While the woman seemed intent on plunging the knife into Michel — who defended himself as best he could — Cauã grabbed a piece of old pipe lying on the floor. He didn't usually react violently to the living, but he could not allow a murder to happen before his eyes. At the right moment, he seized a break in her attack and struck her forcefully on the back.
She let out a piercing scream. Her thin body collapsed forward, and the knife slipped from her hand.
Cauã dropped the pipe and lunged at her, pulling her arms firmly behind her back, pinning her to the floor with his knee. He used strength with precision—not excessive, but just enough.
— You don't understand… he has to die… he has to die… — the woman repeated, thrashing beneath his hold, but her skeletal frame stood no chance against the doctor's control.
Her rasping, repetitive voice became unbearable. The tone, the spiritual vibration in the air… it was too overwhelming. Cauã closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself, grounding in the present. He only "returned" when he felt Michel approach, a length of wire in hand, binding the woman's wrists tightly—more than necessary, but born of pure fear.
Cauã let him finish and, stepping back, brought a hand to his face, breathing heavily.
— Are you okay? — Michel asked, concerned, as the woman snapped at him like an enraged animal.
— Too many sounds... that's all. — he replied, stepping away and glancing around. They needed to leave.
— We have to call the police. — Michel said aloud.
— But what about the papers? The ghost? — Michel insisted, urgency in his eyes.
— You just survived an attempted murder. For some reason, this woman wanted you dead. The police need to take note. — Cauã's voice was firm but laced with concern. — After that... we can come back, if possible.
They couldn't risk it. What if she wasn't alone? What if others were involved? The night had already gone too far.
Within minutes, two police cars pulled up. Given Michel's position, the officers were more helpful and efficient than usual. Cauã stayed apart, distancing himself from the commotion. He still felt the vibrations pulsing in his head. Leaning against the wall with eyes closed, he put on headphones — soft music filled his senses, muffling the external noise and steadying his mind.
He let Michel handle the paperwork. He knew he would eventually have to go with him, but he needed a moment for himself.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes slowly. Curiously, the touch didn't unsettle him. On the contrary, it felt comforting—though he couldn't say why. He didn't like being touched without permission. This felt… singular.
— We need to go to the station. São Brás. — Michel spoke softly. — But don't worry, I've got everything under control. You'll just have to give your statement at the end.
He had managed to get the police to overlook the fact that they were in a broken-in building. Michel's reputation was enough to redirect attention to the attempted murder itself.
Cauã followed the motorcycle ride to São Brás. The town felt hushed under the cloak of dawn. The dark visor of his helmet shielded him from flickering headlights and streetlights. The weight of the night slowly eased — bit by bit, he could breathe more freely.
By the time they reached the station, he felt nearly whole again.
— It looks like her name's in the system: Sarah Vieira Costa. — The detective slid a file across the desk toward them. — She's been missing for about three months. No criminal record. Only a missing-person report. Did either of you know her?
— No. I've never seen her before. — Michel replied, phone in hand. — I even searched old case files. It's common for relatives to threaten us over court decisions, but I've never had anyone with that name as a client.
— Strange... — Detective Ítalo Silveira murmured. He was roughly fifty, broad-shouldered, with piercing eyes, white beard, and dark-gray hair. His presence demanded respect — one could imagine his formidable reputation in better days.
— We'll open an investigation into her background. Between your statements, she'll likely be held under preventive detention. She was caught in the act, after all.
"I bet if she were from an influential family, she'd be free by now. But since she's not..." — Cauã thought bitterly. He was familiar with how justice skewed in practice. But at least now she'd be taken seriously.
He couldn't ignore one connection, though:
The fire in the north wing of Santa Casa.
The same ward where the woman's spirit had wailed for her lost child.
The same day Sarah went missing.
Coincidence? Maybe not. The key to understanding everything might lie there — not just in what Sarah did, but in what happened to her.
Perhaps it wasn't just a soul seeking justice.
— What are you going to do? — Michel asked beside the vehicles.
— Rest. I've got a shift at the hospital tomorrow. — Cauã yawned, exhausted. Dawn had broken — would he rest at all?
— Want to crash at my place? I can drive you to work tomorrow. You can leave your bike in my parking spot. — Michel tried to sound casual, but really, he wanted more time with Cauã. He didn't know when they'd get another chance.
Thinking practically, his shift was at Barros Barreto. It might even be easier to leave from Doca. Cauã nodded, got on the bike, and followed the familiar route to Michel's apartment.
Inside, the scene repeated itself: once again, without spare clothes. He had to accept something borrowed from Michel. The lawyer seemed genuinely pleased by it — Cauã noticed, although he didn't fully understand why. He would hate anyone touching his things or wearing his clothes… Maybe Michel was just generous? Or enjoyed sharing? Hard to tell.
So he accepted a fresh pair of pajamas and a blanket. The large sofa seemed just like a bed — he had no trouble settling in.
— Thanks for saving me today… again. This is becoming a habit. — Michel said with a smile as he watched him nestle in.
— I just did what was necessary. Couldn't let you die. — Cauã replied naturally, nearly asleep already.
