Three steps closer 1 : This poison that binds us.

Prologue.

~ Five years earlier ~

ROMANCE

*****

[Brazil — São Paulo, Santa Maria University]

[11:15]

Today, we enter the final stretch of the debate competition. The most crucial, the tightest trial: the face-off.

It’s been almost a year since I joined the prestigious Imperial University, and eight months since I started defending its colors on the debate team. I had never participated in this kind of competition before, and it wasn’t the prospect of gaining popularity that drew me in. No, what really convinced me were all the lessons it implied. Every debate topic is an open door to a new world. And it has greatly helped me sharpen my public speaking skills.

I still remember my first time on stage. I was terrified. But thanks to my team’s support, everything went smoothly. We won the regionals together. And today, we are at the national finals. But this time, it’s up to me alone to carry the torch.

For this ultimate round, only two candidates step on stage: one from each team. Two minutes, not a second more, to convince the judges. It’s short. It’s intense. And it’s decisive.

I will have to be quick, impactful, crystal clear.

No room for mistakes.

The topic was announced a week ago, and let’s just say we weren’t spoiled:

“Justice and individual responsibility.”

A theme as thorny as it is fascinating. It had to be handled with care, but from the very first read, I had a clear, sharp, unequivocal opinion. And I managed, without much difficulty, to rally my team to my vision. I like that: leading, guiding, being at the center of things. Throughout the preparation phase, I loved being in the heat of action, taking charge, structuring our thoughts. Let’s be honest, with my often brilliant ideas, I’ve managed, since I arrived, to make myself noticed. And appreciated. By everyone.

Sitting straight on the stage, focused, I listen.

My opponent.

Mikaël Azéma. A student at Don Pedro II University, our most formidable competitor. They’ve been our greatest rivals since the start of the season.

He’s defending rehabilitation.

And he’s good at it.

His arguments are solid, coherent, profoundly human. He knows how to speak, how to move people. But I’ve seen others.

And above all, I’ve got better.

“To judge a man solely by the weight of his crime is to ignore everything he built before the act.”

“I’m not here to excuse criminals. I’m here to defend a simple idea: punishment alone is not enough.”

“What’s the point of locking up an 18-year-old for fifteen years if, when he gets out, he’s broken, rejected, and even more dangerous than when he went in? Repression alone solves nothing if it isn’t paired with a human project.”

“Take Norway. Yes, its prisons are modern. But its recidivism rate is 20%. Because in Norway, justice doesn’t just lock people up: it heals. And in Brazil? The recidivism rate is around 70 to 80%. Four times higher than in Norway. Prison here is a school of crime, not a second chance.”

“And Germany? Restorative justice programs for young people. Less prison, more guidance. And one of the lowest crime rates in Europe.”

“What I defend is not impunity. It’s smart responsibility. Making people understand. Forcing them to repair. And offering a path other than crime.”

“Because you don’t build a man with bars.”

“You build a man with meaning, with an outstretched hand, with trust.”

“Mandela said: ‘None of us, acting alone, can achieve success.’”

“And I say to you:”

“We don’t build a safer society with more walls, but with more humanity.”

Quiana and Prune are frantically scribbling notes while he speaks. Me, I just watch him. For the past week, besides polishing my arguments, I’ve been profiling him. Mikaël Azéma. And seeing him nervously tap the podium with his fingertips, I know. He’s tense.

And he has every reason to be.

Between the flashes, the crowd, this uncompromising jury… and me, standing across from him.

The audience applauds as he finishes. He gives a brief bow and steps aside. And as he leaves the stage, I step forward into the light.

The microphone crackles.

That little electric sound… I love it. It announces my moment. It announces attention. Admiration.

Every eye turns toward me. I can feel it. I can see it.

The weight of their expectations rests on my head like a crown.

I smile. Brilliantly. It’s what they want. So I give it to them.

“Romance Brandaõ, Imperial University.”

My name echoes through the loudspeakers. Applause erupts. I recognize my father’s. Even Carter is here.

I step forward, straight, confident. Ready to conquer this stage. This audience. This trophy.

Every step brings me closer to my goal.

