Chapter 06 – Prejudice Hurts More Than the Hauntings That Lurk

It had been two weeks since they'd seen each other in person. The once frequent and spontaneous exchange of messages had become sparse, marked by long silences and short replies. Michel felt the weight of that absence—not just in the quiet phone, but in every hour spent in his office, surrounded by piles of papers that no longer managed to distract his thoughts.

He wanted to visit Cauã, to sit on the simple couch of that cozy house in Ananindeua, to breathe in the scent of herbs in the air and hear the doctor's calm voice, even if only to disagree about something. But he didn't know if he would be welcome. And invading Cauã's space without an invitation... might only worsen what was already fragile.

Seated at his desk, in the shifting light between afternoon shadows and the filtered brightness from the window, Michel slowly twirled his pen between his fingers, staring at the computer screen where nothing made sense anymore. Restlessness settled in his chest like a quiet fever. He wondered if the silence was a choice... or just another wall he didn't know how to cross.

Michel stared at the notification for a few seconds before reacting. The precinct was reporting new updates on the case, and he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.He typed a quick message to Cauã:"Can we meet in front of the precinct? I just got a notification."The reply came almost instantly—dry, direct:"Yes."No emojis, no questions, no small talk.Michel held the phone for a moment longer. He knew that "yes" meant more than it seemed.He stood up, adjusted his blazer, and headed for the door. It was time to face the next fragment of an ever-darkening truth.

Michel watched Cauã approach with that steady, unhurried walk of someone who knows exactly where he's going. The shirt with an açaí print clashed against the sobriety of his own outfit—dark suit, polished leather shoes, tie loosened from the heat. The difference between them had never been so visible—and, at the same time, so intriguingly magnetic.

The doctor greeted him with a subtle nod and a "Good afternoon," without even changing the tone of his voice. There was no explicit resentment in his eyes, but the absence of warmth was more unsettling than any expression of anger. Michel wanted to say so many things: "I miss you," "I'm sorry for what happened," "I should've defended you before you even felt the pain." But all of it felt too big to fit on the sidewalk of a police station.

He took a deep breath, then tried:—Cauã... once we're done here, can we talk? Really talk?The other man looked at him in silence for several seconds—long enough for Michel to fear the answer would be "no."—We can. —he finally replied. Simple, direct. But it was a "yes."

Still, there was more than formalities at that meeting. The police chief seemed burdened by something he couldn't quite name—discomfort, maybe fear, hidden behind serious gestures and a restrained voice.—We discovered the last contact Sarah had with anyone was through social media —he said, fingers interlocked on the desk. —Both she and her boyfriend exchanged messages with a profile called @ProjetoRenascente. We're tracking the IP, but the user layered it with multiple obfuscations. If you want to go further, you'll need a court order to break confidentiality. But I'll warn you—the content is... strange.Michel narrowed his eyes.—Strange how?—Recruitment. —the chief replied flatly. —The profile promotes ideas like "eternal life," "the hidden face of God," "salvation through pain." It looks like a modern cult. The posts blend occultism with a distorted form of Christianity. Themes like a God that dwells in shadows, blood that opens the eyes... a symbolic maze.

Michel opened the profile on his phone. The images loaded slowly, as if the network itself hesitated to show the content. Circles of youths with eyes closed, lit candles, Latin phrases mixed with reinterpreted Bible verses. Enigmatic comments. Few followers. A niche. But with exactly the kind of aesthetic that could seduce those searching for something greater than themselves.

Cauã looked over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed in disgust.—These cults follow the same pattern —he said. —They use desperation as a tool. They find open wounds in people and sell themselves as the cure. But what they offer is a slow death of thought. A poisoning.His tone carried more than spiritual insight. It was personal. As if he had already seen, up close, what blind faith can destroy.

Michel stayed silent, but in his mind a new map was already forming. A name, a cult, and young people vanishing in exchange for eternal promises. They had to act before Sarah became more than just a follower—and turned into a martyr.—The last message was this:

@ProjetoRenascente:You feel it, don't you? The unrest in your bones.The void that neither love nor common faith can fill.It's because you were born marked.Marked to see what others refuse to acknowledge.Don't be afraid of the call. It's the echo of your soul recognizing the path.Death is not the end.The body is only the first prison.We are being reborn. One by one.The hidden face of God is about to emerge — and only the chosen will survive the revelation.You've been touched. You can hear the voice now, can't you?Reply with the symbol: ☿And the next step will be revealed to you.