Michel hesitated for a moment before teasing:
— Don't you want to sleep in my bed?
— Ah, I don't like sharing a bed… Too much for me. — Cauã replied with such simplicity and directness that he completely defanged any double meaning in the question. As if he'd truly considered it, not even batting an eyelash.
Michel smiled, enchanted. Cauã's mind was a labyrinth of its own logic — and he was intrigued by every corner.
The next day, after a proper breakfast, they headed straight to the hospital. Since Cauã always kept a spare set of clothes there, it wasn't an issue for him to shower and slip into a clean lab coat. Michel promised to keep him updated on the case — and he kept his word. He sent messages throughout the day, even while Cauã was on duty. Some of them, in fact, felt rather unnecessary.
"Lunch, served?" read one of the texts, accompanied by a photo of a carefully plated meal — salad, steak, and other sides Cauã couldn't quite identify.
He felt compelled to reply with a photo of his own packed lunch: fried fish, rice, and mashed potatoes. He wasn't entirely sure why, but Michel was delighted, saying they should have lunch together sometime.
— So, you're finally dating? You never check your phone during shifts, doctor — commented Yraci, his postgraduate intern. They'd been working together for about a year, and over time had developed a steady, respectful rapport.
— No… It's a partner? Actually, someone helping me with something — Cauã replied, uncertain of how to define the connection. He put the phone away and returned to the work before him.
Later that afternoon, Michel sent him a photo of Sarah taken before she vanished — and it was jarring. Her skeletal frame now bore little resemblance to the woman in the picture: once, she had a vibrant, healthy figure. Sarah had striking blue eyes — now dulled by some disturbing fanaticism — and naturally blonde hair, now darkened with grime and neglect. Her body, formerly full of life, clearly showed signs of severe malnutrition. Cauã was visibly shaken by the comparison.
"The family's been contacted. They don't know me, and they have no idea why Sarah would try to kill me. But her boyfriend, Claudiano, is missing too. Police will check their social media accounts and messages to see if anyone suspicious turns up."Michel's message arrived near the end of the day. He seemed increasingly invested in the case.
Cauã had the growing sense that they needed to return to Santa Casa as soon as possible. He was nearly certain that clues were waiting for them there. The police weren't likely to connect anything to the fire from three months ago — after all, why would they? But his instincts refused to let it go. Still, a lingering doubt gnawed at him: what if he was wrong? For now, all he had were matching dates… and Sarah, willing to kill Michel at any cost.
"She says killing me will stop something evil from awakening in this world... But she won't say more than that. Just keeps muttering in circles, never making sense."
The message came in at three in the morning. Michel was clearly still awake, perhaps working.
Cauã, meanwhile, was already on shift, working at the emergency care center in Sacramenta. He'd had to call a motorcycle taxi to get there — leaving his bike with Michel might not have been the wisest decision.
"I'll need to pick up my bike later," he messaged the lawyer, who replied immediately.
"No need. I'll come get you, take you home to grab some clothes, and then we'll head back to my place. From there, we can go to Santa Casa together. Sound good?"
Cauã instinctively thought about declining. It was the kind of invitation he usually turned down without a second thought. But… he had already considered doing a mild cleansing ritual at Michel's apartment. The spirits needed to stay away — and they couldn't keep chasing them off every time as if they were... living together.
He let out a quiet sigh. Deep down, he just wanted his own bed — even if it wasn't as comfortable as Michel's couch.
"All right."That was all he wrote.
Michel sent back a happy face emoji. Cauã, despite himself, allowed a faint smile to form.
He got into the car, fastened his seatbelt, and let out a tired sigh. The shift had been long. All he wanted was sleep — real rest. But he knew there was still work ahead. He'd sleep through the rest of the day, and then, later, they'd return together — for the third time — to Santa Casa.
— Being a doctor is hard. Now imagine adding the supernatural into the mix. — Michel said, starting the car with a half-smile.
— Yeah. — Cauã replied, leaning his head back against the seat. — But... I don't know how to live any other way. I read a lot about both... It's what keeps my mind steady, keeps me balanced.
Michel glanced at him briefly, listening to the tone behind the words.
— What if you made a little room... for a few meals together?
He said it lightly, just because he'd noticed something subtle — Cauã's eyes always sharpened whenever the subject was food. And this time, they lit up. A perfect hit.
— Food? — Cauã raised an eyebrow, thoughtful. — I could... make an exception. If it's really worth it.
— You must've noticed the places I go always offer something new. Something spectacular. — Michel couldn't resist the playful tone — he'd taken the bait. — But tell me: what kind of food do you like?
— Hm... traditional dishes, mostly. But I also enjoy food from other states. I prefer Brazilian cuisine. — he said, almost with enthusiasm. His exhaustion seemed to fade a little.
Michel smiled, clearly pleased.
— Perfect. I already have a few interesting ideas that'll make you happy.
He could even cook, reveal a few talents — but that could wait. For now, he knew exactly how to start carving a path into that reserved heart.
The neighborhood of Cidade Nova in Ananindeua was full of contrasts. An urban, bustling area, with wide streets that blended old and new — low-income housing developments side by side with modestly renovated homes, schools, churches, small corner shops, and a steady flow of people, especially in the mornings.
