The note was a fact, like gravity. You didn't have to like it. You just had to live with it. Guilherme folded the small piece of paper, creasing it twice with the blunt force of his thumb, turning it into a dense, tiny square. He didn't put it back in his locker. He tucked it into the hidden pocket he’d sewn into the lining of his skirt—a place for things not meant to be found. A place for liabilities.
Fear was a luxury. A pointless expenditure of energy. He had been born into a world where blood on a cuff was a Tuesday and anonymous threats were part of the landscape. His father, the man they called *O Lagarta*—The Caterpillar—was a walking paradox. He built his criminal empire on the idea of metamorphosis, of starting as something small and overlooked and emerging as something powerful, something that could fly. But he never flew. He just got bigger, ate more leaves, and left a trail of rot. His mother, with her elegant manners and her quiet sorrow, came from a family with roots so deep in the Yakuza they saw it as a form of aristocracy.
Blood and death were never mysteries to him. They were his inheritance. You couldn’t escape your own DNA. So you adapted. You learned to be a snake. Like the Boitatá from his homeland's myths, the great fire serpent that guarded the forests. You watch. You protect. You camouflage. And if something disturbs the natural order, you burn it. Quietly. Without breaking the whole ecosystem.
This note wasn't a death sentence. It was a weather report, warning of a coming storm. He would not ignore it, but he would not let it stop him from walking out into the rain.
The afternoon classes were a lesson in divided attention. The history teacher spoke of the Meiji Restoration, of a nation forcibly modernizing itself. Gui stared at the kanji on the board, the elegant strokes blurring into esoteric symbols. He tried to focus, to absorb the information, to be the diligent exchange student he was supposed to be.
It was impossible.
His senses were tuned to the three boys sitting two rows ahead. He could feel their presence like a change in atmospheric pressure. Baji kept turning around, his sharp grin flashing. “Hey, Brazil, is it true you guys have spiders that eat birds?” he’d asked, loud enough for the whole class to hear.
“Yes,” Gui had replied, his voice a low monotone, not looking up from his blank notebook. “And birds that eat monkeys.”
That had shut Baji up for a solid ten minutes.
Kazutora was quieter, more insidious. He wasn’t looking at Gui. He was angled towards Chifuyu, whispering something that made the smaller boy’s ears turn pink. But Gui felt Kazutora’s awareness of him, a constant, low-level hum. It was the way a predator is aware of another predator in its territory. Acknowledged, if not yet challenged.
Chifuyu was the most distracting of all. He kept trying to copy the notes from the board, his pen scratching frantically. But every few minutes, his eyes would flick towards Gui, then to Kazutora, then back to his book. He was the only one who seemed to understand they were all standing on a fault line. The worry on his face was genuine, and for that reason, more dangerous than anything else.
The final bell was a mercy. Gui moved with practiced speed, his bag slung over his shoulder before the echo of the chime had faded. He needed the quiet walk home. He needed to feel the familiar weight of his own front door between him and the rest of the world.
He was almost at the school gates. Freedom was a hundred meters away.
“Oi! Big Guy! Wait up!”
Baji’s voice. Of course.
Gui didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He simply continued his steady, ground-eating pace, his platform shoes clicking a determined rhythm on the pavement. If he ignored them, maybe they would lose interest. A foolish hope.
Heavy footsteps pounded behind him. “The hell, man? I’m talking to you!” Baji appeared at his side, his breathing not even labored. Chifuyu was a few paces behind, looking apologetic. And Kazutora, a sly smile on his face, brought up the rear, his hands in his pockets. A perfect, unwanted escort.
“I’m going home with you,” Baji announced, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Gui kept walking. He turned right, off the main road and onto a street lined with smaller shops and older houses.
“Where are we going?” Chifuyu asked, finally catching up.
“He lives in a weird direction,” Kazutora observed, his eyes scanning the neighborhood. It wasn't the trendy, busy part of Shibuya they were used to. It was quieter, more residential. The air smelled of pruned gardens and old wood.
They walked in that strange, silent procession for ten minutes. Gui in the lead, a silent giant. Baji trying to match his stride. Chifuyu looking increasingly uncomfortable. Kazutora watching everything with unnerving curiosity. Gui could feel the stares of the neighborhood grandmothers, their curtains twitching. The big foreign kid in the skirt was one thing. The big foreign kid leading a pack of well-known delinquents was another thing entirely.
Finally, Gui stopped. He stood before a simple, traditional wooden house with a neat tile roof and a small, immaculate garden behind a low wall. It was the last place they would have expected.
He stood with his back to them, facing the gate. This was the moment. He could turn, tell them to get lost, and disappear behind his wall. But he knew it wouldn't work. It would just be a challenge. An invitation to Baji to kick the door down, an amusement for Kazutora.
He thought of his father. He thought of the Boitatá. When you are in hell, it is better to embrace the devil than to cry for an impossible heaven. You bring the threat into your space. Where you know the terrain. Where you set the rules.
Gui turned around slowly. His face was a placid mask. He looked at Baji’s impatient energy, at Chifuyu’s nervous loyalty, at Kazutora’s predatory calm.
“Do you want to come in for coffee?” he asked. The words were flat, devoid of any real warmth. An offering, not an invitation.
Baji’s jaw dropped. Chifuyu blinked, stunned. Kazutora’s smirk widened. He looked genuinely surprised, intrigued.
“You can meet Dominic,” Gui added, as if it were an afterthought.
“Who’s Dominic?” Baji asked, his suspicion immediately piqued.
“My cat.”
The change in Baji was instantaneous. His entire body relaxed, the aggressive posture dissolving. “You have a cat? Here? Why didn’t you say so?”
Gui turned and slid the gate open, the wood groaning softly. He led them down the short stone path to the front door, slipping off his platforms in the entryway. The inside of the house was cool and smelled of green tea and tatami. It was minimalist, clean, an oasis of order.
As he was setting his bag down, a flash of black and white fur came tearing out of a back room. A small, lanky one-year-old cat with enormous ears skidded to a halt on the wooden floor, regarded the three newcomers with wide, curious eyes, and then bounded straight for Gui’s legs, purring like a tiny chainsaw.
Gui reached down and scooped the kitten up with one massive hand, cradling him against his chest. “This is Dominic.”
Baji was already on his knees, his face transformed with that same soft reverence he’d shown Peke J. Chifuyu let out a small, relieved sigh. Even Kazutora’s smirk softened into something closer to a genuine smile as he watched the scene.
They were in his home. His sanctuary was breached. But as he looked at the three of them, disarmed by a ten-pound kitten, Gui felt a strange, unfamiliar shift. He hadn't lost his sanctuary. He had just changed its definition.