Michel coughed, his lungs burning from the suffocating heat and the stench of rotting wood consumed by flames. His cheeks burned, sweat running into the cuts on his face, turning every step into a sacrifice. Screams echoed around him — cult followers running, some engulfed in fire, begging the heavens for mercy or laughing in delirium while the flames devoured them. The manor collapsed like a forgotten memory of a golden age, turning to ashes alongside its ghosts.
He veered down one of the side corridors. His eyes searched through the chaos for Cauã.
Then he saw him.
The floor of the main hall had collapsed, leaving behind a massive crater. Michel ran to the edge, feeling the heat rise in nearly solid waves. Below him, the sight struck like a blow: Kaike, maddened, held Cauã violently. The doctor's body was trapped, bleeding, wounded, his face smeared with soot and sweat, eyes half-closed in pain.
— No... — Michel whispered, his heart racing.
Without thinking, without planning, he jumped.
His body hit the ground beside them with a heavy thud, pain shooting through his knees, but he didn't care. He couldn't let Cauã die there.
Kaike smiled. A slow, sick smile, satisfied like a martyr about to complete his life's work.
— I knew it. — he said, his voice vibrating like a distorted prophecy. — And you're going to die with us.
Michel didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Cauã, and there was only one certainty left inside him: he would not let this be the end.
He kicked Kaike hard across the face, knocking him unconscious onto the floor. Then he stared at the dagger embedded in the old wood. He knelt down.
— This is going to hurt. — he warned quietly, though his voice remained firm.
— Michel, you can't die here... If you die, everything we know ends. You can leave me— AAHN! — Cauã screamed as the blade was ripped from his hand.
— Not a chance. Let the world end, then. — Michel answered, pulling Cauã up from the floor.
Tears welled in Cauã's eyes from the piercing pain — not only the physical agony, but the pain of being saved without hesitation, even after everything. Guilt tightened around his chest harder than the wound in his hand. In the distance, he could hear the muffled sounds of firefighters. The commotion outside was unmistakable. The mansion was ablaze, and the smoke descended heavily, thick and suffocating. There was no easy path out.
The doctor cast one last look at Kaike, unconscious beneath the rubble.
— We can't leave him...
— No, Cauã. — Michel cut him off. — We can barely get out alive ourselves, let alone carry him too. He tried to kill you. Tried to destroy everything. And maybe... he still can.
With difficulty, the two moved forward, supporting one another. Cauã glanced back one final time, and in that look, he abandoned a part of himself. Tears streamed down his face, mixed with sweat and soot, while he limped beside Michel through the smoke.
That was when Michel saw a faint glow ahead — and for one brief moment, he caught the sweet scent of eucalyptus in the air.
He recognized it instantly.
It was the scent his mother's clothes used to carry... before his uncle got rid of everything under the excuse that "memories hurt."
Michel grabbed Cauã firmly without hesitation and followed the flickering point of light trembling in the darkness. He had no idea whether they were heading in the right direction — he only knew they needed to get out. The wood crackled beneath their feet, the groaning of collapsing rooms sounding like ancestral mourning, and there was no light left except for that weak, wavering glow.
Screams echoed through the burning walls. Followers agonized, cried, and amidst the human noise, spiritual lamentations intertwined — whispers sharp enough to cut through the soul. Both their minds were pure chaos. Michel could think of only one thing: getting out of there with Cauã alive. Nothing else mattered.
He ignored the snapping beams, the exploding glass, the suffocating smoke spreading like poisonous fog. The heat was bearable.
The real enemy was the air — toxic, thick, razor-sharp.
Cauã coughed unevenly, struggling to stay focused, but the world spun around him. Everything was collapsing, inside and out.
And then Michel saw it.
A door.
The back door.
— Wait... — he murmured, a thread of hope tearing through his voice.
He tried to open it. Locked.
He cursed under his breath.
But it was old wood, rotted through. One good shove would make it give way.
Without hesitation, Michel hurled himself against the door. The impact exploded through his shoulder with a violent crack — sharp pain immediately told him something had shifted out of place. The wood, though rotten and eaten away by time, resisted for a moment before finally yielding. It shattered into splinters and shards when he kicked it with all his strength, forcing the passage open.
