Chapter 09 - Evil lurks

Michel bit into the still-warm bread with a certain aggression, as if the gesture could ease the knot in his throat. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled Cauã's simple kitchen, contrasting with the subtle tension hanging in the air.

– One million? – he repeated, this time in a softer tone, staring at the cup cradled in his hands. – Am I really only worth that?

– It was the first absurd number that came to mind, – Cauã replied, tired but honest. His eyes still carried dark circles from the night shift, his hair tied up messily, and his shirt wrinkled. Still, there was a careful intention in every gesture: strong coffee, warm bread, butter spread with care. Silent details that screamed affection.

Michel put the bread back on the plate and sighed. Conflicting emotions swirled inside him like smoke trapped in glass—anger at Omar for treating his life like a commodity, shame at seeing his intimacy negotiated as though it were someone else's property, relief that Cauã had been straightforward, and, amid this absurdity, a confusing warmth in his chest—because even in the midst of this absurd situation, there was someone there. Someone who saw him not as an heir or a trophy, but just as Michel.

– Omar has always had that habit… of deciding what's best for me. He'd say it was to protect me, that he was the only one who could see the whole picture, you know? – Michel stirred his coffee slowly, as if stirring through his own thoughts as well. – But I'm not a frightened teenager anymore. And he crossed a line this time.

Cauã simply nodded. He knew there were wounds he couldn't heal, but he could at least respect them.

– I don't want to protect you as if I'm placing you under a glass dome, – he said calmly. – I just want to stand by your side. Whether it's breakfast or the most absurd supernatural case.

Michel chuckled quietly, a short yet genuine sound. Cauã didn't realize how romantic his words sounded.

– And what if I really am worth a million? – Michel teased, raising an eyebrow.

– Then I would have refused two. – Cauã answered seriously, before taking a sip of coffee. Only then did he glance sideways and allow a discreet smile, full of affection.

Michel didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. The shared silence between them, over sips and bread crumbs, said it all.

They set out early, under Belém's gray, stifling sky, cutting through the city toward the Guamá district. The neighborhood pulsed to its own rhythm: the clamoring of opening markets, the hum of motorcycles weaving through narrow streets, the mingling scents of tucupi, smoke, and organic waste in the humid air. It was a place of contrasts—out of one simple doorway stepped a student in a white coat, while from a nearby alley barefoot children played around a muddy puddle.

Among that chaos and knowledge stood Ludmila's house—a 75-year-old woman with eyes that held the fatigue of having seen more than she ever wanted to. For over four decades, she served as a nurse in the public health system, starting when the SUS was only nascent. Her home was simple, yet meticulously tidy, filled with PET-bottle planters and antique furniture that bore witness to time's passage.

Felipe, her grandson, welcomed them with gentle manners—wearing a UFPA nursing-course T-shirt and worn flip-flops. He spoke softly, his gaze alert, bearing the seriousness of someone who grew up bearing responsibilities too early. He cared for his grandmother with devotion, shaped by her emotional scars—and the silences she refused to fill.

– Sorry about this simple place, Doctor, – Felipe offered as he opened the rusty gate with a reserved smile. – But she'll be happy to talk to you. She's having a good day today.

Inside, time felt slower. A vintage radio played low regional melodies, crucifixes adorned the walls, and a black-and-white photograph of a late husband hung nearby. Ludmila sat in a chair by the window, wearing a floral dress, her hair in a loose bun. Her eyes—deep but still vivid—lit up at the sight of Cauã and Michel.

Cauã sensed the presence immediately. An oppressive spirit stood perched on the nurse's shoulders—a faceless, shapeless shadow molded by pain and invocation. The entity clung to her like someone summoned to oversee, to silence. The doctor frowned, his throat tightening at the heavy atmosphere. That persistent cough and her weariness… they weren't merely physical.

– You're welcome here, – Ludmila spoke, her voice rough, almost a raspy whisper burdened by years and something else.

– Thank you for having us, – Michel answered gently, cautious, knowing his words might not be entirely welcome in that saturated space.

– May I come closer? – Cauã asked respectfully, attuned to the slightest gesture. At her subtle nod, he moved nearer with his equipment. He took her blood pressure and glucose readings. His touch was clinical, but his gaze was anything but—it probed depths common sight could never reach.