— What a load of nonsense — Michel muttered, though he couldn't shake the unease those messages left lingering in the air. Sarah had been sent to a psychiatric hospital for treatment, but she was still at the mercy of the justice system, charged with attempted murder. If her family managed to prove her psychological condition, the case might be transferred to a more lenient court. Michel didn't want to make things harder for her; little by little, he was starting to understand she had just been a pawn on the board. What really interested him now was discovering who was truly behind all of it.

— We'll keep investigating — said the chief of police as they reviewed the case files.

As they left the station, Michel turned to Cauã and asked:— Can I come to your place?

Cauã handed him the helmet with a calm, almost casual gesture. Michel realized—again—that he never would have imagined himself riding on the back of a motorcycle. It wasn't his style. Michel belonged with sleek sports cars, powerful and modern; bikes and danger weren't really his thing. Still, in that moment, he accepted the silent invitation.

He looked at the helmet as if it were an invitation to a world he didn't belong to—or that, until now, he'd pretended not to want to. Then he took it with a quiet reverence, as if he understood that this was more than just a means of transportation. It was trust.— It might not seem like it, but I used to ride motorcycles a lot in my teens. — He commented, trying to sound casual while carefully putting on the helmet.Cauã raised an eyebrow, skeptical.— Really? Can't imagine you with greasy hands.— Me neither. But I was a rebellious teenager before I became a pretentious lawyer. — Michel joked, and for the first time in days, the silence between them felt lighter.

He climbed onto the back with slight hesitation. Cauã adjusted the mirror, gently tested the brake, and started the engine. The rumble of the bike cut through Belém's heavy air.Michel held on—first cautiously, then more firmly—around Cauã's waist. It was a closeness that didn't need words—just the shared wind, the uneven roads, and the fleeting freedom of speed.

The city passed them by—alive, humid, intense. The Amazonian winter announced itself with thick clouds above, like a promise. And still, in that silent ride through the warmth, something between them felt like it was falling back into place, however subtly.In the distance, the walls they had built seemed, perhaps, to begin cracking once again.

Cauã accelerated confidently, leading the way. They left the station and merged into the busy Almirante Barroso Avenue. The city lights blended with the night's shadows, reflecting off the asphalt still wet from a recent rain. The soft hum of the engine sliced through the air, and the illuminated storefronts and historic buildings flashed past, like scenes in a fast-paced urban montage.

They followed the avenue where traffic flowed without hurry—still lively, but with a slower rhythm than during the day. The trees lining the street offered a breath of greenery amidst the concrete, and the damp scent of fresh earth gave the air a natural lightness.

Farther ahead, they passed by the Rodrigues Alves Botanical Garden. The dense vegetation formed a natural tunnel over the road, and the bike's headlights cast dancing shadows through the ancient trees. The air there was cool and rich with the scent of wet leaves—a silent refuge in the heart of the city. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the weight of Michel and Cauã's thoughts was accompanied only by the distant sound of crickets.

When they reached the BR-316 highway, the landscape changed. The wider, open road carried a different kind of silence—only broken by the engine's growl and the wind slapping Michel's face. The motorcycle picked up speed, and the sensation of freedom blended with the urgency of the investigation. The starry sky stretched above them, and the darkness along the roadside seemed to embrace the city, guarding hidden secrets.

They continued into the Castanheira neighborhood, where the streets narrowed and the houses stood closer together. The lights from the homes blinked like tiny artificial stars, and the asphalt gave way to rougher patches. The city seemed to breathe differently there—quieter, more introspective. The motorcycle glided carefully through the streets as they neared their destination, each kilometer bringing more questions, more mystery, and a quiet expectation hanging in the air.

Michel held onto Cauã's waist, tighter than necessary—he could have just rested his hand on the side. But he wanted to extend that moment of closeness—after two weeks of unanswered messages, he just wanted a private moment, together. That brief ride to the house they both knew already felt like the perfect setting for it.

Minguado waited patiently near the door. Upon seeing Cauã, he rubbed lazily against his feet, a simple, affectionate greeting. A soft meow accompanied the gentle scratch under his chin—his favorite spot. Unhurried, he walked to the food bowl, and Cauã quickly got the message. He poured a bit of kibble, gave the cat another affectionate stroke, and then they were finally alone.

— I want to apologize. — Michel spoke quickly, removing his helmet and placing it on the table with a soft thud.— For what? — Cauã asked, not quite following. His distance hadn't been caused by anything Michel had done, but by the situation around them.

— I know you're upset about what happened with Alessandro. — Michel scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. — Since that day, you've been colder, more distant.