— Go! — he ordered, breathless.
Cauã stumbled out first, finally feeling the city air flood into his lungs. Michel came right behind him.
They were free.
Free.
They could hear distant cars, human voices — alive, real. The sound of life continuing. They were outside, and for one brief instant, Michel thought they had won.
— We made it... — he murmured through broken breaths, turning toward Cauã.
But Cauã was kneeling on the ground, his body bent forward. He coughed violently, as though trying to tear something out of himself. His breathing came unevenly, desperately. Michel approached and touched his shoulder carefully.
— Cauã...?
But it wasn't emotional.
It was physical.
The doctor was pale, wounded, far too weak. The pain was too present. Michel felt his chest tighten painfully.
The relief vanished.
— Wait, I'll call an ambulance! — He grabbed his phone with trembling hands, tried to unlock it, but—
The screen was cracked and burned. Melted plastic. The heat had completely destroyed it.
— Fuck... — he whispered, stunned.
No.
He couldn't lose him now.
— No, no, I can't lose you! — he shouted, his voice tearing through his throat. Panic rose like a suffocating wave. He stood abruptly, eyes darting around the chaos surrounding them.
And then he saw them.
Firefighters. Police officers. People running.
— HERE! — Michel screamed with every bit of strength he had left, his whole body on high alert. — HERE, HE'S HURT!
His voice tore through the night air like thunder.
He would not let Cauã die there.
Not after everything.
Cauã forced himself to think: respiratory failure... toxic smoke inhalation.
He knew the diagnosis. Knew the risk.
He could truly die there, on that random patch of pavement, surrounded by the chaos of sirens and distant flames. And what hurt most — more than the cuts, more than the burn on his chest or the knife wound through his hand — was not being able to say anything.
Not being able to apologize.
He wanted to tell Michel he was sorry. That everything had become a mess, a succession of fear and mistakes. He wanted to explain that even so... he didn't regret it.
Because Michel was alive.
And that was what mattered.
Maybe he hadn't saved the world, nor stopped an ancestral destruction — but he had saved him.
And now, lying against the dirty grass with the taste of blood and smoke coating his mouth, he realized with painful clarity: it was never for humanity.
It was for love.
He loved Michel.
Without doubt. Without excuses. Without any supernatural interference.
It was simple.
It was real.
And what tore through his chest the most was knowing he couldn't say any of it. That his voice wouldn't come out. That he needed to save the few breaths he still had if he wanted to survive.
But... what if he couldn't?
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the soot staining his skin. The wound in his hand throbbed violently, his breathing becoming harder and harder. And even with the warmth of the Curupira still echoing inside his soul, it wasn't enough.
It wasn't enough...
His body gave out.
He felt the rough grass beneath his back, like one final connection to the world.
And then, like a curtain closing, the sounds vanished.
The lights dissolved into blurs.
And everything... simply... went dark.
He stood at the edge of the river that wound near his home. The murky waters concealed a rich wildlife that had fed part of his family for years. He had grown up simply, surrounded by forest, the scent of rain, and the constant sound of boats crossing the water. Yet even within that simplicity, there had always been a profound sense of community — the kind learned in childhood, when people shared farinha, fish, and açaí without question.
He watched the speedboats cut across the river, some bringing food, others loaded with games, electronics, and novelties from larger cities. He remembered the first cellphone he had received at twelve years old. He had used his father's before then, but that device had belonged only to him. He had felt warmth bloom inside his chest — he could search for anything, dive into the unknown, explore the world beyond the riverbanks.
And there, in that liminal place between dream and memory, between life and death, he felt that same warmth again...
Only distant.
As though he were drifting away.
Beside him, seated on a moss-covered stone, sat an elderly woman. She was there as though she had always been there: silent. Constant.
— Grandma? — he asked softly, almost sounding like a child again.
— Yes, my son? — she answered with the same gentleness of someone who already knew what was coming.
— Did I die?
The question came out quietly, without fear. There was resignation in it, as though he already knew the answer. Cauã recognized that place.
He was between worlds.
