?As they exited the vehicle, the thick mugginess of the night enveloped Keinji like a damp, familiar embrace. He decided, however, to play along. He adjusted his tired posture, cleared his jet-lagged expression, and made way for the master of ceremonies inhabiting his inner self. As soon as he crossed the glass door and the deafening chorus of "Surpresa!" echoed through the hall, he brought his hands to his chest dramatically. His eyes widened in a purposely low-budget performance, worthy of a hack extra in a Mexican soap opera.
?— My God! — he exclaimed, his voice rising an octave above its normal tone. — A party? For me? But Marcos guaranteed me, under solemn oath, that we would spend the dawn reading logistics spreadsheets! I could never have imagined such an ambush!
?The organizing team exploded in laughter. Marcos threw his hands up, laughing at his own defeat while trying to hide behind a speaker.
?— I had no choice, guys! — Marcos defended himself, faking a comic cry. — Keinji predicted my every move since the highway. The guy is a human radar! I give up trying to fool this japonês-brasileiro!
?The environment was saturated with the Brazilian energy Keinji had missed so much: the sound of a rhythmic pagode, the clinking of beer bottles, and the unmistakable aroma of calabresa and frango com catupiry pizza. Each hug and each "bem-vindo de volta" helped dissipate the residual chill of the nightmare he had on the plane. That resilient and playful way came directly from his father, Vitor. Even living for decades in Japan, Vitor never allowed the solar spirit of the clan to be stifled by Nipponic rigidity.
?After about three hours, Iara approached Keinji. She was the soul of that organization: intelligent, with an attentive gaze. She had been observing him for some time, noticing the way he gestured—a mesmerizing blend of Japanese precision with the malandragem of the Brazilian body.
?— Keinji, we were commenting here in the corner... — Iara began. — You are a fascinating mystery. You have this perfect accent, you know the slang, but you spent the last seven years in Tokyo. How do you have all this manha? What is the secret of your connection to this soil?
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?Keinji gave a lopsided smile, watching the bubbles rising in his beer.
?— Well... maybe you’ll be surprised by the bureaucracy of my blood — he began, his voice growing deeper. — The truth is that I was born here, Brazilian by certificate. My parents moved to Japan when I was only two because they sought a "structured future." I grew up in Tokyo, but Portuguese never died at home; my father insisted that Brazil be our official language within four walls.
?Keinji paused, his gaze growing more distant.
?— I finished high school early in Japan, at 17. That’s when my father decided I needed a "shock of reality." He sent me alone back to Brazil with an absolute order: "Go enlist." He said I couldn't forget where my roots came from, that the comfort of Tokyo was making me soft.
?An incredulous silence fell over the table.
?— Wait a minute... — Marcos interrupted. — You served in the Army? Here? Like, in uniform and a rifle on your shoulder?
?— I served — Keinji replied. — I spent a year in the barracks, from 18 to 19. That’s where my childhood Portuguese transformed into this português de rua. I earned the frame I have today eating dust and marching under the sun. Less than a year after I was discharged, the stadium attack happened.
?Marcos tried his usual comic relief:
?— Oh, admit it! The army only served to teach you how to scythe grass and polish boots, right? Pure wasted time!
?Keinji laughed, but his eyes remained sober.
?— It was a suffering time, Marcos. But I owe my life to that barracks. If I didn't have the conditioning and the emotional control the army forced me to have, I wouldn't have survived that shockwave in Tokyo. My body would have simply given up. Thanks to the training, I could stand up among the rubble and walk with lungs full of smoke to hear my brother’s last words. The army gave me the stamina not to die beside them.
?The revelation hung in the air, charged with deep respect. Everyone understood that, behind the humor, there was a man trained to survive the unbearable.
?It was past midnight when they left. Only Keinji and Marcos remained.
?— I noticed you and Iara — Marcos said, elbowing his friend. — If I were you, I wouldn't waste time.
?— I’ll try, Marcos. Her name, "Lady of the Waters" in Tupi, is strong. It suits her.
?They reached the sidewalk. The street was deserted.
?— Man, I really need to use the bathroom — Keinji said.
?— Relax — Marcos pointed to a kiosk in the square across the street. — Go there quickly and I’ll wait for you in the car.
?Keinji entered the cold-tiled stall. The silence of the night was suddenly torn by the aggressive roar of a motorcycle. The RPMs rose violently, followed by a sudden braking right next to Marcos’s car. Through the dirty cracks of the window, Keinji froze. His heart gave a painful leap upon hearing the harsh screams:
?— PERDEU! PERDEU! GIVE ME THE PHONE AND THE KEYS NOW! DON'T LOOK AT MY FACE, DAMN IT! GO, GO, OR I'LL BLAST YOU!
?Keinji’s blood ran cold. The survival instinct tattooed by the army began to pulse in his temples, preparing his body for what would come next.