The street where Cauã lived was quieter, lined with worn-out concrete sidewalks and sparse trees that cast soft shadows over sun-cracked asphalt. The house sat midway down the block, a single-story construction with low walls and a light-colored exterior already fading from the rain and Amazonian heat.
From the outside, it drew no attention — a plain façade, a gray aluminum gate, a window with a protective grill, and a rolled-up hammock hanging in the porch. But inside, the house was unexpectedly welcoming. The furniture was modest but well-kept, and there was always a light scent of arruda or breu-branco in the air, as if the house was regularly cleansed. The hammock in the living room was always out, and atop a low shelf sat stacks of books, stored candles, a clay vessel, and small objects of Indigenous origin — memories of family and Cauã's ancestry.
His bedroom was small but practical. A wooden bed pressed against the wall, a window that opened onto the back of the house where a few plants fought against the heat. And even in its simplicity, the space carried a constant sense of protection — as if it were a spiritual refuge. Nothing fancy, but everything was exactly where it was meant to be.
It was the home of someone who lived with little, but carried much — inside himself.
Minguado was, in every way, an Amazonian cat. Lean, quick, and short-haired, with the color of roasted jambo fruit, dotted with white markings on his paws and snout, as if he'd dipped his face in porridge — hence the name. His eyes were green, vivid, always alert, skeptical of strangers but fiercely loyal to Cauã.
Adopted as a kitten after showing up in the yard of their old house, Minguado had grown up surrounded by the scent of herbs, incense, ritual baths, and presences that most other cats might have avoided. He wasn't afraid of shadows or prayers. On the contrary — on many nights, he'd curl up next to Cauã during smoke cleansings, meowing softly when something too invisible tried to draw near.
He possessed a quiet intelligence. He knew when to vanish, when to hide, and most of all, when to curl up on his human's lap like a living talisman. Cauã often said Minguado could see more than he could — and sometimes, it was true. The cat would tuck himself into certain corners of the house as if standing watch, eyes half-closed, ears always alert.
Despite the name, he ate well — mostly kibble, but he'd get generous chunks of cooked fish whenever Cauã was feeling inspired. He had his own spot on the couch, where he left both fur and presence behind, and sometimes he'd be found sleeping inside the wardrobe, curled up on clean clothes. He was wary around guests, but never strayed far from Michel whenever the lawyer came over — something that made Cauã suspicious at first.
"If Minguado didn't find you strange... then maybe you're not so bad after all," he'd thought, watching the cat purr while Michel scratched behind his ears.
— This place definitely suits you. — Michel commented after exploring a bit.
Cauã had hesitated before letting him in. He didn't like having his space invaded — but around Michel, he felt an unexpected ease. Almost like with Minguado.
— Why here? I'm not criticizing your lifestyle, just... usually, doctors prefer living downtown. — Michel added, careful not to sound judgmental.
— First, because downtown noise bothers me. The lights, the constant movement... it's too much. I need quiet at night. So, more distant neighborhoods work better for me. — Cauã answered simply. — And because most of what I earn goes to my community and my family. I'm not attached to luxury or money.
Michel just smiled. He'd grown up with wealth, always surrounded by comfort and convenience. Naively, he used to think that anyone who rose above hardship would want status and financial security. But Cauã seemed different. And that difference intrigued — and drew him in.
Before leaving, with bags packed and everything ready in his backpack, Cauã made sure to feed Minguado and tidy up the cat's corner. Then he went into the kitchen.
Michel leaned casually against the kitchen doorway, watching as Cauã prepared a simple coffee — every movement steady and deliberate, almost like each action was a way to calm the air around them.
— That explains a lot. — he said gently. — You're like this place... Quiet, but alive. Still, but always watching.
Cauã didn't answer right away. He kept stirring the coffee with a small aluminum spoon until the sound of the liquid faded.
— It's not hard to understand. I just need to breathe. That alone is enough. — He glanced briefly at Michel, then looked away. — I like hearing the birds, the sound of rain on the roof. And Minguado, who vanishes when he wants, and shows up when he thinks I'm sad.
Michel smiled again. There was something disarming about that kind of honesty — unpolished, unperformed. Everything about Cauã seemed genuine, without the need for masks. A man of layers, yes — but not of disguises.
Right then, Minguado appeared like a small guardian spirit, leaping onto the windowsill and staring at them. After a moment of quiet observation, he settled atop the fridge, blinking slowly.
— He likes you. — Cauã commented, noticing the look in Michel's eyes.
— Yeah... I think that makes two of us. — Michel replied, almost under his breath.
Cauã frowned slightly, uncertain whether he'd heard or understood correctly. But he chose not to ask. He placed the mug in front of Michel and sat down across from him, his own drink warming his hands.
There, in the quiet — where the only sounds were the soft purring of Minguado and the wind rustling the leaves in the backyard — something began to take root. It wasn't quite friendship yet, and perhaps not love either. It was a rare kind of trust, quietly planting itself between them — and for Cauã, that was already more than enough.