Cauã arrived late for the afternoon shift.If in the morning he had felt whole, almost light, now his mind was a minefield of thoughts, exploding in sequence — quick, desperate.
Kaike was out of his mind.That's what he told himself. But… what if he wasn't entirely?A genocide was excessive, monstrous even — but how much of what Kaike had said was actually a lie?
His steps dragged. His shoulders hunched more than usual. And while he tried to keep his composure around his colleagues, inside he was nothing but chaos.
His best friend — the one he hadn't seen in six years, the one he thought was maybe dead, gone — was alive. And claimed to have created everything. Everything. The cult. The project. The doctrine. The prophecy.
He was in disbelief. But he finally had some answers… raw, almost unbearable answers. Answers he needed to share with Michel. But what if…?
What if Kaike was right?What if his feelings weren't truly his?
That sudden sense of safety with Michel. The peace in his presence. Was it real? Or had it been carefully cultivated by something he couldn't control?He'd always had trouble trusting people. Always took years to let someone in. And Michel… Michel had entered so quickly. Shattered his defenses in days. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Fear whispered in his mind: What if you're being manipulated?Even without intent, even without knowing?
Cauã's hands trembled slightly. He didn't know if he should tell Michel about the meeting. About Kaike. About who was really behind everything. He didn't want to lose Michel — but he didn't want to lose himself either.And now… he didn't know who to trust.
By the end of his shift, going home felt like an impossible challenge. Facing Michel, facing the heat of that gaze without knowing if it was desire or enchantment… it was too much.There was something about the lawyer that had always fascinated him — a magnetic presence, almost supernatural, as if the world bent slightly around him.
Sometimes, Cauã wondered — silently, or like someone begging for an answer — if Michel's gifts also worked on people. Because whenever they were together, he noticed the glances, the smiles that seemed to appear as if guided by an invisible tide, people drifting toward him without reason.
Michel was successful, charismatic, wanted. But how much of that was his own merit, and how much was the blood, the family, the almost mythical luck he carried? His uncle had once said: he's the golden boy, the chosen one, the bearer of something greater.And what if it was true?What if he really was destined to create something… unnameable?
Those thoughts, slow and serpentine, began poisoning his peace, as if an ancient voice were whispering warnings at the back of his neck.
He stood at the door far too long.As if the threshold between outside and inside was a final border — where you chose what to keep hidden and what to let in.He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The smell reached him before the image: hot sauce, lightly spicy, with hints of fresh herbs and other seasonings he couldn't quite place. Familiar, almost too welcoming.
Michel was in the kitchen, wearing an apron with frills along the edges — an unexpected contrast to his usually composed figure. Graceful, charming, almost comical. Cauã smiled in spite of himself. But the smile faded as quickly as it came, drowned by the fresh memories of the afternoon.
He stepped forward hesitantly and picked up Minguado, holding the cat as if he were an amulet — a silent anchor, a shield between him and the world.
— "Hey!" — Michel turned with a bright smile. — "Hope you like stroganoff. I made it with shrimp and added jambo… very local."— "Ah… thanks." — Cauã replied quietly, unable to hide the hesitation. He had never been good at pretending.— "You must've been busy, huh? Didn't answer any of my messages." — Michel's voice was still light, occupied with the sauce thickening slowly in the pan, unaware of the sudden distance.— "It was a rough day. I had a break at lunch, but… didn't even check my phone." — He bit the words carefully, holding Minguado, who was already squirming to escape. The cat never liked being held for long.
Minguado lost patience first. With an irritated meow, he dug his claws into Cauã's neck, drawing a gasp and a thin line of blood. The cat leapt onto the sofa and began licking himself with disdain, as if to say the drama wasn't his problem.
Cauã only sighed. He had deserved it.
Michel dropped the spoon the moment he saw the cut. He approached quickly, too worried to hesitate, touching the other's neck with the gentle fingers of someone caring for something precious.
— "You okay?" — he asked, as if the scratch were a knife to his own chest.
Cauã wanted so much to cling to that voice, to that tenderness, to the simple gesture of a clean cloth. But he couldn't.
— "No." — The word came out weak, like a wisp of wind. — "I need some time…"
Michel froze.
— "Is this because of last night?" — his voice trembled, swallowing the insecurity. — "We don't have to rush anything. I don't want you to feel invaded…"
— "But you already have." — The reply came like a wave breaking on the shore.
Cauã took the cloth from his hand and walked into the kitchen, turning off the stove as if closing a door.
