There are some Brazilian terms in the story (they'll appear only in this chapter). I'll leave the transtion for those terms below.

  M?e = Mom

  Mam?e = Mom

  Vai, meu filho = Go, my son

  Batalh?o de Opera??es Policiais Especiais = Special Police Operations Battalion

  ***

  I freed my head of thoughts and let instincts take over. My lungs constricted. A puff of breath was released into the biting December air. All around me were spectators, chanting, roaring, and waving fgs. My cleats stabbed into the grass, the football rolling in front of me.

  A French defender unched into a slide, the studs under his boots ready to cim the ball, or break my ankles, whichever allowed his team to win. And while it'd probably cost him only a red card, it would no doubt end my career.

  I breathed in, jumped over his feet, bringing the ball with me, and breathed out. The crowd burst into a deafening cheer, like a yellow-blue wave that called out my name, glorifying its eight letters into the high sky.

  'Campinho!' 'Campinho!' 'Campinho!'

  Behind me, pyers hastened to catch up, both from my and the opposite team. Except that my speed and momentum had created a chasm between us. The hot rush of adrenaline pumped me with power.

  Only two left. Three, including the goalkeeper.

  I was confident. I had done this before. Hours upon hours of drills, even te into the night, perfecting my touch, my craft. This was my life. Sweat. Grass. And this ball. It defined my existence, my name.

  Knowing that it was a foolish endeavor to steal the ball from me in a 1v1, both defenders came at me like enraged bulls. They pressed me, pushing me to retreat or to pass it to someone else.

  But I was alone, and I certainly was not intimidated.

  So I did what I did best. I dribbled them.

  I feinted to the left, one of the defenders copying me to lock me in pce, so I immediately took to the right. It was such a seamless and fast transition that it almost tripped him to the ground.

  The st defender couldn't wait anymore and made the mistake of closing in on me, entering my personal space—my domain.

  I nutmegged him, brushing past his shoulder to recim the ball that had rolled right between his open legs, and sprinted faster. I didn't need to gnce at the giant clock of the stadium. I internally knew that there was not much time left.

  We were deep into the second half of the game. The score? 2 – 2.

  The French goalkeeper met me halfway in the penalty spot. His gaze was locked on me, like an eagle about to plunge and devour its prey. He was crouched, arms wide open.

  He suddenly plunged for the ball, hands stretched out.

  I tapped the ball, passing it to my left foot, and left the goalkeeper to taste the grass.

  The goalpost was empty. A beautiful sight.

  The sight of a goal.

  I stomped my left foot forward, and then loaded my right one. There was no need to overdo it. A gentle tap of the boot would see the ball socketed into the net.

  Hmm?

  I looked down, only to find that I was… still running?

  A pain nced through my heart, and I couldn't catch the gasp that tumbled out of my lips. My knees couldn't hold me up anymore, and, all of a sudden, the perfect control I had over my feet failed me.

  It was not unusual to fall down when pying. Between tackles, constant body contact with defenders, and failed pys, done at a high speed, no less—it was hard even for me to stand my ground without tumbling down the ground like an uncoordinated fool.

  But this… was different.

  The pain sharpened, seemingly cutting at my soul. I heaved, my breath rattling, struggling to swallow the oxygen. The ball was next to my face, and even with the blinding floodlights that bathed the stadium, I could vividly make out every detail of this monochrome leather sphere.

  The chanting faded, and chaos seemed to have broken out.

  What was going on?

  The goalkeeper came running at me. 'Fuck… I have… to… score…'

  Brazil was so close to lifting the World Cup trophy for the sixth time.

  Contrary to my expectations, the French goalie didn't cim the ball to resume the game. He fell on his knees next to me, mumbling something in a mix of broken English and French. There was concern in his voice, that much I could tell.

  I couldn't even see his face, the floodlights behind him eclipsed his visage, like the moon in front of the sun.

  The twinges continued unbidden, sending burning, throbbing bullets of pure agony through my heart. I thrashed, curling up, hands clutching at my chest, as if to seize the pain in my palms.

  I looked up, sweat pouring down my eyes.

  I was surrounded by a wall of yellow and blue. A French striker touched my shoulder, not knowing what to do. He tried to lift me up, while one of my teammates pried my mouth open, reaching for the tongue or any other obstruction that prevented me from breathing correctly.

  A vain attempt. The problem y elsewhere.

  A voice spoke over the others, calling for a medical team.

  Then the referee got involved, and the noise from the crowd only got louder and louder.

  I couldn't see their faces.

  I couldn't hear their voices.

  With each beat, my heart contracted, the pause between them lengthening.

  One beat.

  …

  Two beats. I was shaken left and right, lifted up, and then carefully pced on a stretcher.

  …

  …

  Three beats.

