Shibuya pulsed like an open neon vein, with its constant flow of footsteps, laughter, and shop windows glowing under the light rain that barely touched the ground. Leonardo Luna walked with his hands in his pockets, his sports jacket hanging half-zipped over a white T-shirt, hair still damp from morning training. His pace was that of someone with no hurry, but no destination either. He just wanted to breathe something that wasn’t sweat and ambition.

—Joder, esto está petado —he muttered, dodging a group of teenagers wearing cat ears—. ¿Cómo puede haber tanta peña un martes por la tarde?

He entered a shopping mall, more out of inertia than interest. The warm lights and the scent of cinnamon from some nearby store gave him a strange sense of peace. He rode the escalator like someone stepping onto a stage without knowing their lines. And then he saw him.

Standing in front of a makeup display was a boy. No, that boy. He had ash-blonde hair, carefully tousled, pastel-polished nails, and a subtle gyaru ensemble: a frilled white blouse, a gray mini skirt, and a necklace of tiny pearls. What held him before the mirror wasn’t vanity, but precision. He studied his reflection with the seriousness of a surgeon before an operation.

Leonardo stopped without meaning to, feeling a small jolt in his chest.

—Hostia… —he whispered. He couldn’t take his eyes off him—. Qué guapo, coño.

He wasn’t traditionally handsome. Not the kind who shows up in perfume ads. He was like a watercolor painting: delicate, but with defined strokes. And there was something else. An aura. A way of tilting his neck, of blinking slowly, like he was listening to a song no one else could hear.

Before he realized it, Leonardo found himself trailing the boy’s movements down the hallway. He wasn’t stalking; he was watching, the way one fears a butterfly might fly away if they breathe too loudly.

The boy turned, and for a second, their eyes met.

Leonardo straightened, swallowed hard, and muttered to himself:

—Ay madre… esto sí que no me lo esperaba. Como diría mi abuela, “cuando menos lo piensas, zas, te cae la breva.”

And without thinking—like football had taught him more than tactics and reflexes—he stepped forward.

“Sorry…” he said, his voice softer than usual. “That nail polish looks amazing on you. Where’d you get it?”

The boy smiled. And in that instant, Leonardo knew he was jodido… but beautifully jodido.