RE: Keep it in the Family (Secret Class) 1 — One Last Breath

There are some Brazilian terms in the story (). I'll leave the translation for those terms below.

***

I cleared my mind completely, allowing instincts to guide me fully. My chest tightened sharply. A sharp exhale burst into the frigid December chill. Spectators encircled me everywhere, their chants thundering, roars echoing, flags fluttering wildly. My cleats dug deep into the turf as the football rolled right ahead.

A defender from France dove in with a fierce slide, his boot studs poised to snatch the ball or shatter my ankles—whatever secured victory for his side. Though it might earn him just a red card, it would surely destroy my career forever.

I drew in a breath, leaped over his legs while carrying the ball along, then exhaled. The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar, a surging wave of yellow and blue that chanted my name, elevating its eight letters toward the vast sky above.

Players from both teams rushed behind to close the gap. Yet my blazing speed and forward drive had forged a vast divide between us. Adrenaline surged hot through my veins, fueling me with raw strength.

Just two remained. Three, counting the keeper.

Confidence filled me. I had mastered this moment countless times. Endless hours of practice, even under the night sky, honing my skills to perfection. This defined my world. Sweat. Turf. And that ball. It shaped who I was, my very identity.

Realizing a direct steal in a one-on-one was futile, the defenders charged like furious bulls. They crowded me, forcing me back or toward a pass.

Yet I stood alone, utterly unafraid.

Thus, I executed my signature move. I dribbled right past them.

I faked left, one defender mirroring to trap me, so I exploded right instead. The shift was so fluid and swift it nearly sent him sprawling.

The final defender lost patience and erred by rushing into my space—my turf.

I nutmegged him cleanly, grazed his shoulder, retrieved the ball from between his legs, and accelerated away. No need to check the stadium's massive clock; I sensed the match was nearly over inside.

We were far into the second half. The score?

The French keeper advanced to meet me at the penalty spot. His eyes fixed on me like a hawk diving for its quarry. He crouched low, arms spread wide.

Suddenly, he lunged for the ball, fingers outstretched.

I nudged it to my left foot, leaving the keeper to eat turf.

The goal yawned open. A stunning view.

The promise of a score.

I planted my left foot, coiled my right. No need for power. A soft touch would nestle it home.

?

I glanced down, shocked to realize I was... still sprinting?

Agony pierced my heart, a gasp escaping my lips uncontrollably. My legs buckled beneath me, and suddenly, my flawless footwork deserted me.

Falling happens in the game. Tackles, relentless clashes with defenders, botched moves at top speed— even I struggled sometimes to stay upright without crashing like a clumsy novice.

But

The torment intensified, slicing into my very essence. I gasped raggedly, fighting for air. The ball lay beside my face, and despite the glaring stadium lights, every detail of its black-and-white leather stood out crystal clear.

The cheers dissolved into pandemonium.

What was happening?

The keeper dashed toward me. ''

Brazil stood on the brink of its sixth World Cup triumph.

Against my assumption, the French goalie didn't grab the ball to continue play. He dropped to his knees beside me, muttering in fractured English and French. Worry laced his tone clearly.

His face stayed hidden, backlit by the blinding floods like a solar eclipse.

The stabs persisted relentlessly, firing searing pulses of torment through my chest. I writhed, doubling over, clutching at the agony as if to crush it in my grip.

I peered upward, sweat stinging my eyes.

A barrier of yellow and blue enclosed me. A French forward patted my shoulder uncertainly. He tried hoisting me while a teammate forced my jaw open, checking for blockages hindering my breath.

Futile effort. The issue hid deeper.

One voice rose above the din, summoning medics.

Then the ref intervened, and the crowd's clamor swelled deafeningly.

Their faces blurred.

Their words faded.

Each heartbeat squeezed tighter, intervals stretching longer.

One beat. 

…

Two beats. Hands jostled me side to side, hoisted me, then laid me gently on a stretcher.

…

…

Three beats.

My arm dangled off the stretcher's side, fingertips brushing grass as they wheeled me into the ambulance. Shadows encroached on my sight's edges. The slow dimming terrified me—not a abrupt blackout, but a gentle slide into void.

The hurt ebbed, lingering like a faint nerve hum.

Only strange fear mingled with peace, soothing me into oblivion.

My heart fought for one final thump, one last breath of life.

And then—

‘.’

xXx

Dreams rarely survive the favelas. said the first sound at my birth was gunfire—my sister perished that day, balancing the new life entering. I never met her, nor my brother who never truly arrived, nor my father who fled when times turned brutal. 

I rose amid destitution and despair, with scant clothes and a ragged stolen leather ball from a local kid. Sorry, João. I longed to repay him, but he passed years before my São Paulo move. 

Our home was a ramshackle hut of cardboard, metal scraps, and planks; leaks plagued every rain. worked double shifts. She was the toughest woman alive. 

I shrugged off her advice as a kid, but seeing her joy at my play warmed me, so daily I'd grab that battered ball, weaving through tight alleys from Unity Square to the downhill market. Rough paths, steep climbs—but the Morro dos Esquecidos. 

Rafael Costa ruled there.

With this gritty start to my tale, one might expect joining a low-division club and launching toward stardom. Alas, glory waited years more.