  My arm fell over the edge of the stretcher, fingers grazing the grass as I was carried inside an ambunce van. Darkness crept into the corners of my vision. The gradual loss of it was frightening. It was not a sudden plunge into the darkness, instead, it was as if I was being eased inside it.

  The pain faded, ringing in my nerves like a distant echo.

  All that was left was an odd sense of fear and comfort, a dichotomy that lulled me into a deep sleep.

  My heart struggled to pump one more beat, one more second of being alive.

  And then—

  ‘Desculpe, m?e.’

  xXx

  Dreams are hard to come by in the faves. M?e said that the very first sound I heard when I was born was that of a bullet—my sister died that day, as if to compensate for the new life that came into being. I never knew her, or my brother, who never really made it into this world, or my father, who left when things got too hard.

  I grew up in poverty and misery, barely a few clothes to my name, and a tattered, leather ball, which I had stolen from one of the kids in the neighborhood. Sorry, Jo?o. I wish I could have paid him back, but he died a few years before I moved to S?o Paulo.

  We lived in a small, makeshift house, pieced together with cardboard, scrap metal, and wood; the rain always found its way in. M?e worked two jobs. She was the strongest woman I knew.

  Jairzinho, you’ll be a great football pyer.

  You’ll make Mam?e proud.

  I didn’t put a lot of weight into her words; I was little, but it made her happy watching me py, and I loved it, so every day I would take that worn-out ball with me and dribble through the narrow alleys, from the Square of Unity to the fish market downhill. From uneven terrains to steeps uphill—but not the Morro dos Esquecidos.

  That was Rafael Costa’s territory.

  With such a grand introduction to my early years of life, you’d think this would be the point where I joined a third-tier football team and moved onto a path of greatness and fame. That’s still a few years away, unfortunately.

  It was when I was 18, about to join Goiás Esporte Clube, a promising step for someone like me. They weren't the giants like Fmengo or Palmeiras, but they had a solid reputation and a history of nurturing raw talent. I remember the day I got the call vividly. The scout had seen me py in a local tournament, weaving through defenders with an ease that made it seem like they were standing still. He was impressed, and I was ecstatic.

  Moving to Goiás meant leaving behind everything I knew—the narrow alleys, the makeshift house, and most importantly, M?e. But it was also a chance to escape the cycle of poverty and give M?e the life she deserved. She was thrilled, of course, her eyes lighting up with a mix of pride and tears.

  "Vai, meu filho. Make your dreams come true.” She said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'll be fine here. Just focus on your football."

  But life has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect it. Just two days before my departure…

  M?e was killed.

  She was coming back home when a botched drug transaction nded her between two gangsters with automatic weapons. She had gone out to buy a small cake with some of our hard-earned savings, shattering the piggy bank—to celebrate.

  And that was it.

  She was shot, along with three civilians that happened to be present at the crossfire. When police showed up, there wasn’t much left of the bodies, riddled with lead and shattered pieces of bones.

  Rafael Costa’s men did it.

  Rafael-fucking-Costa.

  Now, I ask myself...

  Where was justice when she needed it the most? Where were the police when I had to bury her coffin six feet under a cold, stone grave? I suppose, at the time, the answer was a simple one. No money means no power. Corrupt officers didn't care for some poor favedan, sughtered like an animal. To them, that incident would be passed as a gang dispute… and forgotten.

  But I wouldn't forget.

  It was then that I made one of the most reckless choices of my life, a completely different path. No ball in my feet, but a gun in my hand. I would find Rafel Costa, that fucking son of a bitch.

  BOPE.

  Batalh?o de Opera??es Policiais Especiais. A special police unit that was created with the sole purpose of dealing with counter-terrorism and high-risk operations, everything that the normal police couldn’t deal with.

  I was not afraid to throw my life down the drain, driven by vengeance. I needed money, connections, training. Things I could get by joining the military. I needed to find closure, even if it was by spilling more blood. I couldn't let that bastard get away with M?e's death. Not when the streets knew his name.

  Don't misunderstand me. This was not what M?e wanted. But dreams are hard to come by in the faves. I could no longer concentrate on football. I’d take matters into my hands, whatever the cost.

  There’d be no debts left by the time I was done.

  Faves bred a harsh environment—it's dog eats dog. Join a gang, be your own man. Die young, the gun finds everyone.

  I've seen it happen day after day. Dead bodies lining the narrow alleys.

  To have faith here is to be an idiot. You couldn’t be weak. Had to keep your head low, be smart, and know which crowd to avoid.

  M?e didn’t deserve this end. So I promised myself that I’d find him, this Rafael Costa.

  BOPE wanted people like me in their ranks, idiots that took up on guns not for the country, but for themselves.

  I went through all sorts of training and boot-camp experience. Urban warfare was taught through many grueling and horrific scenarios designed to break a soldier. I was spat on and beaten daily, but never compined—instead, I used that as fuel to succeed where so many others failed. It wasn’t long until BOPE had made a soldier out of me.

