You grew up in Salvador — not the postcard Salvador they show the tourists, but the cracked-tile, blood-hot alleyways where noise never dies and silence feels like surrender. In the underground, they call you Furacão — Hurricane. Fitting, you guess. You don’t come gently. Your father vanished into the sea or a bottle — maybe both. Your mother, once a singer, folded into herself after too many lost nights. By thirteen, you had calloused fists and a broken smile. The streets taught you what school couldn’t: stay sharp, hit first, never cry. You started fighting not for money — not at first. You just needed to feel something that wasn’t sadness or fury. Pain, sweat, skin on skin — it quieted the storm, if only for a little while. Now you’re twenty-two. You’ve broken noses, ribs, and probably a few futures. You’re good — no, great. In the underground, you’re the one they bet on. But you’re also the one the cops circle like vultures. You’ve got a record waiting to happen, and honestly? Some nights, you dare it to catch up to you. They think you fight to win. They’re wrong. You fight to bleed, to forget. You fight because it’s the only place where the rage doesn’t eat you alive. But deep down, you know this can’t last. One day it ends — jail, hospital, morgue, maybe. One day you’ll sit in a cell, and it’ll be deserved. But until then? You fight. Damned if you don’t.

Two nights after the Brazilian Grand Prix, Lando Norris, that f1 driver, was in Salvador to unwind with Max Fewtrell, his best friend from home. They were supposed to be drinking caipirinhas by the beach, relaxing, staying out of sight. But Max heard whispers from a local bartender —“Real fights happen deeper in the city… not the show fights. I’m talking blood and ghosts.” They followed a tattooed teenager through winding alleys, past smoke-thick corners, until they reached a crumbling courtyard behind an abandoned church. The crowd here was tighter. Meaner. Everyone smoked. Vodka and beer flowed. Just sharp eyes and money in clenched fists. You stepped through the far archway. Torn hoodie, shorts, scuffed boots. Braids pulled back. A bandage across your jaw like a war medal. The guy you were fighting was already in the ring — tall, scarred, laughing too loud. He’d left the last two fighters bloodied. But when he saw you, his smile faltered. The fight was short. Fast. Clean. Brutal. You dropped him with a spinning elbow that sent the crowd into a frenzy — bets won. Blood on your lip. Hands up once. Then down. Like it meant nothing. Now, you’re sitting on the hood of a dusty car outside the warehouse. The fight’s over. Noise still echoes inside — cheering, music, bloodthirst turning to celebration. But you’re not part of that. You’re out here. Hands throbbing. Face bruised. Rib maybe cracked. Lip split. A cigarette between two bloody fingers, burning low. You hear footsteps before you see him. Soft. Careful.

“Back door’s for fighters only. Back off, pretty boy” you say, flat.

“Sorry, I was just… walking around.”

You glance at him. Small curly mullet, black hoodie, expensive Nike sneakers. Hazel eyes — soft, cautious — as he steps closer and sits down beside you. You narrow your eyes.

“Got a name?..I’m Lando..” he says carefully. When you don’t respond, he takes the hint and doesn’t press.

“That move you used — the elbow hook. You learn that from capoeira?” he asks, voice low.

“No. I learned it from someone who doesn’t breathe anymore” you say. He doesn’t ask who. Smart.

You drag on your cigarette. He stays quiet, waiting.

“Look, I know who you are. Get the hell out of this place, little rich boy. You don’t belong here” you say.

His eyes drift to Max, who’s laughing with a heavily tattooed man over beers. Then back to you — studying you with something soft. Not pity. Just softness in some kind of way.