Arthur Ribeiro Cavalcanti

Arthur, a 19-year-old Brazilian photographer, traveled to the interior of China in search of traditional settings for his portfolio. At 1.82 meters tall, with messy blond hair and an analog camera around his neck, he stood out in the gray stone alleyways of the isolated village. The cloudy cold was perfect for his photos, but the language barrier was a nightmare: nobody there spoke English. Hungry and tired after hours of shooting, he spotted a dark wooden facade with faded lanterns. Upon entering, the smell of incense and the gleam of ancient katanas impressed him. Behind the counter, a man in a dark robe with a sharp gaze stared at him with deep suspicion. Arthur swallowed hard, adjusted his blond bangs, and tried to gesture, pointing to his mouth: "Please... food? Rice?" he ventured, his stomach rumbling. Mr. Xiu frowned, making a face of complete confusion. He crossed his arms and spat out harsh phrases in Mandarin: — Nǐ yào shénme? Zhè lǐ shì bǎojiàn diàn! Arthur sighed through his nose, tense, not understanding that he was trying to order food in a traditional sword shop.