  Even with the vicious training of my new branch, the dream of pying football did not die inside me. The life I could have lived was ripped from me before I had the time to grab it.

  Rafael Costa.

  We were onto him.

  It took two years.

  Two excruciating years until I found a trail, and then a face.

  I had waited a long time, honing my skills while doing small raids on the faves, cleaning up trash, piling up bodies upon bodies, painting my boots with blood of people who made no difference. Drug cartels, drug dealers, drug shuttles, thieves and murderers, and any poor kid that made the mistake of pointing a gun at me.

  We went after Rafael Costa and raided his hideouts across Rio de Janeiro. A drug war that shook the streets of Rio, ending Rafael Costa for good. We tracked him across the city, hitting every cartel under him in a calcuted pincer movement to ensure he had no way out—except the grave. It was not going to be pretty, that was a given. But that’s what I wanted.

  A few bloodbaths ter, we had that bastard cornered in one of his houses in his territory. He had been trembling, knowing we were coming for him. BOPE had established itself as a cutthroat unit, with highly trained soldiers that knew not the meaning of mercy.

  And finally…

  I got my prize. I put a bullet through Rafael’s chest myself, looking down on him, and pouring the gasoline on his body. He was still alive, wheezing, never to know that a woman's death could cost him all of that.

  Did it feel good?

  Oh God, fucking yes.

  Was it justice?

  Who knows. I wasn't doing it for justice. I would have wanted him to die slower. I would have wanted him to beg. I wanted him to know why he was dying and to understand exactly why he was burning in such horrible agony.

  This was about a debt long overdue. I no longer had tears to shed.

  I'd have liked to say it was justice, just to ease M?e's conscience.

  BOPE wanted to promote me, which was certainly an attractive offer. However, this… had already taken its toll on me. I couldn’t keep taking lives. Rafael Costa wouldn’t have been the only gang I would have gone after. More drug lords would pop up, and blood would flow through Rio de Janeiro in droves.

  To use myself for this was… wrong.

  I just had to quit—even at the cost of betraying an institution that took a shit head like me and turned me into one of their finest operatives. I did not intend to wallow inside BOPE forever, anyway; I had one job and executed it to perfection.

  It was time for me to chase after other dreams.

  And so I did.

  At long st, I wished to honor Mae’s wish.

  My squadmates supported me.

  "Take your skills and py the sport you love.” They'd say.

  That's when the head coach of Goiás approached me again with an offer to py in his team. While I was two years te, he said that if I could shine like I did back then, the wait was well worth it.

  At long st, I finally left my old life behind.

  This time, I’d bring smiles instead of carving them.

  Dreams are hard to come by in the faves. When snow rolls down from a graying sky. When a pair of leather boots leave marks on an unkind soil. I'd py football instead of shooting someone down.

  'I'll make you proud, Mam?e.'

  xXx

  That was Jair Campinho. World-renowned football pyer; proud member of the BOPE; son of Rosa Campinho.

  At least, that was what I believed to be true until the day my eyes burst open.

  Confusion, pain, and shock—they struck at me like a poisoned arrow. It hurt. A groan bled past my dry throat, eyes wide open to an unknown white ceiling. A gre bounced off of a bright fluorescent light and found my dited pupils, eliciting a second pang of pain.

  It was loud, voices all around me, yelling in worry, or something close to it—except that I couldn't understand.

  Someone took my palm, or should I call it a child's small fist, in her hand—a gentle hand with cold fingers—and squeezed.

  What were they saying?

  Why did this pain echo into my mind? Why did my body ache all over? And how had I come here? Was it another terrorist attack? Another operation, in which I took a hit to the head and was brought back to the hospital for rehabilitation?

  No—I was...

  I was pying.

  I couldn't understand.

  'Did I score? Did we win…?'

  Something was inserted into my arms. In the corner of my blurred vision, I saw the outline of a syringe, then the hand with a cold hand caressed my head.

  Her words—they were weird; I didn't comprehend their meaning. It didn't seem like English, Portuguese, nor Spanish—if she could talk, then why could I not?

  Oh, the operation might have done some nerve damage to my tongue, and possibly left me mute.

  There was no need to despair; doctors can always fix it.

  At least—at the very least... Brazil won?

  Or was I in a… bad dream?

  Mam?e, my body hurts, and I'm all alone.

  Why did your warmth leave me so early?

  Mam?e, what must I do from now on?

  Everything felt so weird, so disconnected.

  A woman approached. She was incredibly big and blurry. Those damn lights!

  Her arms filled my field of vision before I felt myself being lifted up with uncanny ease. Her face became clearer as she brought me closer. “Shhh.” There was a gentle sparkle in her purple eyes. Purple? “Mama’s here… there’s no need to be scared, my sweet, beautiful child. My sweet Cha Jae-il.”

  Nneeil