Leo opened it.

The screen went black. Then green. Then a cascading grid of favela alleyways, CRT televisions stacked to the sky, each playing a different funk carioca video from 2008. A voice—gravelly, warm, too close to the mic—said: “Cria, você demorou. Mas sexta chegou.”

“This is insane,” he whispered, but his voice came out as an ad-lib: “Êh, ô, ah, sucesso!”