulsed in discordant rhythm, as if the site had been designed to numb critical thinking and fill the mind with static.
"What's your name?"
The question appeared amid the visual chaos, direct and simple — like a hook cast into murky waters.
Cauã hesitou. Sua cabeça doía mais do que ele gostaria de admitir. O desconforto sensorial era quase insuportável. Mesmo assim, como se estivesse anestesiado, ele digitou:
"Cauã Maranhão."
Como se o nome não fosse uma porta aberta. Como se não significasse nada. Um arrepio percorreu sua espinha. "Fecha essa merda!", gritou sua mente — finalmente, em desespero.
"Ótimo, vejo que você está interessado no nosso culto." A resposta veio antes que ele pudesse mover o cursor. "Você tem 25 anos?"
Ele hesitou. Por que estou respondendo? Por que não estou mentindo?
"Não. Tenho 37 anos." A resposta foi seca, direta. Uma afirmação que, por algum motivo, parecia mais perigosa do que qualquer mentira.
O cursor piscou uma vez. Duas vezes. Três vezes.
E então, de repente — CLACK .
A tampa do laptop bateu com força. Como um tapa. Como um estrondo. Como acordar de um pesadelo.
Cauã piscou, seus olhos ardendo, seu corpo finalmente consciente de toda a tensão que estava segurando.
— O que você está fazendo? — uma voz veio de trás dele.
Michel.
Parado ali, com os olhos semicerrados, tentando entender o que, exatamente, Cauã tinha acabado de mexer.