At 18, Goiás Esporte Clube beckoned—a solid break for my background. No giants like Flamengo or Palmeiras, yet renowned for molding talents. I recall the scout's call sharply. He'd watched me dazzle in a local tourney, gliding past static defenders. He raved; I soared.

Heading to Goiás meant abandoning my world—the alleys, the shack, above all, . Yet it promised escape from poverty, the life she merited. Her eyes shone with proud tears.

" Make your dreams come true.” She said, voice quivering. "I'll be fine here. Just focus on your football."

But fate loves surprises. Two days pre-departure… 

was murdered.

Returning home, she caught a bungled drug deal's crossfire from armed thugs. She'd dipped into savings, breaking the piggy bank for a celebratory cake.

And just like that.

Gunfire claimed her and three bystanders. Police arrived to mangled remains, bullets and bone shards everywhere.

Rafael Costa’s crew struck. 

Rafael-fucking-Costa.

Now I wonder...

Where was justice in her darkest hour? Where police as I lowered her coffin into chill earth? Back then, the reply was clear: no cash, no clout. Crooked cops ignored a slain favela poor. To them, mere gang clash... dismissed. 

I refused oblivion. 

There, I chose my wildest gamble, a total detour. No ball underfoot, but pistol gripped. I'd hunt Rafael Costa, that cursed bastard. 

A special police force built for counter-terror and elite ops, beyond regular cops' reach. 

Revenge blinded me to ruin. I craved funds, links, skills—from the army. Closure demanded blood if needed. That scum wouldn't evade  death. Not with streets whispering his name.

Don't get me wrong. This wasn't  dream. But dreams elude favelas. Football lost focus. I'd handle it myself, cost be damned. 

No debts unpaid when finished. 

Favelas forge brutality—dog-eat-dog. Gang up or solo. Die young; bullets claim all.

I witnessed it endlessly. Corpses cluttering alleys. 

Faith here marks fools. Weakness kills. Stay low, sharp, dodge wrong crowds. 

didn’t merit this fate. So I vowed to track Rafael Costa. 

BOPE recruited hotheads like me, gun-grabbers for personal vendettas. 

I endured brutal drills and camps. Urban combat via hellish sims to shatter wills. Daily abuse and spits fueled me; I thrived where others broke. Soon, BOPE forged me into a warrior.

Despite savage training, football's fire endured. The dream life was stolen prematurely.

Rafael Costa.

We hunted him. 

Two years dragged.

Grueling years till a lead, then his mug.

I bided sharpening edges on favela sweeps, stacking kills—trash cleared, boots bloodied by cartel scum, dealers, runners, thieves, killers, any fool drawing on me.

We stormed Rafael Costa's dens across Rio. A drug blitz quaking streets, dooming him. We pinched his empires citywide, sealing escape save death. Ugly end assured. Precisely what I craved. 

After bloody melees, we pinned the rat in his stronghold. He quaked, sensing doom. BOPE's rep as merciless elites preceded us.

At last… 

Revenge mine. I drilled his chest, stared down, doused him in fuel. He gasped alive, ignorant a woman's end cost his empire.

Felt good? 

Hell yes.

Justice?

Who cares. Not for that. Slower death, pleas, full knowledge of his fiery doom—that's ideal.

This settled ancient score. Tears dried up.

I'd claim justice to soothe  ghost.

BOPE eyed promotion—tempting. But this path scarred deep. Endless killing? No. More bosses rise, rivers of blood.

Wasting myself thus... misguided.

Quit I did—betraying the force that honed my trash self into elite. Never planned lifelong BOPE; mission aced.

Time chased fresh dreams.

And chase I did.

Finally, fulfilling  wish. 

Squad backed me. 

 They'd say.

Then Goiás coach renewed the offer. Two years delayed, but my old sparkle promised worth. 

Finally, old shadows shed. 

This time, smiles spread, not carved. 

Dreams scarce in favelas. As snow drifts from leaden skies. As boots scar harsh earth. I'd kick balls, not souls.

''

xXx

That was Jair Campinho. Global football icon; BOPE veteran; Rosa Campinho’s son. 

Or so till my eyes snapped wide.

Disorientation, torment, jolt—they impaled like venom shafts. It burned. A rasp tore from parched throat, stare locked on alien white ceiling. Harsh fluorescents glared into wide pupils, stabbing anew. 

Noise everywhere, anxious shouts nearby—yet incomprehensible.

A hand claimed my tiny fist—soft, chilled fingers squeezing gently.

Their words?

Why the mental ache? Body throbbed everywhere? How here? Terror strike? Head wound op sending me to rehab?

No—I played.

Nothing registered.

''

Tubes pricked my arms. Blurry edge showed syringe silhouette, then cool hand stroked hair.

Her speech—alien; no English, Portuguese, Spanish grasp. If she spoke, why not me?

Surgery severed tongue nerves, muting me perhaps.

Fixable by docs.

Least... Brazil triumphed?

Or nightmare?

, body screams, solitude grips.

Why flee so soon?

, next steps?

All alien, fractured. 

A giant blurry woman neared. Cursed lights! 

Her arms engulfed view before effortless lift. Face sharpened close.  “.” Gentle gleam in violet eyes. Violet? “Mama’s here… there’s no need to be scared, my sweet, beautiful child. My sweet ”