Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais...
The rat race is in full swing. And me? I'm a 21-year-old kid, right in the thick of it—running, full throttle, no brakes.
I'm a delivery guy. After my first payout, I've been riding on luck and hustle.
Day, night, late hours... I'm out chasing money—getting harder to find in this half-broken country we still insist on calling home. But hey, what can you do?
Complaining is easy. Giving praise? That's the real challenge.
So here I am. Day after day. A real grind-it-out life. Delivering hot pizzas from Pietra Calda. And no, we don't have a stone oven—the fat old man just liked the name. Marketing's his thing. Delivering's mine.
He pays. I deliver. No drama.
And honestly? The pay's not bad. Most guys my age are getting screwed way worse. For now, anyway. Thinking about the future just drains me. And kills the vibe.
Tuesday. Yesterday. My girl dumped me. The whole scene keeps replaying in my head: her, pissed off, throwing the truth in my face.
"You're a child, Cael..."
I am. It hurts to hear. Even more when it's true.
You know how it is.
I've got flaws. Tons. But fixing them? That takes effort. And people get tired of me. Then I run. Coward.
Or... maybe I just prefer to run on two wheels, feeling the wind cut across my face, pretending I forgot. Pretending it doesn't hurt.
Phone buzzes. New order: Alto Vera Cruz. Shit. Might as well be a ticket to hell. Over there, bullets fly like it's nothing.
But it is what it is. Gotta go—like it or not. So... let's go.
Bike hits 150 km/h. Fast enough to die in one hit. Slow enough not to rip the asphalt like a bullet.
I get there. 9:30 p.m.
Customer's already at the door—shirtless, wearing shorts, skull tattoo on his neck. I don't wanna judge, but... either he's killed someone or he's into heavy metal.
With that Juliete on, I'm betting on option one.
He comes up chill, but cocky:
"'Bout time, boss!" he says, chewing mid-sentence. "How much is it?"
On his waist, a Glock 17. Shiny. Brand new.
"Uh... 49.90..."
"Damn... pricey pizza, boss!" I swear, I thought he was gonna pull it. I really did. I saw the headline already: 'Vasco Delivery Guy Shot Over Pepperoni Pizza'.
But no. He just reached for his pocket. Tossed me a fifty. Reckless, but cool.
"Yeah... the fat guy's a bit of a crook, but it's good stuff, trust me!" he said, laughing.
I got back on the bike. Pretended everything was fine.
"Enjoy your meal, boss..."
He turned away:
"Thanks, bro. Go with God!"
Relief. My chest finally loosened up. I started the engine.
But the moment I looked ahead... those sharp, dry pops.
Shit... seriously...? Did I really just get killed delivering pizza?