?Joy was everywhere, surging in waves of green and yellow that bled into the vibrant "Rising Sun" red of the flags draped across Greater Tokyo Stadium. It was the 2002 World Cup final, an event that had brought the planet to a standstill. The air was electric, thick with the blare of air horns and the scent of damp turf. Back then, Keinji was only twenty, with his whole life ahead of him and the intoxicating rush of being at the very center of the world.

  ?The match was clawing its way to the finish. Only five minutes of stoppage time remained when Brazil’s number seven intercepted the ball at midfield. With surgical precision, he launched a long ball that found the number ten near the penalty area. The star brought it down, pivoted, and struck.

  ?— GOOOOAL!

  ?The collective roar of millions made the concrete foundation shudder. The final whistle sealed the Brazilian title, but the celebration was a shared fever between nations. Flare smoke painted the sky, and Keinji’s father, Vitor, wore a smile of pure radiance. He’d scored four VIP tickets, placing them right in the stadium's most hollowed, luxurious sanctum.

  ?The celebration was reaching its fever pitch when the world seemed to tear in half.

  ?Keinji was in the corridor, heading back from the restroom, when disaster struck. A blinding white flash, followed by a bone-shaking roar, vacuumed the air from his lungs. The shockwave of a massive blast slammed him against the wall. For a few heartbeats, the world went mute, replaced by a searing, high-pitched ring in his ears.

  ?When he finally came to, the party had turned to ash. Vitor and his mother, Sheniya, were pinned beneath a massive slab of concrete. Further off, his younger brother, Fuji, had been hurled against the wall with sickening force.

  ?— DAD! MOM! I’VE GOT IT! I’LL LIFT IT! — Keinji screamed, but the structure didn't even budge. His hands were raw, skin shredded by the jagged cement.

  ?Vitor: — Son... stop. Go to your brother. Go, now!

  Sheniya: — Listen to your father, Keinji! Check on Fuji!

  ?Tears cut through the soot on Keinji’s face. In a fit of desperate obedience, he scrambled over to Fuji. The boy was ghostly pale. Keinji ripped his own shirt away to staunch the bleeding from his brother's head.

  ?— Hang in there, Fuji! Please! — he begged.

  ?Fuji’s eyes fluttered open, just a crack. With a final, trembling effort, he reached for Keinji’s hand.

  — Thanks for everything... big brother... You have to... live...

  ?Fuji’s hand went limp. The light in his eyes flickered out just as the wail of sirens began to drown out the ruins of the stadium.

  ?Keinji woke with a jolt, his fingers digging into the armrests of his seat. Seven years had passed, but the cold sweat still glued his shirt to his skin as if time were just a cruel loop. At twenty-seven, Keinji was no longer that boy; his eyes carried a hollow fatigue that no amount of sleep could touch.

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  ?He looked out the window, chest heaving. Through the oval glass lay an endless carpet of white clouds bathed in moonlight. The "fasten seatbelt" sign chimed with a sharp metallic click.

  ?— Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent into Guarulhos International Airport...

  ?Keinji exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Seven years of therapy and grinding work in Japan had led to this. This trip to Brazil wasn't just about coordinating international guests for Anime-SP; it was a gauntlet. If he could survive an event in a packed stadium—even if it was just a convention center—he’d prove to himself that his trauma wasn't the one holding the leash.

  ?The Boeing 747 kissed the runway with a firm thud. As they taxied, Keinji watched the sprawling lights of S?o Paulo. When he stepped off, the humid, heavy mugginess of Guarulhos hit him like a wall. He moved through the terminal with the focus of a veteran, his pack heavy on his shoulders. Customs cleared and luggage in hand, he pushed through the sliding doors.

  ?— Keinji! Over here, man! Hey, Moura!

  ?There was Marcos, the logistics lead. Keinji forced a smirk and headed toward his colleague.

  ?— Man, you look like you just got isekai’d by a semi-truck — Marcos joked, pulling him into a brief hug. — Welcome to Brazil, partner. Sorry the flight from Japan took it out of you. Seven years, huh?

  ?Keinji shrugged, falling back on his usual defensive wit.

  — Yeah, well, the truck hit me, but I forgot to check my plot armor. And as for Japan... let’s just say the sushi was getting a bit too predictable. I’m here to see if a coxinha can actually perform miracles.

  ?Marcos let out a bark of laughter. They headed toward the parking lot, the warmth of the S?o Paulo night wrapping around Keinji like a heavy blanket.

  ?— The Anhembi pavilion is going to be a madhouse, Keinji. Between the event and the seven-year anniversary of the Cup, the nostalgia here is off the charts. You’re our backstage general. I figured it’d be good for you to bury yourself in work before you deal with... you know, the personal stuff.

  ?— Works for me — Keinji replied, tossing his bag into the trunk. — If I can wrangle the egos of voice actors and handle thousands of screaming fans at twenty-seven, surviving a blast at twenty should be a walk in the park. But tell me: is the hotel actually nice, or am I sharing a bed with mutant cockroaches?

  ?— Give me some credit! You’re VIP. The boss got you into the Holiday Inn at Anhembi. Private room, AC that’ll freeze your soul. If you see a roach in there, it’s only because it’s paying more for the room than you are.

  ?— Fair enough. And what’s the damage for this kind of luxury? — Keinji asked.

  ?— For you? Zilch. But the rack rate is at least six hundred reais. It’s the price you pay for peace and quiet. But listen, dinner tonight is on your tab!

  ?— Deal. I’ll buy you the best street-cart dog?o money can buy.

  ?As they pulled out of the airport, Marcos flashed a conspiratorial grin.

  — Oh, one thing: once you check in, we’ve got to swing by a spot. The admin team called a last-minute "alignment meeting."

  ?Keinji sighed, leaning his head against the headrest.

  — Marcos, I’m twenty-seven, not a rookie. An "alignment meeting" at 10 PM? I smell pizza and a surprise party.

  ?— Party? What party? This is strictly professional! — Marcos tried to keep a straight face. — It just so happens there are twenty people there who’ve been dying to see you. And they happened to order ten pepperoni and frango com catupiry pizzas.

  ?Keinji laughed, finally feeling the tension in his shoulders give way.

  — Fine. I’ll go. But I’m faking a "surprised face" worthy of an Academy Award.

  ?As the car merged onto the highway, Keinji felt that familiar prickle in his palms. He looked down, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  ?— Man, Marcos... the air in this city is something else. It’s thick.

  ?— That? That’s our world-famous S?o Paulo smog, buddy! Fifty percent oxygen, fifty percent diesel fumes. Welcome to the concrete jungle.

  ?— Figures — Keinji muttered. — At least the pollution is honest. It doesn't pretend to be anything but what it is.

  ?He closed his eyes. Japan was a world away, and the scars from seven years ago were still there—but Brazil was greeting him with grease, noise, and people who cared. Anime-SP started tomorrow. He was exhausted, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.