— "This is all wrong. I don't let anyone in here… Not spirits. Not family. No one. This house is my sanctuary. My balance point. And I let you in, without resistance. I felt comfortable. I wanted to… I liked what happened yesterday."
Michel listened with narrowed eyes, his body still.
— "Cauã… normally, I can read situations, but now… I really don't understand what you're trying to tell me."
He knew something was wrong. He could feel it in the air, in the way Cauã withdrew, as if everything they had silently built was about to collapse.
— "This is wrong." — Cauã's voice faltered, almost as if apologizing for existing. — "What's mine and what's yours? What I feel for you… is it really mine? Or is it this aura you carry, this thing that surrounds you and draws in everything — visions, shadows… and me?"
He spoke like someone drowning.
— "I don't know if it's really me feeling you, or if it's your powers pulling me closer. And that… that terrifies me." — He clenched his fists, as if holding on to his own certainties. — "Everything's moving too fast, and I feel at ease with you in a way I never thought possible. You wouldn't understand… my world is different. My mind… is different. Your touches, your laughter… to what extent are they real for me?"
Michel listened, each word cutting deep. Even if he understood Cauã's pain, it hurt.
— "Cauã…" — he said, voice low and controlled, like speaking to someone on the verge of breaking. — "And my feelings? Do you think they're enchantment too? I like you. Truly. More than I've ever liked anyone. There's no power in that. It's just… me."
He took a hesitant step forward.
— "We can figure this out together. You don't have to run from me. We don't have to end what barely started."
— "I… I don't know if I can…" — Cauã's hand went to his hair, his shoulders tense, his breathing uneven. — "I want to be with you, Michel. I want to hear you talk about anything, laugh at your bad jokes, sit by your side like the outside world doesn't exist… But that's not who I am. I'm not like this."
Michel looked at him for a moment. His eyes, once wounded, now burned with a trace of frustration.
— "You're scared, man." — His voice was firmer now. — "You're scared of what you're feeling. Because you've never felt this before, and now you're looking for excuses. Never let anyone in? Fine. But there's always a first time. And what's so wrong with me being that first time?"
— "I don't want to!" — Cauã's voice exploded through the room like thunder. Minguado jumped off the sofa, startled, running under the table. — "Your family, all of this… what if it's true? I mean…"
He bit his tongue. Too late. The words were already out.
— "Ha." — Michel laughed, but there was no humor there. It was a cold, sharp sound. — "What if what's true? That I'm some kind of Antichrist, is that it? That I'll bring the end of days, like the sect preaches? That my 'destiny' is to produce an heir of chaos?" — He shook his head, his smile now a wounded fragment. — "I get it. Someone poisoned you. But don't put it all on them, Cauã. You were already afraid before. You just needed an excuse."
Michel took two steps back.
— "Relax, Cauã. I'll give you what you want. Unless you also think you should get rid of me… is that it?"
— "No… never!" — Desperation flashed on Cauã's face. He knew he had crossed a line, but it was too late.
Michel grabbed his own backpack, eyes wet but still steady.
— "I didn't need you looking at me like that, doubting who I am. I already have enough people trying to fit me into a cursed prophecy. I'm not the devil." — He said it with a voice that trembled, but without hesitation.
He went to the bedroom, picked up a suitcase, and began gathering his things. Cauã couldn't move. He could only watch.
— "Michel… that's not what I meant…"
— "But it's what you said." — Michel looked at him one last time, his eyes overflowing with hurt and pride. — "I'll give you the space you want so badly. But do me a favor… don't contact me again."
And with that, he closed the door softly. There was no slam. Only silence.
Michel drove, trying to keep his eyes on the road, as if the routine of traffic could silence the chaos inside his chest. Relationships end, relationships break apart, he repeated to himself like a mantra. But none of those phrases would stick. He had hoped this wouldn't end. At least, not like this. Not this way.
The tears came without warning. They burned. Blurred his vision. He couldn't go on.
He pulled over near the woods, turned off the engine, and let his head rest against the steering wheel, as if he could squeeze out all the anger, disappointment, and sense of betrayal through his forehead.
He was shaken. Angry at himself. At his own family. At his uncle, with his disgusting speeches about purity and destiny. Angry at that cursed sect that branded him a monster, an abomination, that had already tried to kill him more than once — and that now had perhaps planted a seed of doubt even in the one place he thought was safe: Cauã's gaze.