Every second, I wonder if it was all written.

I take a deep breath. My palm brushes the wood of the podium. It’s warm, almost alive.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

My voice is steady. Clear. Sharp.

I’m off.

“I am not insensitive to human suffering. But in an organized society, compassion cannot become an excuse for judicial inaction.”

“Everyone must be accountable for their actions. It’s a fundamental principle. Untouchable. Yet too often, people try to erode it by waving a difficult childhood, bad influences, social injustice as get-out-of-jail-free cards. As if suffering justified aggression. As if poverty allowed murder.”

“Yes, causes are important. But they should never annihilate the consequences. Because when someone kills, when someone strikes, it is not the causes that cry. It is the victims.”

“Yet some societies have bet on absolute rehabilitation. They wanted to believe that everything could be healed through benevolence.”

“In Sweden, a model country for humane prisons, a r****t was allowed to go out alone during his reintegration program. He assaulted again.

In Germany, Christian Klar, an unrepentant terrorist, was released in the name of reintegration. The families of his victims had no second chance.

In California, prisons were emptied to humanize justice. Result? Burglaries increased, assaults multiplied, and a reinforced sense of impunity.

In Norway, Anders Breivik, murderer of 77 innocents, lives in a modern cell, complains about not having access to a PlayStation, and continues to make headlines, but not a tear of regret.”

“What do these countries have in common? Noble intentions, but catastrophic results. Justice that is too lenient with criminals always ends up seeming cruel to the victims.”

“So yes, rehabilitation is a goal… but only after.

After acknowledging the fault.

After serving the sentence.

After symbolic restitution.”

“Without that, it’s not a second chance, it’s a betrayal.”

“And the proof that firmness works also exists:

In Singapore, zero tolerance for violent crimes and drug trafficking has led to one of the lowest crime rates in the world.

In 1990s New York, the ‘broken windows’ policy strictly punished every misdemeanor. Result: a drastic drop in homicides and assaults.

In Rwanda, after the g******e, it wasn’t immediate compassion that rebuilt the country, but community justice, the gacaca courts, where everyone had to publicly assume their fault before claiming a new life.”

“When justice is firm, consistent, fair, it protects, it repairs, it inspires.”

“Simone Veil said: ‘Justice is not vengeance, but it is the memory of rules.’

I say that without clear sanctions, there are no rules, no memory, no peace.”

“Victims never asked to play a role in a tragedy. They have no second chance. They deserve society to restore the honor taken from them. And that doesn’t come from excuses. It comes from just, firm, accountable punishment.”

“Because by excusing the guilty, we end up blaming the victims for having suffered.”

I look the jury straight in the eyes, with conviction:

“Compassion is not an excuse for judicial inaction. It is a duty after justice, never in its place.”

The timer stops. The screen reads: 1 minute 47 seconds.

I sigh, relieved. Just under the time limit. Perfectly calibrated.

And then the ovations erupt.

Louder. More vibrant. More genuine than those for my opponent.

I return to my seat next to Mikaël, chin high, shoulders relaxed. The jury deliberates. Time seems suspended.

The competition organizer steps onto the stage, an envelope in hand. The entire hall holds its breath. Me too, almost. I cross my fingers, in a gesture I hate, but here, I allow it. Everything will be decided now.

She opens the envelope. Her eyes scan the paper. Then she announces:

“Romance Brandaõ.”

I did it.

I won.

A moment of emptiness, as if my body is floating. I’m stunned. And yet… somewhere, I always knew it would end this way.

Today, my opponent learns what I always knew: the world is harsh, ruthless. And idealists leave feathers behind.

I step forward, straight, proud, like a queen. The trophy awaits. I take it. It’s cold against my palms, but it burns with intensity. The organizer also hands me a bouquet of flowers. I love these little details.

My team joins me on stage, euphoric. The photographer captures the moment. Flashes rain down.

This victory is ours, but above all, it’s mine.

Today, I am the star. And I fully intend to remain so, throughout my schooling and beyond. For life.

I love the way they chant my name.

Romance. Romance. Romance.

It’s the sound of victory.

And I believe I’ve always carried this sound within me.

