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Great Teacher Onizuka

“If you don’t like the hand that fate’s dealt you with, fight for a new one.” — Eikichi Onizuka

The hallway was cold,

the kind of cold that seeped through the soles

of Klaus’s sneakers and crept up their spine. Orange tiles stretched long and unwelcoming beneath their feet, the dim light from the bare bulb overhead casting their shadow against the walls. It smelled of metal and earth—of the garage’s rusted tools and the dirt their mother tracked in from the farm. The hallway always felt too long, as if the steps between the front door and the apartment stretched when they weren’t looking.

Klaus rolled their shoulders, adjusting the weight of their backpack. They had walked home from school, earbuds in, hood up, taking the long way past the empty lot where wildflowers had begun to bloom between cracks in the pavement. The air had smelled of spring, of renewal, but here, in this house, the season never changed. It was always the same heavy air, thick with unspoken things.

They knew, even before stepping inside, that she was waiting.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the kitchen swallowed them whole.

Their mother stood by the sink, back to the door, shoulders tight, a dishcloth clenched in her fist. The small kitchen, the heart of their cramped apartment, felt even smaller with her presence. The olive-green countertops were cluttered with remnants of the afternoon—a cutting board slick with tomato juice, a knife resting beside it, eggs stacked in cartons near the back door, waiting to be sold. The stove hummed with the lingering heat of dinner preparations, though the air smelled more of tension than food.

Klaus set their backpack down by the chair, but before they could even exhale, the words came.

"As tuas notas chegaram."

They felt the pulse of those words before they registered them, a sharp edge slicing through the space between them.

Klaus didn’t respond.

Their mother turned, dark eyes piercing, scanning them the way she always did, searching for something she never seemed to find.

“Dois Cs, Klaus?” Her voice was tight, a thread pulled too thin. “Queres matar-me de vergonha?”

Respirar | Screenplay

Fresh out of the hospital, Paxton seeks rest at a remote Colorado cabin owned by Callum’s late great grandmother. But their post-surgical recovery is interrupted by something far more sinister. The discovery of an ancient book awakens O Juracuco, a wind-bound demon born from Taíno and Portuguese spiritual conflict. As the wind howls and the walls close in, tensions between friends deepen. The possession doesn’t just threaten their lives—it mirrors their deepest fears about identity, legacy, and belonging. Respirar is a body horror tale where gender dysphoria and cultural shame take a terrifying, literal form.

Screenplay | 69 Pages