– You may not remember… – Michel began cautiously, pulling some aged papers from his briefcase. – But you were there at my birth, thirty-five years ago, at Santa Casa.

He hadn't expected an instant response. He brought the documents not out of hope, but out of the necessity for something tangible—at a time when everything seemed to slip through one's fingers.

Ludmila furrowed her brow, eyes briefly vacant as she seemed to sift memories from a dusty corner of time. The shadow atop her shoulders rigidified, as if recognizing Michel's name. The presence tightened its hold, as though urging her into silence.

Cauã kept a straight face, continuing his vital checks, though he felt the entity's weight making the house's air denser. Her blood pressure was high—her glucose as well. Nothing in the room spoke only of physical ailments; he could sense spiritual intrusion when he saw it.

– Santa Casa… – Ludmila whispered hoarsely, voice strained by age and something unnamed. – I worked there for many years… delivered too many babies to count… but your name…

Michel offered a copy of the birth record, an old delivery summary. Ludmila took it with trembling hands. As her eyes traced the hospital's name, the date, the mother's name... she froze. Her breath hitched, the shadow on her shoulders coiled tighter as if pulling her inward.

– Your mother… she was a very beautiful girl, – she murmured, still staring at the paper. – But… something strange happened that night. Too many unfamiliar nurses, too many doctors I'd never seen before. It was... a delivery filled with more care than a normal birth warrants.

Cauã nodded slightly, encouraging her to keep going. Meanwhile, he discreetly retrieved a small guaraná-bead rosary—blessed with herbs from the Lower Amazon—from his backpack. His grandmother used to say, "heavy spirits don't like living seeds." He held the rosary with quiet intent, waiting for the right moment to act.

— I'm sorry… sometimes my memory fails me… — Ludmila coughed hard, and the spirit clinging to her seemed to shiver with pleasure.Michel stepped forward, worried. Cauã, however, raised a hand gently, as if to say not yet. He knew they were facing something deeper—and far more dangerous. The entity wasn't a wandering spirit — it was a sentinel. And if it had been summoned, it was because there were secrets that weren't meant to be easily told.— Let's take it slow, Dona Ludmila. We just want to understand what happened that night — Michel said in a soft voice.The woman clutched the papers tightly, and her eyes glistened with tears that seemed to carry decades of silence.And in the corner of the room, the air began to freeze.

Ludmila was visibly growing paler. The grotesque shadow gripped her shoulders with a silent hunger, draining her vitality as if it wished to consume whatever strength she had left. That presence — shapeless, creeping, summoned by hidden intentions — wasn't there by accident. Someone had sent it. But who? Who had such interest in silencing the answers that woman could give?Cauã narrowed his eyes, heart racing, and began to murmur an old prayer, barely audible — like one calling the forest to expel an invisible plague.— Dona Ludmila, may I offer you a rosary? — his voice broke the weight of the tension with delicate care.The elderly woman, confused but calm, lifted her tearful gaze and nodded gently:— Of course, doctor…With steady hands, Cauã wrapped the guaraná-bead necklace around her wrist, crafted with ritualistic care. The instant the beads touched the nurse's skin, the oppressor trembled. A dry, furious hiss echoed out of nowhere. It pulled back from the woman, slowly peeling away from her skin, still shrieking.

Cauã gathered his energy, channeling it with almost instinctive precision — and in a subtle yet powerful current, he broke the bond between the creature and the nurse. The oppressor unraveled with a muffled snap of shapeless energy, like mist torn by a sacred wind. But the price was immediate: his knees buckled for a second, and he remained standing only because he braced his feet against the wooden floor. His entire body throbbed, as though his very essence had been drained to its edge.Breathless, he blinked slowly, trying to steady his senses.Ludmila, meanwhile, released a sigh deeper than any she'd been able to draw in days. The weight on her lungs eased, the dizziness dissolved like vapor under the sun, and her mind — once clouded — began to open like a window long forgotten. Something inside her awakened, and with it, memories long dormant resurfaced. Memories of the day of the birth. A day she had never forgotten, because nothing about it aligned with the rational world of medicine. It was the strangest event she had witnessed in her entire career — and one of the most disturbing.