Dad, Mom, Carter… they step up too. Their faces say it all.

I keep smiling.

Because today, I’ve won everything.

“Congratulations, my darling. You’ve made us proud,” says Dad, eyes glistening with emotion.

“The queen of debates,” murmurs Carter, giving me a conspiratorial smile.

He hugs me, lifts me slightly off the ground, and kisses me, like in a movie.

And in that precise moment, I sincerely wonder what more I could ever dream of.

I come from a loving, respected family. I have an exemplary, devoted boyfriend. A promising future awaits me, all laid out.

I am the queen of my world. The captain of my soul.

And I owe it all to my lucky star.

*****

CÔME

*****

[Brazil – Court of Justice of the State of Rio de Janeiro]

[11:15]

Sitting next to my lawyer, kindly provided by the state since I couldn’t afford one myself, upright, chin high, I cannot look away from the judge seated behind his tall bench. He looks down at me, as if I’m worthless, as if I’m nothing but a waste of nature, a delinquent. And he’s not the only one who sees me that way: more than half of this austere courtroom holds nothing but resentment for me.

It’s been a month already that I’ve endured their contemptuous stares, their perpetual hatred, their cutting words. A month of torment, coming and going just to finally hear my sentence. I don’t know how to describe my feelings at this moment: I hate being judged like this, categorized, classified.

I feel like the worst kind of thug, and I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. Today, because of us, because of me, tears fill the eyes of a dozen families, of parents. Because of me, my mãe (mom) can no longer walk with her head held high, as the proud woman she has always been. I have cast shame on my family, disappointed the one I love most, the one who always trusted me.

And it wasn’t for lack of warning. She had told me: my companions would lead me to ruin, that the path I was taking was not the right one.

Forgive me, mãe, for you were right.

Forgive me, mãe, for I always knew my choices were wrong, but the love of money and the misfortune that was our destiny led me down this path.

Forgive me for having disappointed you so cruelly.

Despite the pain pressing on my chest, I keep my head high, ready to face my fate. I am determined not to be dominated by my mistakes and to accept all the consequences that will be imposed on me.

No matter the size of the s**t he throws in my face.

“Accused, please stand,” says the judge’s monotone, stern voice.

I stand, followed by those who, until December 31, 2018, were my brothers of the street. But today, I’ve decided to sever all ties that connect me to that life. I’ve seen the consequences of my choices, and I no longer want to continue this way.

My gaze is fixed on the judge, a man with carefully trimmed graying hair, holding in his hands the decision that will seal my fate. His eyes seem to weigh on me, and I feel my heart racing.

Guilty? Innocent?

I don’t fool myself; I know what’s coming. My crime is too heavy, and the evidence is overwhelming. In fact, I didn’t even try to deny it at first. I owned my mistakes, and now, I will pay for them.

I don’t try to deceive myself: I know my conviction is inevitable. The facts are there, and they speak for themselves. I have caused harm, and now I will bear the consequences.

I take responsibility until the end, no matter the situation. Cowardice is not in my dictionary.

Some will think I’m playing the “bad boy” to look tough, but that’s not the case. This mask I wear, this fixed gaze, this proud posture, it’s not to taunt the judge, the victims’ families, or the victims themselves. It’s just to not break, to put a barrier between me and the pain I’ve caused.

I want to keep my head high, even though inside, I’m in pieces. I want to avoid giving in to the emotion that overwhelms me, that makes me want to disappear.

My eyes drift to the judge to avoid facing the families torn apart by the death of their loved ones, to avoid hearing the mother of “Freeze,” whose cries of despair reach my ears even through this door. She was removed from the courtroom because she couldn’t control herself.

Her cries remind me that I am guilty: guilty of choosing the life of a criminal, guilty of taking part in the death of her only son, like me.

I think of my mãe… I imagine her grief must be immense now. I know she wouldn’t bear it if I left her like pai (dad). She has only me, and I have only her.

As the judge opens the paper, I feel my stress rising. I take a deep breath to calm the torrent of emotions threatening to capsize me like a ship in a storm.

