The market was always loud.
It didn't matter the hour or the day: overlapping voices, laughter, arguments, the dull thud of wooden crates hitting the ground, the distant call of a vendor advertising ripe mangoes, and the constant smell of overripe fruit, raw meat, and hot oil. Colorful awnings hung crookedly, patched with tape or old ropes, and the midday sun beat down mercilessly on the narrow aisles, thickening the air until it felt heavy to breathe.
He walked between the stalls with his hands in his pockets.
He was twenty-three years old and lived in Cidade Tiradentes, one of the most forgotten areas of São Paulo. It wasn't a beautiful place. Nor a safe one. Nor a promising one. But it was discreet. And to him, that mattered more than anything else.
His life wasn't much. In fact, it was exactly how he wanted it: simple.
He had learned Portuguese with ease; it surprised him how quickly it came to him. At first, he remembered thinking it would be harder. Much harder. But it wasn't. Nothing was lately. His routine was monotonous, almost numbing: wake up early, work at the neighborhood supermarket, go home, attend classes, then sleep.
He stocked shelves, carried boxes, and helped customers. Nothing heroic. Nothing memorable.
Some neighbors knew him. They didn't talk to him much. They said he was strange, quiet, and distant. But they also said he was kind.
He always helped the elderly with their bags, stepped aside for pregnant women, and carried whatever was needed without asking for anything in return. He was young, strong, full of life… or at least that's how he looked. Most of the time, his face remained serious, almost dull, as if he were always tired of something others couldn't see.
Many wondered how someone like him could have a girlfriend.
Lívia was his opposite.
Extroverted, loud, always smiling. Beautiful, the way Brazilian women were said to be: a natural, vibrant beauty. She lived with him. They argued often. Too often. And yet, she always came back. Some whispered that she was beautiful, but desperate. Because Ikar never seemed to try to keep her.
The flow of the market absorbed him effortlessly.
Around him, people talked about the same thing as always: heroes.
"Did you hear the news?" a fruit vendor asked from her stall. "Brazil's heroes pulled off another feat."
He didn't answer right away. He looked at a pile of bruised oranges, one of them marked by a spot of white mold.
"They say it was near here," the woman continued. "A hero saved a little girl before a truck hit her. It all happened so fast, no one really saw him."
He picked up an apple and turned it between his fingers.
"It was probably Green Speedster," said the woman's coworker from behind the stand. "No one else moves like that."
Green Speedster.
Brazil's fastest hero.
He set the apple back down and walked on without saying a word.
The vendor clicked her tongue in annoyance as he left.
"That boy never changes," she told her coworker. "Like ice. Hard and cold."
Farther ahead, a group of children ran between the stalls. One of them bumped into him and nearly fell.
"Sorry, Ikar!" the boy said quickly. "I'll be more careful."
He gave a slight nod.
It was curious that, despite being so distant, everyone knew him. The neighborhood was small, closed in. No one went unnoticed.
The boy's mother hurried over, a baby in one arm and several bags hanging from the other.
"Sorry, Ikar, you know how kids are," she said, out of breath.
He noticed her trembling hands, the sweat on her forehead. Without a word, he took the bags.
"Where are you headed?" he asked.
The woman smiled, tired.
"You never change, Ikar. You're a good boy."
They walked together, leaving the market behind and entering uneven streets. Unpainted concrete houses, cables hanging like spiderwebs, windows protected by rusted bars.
Just before leaving the commercial area, he had noticed something: a pressure at the back of his neck, a gaze he couldn't place. Something wasn't right.
That old instinct returned without asking permission.
He slightly turned his head, trying to identify who might be following them. He saw nothing. No one stood out. No one seemed out of place.
"What are you looking at?" the woman asked.
"I thought I forgot to buy something," he replied quickly.
Maybe I haven't fully healed yet, he thought.
They walked a few more meters.
"And your girlfriend?" she asked curiously. "I haven't seen her in days."
He clenched his jaw.
"We argued this morning."
She didn't press further.
"She always says I should look for a better job," he continued, unprompted. "That we can't keep living here. That this place will fall apart any day now."