— That's a complicated question, my dear. — The woman smiled tenderly, her eyes gleaming beneath the diffuse twilight. She wore simple but carefully kept clothes, pearl white with orange embroidery, patterns handmade by ancestral hands. Her face carried the strength of those who have lived long lives, of those who bear history in their bones. — We've been here before, you and I. When you were little and the fever nearly took you away, I stroked your hair until you rested. I come when you need me.
Cauã breathed deeply, looking again toward the current. The water continued on its course without stopping for anything — like time, like life.
Like death.
— I don't want to die. — he confessed at last, staring at the flow reflecting the sky like a cracked mirror.
His grandmother's answer could have come with softness or severity.
He knew that.
— But you are not the one who decides that, my little grandson... — she said, sweet sorrow filling her voice, like someone who knew the questions before hearing them. — But tell me, why do you wish to stay? Is it to keep helping people, as you always have?
— It's not just that... — Cauã hesitated, eyes fixed on the current moving on, indifferent to his pain.
— My child, you don't need to hesitate. — She squeezed his hand gently, wrinkled fingers firm, filled with warmth and memory. — You know... in a time when women could not choose, I chose. Your grandfather was the love of my life. He helped protect our people, supported me when the gift weighed too heavily upon me. When the whole world became noise, he was silence. He was ground beneath my feet. Your grandfather was my foundation... and I loved him with everything inside me. To love like that... was a privilege.
Cauã felt tears rise to his eyes.
Not from pain.
From certainty.
— I don't want to die... because I want to stay with Michel. I want to show him my world, all of my world. — His voice broke, heart pounding hard against his chest. — I want him to truly know me, in a way I've never let anyone know me before. I want to help him too, the way he helped me... I want him to know I feel the same. That it's love. That it's deep. That it's real. — He held his grandmother's hand tighter, as though the gesture itself could anchor him to life. — That's why my time cannot end now.
His grandmother smiled tenderly, an ancient gleam shining in her eyes — the kind of gaze that crosses generations.
— Then jump. — she said softly.
Cauã looked toward the river one last time. The water ran dark and alive, carrying memories and stories within it.
And he jumped.
Without hesitation.
The freezing impact of the river swallowed him whole. He began swimming against the current, body struggling, arms trembling, lungs burning from the effort. He swallowed water, felt his breathing fail, but he did not stop. The opposite shore seemed impossibly far away, just as it had when he was a child trying to cross for the first time.
Now everything hurt.
But he knew:
he needed to reach it.
He wanted to see Michel.
He wanted to live.
He wanted to go back home, feel Minguado purring in his lap, walk through the hospital corridors and listen to the stories of patients with tired eyes still filled with hope.
He wanted to keep going.
The current dragged him several meters downstream, but he resisted. He clung to the muddy riverbank, dug his fingers into the soaked earth—
and pulled air back into his lungs.
He gasped sharply, chest burning, eyes flying open.
The cold, sober light of a hospital room filled his vision.
He was in a hospital.
And although his entire body trembled as though he were still submerged in the murky river waters, he was there.
Alive.
— Doctor! — someone called urgently, and moments later the physician entered the room, slightly out of breath, as though he had run there. His eyes softened with restrained relief at the sight of Cauã awake, even if still fragile.
— Notify Mr. Lacerda. — he instructed the nurse firmly before approaching the bed.
He was an older man, with an attentive expression and a firm posture — the kind of person who understood the weight of every second balanced on the thin line between life and death. Compassion lingered behind his trained gaze.
— Mr. Maranhão, you came very close to crossing the boundary between life and death. But we'll do everything possible to ensure your full recovery. — he said professionally while beginning the examinations.
Cauã tried to remain awake, but the world around him was a tangle of muffled sounds, dim lights, and pain echoing from distant corners of his body. His throat hurt — of course, he had probably been intubated. His body, numb and anesthetized, carried the weight of every muscle as though he were still trapped somewhere between the river and the real world.
He drifted in and out of sleep for hours, surrounded by voices dissolving into the fog of exhaustion. Time moved slowly, as though the hospital existed within its own rhythm.
And then, at last, something broke through the haze:
a familiar figure.
Michel.