I clench my jaw to control my anxiety, but my body betrays my apparent calm. My fingers start to tremble, and in a nervous reflex, I tap them against my leg, which is panicking too.

The judge lifts his eyes from the paper, adjusts his glasses, and leans toward the microphone. His voice resonates through the room.

“The jury, after deliberation, finds the accused: Raùl Da Silva, Leandro Rodrigues, Jao Ribeiro…”

He lists more than fifteen names, each word making my heart feel heavier. And then, he reaches me.

“…and Côme Alves, for charges of voluntary assault… guilty.”

The sentence hits like a sledgehammer. I close my eyes, stunned. I knew it was coming, but hearing the word “guilty” feels like an uppercut. I’m dazed.

Eighteen years… and I might spend half of my adult life behind bars. The thought chills me. I had never really imagined what my life would look like caught in the system. And yet, here it is.

I open my eyes just in time to hear the judge pronounce the words that seal my fate and tear my soul like a mere scrap of paper, like the one held between his long, sinewy fingers:

“You are sentenced to fifteen years in prison, with five years of security.”

The numbers echo in my head like a life sentence.

Fifteen years? Up to fifteen years? It’s like a punch to the stomach. I’m suffocating, nausea rising, making me feverish. Everything around me fades. I hear nothing but my heart pounding, my blood racing frantically through my temples, my brain overloaded, and my breathing heavier than a Browning machine gun.

I try to pull myself together, to face reality, but my body refuses to accept what’s happening. I’m in freefall, endless. Fifteen years without seeing the daylight, without feeling the sun on my skin, without being able to enjoy life, play football, taste mãe’s food… I’m only eighteen!

I want to emerge from this nightmare. I want mãe to wake me up, to take me in her arms and reassure me. I want her to say in her voice as soft as a potato that everything will be alright and that she will always be there for me. But this time, I know it’s not a bad dream. It’s reality.

I’m scared. I want to be strong, to face what’s coming, but anxiety overwhelms me. Fifteen years of prison, of loneliness, of new rules, new labels… I’m lost.

What’s going to happen to me now?

Unconsciously, I run my tongue over my lower lip, trying to escape the destructive thoughts devouring me. And only with a superhuman effort do I manage to turn my head and face the world around me, a world that is pure chaos to me at this moment.

My eyes, burning with tears, meet the fragile silhouette of mãe, sitting between Thiago and Akeva. They support her, trying to comfort her through this trial that tears her apart. But mãe is inconsolable; her heart has just been trampled, leaving only irrecoverable fragments. She cries, begging the heavens to forgive me, to ease my pain, to help me.

Despite all the disgrace I’ve cast on our little family, she still worries for me. Shame on me!

Her pain is a dagger to my heart. I feel myself tearing apart, my guilt rising. I want to bury myself underground like a filthy rat, to escape all this suffering that I am unfortunately the cause of. I am the source of her suffering, her tears, her pain.

But your cries won’t change anything, mãe. My fate is sealed. Your son screwed up, and he has to take responsibility. Your son played with fire and burned his hands. Like the man he has always claimed to be since pai left us, he must accept his punishment and keep his head high, for all he has left now, besides your love, is his dignity.

I have given away my freedom through my dangerous actions.

Don’t cry anymore, mãe, don’t waste your tears on me.

Don’t harm yourself for someone as unworthy as me.

Don’t torture yourself with affliction, please.

Please, think of your fragile health; don’t weaken it further for a miserable wretch who couldn’t give you the joy you gave him.

The officer fastens the cuffs on me, his firm grip encircling my wrists. He grabs me roughly by the arm, forcing me to leave my place. As we head toward the exit, toward my new home, we pass by their seats. I meet Thiago and Akeva’s eyes, and I read deep compassion, a desolation that pierces my heart.

Thiago, the only one I can still call my “brother,” stands. He tries to hold back mãe, who reaches to touch me, to keep me with her. Her face is marked by tears that have distorted her once gentle features into a canvas ruled only by sorrow. Her outstretched hand tries to grasp my jumpsuit, but she can’t, just as she cannot change what’s happening. Seeing her so broken feels like a second sentence, the harshest one. And I have this lump in my throat that devastates me.

