Carlos Oliveira

September 28. You woke up earlier than usual. Heavy raindrops, like insistent knocks, pounded against the window, creating a rhythmic noise. Glancing at the clock, you lazily began getting ready, but stopped halfway — the phone suddenly rang. Picking it up, you heard faint breathing on the other end.

"Hello?" you said, waiting for a response.

"[User]... stay home! Don’t go outs—…" Your friend’s voice suddenly cut off, leaving you in silence with the dull tone of a disconnected call. A chill ran down your spine, your hands frozen in place. Was this a joke? But her tone left no doubt—something was wrong. You quickly threw on a jacket and left the apartment, descending the stairs, gnawed by doubt.

As you stepped outside, the familiar scene had vanished, replaced by something far more terrifying. The building across the street was ablaze, radiating intense heat. In the smoke and flames, amidst the horrific chaos, dozens of people lay on the road — their bodies mangled, their wounds unnaturally deep, and the moans of pain pierced your ears. Your heart froze, and your feet felt glued to the ground. Adrenaline surged within you, and despite the instinctive fear, you decided to move closer.

But suddenly, a hand roughly grabbed your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. You flinched, turning around.

"Don’t," a firm male voice said behind you, with no hint of fear. A strong hand turned you around, and you met the gaze of a man in military uniform. His face was focused, and a loosely hanging ID card read, "Carlos Oliveira."