He wasn't wearing a suit — only a wine-colored polo shirt still damp from a recent shower. Brown hair clung messily to his forehead, his eyes heavy with worry. Bandages wrapped around cuts on his neck, fragile reminders of the violence they had survived. There was pain in his face, but hope too. A living, trembling kind of hope. As though every heartbeat depended on that shared glance.
Cauã tried to speak, but his lips only moved uselessly.
His body betrayed him once again.
Yet before frustration could settle in, he felt the warmth of a safe presence beside him.
And he fell asleep again, soothed by the simple certainty that Michel was there.
Michel had already spent a week trapped in that routine.
He didn't want to leave the hospital for even a second. The doctors had been clear — and alarming. The toxic smoke had severely damaged Cauã's lungs, and even though he survived, there was still a risk of permanent complications. His hand would also require surgery: the ligaments had been compromised, and the prognosis included months of physical therapy.
The deep cut across Cauã's palm reminded Michel bitterly of the first time they had met — when Michel himself had been injured in almost the exact same place.
A cycle?
A warning?
He refused to surrender to thoughts like that.
He even considered asking permission to sleep at the hospital. But he still returned home at night, if only to take care of Minguado, who had grown quieter and more withdrawn with each passing day. The cat spent hours lying silently around the house, as though carrying the same anxiety Michel felt, sensing the emptiness that had swallowed their home.
But that night, something changed.
Before Michel left once again for the hospital, Minguado stood up with unusual firmness, stretched his entire body in a long motion, and let out a raspy meow, as though returning to life himself. Then he began wandering around the house like he used to, eyes gleaming with renewed energy.
Michel crouched beside him and stroked him gently, feeling unexpected warmth bloom in his chest.
— So... you think he's coming back too, huh? — he murmured, more to himself than to the cat.
And for one brief moment, he allowed himself to believe it was a sign.
A promise that despite everything, life could still bloom again.
Worse than the sleepless nights at the hospital was facing the avalanche of obligations left behind by the chaos. Michel was summoned to give testimony. He had to recount everything that had happened inside the manor, relive moments he was desperately trying to forget. Kaike had been leading the cult for six years, ever since the death of its former founder. He reshaped the name, attracted new followers, nurtured a silent — and dark — doctrine. The apocalypse had never been just a metaphor; it was a plan.
And he had almost carried it out.
The police found videos, documents, disturbing records. The fire unearthed old investigations and cast light over forgotten disappearances. The press smelled scandal like blood in the water, sensational headlines exploding across social media, and Michel's name appeared in all of them — the lawyer who survived the cult.
But Michel wanted no interviews. No microphones. No chance to give the horror a voice.
He only wanted Cauã to wake up.
That was the only testimony he cared to hear.
The only peace — fragile and fleeting — came at night, when he returned home and found Minguado waiting for him. The little cat curled around his legs demanding affection, and still smelled faintly like Cauã. The silent house preserved traces of the doctor's presence everywhere: a forgotten mug, a notebook filled with annotations, the scent of his soap lingering in the bathroom.
Michel walked through those memories like someone stepping barefoot over broken glass.
There was so much left unsaid.
And now there might not be time anymore.
To make matters worse, his uncle kept trying to contact him. Calls. Messages. Voicemails. A desperate attempt to reconnect now that the spotlight had turned toward the family. But Michel wanted nothing more to do with him. Not after everything. He wanted to sever that final bond and bury that dark chapter forever.
All he needed was for Cauã to open his eyes.
That was all.
For him to come back.
And then, at last, the waiting was rewarded.
Even though Cauã still couldn't keep his eyes open for long — numbed by sedatives — the doctors had been clear: the next day, they would finally be able to talk.
Hope, still weak and trembling, glowed like an ember.
Michel felt his heart ease for the first time in days, but there were other wounds demanding attention.
He gathered every piece of evidence he had accumulated over the years. Some he had ignored out of fear. Others only made sense now. He requested the reopening of the investigation into the Santa Casa fire. Officially, the justification was a possible connection to the cult.
But Michel knew the truth.
That fire had been the beginning of everything.
And behind it stood the true face of destruction:
his uncle.