Cauã was quiet for a moment, sitting on the couch, lost in thought. To him, the distance had felt inevitable—as if their different worlds were bound to clash. He was tired of carrying the weight of prejudice, of hearing those innocent but loaded questions—"Are you a nurse?" "Are you the janitor?" Questions that, for him, cut like daily blades.

— Michel, it wasn't exactly your fault. — His voice came out tired, almost resigned. — But I know that look. I know how people feel superior just by seeing me and wondering why someone like me should be where I am. — He paused, looking away. — And I don't want to have to go through that by your side too... I know you have your life, your friends. I have mine. We're helping each other because of a complicated case, and in the end, that's all it'll be.

— It's not just that for me. — Michel hesitated, holding back from confessing, unsure of how deep his feelings really went—but he felt the real impact of possibly losing Cauã. — I want your friendship, your company. It's the first time I feel understood, that I can talk to someone about my frustrations. No one—none of them—would understand what it's like to be surrounded by spirits and ghosts every day, to be swallowed by darkness every time I close my eyes. I... I can't promise you'll never face prejudice around me, but I can promise that if it happens, I won't stay silent. I'll defend you. Stand by you.

Cauã was touched by those words. He too had felt an unexpected comfort in Michel—an ease that made him forget, if only for a moment, the daily battles and the differences between them. Deep down, he didn't want what they had to end there. There was a connection between them—a bond he didn't yet know how to name, but that, in some way, reminded him of Kaike—though it was different.

— Alright. I'll trust you. — He smiled—brief, but genuine.— And I ended things with Alessandro for good. What happened wasn't fair. — Michel said quickly, almost like he needed to prove something.— Oh, I won't say you shouldn't have. — Cauã shrugged, relaxed. — That type of person really is awful. — He paused, then added with a half-smile: — But yes. We can be friends.

All the anxiety that had consumed Michel over the past few weeks began to dissipate, giving way to a rare sense of relief — having Cauã nearby again was a quiet comfort, a steady presence to face the whirlwind still lingering in the case… and in life itself. They could be distant, guarded, but in that shared silence, there was something that eased the tension.

— I found one of the nurses who assisted during your mother's delivery. Her name is Lourdes da Costa Nascimento. She's 65, lives in the Marco neighborhood, and just recently retired — Cauã informed, showing the results of his research through Santa Casa's records and state documents.

— Does she have social media? — Michel asked, scrolling through his phone.

— No idea — Cauã shrugged. He didn't usually use those platforms, so it hadn't even crossed his mind to check Instagram or Facebook.

— Hm, turns out she's on Instagram. I'll try reaching out here — Michel said, sitting beside him.

At that moment, Minguado wasted no time: he jumped onto the sofa, settled comfortably on Michel's lap, stretched lazily, and laid down, as if he'd just been waiting for the cue to fully relax. The scene — simple and calm — felt like an oasis of normalcy amidst the storm both were still facing.

— Looks like we have a meeting tomorrow morning. — Michel smiled, satisfied to finally have a concrete lead on his own birth — something that had until then seemed shrouded in mist and uncomfortable silences.

— Well, I don't have appointments tomorrow — Cauã said, gently stroking Minguado, still sprawled out on Michel's lap. — So I can go with you.

— Can I stay over tonight? That way we can go together in the morning… — Michel asked softly — more an invitation than a request. He didn't want to call a car and leave so soon — not after they'd finally found some harmony again.

— I guess so… But it's not as fancy as your place — Cauã replied, a little hesitant, aware of the lifestyle differences between them. Michel was used to refinement, to perfectly curated spaces and seamless comfort.

— Are you kidding? Your house is infinitely more comfortable — Michel replied sincerely. — There's peace, quiet… Besides, when else would I have permission to invade your personal space? — he added playfully, though he knew he was stepping into rare, guarded territory.

Cauã furrowed his brow slightly. It was true — he never brought anyone there. That place was his refuge, his final boundary, where his armor dropped and silence served as medicine. But for some reason he couldn't fully grasp, Michel's presence didn't feel invasive. Quite the opposite — there was a strange comfort in having him there, one that asked for nothing more than he could give.

He sighed, giving in.

— You can stay. But tomorrow, you'll have to deal with my freshly brewed coffee and day-old bread. — he joked.

— If it comes with this peace, I'll even take burned tapioca. — Michel laughed, leaning back on the couch like someone who had finally found a place to rest.