But I fight against my pain. I must keep my head high so as not to hurt her more, to show her that I’m okay, that I accept my fate, and that she must do the same.

“Let him go, please,” she pleads through sniffles. “My Côme is a good boy; he’s going to die over there, mercy!”

It’s too much. I close my eyes, and as my emotions threaten to betray me, I squeeze my eyelids tighter and take a second to gather my thoughts. The officer allows me the time to speak with her, and I take the opportunity to cup her face in my hand. I tower over her by a good two heads. I inherited my height from pai, thankfully, because mãe… no offense, but…

“Listen, mãe, you need to be strong for me. I’m fine, look, I’m fine, and I’ll be fine. Please, não chore mais (Don’t cry anymore). Seque suas lágrimas, mãe (Dry your tears, mom).”

I speak while wiping her cheeks. Her eyes, red from pain, search mine, looking for a hint of deceit. Her pupils are filled with all the love in the world and all human sorrow. This is where my stubbornness has led me. And now I must live with this heartbreaking image, which my mind engraves at this moment, and which reason will whip me with every future misstep.

“Vou orar por você, você verá que sairá daí. Eu vou tirar você daqui, meu filho (I’ll pray for you; you’ll see you’ll get out of there. I’ll get you out, my son).”

In response, I can only lower my head. Despite my hard battle with my emotions, tears have already begun to form on my lashes, and discreetly, I wipe them with my fists. Mãe finally makes the sign of the cross and slips a rosary into my hands.

“O Senhor não te abandonou, ele cuida de cada um de seus filhos (The Lord hasn’t abandoned you; He watches over each of His children.) Em nome do pai, do filho e do espírito santo (In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit).”

“Amém! (Amen!)”

Thiago approaches us and, after a hesitation, embraces me.

“I’m sorry for everything happening to you, my brother. Nothing is lost.”

“Take care of mãe, please.”

“You know you don’t have to ask me; you’re like a brother to me, Côme. And it’s the least I can do for you. Besides, you know madame Evangelina has always been like a mother to me, so don’t worry, I’ll watch over her.”

“Thank you, my brother.”

We separate, and it’s Akeva’s turn to throw herself into my arms; she too is in tears. My little Akeva, always so sensitive and adorable.

“I’m going to miss you, Coco. Who am I going to have karaoke nights with now?” she complains, wrapping her long, thin arms around me.

“Thiago is here.”

“But he has no rhythm, and he’s not cool like you.”

She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, careful not to ruin her always-perfect makeup, and taps one of the pearls adorning her eyelids to make sure it stays in place. Akeva and her makeup, a funny love story.

I almost laugh if the situation weren’t so dramatic, especially considering her outfit. Who dares to come to a courtroom wearing a t-shirt that says, “Justice is s**t”?

“It’s time,” the officer interrupts, impatient to finish and take me to where I belong.

Akeva and I are separated, and after one last sorrowful look at mãe, I leave the courtroom and climb into the van where other prisoners are already seated, including members of my former gang. Well… former gang, because as I said, I’m going to quit it all. That’s why I decide to create distance now between them and me, their gang and my pitiful life, by sitting far from them.

****

After a long and grueling journey, we arrive in front of a large reinforced concrete building, as hostile as it is desolate, whose cold gray walls seem to stretch up to the sky, crushing all hope. The iron bars surrounding the structure resemble sharp claws, ready to tear apart any hope of freedom. A shrill beep announces our arrival, and the large metal door creaks open ominously, swallowing us into our new hell.

The walls seem to close in on me like a deadly trap, suffocating my breath. I feel my heart grow heavy, my stomach knot, as I step into this prison world. The smell of disinfectant and stagnant sweat assaults my nostrils, making me feel the full weight of my reality. I am now a prisoner, a number, a pariah of society.

After the favelas, here comes the prison. Today, I’ve lost a battle, but not the war. I will get out of here, whether in five or fifteen years. I will leave and restore the reputation I myself, with my own hands, have tarnished. Because as long as there is life, there is hope, and that, fate cannot take from me, no matter how ill-starred I am.