To him, the place was perfect. No one seemed to understand that.
The woman stayed silent. She thought Lívia wasn't entirely wrong. He was a young man with a future; he shouldn't waste it like this. But it wasn't her place to say so.
"And your studies?" she asked, changing the subject. "Still studying?"
For the first time in days, a smile slipped out. Barely there.
"Yes. I'm doing better," he said. "I forgot how easy studying could be."
She stopped for a second.
"Easy?"
Then she burst into exaggerated laughter.
"I've never seen you smile like that, kid. You should do it more often. Plenty of people around here would kill to see you smile."
He didn't know what to say.
"You're a good boy," she continued. "But full of secrets. You know you can count on everyone here. We don't have riches, but we help each other. We're family. And you're part of it."
His smile softened.
"Thank you."
The walk hadn't been as long as it seemed; before he realized it, they were at the entrance to the woman's house. It wasn't much—like most homes in the neighborhood, it looked worn down, consumed by the years.
"Here we are," she said. "Thank you for helping me."
She pulled out a few coins, but Ikar shook his head.
"It wasn't for money. It was my pleasure."
"Guys like you are hard to find these days. Maybe I should find someone like that for my kids and me," she joked lightly about being a single mother and how hard life was.
Ikar smiled faintly and turned away.
He took a few steps, then looked back. The street was empty. Too empty.
Since they left the market, he'd known it: someone was following him.
He quickened his pace.
This can't be happening.
For the first time in a long while, the familiar noise of his life stopped being comforting. The silence stretching behind him felt unbearably familiar.
As he approached his building, the uncomfortable sensation began to fade. It didn't disappear completely, but it lost weight, like a memory that refuses to leave. Without noticing, he slowed down, watching the balconies, the open windows, the cables crossing the facade like exposed veins.
Nothing out of place.
He climbed the stairs, and with each flight, the tension loosened a bit more. He told himself it had been his imagination. It wouldn't be the first time. He had learned to distrust even himself.
At the door, he adjusted the bags in one hand and turned the key.
"Lívia," he said as soon as he entered. "I'm back."
Silence.
He frowned.
"I bought what you asked for," he added, setting the bags on the table.
Nothing.
That was strange.
Lívia was never quiet. Either the TV was blaring at an absurd volume, music was playing from her phone, or she was talking for hours with a friend. The apartment was always full of noise, movement, and life.
He closed the door carefully.
He moved slowly, trying not to make a sound. The most comfortable idea was the first to come to mind: thieves. A poorly planned robbery. Something common. Something explainable.
He didn't want to think of anything else.
He grabbed a small ceramic figurine from the shelf—a cheap, heavy ornament—and advanced toward the kitchen. The floor creaked under his weight, and he froze.
Lívia was sitting in the dining chair. Her legs and arms were tightly bound to the wood. Her body is rigid. Her eyes were wide open. Gray tape covered her mouth, moving with every desperate attempt to speak.
She wasn't alone.
In front of her, leaning back in the other dining chair, was a man.
He sat with an almost offensive calm, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting casually. Tall. Dark-skinned. Dressed in simple, dark clothes, no insignias. He didn't look nervous. Or rushed. Rather… comfortable. As if he had been waiting.
His eyes lifted slightly when Ikar entered the kitchen.
He said nothing.
Ikar didn't think.
He dropped the ceramic figure and lunged at him in a direct motion, throwing his full weight forward. He didn't hesitate; the impulse was pure reflex.
He never touched him.
The man stood up with a short, precise turn. He caught Ikar's arm, twisted it inward, and in the same motion, pivoted his body. The force was exact. Controlled. The air left Ikar's lungs as his back hit the floor.
Before he could react, a firm hold trapped his neck and shoulder. The pain was contained, surgical. It wasn't meant to break him. Just immobilize him.
"You've gotten slower," the man said calmly. "A06… or do you prefer Ikar now?"
The name pierced him.
Ikar's body tensed, but his mind faltered for just a second. Long enough.
The pressure loosened.
The man straightened up and, without changing his expression, delivered a sharp blow to his temple.
Everything went black, and Ikar lost consciousness.