Michel had never slept in a hammock before — and if he were honest with himself, he'd admit it wasn't exactly the most comfortable experience. But something about that night made everything feel different. The subtle sway of the hammock, the sound of crickets harmonizing with the soft breeze, the occasional distant car rumbling by — it all felt like the heart of the city had faded into a distant echo. The world had slowed down.

He now understood why Cauã had chosen to live there. The modest home, far from the city's rush, was a sanctuary — not only from the chaos outside, but also from the ghosts within that, in Michel's case, insisted on visiting even in his dreams. And though the position in the hammock strained his shoulders a bit, it seemed irrelevant compared to the serenity that surrounded him.

The cherry on top was Minguado — the cat had decided to spend the entire night curled up on his chest, purring as if to soothe his very heart. It was a comforting sound, rhythmic, almost therapeutic.

— Should I adopt a cat? — he whispered, more to himself than as an actual question. But the thought was quickly followed by a delicate shadow — the memory of how animals reacted to him. Michel knew that because of the energy he carried — that nearly magnetic aura that drew in what should've long departed — animals often recoiled in fear. He didn't want to impose that kind of anguish on any creature.

Still, that night, with the warm purring and light weight of Minguado on his chest, he felt a rare peace. Even without fully sleeping, even without understanding why, something about being there — in that place, in that hammock, with that cat — quieted something inside him. And that, for now, was enough.

The morning began simply — and, curiously, that simplicity was exactly what Michel liked most. Breakfast was far from extravagant: two warm rolls fresh from the bakery, filled with melted cheese and butter dripping at the edges; perfectly made tapiocas — thin and carefully cooked, as if honoring a ritual rather than putting on a show; and freshly brewed coffee, rich and sweetened with sugar and milk, its aroma embracing the modest kitchen like a hug.

Michel ate heartily — partly from hunger, but mostly from the unexpected sense of belonging. He was fully aware that Cauã wasn't the type to be charming in the kitchen. He didn't cook for pleasure — but from a near-spiritual connection to what came from the earth, from tradition, from Amazonian routine. And that made everything even more authentic.

— This is good. — Michel said, still holding a bit of tapioca between his fingers, smiling genuinely.

— I know. — Cauã replied with a crooked smile, trying to tease but not quite managing — his straightforward, unembellished manner betrayed any attempt at forced charm.

The conversation flowed lightly, as if the rough edges of the past weeks had been softened by the night before. After tidying up, they left without delay. They headed toward the Marco neighborhood, where a new piece of the puzzle awaited: the nurse Lourdes da Costa Nascimento.

The city was slowly waking up, the heat beginning to peek beneath a cloudy sky. But inside the helmet, with his arms wrapped around Cauã's waist, Michel allowed himself a moment of silence and surrender — as if, at least for that morning, everything was exactly where it should be.

Lourdes' house was surprising even from the outside.

In a neighborhood where time seemed frozen between old mansions and low-rise buildings, her home stood out with quiet elegance. A two-story townhouse, painted in soft tones — satin beige with pearl-white accents — and wide mirrored windows framed by ornamental molding. The front door, made of dark carved wood, displayed a floral design that hinted at good taste and careful investment in detail.

The small front garden was meticulously maintained: Colombian roses, ornamental palms, and a polished stone path led gracefully to the entrance. A silent, modern electric gate and a discreetly positioned camera above the door suggested that security was also part of the design.

It was the home of someone with money. Far more than a nurse's salary could explain.

The door creaked open gently, revealing a woman with neatly styled hair, dressed simply but with care — a seemingly ordinary figure, perhaps even warm to eyes that couldn't see what Cauã saw.

But what appeared before him was a living nightmare: dozens of small presences floated around her, like fragments of souls trapped between worlds. Translucent energy-fetuses, shrouded in dim light, drifted as if suspended in an invisible womb. Other childlike figures crawled at her feet, clinging to her dress with trembling, tiny hands full of pain and loneliness. Silent cries vibrated in the air — a deep, visceral lament.

Cauã trembled. The air turned heavy as lead. He raised a hand to his mouth, trying to hold back the nausea and shock, his eyes welling up instinctively. It was like staring into an abyss of lost innocence.

The ground seemed to vanish beneath him. Michel, noticing, supported him by the waist — not fully understanding what he was seeing, but feeling the inexplicable weight of the place.

And then, as if sensing a new beacon in the room, all the apparitions turned toward Michel — eyes hollow yet full of questions. The energy shifted around him, drawn to the strange light he carried, as if sensing something in him that might free them… or damn them even more.