The room hummed with the faint rhythm of machines. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each sound reminded Luiz he was still alive — though he wasn't sure if that was mercy or punishment.
His ribs ached with every breath. Bruises stained his skin like ink spilled across paper. He tried to move, but the pain pulled him back down. Then came a sound.
A chair scraping the tiled floor. Luiz blinked through the haze. His father sat near the window — shoulders slumped, eyes shadowed, a cigarette trembling between his fingers.
The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling like a ghost too tired to haunt. For a moment, Luiz thought it was a dream. His father never stayed. Never waited. "You're awake," his father said quietly.
His voice carried that familiar weight — guilt dressed as calm. Luiz's throat burned. "How long?" "Two days." A pause. "They said you were lucky." "Lucky?" Luiz's lip twitched. "That's what we're calling it now?" His father's eyes flicked toward the door, then back to him.
There was something there — a warning, or maybe fear. "You shouldn't have fought back, Luiz. You know how she is." Luiz let out a weak, bitter laugh. "So I should've let her bury me quietly this time?" The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. "She's still your grandmother," his father said finally. "You have to understand… she's—" "Powerful?" Luiz cut in. "Respected? Untouchable? Yeah, I've heard that my whole life."
He leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes glassy. "What about you, father? When do you stop letting her treat you like a dog she never wanted?" The words hit harder than he intended. His father flinched. For a heartbeat, Luiz saw it — the crack in his mask.
The shame. The years of silence carved into his spine. "You think I don't know what she's done?" his father murmured, voice breaking. "You think I wanted this life for you?" "Then why don't you do something?" Luiz hissed. The older man stood abruptly, the cigarette crushed between his fingers. "Because this family doesn't forgive rebellion, Luiz. It destroys it."
He turned toward the window, shoulders trembling. "Don't make the same mistake I did." Before Luiz could answer, the door opened. Grandmother Valentine entered — dressed in black, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Her voice filled the room like cold smoke. "Good. You're awake." Luiz felt his pulse spike, every instinct screaming danger. His father stepped aside instantly — not out of loyalty, but survival. "Leave us," she said.
His father hesitated, looking at Luiz one last time — a silent apology — then slipped out. The door closed. And Grandmother Valentine smiled. It wasn't warmth. It was a blade. "Now," she whispered, her cane tapping once against the floor, "let's talk about atonement."