Cauã sank into the couch, adjusting his headphones, as if seeking silent refuge amid the chaos. Fresh off an exhausting night shift, he hadn't managed a moment of rest, and now felt the drain of spiritual energy pressing for a moment of solitude and inward focus. As the conversation continued around him, his mind wandered far, slowly cataloging the entities he had crossed paths with, anchoring himself in the pulse of interest that still lingered there, in the present.Michel, respecting the friend's silence and need, approached the nurse gently, settling onto a stool in front of her.— Could you tell me, calmly, what happened that day? — he asked with almost reverent softness, as though each word guarded a secret.

— Yes. It was an unusual day at the maternity ward. We were expecting a patient who hadn't done her prenatal care with us — she began, voice still slightly hoarse —. It's not as rare as it sounds, there are other hospitals in the capital, but some women choose to give birth at Santa Casa. Your mother arrived — so beautiful — but there was a deep sadness in her expression, as if she sensed something was wrong. I remember her asking, almost whispering to her own mother: "Don't leave me alone. I don't want to be alone with him." But we didn't know exactly who she was referring to. Jacqueline, right? When she entered the room, we began preparing for a natural birth. Everything pointed that way. But the lead doctor suddenly announced they'd be performing a cesarean. Vanessa and I tried to argue, but he dismissed us from the room.Ludmila absently toyed with the beaded necklace in her hand, letting out a heavy sigh.— When your mother died, Vanessa and I wanted to file a complaint against the doctor and the team. But the director at the time advised against it. The doctor's family had too much influence, and we would've been transferred to the countryside. I couldn't afford that — not with my daughter being sick. Vanessa tried anyway, and shortly after, she was sent to Itaituba.

Michel paused for a moment, sensing that, in the end, the answers would inevitably lie with his uncle.— There was something strange — he said in a low voice. — The doctor that night was always respected, even feared by everyone, but that day, he was particularly nervous. He said the seed would not end with him… I didn't quite understand what that meant, but I overheard him speaking with another nurse.Michel assumed that nurse must've been "Lourdes."— The team around the doctor obeyed him blindly. Only three people weren't part of his usual circle: me, Vanessa, and the on-call resident, who stayed until the end. But that resident disappeared afterward. I don't know if she was transferred to another hospital — I don't even remember her name.Michel had noticed that, in the hospital's records, the resident's name had been smudged out. They chose not to insist further. That case had too many deep, mysterious layers to be easily unraveled.

They left around noon. Since they'd come in Michel's car, they continued their drive in silence.Cauã, drained from the spiritual effort that morning, simply watched the urban landscape roll past the window. Michel, on the other hand, seemed submerged in a tangle of thoughts. He felt that all of it — the deaths, the secrets, the spirits — orbited around his existence like an ancient curse.The ability to attract entities, as though he were a beacon for restless souls, disturbed him more and more.

But before he could open the car door, he felt something.A step out of rhythm. A strange approach.Michel turned with the instinct of someone who had known danger — just in time to see the dull gleam of an old pocketknife headed his way.

The attacker was painfully thin, dressed in filthy, torn clothes, his skin so grimy it looked untouched by soap for months. His unkempt beard and hollow, feverish eyes made him a living ghost of misery.

Michel reacted on impulse. He grabbed the man's arm, twisted it to the side, and slammed him hard onto the pavement. A sharp kick to the chest ensured distance. The knife clattered noisily against the asphalt.

— Cauã leaped out on the other side of the car, already in alert position. But there was no time for exorcisms, prayers, or spiritual preparation. That—being so human—harmed in a different way.The man on the ground gasped, far too thin to withstand any violence. His bones jutted beneath the skin, his eyes wandered in delirium. The odor—sour sweat, dried blood, neglect—was as pungent as his appearance.Michel took a deep breath, his fist still clenched. He had not been hurt. But that attempted attack didn't seem random.And deep inside, he knew.It was a warning.