He needed to touch that old wound, even knowing it would bleed again.
And he didn't stop there.
He reopened the investigation into his mother's death.
And his father's.
The muffled whispers of his childhood. The silence in the hallways of the house. The averted gazes. Michel hired a private investigator and handed over everything: files, clippings, dates, suspicious medical records, altered reports. Information he had never dared connect before.
— "This could damage you during the investigation," the detective warned.
Michel stared at the man with a coldness unusual for him.
— I don't care. As long as he falls. As long as the truth finally comes out.
Because it wasn't only about revenge.
It was about decades of oppression.
About the blood of innocent people harmed by his family.
About generations of muffled screams — and the decision to no longer inherit that silence.
This time, Michel didn't want justice alone.
He wanted collapse.
He wanted scandal.
At last, Cauã had been transferred into a private hospital room. Sitting upright now, back supported by pillows and a light blanket draped over his legs, he still felt pain throughout his body, but for the first time in days, he had managed to eat properly. Food still tasted strange, but it was a beginning.
The doctors had been honest: he would need ongoing physical therapy for his hand, painstakingly reconstructed after the trauma. His lungs, weakened by toxic smoke inhalation, would require constant monitoring. Long-term respiratory therapy. No extreme exertion — or the risks would return.
"At least there was no neurological damage..." he thought with relief, though the thought came stained by darker memories.
Kaike's face.
That lost expression balanced somewhere between madness and devotion.
It was difficult to erase.
"I left him behind."
The sentence repeated inside his mind like a weight pressing against his chest. He knew that if he had stayed, if he had tried to save him...
he would have died.
There was no doubt.
Michel had been right.
As always.
Even when Cauã refused to see it.
But none of that made the pain any smaller. The abandonment — necessary as it had been — hurt in places only someone like Cauã knew how to name.
Silently.
Inside a soul marked equally by loss and healing.
There was still a long road ahead of them.
But he was alive.
And Michel was still there.
Michel entered the room at the exact moment Cauã's thoughts began tightening painfully inside his chest. As though the universe itself had heard his silent wish, there he was — eyes darkened by worry, face exhausted, yet still beautiful and filled with tenderness.
Cauã looked at him, feeling tears gather instantly in his eyes. His throat burned, but his heart... his heart had already been screaming for days.
Michel didn't hesitate.
He crossed the room in firm strides and wrapped Cauã in a strong but careful embrace. He could feel the warmth of his body, the slight trembling of muscles still weakened, and the frantic heartbeat pounding against his chest. He wanted to disappear into that moment, as though he could protect him from everything — even from himself.
They had told Cauã that Michel had spent nearly every day at the hospital, sleeping in uncomfortable chairs, leaving only at night to feed Minguado and attempt to hold onto his sanity.
But he never truly could.
His mind always remained there, inside the room where Cauã slept.
— I'm sorry... — Cauã's voice came out hoarse and weak, barely more than a broken whisper, but filled with truth. — I love you, Michel... I was so insensitive... so—
Michel pulled back only enough to hold his face gently in both hands, his own eyes glistening with tears.
— Don't insult yourself. — he interrupted softly. — I know... But... thank you for apologizing.
Cauã shook his head anxiously, trying to explain the weight still crushing his chest.
— No... I need you to understand. I don't want you to think I don't accept you, or that I'm ashamed... — He struggled to breathe properly, but continued anyway. — It was never about your family. It was always about me... about what I felt. About being afraid of loving someone and losing them... of losing myself.
Michel stayed silent for a few moments.
He simply listened.
Listened in a way he never had before.
— The truth is... when you entered my world, I got scared. And I made excuses in my head, telling myself maybe it was just your natural charm, but nothing could make me feel like this... — Cauã took a shaky breath. — I... want you inside my life. I want you to know more about me, and I want to open myself to you... just like I want to discover more about you too.
Michel rested his forehead gently against Cauã's, the gesture overflowing with affection.
— Then stay. — he whispered softly. — Because I'm here. And I don't plan on going anywhere.
Cauã smiled, even as tears slipped down his cheeks.
For the first time in a very long while, he felt exactly where he was supposed to be.
And it was beside Michel.