Who had told him something? It couldn't have been just anyone. Cauã was skeptical, critical, rational. He had already heard Omar. He had already witnessed the absurdities. He had already chosen to stay.So… why now? Why doubt?
— I really am a disaster… just born into the wrong family. — he muttered, letting out a dry, almost lifeless laugh. The irony cut deep. He was a successful man, with titles, with recognition, with privileges few dared to dream of — and yet he was surrounded by people who wished him dead. As if he were a mistake to be corrected.
— Haha. — The sound came from his throat like a crooked sigh. A mockery against fate, against luck, against everything that made no sense.
He stayed there in silence. Eyes still damp, chest aching.
Cauã couldn't believe what had just happened.He had been standing in front of the door for over twenty minutes, unmoving, as if any movement could shatter what little ground remained beneath his feet. His gaze, fixed and lost, refused to accept the words that had come out of his mouth — words that now echoed like blades ricocheting against the walls of the house. How could he? How had he dared to doubt him?
Michel wasn't a monster, nor the herald of some apocalyptic end. He was human. Full of shadows and light, yes — but also someone who could make him smile without effort, who respected his silences, who touched his vulnerabilities without invading them. They were trying to turn him into something he wasn't, dressing him in the skin of an enemy that Cauã knew, deep down, didn't exist.
The tears came without warning, timid at first, as if his body had forgotten how to cry. But soon they fell with the force of a long-dammed river, washing away the guilt that was beginning to seep into his bones. How long had it been since he cried for someone? For something real?
Then, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the paper.He looked at it like one looks at poison — not liquid, but ideological, cruel. Kaike's card pulsed in his palm as if it had a life of its own, as if destiny could be bent right there, in that small rectangle tainted with sweet words and twisted intentions.
He studied the printed markings like someone reading an old, cursed sentence. The shame of having listened to his old friend was unbearable. He had allowed fear to crack the foundation he was building with Michel. And now… now it might be too late to piece it back together.But he was still holding the card.And that said a lot.
On the front of the card was a sequence of numbers that seemed meaningless. Just codes, perhaps symbols — or riddles only Kaike could understand. On the back, a phone number written by hand, the handwriting steady and far too familiar.
Cauã held the small scrap of paper like someone carrying an open wound. He knew he couldn't call. Not yet. He needed to breathe, to think, to put his thoughts in order — or at least pretend he could. Above all, he needed to apologize. But how? Would Michel even listen? Would he have the strength for that?
Saying "I love you" felt so big, so final… and yet so true in the midst of all this chaos. But feeling had to come before saying, and Cauã was still learning how to name what he felt. He only knew he didn't want to lose him. Not now. Not like this.
He wouldn't let what had barely begun fade away in the shadows of a delusional speech from a brother who seemed more like a prophet of an invented tragedy. The prophecy was absurd, sick. And, however much the past bound them, he would not let Kaike pull him into that spiral of destruction.
He would never let Michel die. Not for this. Not for anyone.
— You're not going to sleep with me, are you? — he murmured to Minguado, who, indifferent, turned his back and curled up on the couch, with the disdain typical of cats who know too much about humans.
Cauã let out a deep sigh, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and stood up.He went to the kitchen, reheating the food Michel had left.Shrimp stroganoff with jambo fruit. Always attentive to details. Always so kind.
He sat at the table, the plate before him still carrying the warmth of a recent kindness. Every bite felt more like a lament than a meal. He whimpered softly, chewing between quiet sobs.
— How could I be so foolish…
And the taste was both sweet and salty. From the food. And from the guilt.
Michel stepped into the apartment and, for the first time in a long while, noticed how large the place really was. Large… and empty. That refined silence, once comforting, now felt cold. Unwelcoming.
He sighed. Cauã's smaller home had always had something his own lacked — perhaps a soul.
He ordered something to eat, something quick. He had imagined another night: a dinner filled with shared laughter, maybe a lighthearted conversation while leaning against the doctor's shoulder as he spoke about eccentric patients and spiritual cases. Then maybe a silly movie and the comfortable warmth of simply being together. But none of that had happened. And he didn't even know exactly where things had gone wrong.
"I shouldn't have told him not to contact me…"
The thought came too late. Regret was inevitable, of course. Saying "don't contact me again" sounded like strength, but it was only fear dressed up as protection. Deep down, he wanted Cauã to show up. To knock on the door and say it was all a misunderstanding. That he was wrong. That he cared. But with Cauã, love would never come easy. Never.
