The pain throbbed like hot waves spreading through Kim's body, each pulse bringing a reality he was reluctant to accept. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth mixed with the dust that hung in the dense, stuffy air. When he tried to focus his vision, the world around him oscillated between sharpness and blur, as if he were looking through fogged glass. His right arm hung at an angle that shouldn't be natural, and with each attempt to move, a sharp pain reminded him of his condition.
As he raised his eyes with effort, he found himself facing a figure watching him from above. The man had a smile that didn't reach his eyes – a cold, calculating smile, laden with a disturbing satisfaction. It was the kind of look Kim knew well, the same he had seen on the faces of people who delighted in others' suffering. But there was something different this time, something that made his stomach churn beyond the physical pain.
The fury that had always been his faithful companion was still there, burning in his chest like live embers, but it came accompanied by a strange and uncomfortable sensation: helplessness. Kim wasn't used to feeling small in the face of any situation. Throughout his life, he could count on one hand the times he had experienced this vulnerability, and each of them was etched in his memory like invisible scars.
The sound around him gradually penetrated his consciousness – screams, applause, excited voices that seemed to come from all directions. Where was he? Those bleachers, those people eager for spectacle... what place was this? Questions accumulated in his mind like pieces of a puzzle that refused to form a comprehensible image. But one question, more urgent than all the others, echoed insistently in his thoughts:
— Kim: Who is this guy, and why is he dressed like an idiot?
The figure that rose before Kim was the personification of terror in armor. The metallic colossus dominated the environment with its intimidating stature, each contour of its artificial muscles molded in gleaming steel that reflected the electrical discharges dancing around it. The silver armor seemed alive, pulsing with electrical energy that serpentined through its plates like luminous veins of a hypnotizing blue.
The helmet that concealed its face possessed architectural lines that evoked both technological precision and an ancestral war mask. Where eyes should be, two slits glowed with a blood red that pierced the penumbra of the place, like burning embers in a bottomless abyss. In its gloved hands, it wielded a staff that crackled with electrical discharges, each spark promising unbearable pain.
Suddenly, Kim awakens.
Reality strikes him with the brutality of a relentless hangover. His head throbs in rhythmic waves of pain, each pulse echoing the excesses of the previous night, when alcohol had given him a unique and special moment of fun. He remains motionless for a few moments, trying to decipher why that dream had been so vivid, so real that he could still taste the metallic flavor of fear in his mouth.
Forcing himself to leave the bed, Kim walks with unsteady steps to the bathroom. Before the mirror, he observes his reflection while brushing his teeth with automatic movements. His black, straight hair, inherited from his ancestors, falls messily over his shoulders, framing a face with striking features that carry the strength of his indigenous lineage. His skin, a soft brown tone that tans easily under the sun, contrasts with the small adornments he chooses to wear – a discreet necklace of natural stones and a braided leather bracelet that whisper stories of his ancestry without shouting for attention.
Even in that state of morning torpor, Kim doesn't skip his characteristic cap, adjusting it over the rebellious strands with a gesture that has become ritual. His body, sculpted by years of survival, maintains an upright posture even under the weight of the hangover. As the minty flavor of toothpaste gradually dissipates the bitterness of the previous night, a familiar thought crosses his mind:
Jack will arrive at his usual time and will steal my beer, not today, today is payback day.
After finishing brushing his teeth, Kim returned to his room - a typical reflection of teenage disorder. Dirty clothes accumulated on the chair and floor, faded band posters covered the peeling walls, and vodka and cachaça bottles thrown across the floor, forgotten tablets and charging cables tangled on the desk. In the corner, his electric guitar rested against the portable amplifier, connected to the amp was a pair of headphones, which ensured that the notes that rolled would be heard only by Kim and no one else – vestiges of the nighttime music session that helped him escape reality. It was in this familiar and technological chaos that he needed to find his "adapted" school uniform.
Kim dressed in a simple and casual way: printed t-shirts from the bands he listened to religiously and jeans worn by time, showing that he hadn't renewed his wardrobe in a long time, and to finish and avoid problems, an open button-down shirt. Even with the limitations, he always sought to keep himself presentable. His naturally elegant bearing contrasted with the serious expression he carried - an expression that made strangers believe he was perpetually irritated. In fact, Kim smiled quite a lot, while he was working or in Jack's company.