The world was flat, boring, and smelled of chalk dust. From his seat in the back row, Guilherme de Souza could map the entire classroom ecosystem. The timid herbivores clustered near the teacher’s desk. The chattering flock of girls by the window, preening in the slivers of morning sun. And the predators—or those who desperately wanted to be—lounging in the back, projecting an aura of bored menace. He, by virtue of his sheer size and the school’s decision to put the foreign problem child in the very last seat, was an unwilling apex predator.
The geography teacher droned on about prefectures. Lines on a map. Useless. Gui had walked paths in the Amazon that no map knew, felt the humidity of the real world clinging to his skin, tasted the iron in the soil. He knew the world through texture and scent, not a key of symbols in the corner of a laminated page. He hated geography. He’d rather be dissecting a frog. At least a frog had the decency to be honestly complex.
A fine film of sweat was gathering at his hairline, threatening the integrity of his carefully laid edges. The Japanese summer was a wet, oppressive beast. He tugged absently at the hem of his black pleated miniskirt, the fabric a stark contrast to the thick, scarred muscle of his thigh. His gaze drifted to his own legs, covered in white leg warmers pushed down to his ankles. The pattern of fiery, reddish jaguar spots tattooed up his calves disappeared into the fabric. He’d spent two hours this morning getting the bow on his thigh-length red hair just right. A perfect black-and-pink monstrosity. If he was going to be miserable, he was going to be impeccably dressed for it.
The bell shrieked, releasing the class. Gui moved last, unfolding himself from the too-small desk. He was a mountain range unfurling, his 197-centimeter frame and broad shoulders commanding a wide berth. He felt the familiar prickle of stares. They weren’t new. But here, they were different. In Brazil, they looked at him and saw a threat, a problem, a vice-captain of the Borboletas. Here, they looked at his lace-trimmed socks, his pink sweater tied around his waist over his white uniform blouse, his formidable silhouette poured into a modified girls’ uniform, and their brains just… short-circuited. Good. Confusion was a better shield than fear.
“Oi. You.”
The voice was rough, laced with a casual arrogance. Gui turned. Keisuke Baji stood there, all sharp angles and sharper teeth, a wild grin plastered on his face. He wasn't looking at Gui’s face, but at his chest.
“Your tits are bigger than most girls’ in this school. You work out?”
Behind him, a shorter boy with light hair and wide, earnest eyes looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Chifuyu Matsuno. He’d read him in an instant: the loyal second-in-command, the one who actually did the thinking.
Gui blinked slowly, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. He let the silence stretch, watching Baji’s grin falter for a microsecond. He had a theory that most loud people were powered by the expectation of a quick reply. Deny them that, and their batteries drained.
“They’re pectorals,” Gui said, his voice a low, flat baritone with a heavy accent. “And no. This is just what my body looks like.”
Before Baji could formulate a response to that, a third boy slid into his peripheral vision, leaning against the doorframe. Kazutora Hanemiya. The rumors about him were fresher, darker. The bell tattoo on his neck was a stark declaration. He had a chaotic energy, like a live wire sputtering in the rain.
Kazutora’s gaze roamed over Gui, from the bow in his hair down to his platform shoes, a slow, appreciative smirk spreading across his face. It was the kind of look a boy gives a girl he’s about to try a cheesy pickup line on.
“Wow. So the rumors were true,” Kazutora purred, his eyes twinkling. “They really did import a beautiful Brazilian princess. Don’t listen to Baji, he’s got no class. I think your… assets… are magnificent.”
Chifuyu winced. Baji looked confused, as if the concept of a compliment was a foreign language. Gui felt a familiar, hot spike of irritation in his chest. He wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t a princess. He was just a guy who liked skirts. Being treated like a fragile, beautiful thing was infinitely more insulting than Baji’s blunt curiosity.
He didn't say a word. He simply turned and walked away. He pushed past the lingering students in the hallway, his large body a silent battering ram. Their chatter died as he passed. He ignored the open doors of the other classrooms, the shouts from the courtyard. He took the stairs two at a time, heading for the one place he knew would be empty and quiet.
The roof door was unlocked, as always. The afternoon sun hit him full force, the heat baking the tar under his feet. A chain-link fence offered a grim view of the city. Finally. Solitude. He walked to the edge, set his bag down, and leaned against the fence, the metal digging into his forearms. The wind was a small mercy, teasing loose strands of his long red hair. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to find his center.
“Hey! Wait up!”
So much for solitude.
Baji clattered onto the roof, Chifuyu and Kazutora trailing behind him like mismatched pilot fish. Gui didn’t turn around. He just kept staring at the city.
“The hell’s your problem?” Baji demanded, coming to a stop beside him. “We were just talking to you.”
“I didn’t want to talk,” Gui said, not looking at him.
“Well, we wanna talk to you,” Kazutora chimed in, circling around to Gui’s other side. He leaned against the fence, mimicking Gui’s posture. “Heard you were some big shot from the Comando Vermelho. The Red Command. Sounds intense. Is that why your hair is red?”
Gui finally turned his head, fixing Kazutora with a flat stare through his light-prescription glasses. The world was a little blurry without them, but people were sharper. Easier to read. “That is a drug cartel from Rio de Janeiro. I am from Belém, in the north. It is four thousand kilometers away. Do you think all Japanese people are in the Yakuza?”
Kazutora had the grace to look momentarily thrown. Chifuyu coughed, hiding a laugh.
Baji, however, was oblivious. His attention had been completely captured by a small, scruffy calico cat that had just padded out from behind a water tank. His entire demeanor shifted. The aggressive posture melted away, replaced by something soft, almost reverent.
“Peke J,” he whispered, crouching down and snapping his fingers softly. The cat trotted over immediately, purring and rubbing against his outstretched hand.
Gui watched the scene, the irritation in his chest dissolving into something else. He knew that look. He knew that specific brand of peace that only came from the uncomplicated affection of a feline. On his own initiative, he crouched down too, his large frame folding with a surprising grace. He didn’t reach for the cat. He just watched, his resting expression of boredom softening into neutral observation.
The cat, having received its fill of scratches from Baji, turned its attention to the new, giant human. It sniffed his hand cautiously, then bumped its head against his knuckles. A low, rumbling purr started up.
Baji looked up, a genuine, unguarded smile on his face. The fangs were still there, but they seemed less threatening now. “He likes you.”
“I like him,” Gui replied, his voice quiet. He gently stroked the cat’s back, his large, calloused fingers surprisingly delicate. “I have seven back home.”
For a moment, there was no delinquent, no exchange student, no rumors. Just two boys and a cat on a hot school roof. Chifuyu watched them with a small smile. Kazutora watched Gui, his head cocked, his expression unreadable. The unspoken questions about gangs and violence hung in the air, temporarily displaced by a shared, simple joy.
The moment felt fragile, a bubble of quiet in the loud, confusing new world. Gui found he didn’t want it to pop. He had come up here seeking solitude, but this… this was better.