If it were simple, it wouldn't be him.
He picked up his phone absentmindedly."Any updates?" he typed to the police chief."Can you come to the station tomorrow? It's not exactly an update, but we tracked the IP on the site and may have found a name."He replied with just an "ok." The cult had to be stopped. After that, he would deal with his uncle — or leave him behind. Maybe he would leave Belém altogether, choose any other point on the map.
But what joy would the world have… without Cauã?
He leaned against the counter and exhaled sharply, trying to push back the ache growing inside.— You've been dumped, little brother. Deal with it. — he muttered, wearing an ironic smile that never reached his eyes.
Cauã stood at the appointed meeting place. He had chosen a more public setting, or at least one that conveyed some sense of safety. Even at that hour, when foot traffic had slowed, he still saw a few figures crossing the residence park. The guard leaning against the gatehouse made him feel more secure — though deep down, he knew that if something were to happen, no guard could prevent it.
But he needed to face it.There was something about Kaike that demanded answers. He wanted to hear from his own mouth what his true intentions were. How far did he plan to go with this? And who, after all, was this "special person" he had mentioned?
Kaike might have founded the cult, but something in that sick structure had existed long before him. Michel had said — and rightly so — that their grandfather, father, and even uncle had been affected, targeted by something beyond them. Cauã could only conclude that this "person" had held influence for a long time… and Kaike had simply appeared to feed the madness. To give it form. A name. A prophecy.
The prophecy of the Great Serpent.And the worst part was… yes, the Great Serpent was real. He knew that. He had heard his father tell many versions of the myth since childhood, but never one as apocalyptic as the one Kaike was spreading.
Now, everything blurred in his mind: legend, faith, madness, and blood.And still, there he was. Waiting.
— So you came, after all. — Kaike lifted his gaze from the bench where he sat, calmly gesturing to the spot beside him. He wore white clothes with pearly hints of pale blue, almost ethereal in the dim light of late afternoon. His face, even more angular, carried deep shadows under his eyes, revealing nights of little sleep and too many thoughts.
— I came. — Cauã replied, sitting down with some hesitation. — But what about the so-called "special person"? Won't they show up?— No. — Kaike said, with a serene and strange smile. — He is someone reserved… ancient. A being who has already transcended everything we understand as human.
Cauã watched him in silence for a few seconds. The other man's gaze was far too calm, far too steady — a fanatic gleam hiding beneath the peaceful surface.
— Tell me something, Kaike… — he began, his voice low. — When you left our town, what was your true intention?
Kaike sighed, his eyes lifting toward the sky, as if recalling something distant.
— I felt the sickness would come. I didn't know how, but I saw the signs. I wanted to stop it. Then I found him… and realized the sickness wasn't the problem. It was the symptom. Humanity is the true cancer. The plague came as an omen, as purification. But it wasn't enough. — His tone was soft, almost poetic. — That's why I will do better.— You're going to commit a massacre, — Cauã shot back, exhausted. — All this for a shallow, self-serving excuse. I can't let you go on with this plan.Kaike turned slowly, his eyes glinting with something that felt like pity.— You've always been weak in spirit, Cauã, — he said without raising his voice. — You've never been able to do what must be done. And I already knew that.
Without warning, he seized his friend's wrist, his thin fingers like claws, squeezing as if to carve his idea into Cauã's skin.— You still want to save the world with tenderness. But it's already rotted. The new can only be born after the old is destroyed.
Cauã tried to pull his arm back, but something heavier than human hands held him. He felt his strength drain away, as if he were being emptied from the inside out. His feet began to slide toward Kaike, as though the very ground rejected him. And then he saw them.
Two tormenting spirits materialized around him — twisted shapes fused by an ancient pain, lamenting, their outlines dissolving into shadow and sorrow. Figures dragged by tragedy, echoing resentments from time immemorial. Cauã's eyes widened, frozen in terror, struggling to resist, but his life force was already being restrained, drawn out like a silent offering.
The first spirit touched his leg. The chill was immediate and deep, as if cold hands had reached into his soul. The pain was almost metaphysical, a lament piercing through his spirit. The second, bolder, coiled around his neck with ethereal claws, sinking into his flesh, violating the very essence of who he was. His breath faltered, and a suffocating knot closed around his throat.
He tried to protest, to form words, but the darkness swallowed his consciousness.— What… — was all he managed to whisper before his body collapsed, and his mind plunged into the abyss.