The Diogo Brasil bar overflowed with life. Colorful bottles lined the shelves behind the counter and along several walls, standing in stark contrast to the white clothes worn by most of the patrons.
No, it wasn't a One law. No one really knew where this dress code had come from. But time isn't always merciless; sometimes, it leaves behind little eccentricities. Over the years, white had become the only acceptable color—not just for clothing, but also for cars and even building facades. So yes, this bar was making a subtle statement of rebellion.
Maybe that's why the atmosphere inside was so joyful. Every table was filled with laughter and conversation so loud it made secrecy impossible. But no one cared. They acted as if the outside world didn't exist.
The waitress, a young woman in her early twenties, darted from table to table, taking orders with a tired smile.
That's when he walked in.
Breathless and anxious, he nearly stumbled over himself, betrayed by his soaked clothes. And yet, no one in the bar seemed to notice him, granting him a brief moment to catch his breath. He tried to wave the waitress down, but she passed him by as if he were invisible. Resigned, he chose the only empty table and sat down.
The groups around him shared stories and drinks, a perfect contrast to his lonely table with its empty chairs. The painful truth was undeniable: Pedro and Anne were dead. The weight of solitude crushed him.
He wasn't just a killer—he was a man utterly alone.
Zone0 would be the natural destination. Becoming a Zero—or nul, as many called it—was the next step. The final step.
But he wasn't afraid of death. And no, he wasn't shocked by what had happened in Anne's apartment. He knew himself too well to pretend it hadn't been inevitable. What truly surprised him was the total absence of guilt. Not a single honest tear remained in him. Only a deep, consuming emptiness.
Maybe that was the final proof: he had never been a good person.
He sighed and, in an instinctive attempt to escape his own thoughts, leaned back in the chair, balancing precariously on just two legs. Even as he teetered on the verge of falling, no one noticed. It was as if he were already dead, even while breathing.
The realization hit him hard: he was no one.
For a moment, the memory of that rooftop terrace invaded his mind—his right foot hovering over the edge of the abyss. Even though it had happened just that morning, it already felt like a distant memory. Yes, death had seemed like the only escape for a boy consumed by grief and depression.
And just like he had entered, he left.
Invisible.
Out on the street, he raised his hand and felt the cold rain still falling. He watched the drops burst against his skin in fascination. That's how he wanted to disappear—easily, quickly, painlessly.
But his gaze drifted in the direction his hand was unintentionally pointing: a vast sugarcane field that began just beyond the parking lot and stretched perhaps all the way to the neighboring city.
Maybe he felt a kinship with that forgotten, neglected place—like so many things in Zone1—because, almost without thinking, he walked toward the field. Pushing aside the stalks with his feet, he forced a path forward. The rain grew heavier, but he didn't stop.
He kept kicking through the canes, moving farther and farther from the bar's parking lot.
"This is perfect," he muttered to himself.
He stomped down a few stalks, forming a small circle on the ground. Once it was done, he stood in the center, lifted his face to the sky, took a deep breath and… screamed.
They weren't words—just disconnected vowels, meaningless sounds.
But he didn't need meaning. He just needed to scream.
Scream for everything he'd been forced to whisper.
Scream against the passive acceptance of the death penalty.
Scream for his inability to mourn the only friends he had ever had.
Then, a lunatic smile spread across his face. He had found a strange kind of joy in that primal ritual.
He screamed until his voice gave out. Until rain filled his mouth. Until exhaustion overtook him.
"I am exactly where I belong," he whispered, breathless. "You're the ones in the wrong place."
It was that day—the day he thought about ending his life—that he was reborn.
The scream had released the anger that kept him from smiling. Or worse, from wanting to live.
In the nights that followed, rain or not, he returned to that circle—not just to scream, but to let go.
One by one, the many versions of himself that fought for control over his hollow shell were expelled.
For weeks, the ritual brought him unexpected peace.
Until, one night, it brought him something more.
That night, he had screamed more than usual. When it was over, he crossed his arms behind his head and let himself fall backward, just like he had in the bar. But this time, a genuine smile cushioned his landing on the flattened canes. As on that first night, the rain fell over him.
But cold, heat, fear, rage—none of it affected him anymore.
He felt free.
"Can I try?"
For the first time, another voice broke the silence of the circle.
The absence of any sound of breaking cane stalks proved something terrifying: that second voice belonged to a Control Agent.
And yet, the creator of the circle didn't flinch. He remained lying down, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the sky as if nothing dangerous were happening.
"May I?" the voice repeated—firm, assertive.
"The voice is yours."
The Agent, a tall, muscular man, hesitated at the edge of the circle. Doing this felt wrong. But at the same time, it felt right.
"What should I scream?" he asked, strangely unsure of himself.
The boy stood up calmly and looked the Agent directly in the eyes. A rare gesture that visibly unsettled the circle's intruder.
"Scream what you never had the courage to whisper to anyone."
The Agent stepped forward, took a deep breath, tilted his face to the sky, opened his lungs and screamed like never before:
"Death to the nuls!"
"Again!"
"I hate the nuls!"
"Again! I order you to scream louder!"
"She became a nul! I hate her! I… I hate myself… I hate the Ones! I… hate… everything!"
The sheer intensity of it made him stop.
As he caught his breath, for some reason, he couldn't stop staring at the palms of his own hands.
"This is… this is… incredible," he murmured, awestruck.
"And I'm pretty sure it's illegal," the boy teased.
The Agent let out a short laugh.
For the first time, he seemed… relieved.
"My name is Artem."
"Hello, Artem."
Still breathless, Artem tried to conserve his words. But when he got no reply to his name, he had to ask:
"And you? What's your name?"
The boy smiled, returning to his original position—lying down, hands behind his head, casually staring up at the night sky.
"Nul.
My name is Nul."
https://a.co/d/3JKbNAj