The gunshot echoed through Salvador's dawn like dry thunder, and Kayn collapsed on the wet asphalt, his eyes losing their shine as the rain washed away the blood from his chest.
Abel woke with a start, heart racing like a maddened drum. Cold sweat stuck to his shirt. The same nightmare again.
5:07 AM. The alarm hadn't even gone off.
He rose from the broken spring bed, muscles aching from yesterday's training. The house was in sepulchral silence. He walked to the small kitchen, where peeling walls told of better days.
Black coffee. No sugar. There wasn't any. Two slices of half-stale Monday bread, enough to fool his stomach. His eyes fixed on the photo on the wall – him, Kayn, and their mother, from a life that seemed another world. Seventeen in the picture; eighteen now, if he were alive.
Abel closed his eyes. Not today. Not today.
He finished his coffee and walked ten steps to his mother's room. The door creaked. Money for hinges was a luxury.
There she was, lying on her side, staring at the wall as if expecting an answer. Dark hair spread across the yellowed pillow, eyes lost somewhere he couldn't reach. Maria, forty-two, carried the weight of a hundred.
Since Kayn died, since their father disappeared with only a suitcase, she had been present in body, absent in soul.
Abel approached slowly, leaning down to kiss her cold, damp forehead.
"I'm going to work, mom. I'll be back tonight."
A weak voice stopped him.
"Son."
He froze. Weeks had passed since she spoke.
Maria turned her face. For the first time in months, Abel saw a tiny gleam in her eyes.
"I don't have strength..." she whispered, hoarse from silence. "But today your day will be extraordinary. And remember..." A tear ran down her cheek. "Despite my silence, I love you."
Abel felt warmth in his chest, an involuntary smile opening.
"I love you too, mom."
He left with his backpack, the berimbau wrapped in an old cloth. The alley was narrow; only motorcycles scraped past the brick walls. Houses piled like poorly fitted Lego blocks, some plastered, some faded.
The community smelled of coffee, open sewage, and fried tapioca. Barefoot children ran, shouting and laughing, while pagode leaked from neighboring houses.
Abel descended cracked concrete stairs, watching the Bay of All Saints glimmer under the morning sun. A postcard contrasting with his reality.
The bus stop was chaos. People crowded under a too-small marquise, sweating in the humid heat. Vendors sold water, candy, and still-warm coxinhas. A man played pagode on his guitar, hat on the ground for coins.
When the old green-and-yellow bus arrived, Abel squeezed between domestic workers, construction workers, and students, all carrying the same early-morning fatigue. Inside, the heat was suffocating. Open windows brought dust, not relief. A vendor sold coconut candy mid-journey. Two women discussed last night's soap opera, while a man slept swaying with the vehicle.
Salvador's streets awoke – vendors shouting, buses honking, smells of sea, dendê oil, and sweat mixing. Toward the center, bare houses gave way to commercial buildings; asphalt improved, streets widened.
Extraordinary, he thought. What a strange word for any day of his life.
Something was different in the air. He couldn't identify it.
His mother's words echoed as he walked toward Pelourinho. He had endured so much – his brother's death, his father's abandonment, his mother's depression. He had almost surrendered to hatred and pain. Nights imagining giving up.
But his grandfather never let him.
Master Benedito. Ninety-seven, looking sixty, more energy than any young person. Creator of modern capoeira, elevating it from marginalization to global respect.
"Pain doesn't define you, boy," he used to say. "What you do with it does."
The Ginga da Vida Academy shone under the morning sun. Children from the favela trained alongside doctors; lawyers shared space with garbage collectors. Respect was the only rule.
Abel pushed the heavy door; the familiar sound of the berimbau greeted him. Three strings vibrating in harmony, dictating the roda's rhythm.
"You're here, warrior!" Master Benedito appeared, hoarse but commanding. "Today you're teaching the morning class."
Abel nodded, leaving his backpack in a corner. He observed students aged eight to fifteen. Bright eyes, some scarred by life, united by the ginga.
Two hours passed as always: sweat, laughter, falls, learning. Abel demonstrated sequences, corrected postures, drew energy from unknown places. Teaching made problems disappear – just him, capoeira, and the certainty of passing on something vital.
When class ended, Abel sat with his grandfather, who watched the sea.
"I need to go to the bar, grandpa," Abel said, drying sweat. "Double shift today."
Master Benedito remained silent, organizing thoughts.
"Abel," he finally spoke, "in fighting, I have nothing more to teach. You're a master. But don't let it go to your head."
"You're the best I've taught," Benedito continued. "Never use our art to hurt. Only to save. Capoeira is more than fighting; it's resistance. In a roda, you're not fighting, you're in dialogue with malice."
He placed a hand on Abel's shoulder.
"More than strength, what matters is cunning, rhythm, improvisation. I love you. Never lose what's most valuable. Despite pain, you have a good heart and are grateful to wake alive. That's rare."
Abel felt a lump. Rare to see his grandfather emotional.
"I love you too, grandpa."
They hugged, an embrace of generations. Abel left for work.
Itapuã beach swarmed. Abel served drinks, carried plates, cleaned, always smiling despite tiredness. Music played – pagode, axé, samba – tourists spent in hours what he earned in a week. He didn't complain. Work was work.
Sunset painted the sky orange and pink. Abel's legs ached, hands dry from washing dishes, but money was enough for his mother's medicine and sugar at home.
A sharp scream cut through the air.
He stopped, senses alert.
A woman was cornered by ten men. She screamed, desperate.
Abel's legs moved before thought, carrying him with unrecognized speed.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Get away from her!"
The men turned, surprised.
"Get lost, kid," one said. "This isn't your business."
"It is," Abel said, stopping a few meters away. "Let her go. Now."
The leader laughed. "Or what? Call the police?"
Something switched inside Abel. Perception sharpened; sounds defined; men's movements predictable.
He didn't think. He acted.
The first man didn't see the blow. Abel's hand struck his neck; he collapsed. The second grabbed him from behind; an elbow to the stomach sent him vomiting.
It was a deadly dance. Movements flowed; dodges became attacks. Capoeira in his veins became survival.
Three, four, five men fell. Abel moved like water, one step ahead. Fists precise, kicks devastating.
But too many.
An iron bar hit his back; he staggered. Another struck his head; warm blood ran down his forehead. Pain exploded like fireworks.
He fell to his knees, vision blurred.
Then memories returned. Kayn on the ground, glassy eyes, blood mixing with rain. Human cruelty, helplessness devouring him.
Something broke inside Abel.
The last conscious feeling was disconnection, as if leaving his body. The world became distant, nebulous. Then, an image that wasn't memory:
A maned wolf advanced through the cerrado, long paws silent. Orange fur blended with light, black eyes fixed on a careless armadillo.
Every muscle tensed; the hunt was necessity.
The wolf crouched, ears trembling. It exploded into movement, teeth bared. The armadillo tried to flee, but instinct prevailed. The world reduced to survival.
The human, facing hunger, hesitated. Observed, pondered, felt guilt, fear. Man carried conscience; the animal acted.
In this vision, a familiar voice echoed:
"Never lose what you have most important..."
Grandpa Benedito.
And cutting through the unconscious fog, a comforting, ancestral sound: the berimbau.