Hours later, they identified him using crumpled documents and an expired ID found in the attacker's pocket: his name was Claudiano.The same young man who appeared in old photos beside Sarah—bright eyes, a smile full of dreams, an almost childlike hope. Now, he was a body corroded by time, marked by deep dark circles, ashen skin, and broken teeth. He seemed prematurely aged by decades, despite being barely thirty. He kept repeating disjointed phrases, including: "the light comes... must pay... must pay..." — his fixed gaze seeing no one.Sarah's words—disturbed though they were—still showed signs of awareness. But Claudiano... Claudiano had been taken beyond. The brainwashing had stripped not only his sanity but his essence.

After the initial shock, Michel composed himself. He spoke calmly with the arriving police, stating he wouldn't press charges. He said he knew the man and that he was likely in a psychotic break. The priority was taking him to a psychiatric clinic, not jail.He contacted Claudiano's family and offered full financial support. It was the least he could do for someone who, in his own way, was also a victim of that macabre manipulation network.Cauã, however, couldn't remain steadfast for long.His body—flooded with adrenaline moments before—now seemed to shut down entirely. The surge had drained him. Still in the car's back seat, his shoulders slumped, eyes closed without resistance. And it was more than sleep—it was collapse.The world around him dimmed as if his mind declared, "That's enough for today."Michel glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Cauã's calm face while he slept—or rather, fainted.He would drive him home in silence.

Michel watched Cauã for a few more seconds, taking advantage of a red light.He picked up his phone as soon as the light turned red and typed, with steady fingers:"We need to talk."He didn't send it to his uncle.Not yet.But he did send it to Omar.There was something between them that needed to be resolved—a silent confrontation that had dragged on too long under the guise of a childhood friendship.

The reply came quickly:"I'm at the office. Whenever you're ready."That was exactly where Michel wanted to meet. Neutral ground. Cold. Where intimacy dissolved under the strictness of professionalism. No sideways glances down hospital corridors, no choking warmth of a midnight four-wall scene. Just truths—unadorned.

Back at Cauã's home, he slipped off his shoes with the ease of someone who already belonged in the space. He took a clean sheet and a light blanket and carefully covered the exhausted body resting in the hammock. He placed a silent kiss on the doctor's forehead and stroked his hair—a gesture that said everything he hadn't had time—or courage—to say in words.Minguado padded over and climbed on the hammock's backrest, curling up like a feline sentinel.Michel watched the scene one last time, then took the spare key and stepped out.It was time to face Omar, and finally understand what lay behind so much protection disguised as control.

Omar's office was in a business tower in the city's most upscale district—mirrored façade, whispering elevators, and overly subdued receptionists. The environment reflected everything Omar valued: status, sophistication, and a minimalist facade of flawless aesthetics.Upon entering the room, Michel was immediately enveloped by a cold atmosphere—not from the air-conditioning, but from the way every object seemed meticulously arranged to suppress emotion. The furniture was dark wood and Italian leather, polished to a reflective sheen. Discreet shelves held law books in black and gold bindings—more for show than use.At the center stood a large, heavy desk, bearing a cutting-edge computer, a Montblanc pen, and a framed photo from a gala—Omar smiling next to political and corporate figures. Behind the desk, a glass wall offered a panoramic city view, but the grey-blue curtains were half-drawn, as if controlling which light was allowed in.

The subtle aroma of woody tobacco and leather hung in the air, completing the sensation that this space was not meant for comfort, but for dominion.

Michel stood still for a moment, taking it all in. This was not just an office — it was a territory carefully marked by a man who had never learned to share.

"Was I ever like this?" he wondered, observing the rigidity of the angles, the calculated coldness of the environment, the way every object silently declared, "I'm the one in charge here."He recognized an uncomfortable mirror there. He remembered how he arranged the furniture in his own apartment, how he preferred indirect lighting and silence, how sometimes he controlled the space to the point of making it uninhabitable for anyone who dared disrupt his order. In that moment, he realized: the power he so often criticized in Omar also existed within himself — perhaps in a milder form, but still marked by the need for control.

Seeing the entire dynamic from the outside — the territory, the throne, the host — made everything jump to the eyes. There, before an environment designed to subjugate, Michel wondered if he had done the same, even if under the pretense of elegance or rationality. The difference was that now, with Cauã, everything was beginning to change. And that challenged him.