Night had fallen over the Solis mansion with the serenity of a pulse that needs no watchmen. The lamps in the central hallway filtered a pale light that mingled with the faint glow of the moon, casting long shadows on the marble floor. There was no trace of the previous day: no sound of the sea, no voices from the school, no light breathing from Valentina behind the closed door. Only a vast, almost human silence sustained the structure of the house, as if the air itself had learned to respect it.

Sebastián stopped in front of the main window in the hallway. The glass, covered with bluish reflections, showed his unadorned figure: his tense body inside his black jacket, his tie still tied, his crimson eyes spinning with their usual calm. There was something different about his face, a stillness that came not from fatigue but from control. Virka stood beside him, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed behind her back. Her breathing was slow and precise, and her gaze was lost in the darkness outside.

The air between them had the texture of a pause. It wasn't discomfort; it was the stillness that comes when two presences have already said everything. Outside, the wind moved the treetops in the garden, and the distant sound of the wind filtered through like an echo in the background.

Then something vibrated.

A slight tremor ran through the dimensional ring on Sebastian's hand: a short, rhythmic pulse, as if someone else's heart had decided to remind him that the world still existed. He looked down. The surface of the ring lit up slightly, casting a faint glow. Inside, in the strip of energy where he kept his objects, a smaller light flickered: his phone.

With a gesture, he removed the device. It was an old model, with a black casing and no embellishments. The sound vibrated once more before the screen lit up. An unknown number, without a label, occupied the center.

Sebastián raised an eyebrow. He had no reason to receive calls; no one outside his inner circle knew that number. He pressed the green button.

"Yes?" His voice was low, controlled.

On the other end, a female voice trembled before steadying itself.

"Boss...? Are you finally answering me?"

The silence that followed lasted a second too long. Virka turned her head slightly, without moving from her spot, attentive. Sebastián didn't answer right away; he recognized the tone, but not the name.

"Who is this?"

"It's me, sir. The administrator of the Central Warehouse... of the Crimson Empire." The voice tried to maintain a professional composure, but anxiety seeped into every word. "I've been trying to reach you for months. I thought you had lost contact or that the number was deactivated."

Sebastian's expression didn't change.

"I'm listening."

"I apologize for insisting, boss, but I need to deliver the complete quarterly reports to you in person. November, December, and January. Everything the Council left pending before the end of the year."

The sound of his breathing was faint, almost imperceptible, but the tension was clear. On the other end of the line, someone spoke with respect, fear, and an administrative devotion that bordered on exhaustion.

"Go on," said Sebastian.

"The balance sheets are complete. They include repairs, staff reductions, transfers to minority partners, and income from new sectors... I've also prepared the briefcases with the physical documents, as usual. I just need to know where I can deliver them."

He looked at the phone. In the corner of the screen, a location option flashed. He didn't understand its use; he didn't need it in his routine.

"I don't know how to send that."

There was a brief silence. The woman hesitated between laughing and apologizing.

"Excuse me, boss?

"I said I don't know how to send that."

On the other end, the voice lowered a notch, trying not to sound condescending.

"It's okay, no problem. It's simple." She cleared her throat. "Open the messaging app, please."

Sebastián slid his finger across the screen, following her instructions. The blue glow of the phone partially illuminated his face. Virka watched him from the window, her expression somewhere between amused and absent-minded.

"Now tap where it says 'new contact'. Type in any name you want. You can put... I don't know, 'winery', or 'empire', or even... 'yourself', if you want.

Sebastián typed slowly.

"Done."

"Good. Now hold down the paperclip icon, the one that looks like a hook. There you'll see the option 'send location.

"Okay."

—Tap "allow" when prompted.

The silence lingered for a few more seconds. Virka turned her face slightly and crossed one leg over the other. There was a hint of invisible humor in her expression.

"Done," said Sebastián.

"Perfect, boss." The relief in her voice was evident. "I'll be about an hour. I'll bring the reports and the briefcases. See you at your residence."

"Understood." He ended the call.

The phone went silent. Sebastián put it back in the dimensional ring and looked toward the window.

"Someone's coming," he said.

Virka nodded. She didn't ask who.

Silence returned. The clock in the hallway ticked away the minutes with a soft, almost liquid sound. During that hour, the mansion breathed in a steady rhythm: the distant sound of the sea, the faint hum of the security systems, the slight creaking of the wood in the walls. In the upstairs bedroom, Valentina slept; Narka, motionless, kept watch at the foot of the bed.

An hour later, the outside lights changed. A pair of headlights crossed the gate, bathing the entrance in a whitish glow. The engine stopped.

Sebastián walked to the front door. He didn't need to open it completely to make his presence felt. The figure getting out of the vehicle paused for a moment before approaching: a young woman, about twenty-six years old, with hair dyed in various shades—violet, purple, and blue highlights that shone under the artificial light. She wore a dark leather jacket with metal patches; tight jeans ripped at the sides; thick boots that clicked precisely on the stone. A pair of glasses hung around her neck, and large headphones rested on her head.

In each hand, she held a black briefcase reinforced with metal clasps. Despite her modern clothes and relaxed posture, her light brown eyes betrayed something older: respect.

When he saw him, he bowed his head.

"Good evening, boss. I've brought the reports and deliveries."

Sebastián looked at her for a second.

"Come in."

The gate closed behind her with a metallic clang. They entered in silence. The mansion's lobby had that restrained air of places where nothing is superfluous. The walls were smooth, the paintings symmetrical, the floor polished. They walked toward the open area in front of the main dining room, about twenty meters from the entrance: a sober, spacious space where light fell in straight lines from the overhead lamps.

The woman placed the briefcases on the table. The sound of metal hitting wood echoed clearly.

"Everything is complete," she said, opening the first one. Inside were folders sorted by month, stamps, signatures, copies. "If you'll allow me, I'll summarize."

Sebastian nodded. He crossed his arms and leaned lightly on the edge of the table. Virka remained in the hallway, watching from the shadows; she did not intervene, but her mere presence was enough to maintain the invisible line of tension.

The administrator opened the first folder.

"November: three hundred and fifteen million. This includes repairs to the distribution center and staff reductions at the brothel in the central area. Minor debts were settled and loss-making contracts were terminated.

He turned the page.

December: four hundred and forty-three million. The boom in the main casino and nightclub doubled profits. Transport routes stabilized and unnecessary middlemen were eliminated.

He turned to the last page.

January: exactly four hundred million. Total stability for the Crimson Empire. Revenue remained steady, with no variations.

He closed the folder and breathed.

"In total, boss, the Crimson Empire generated one billion one hundred fifty-eight million net units. Everything has been deducted: bribes, repairs, transportation, and external contributions."

The sound of her own words seemed to frighten her. She lowered her gaze.

Sebastian didn't move. His right hand rested on the table; his left remained at his side, relaxed. His eyes, red and deep, reflected the metallic sheen of the open briefcases.

"Good work," he said, without raising his voice.

The administrator exhaled with relief.

"Thank you, sir."

Leave the briefcases in the dining room. Then get some rest before you come back.

She nodded, gathering the documents with steady hands. As she passed Virka, she instinctively lowered her head; there was no arrogance or fear in her, only respect for what she did not understand.

When she disappeared down the hallway, Virka spoke.

"Even calmness has its price."

Sebastian replied without looking at her:

"And strength... always leaves a balance."

Silence fell once more. The door to the mansion closed softly.

For a few seconds, only the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of the sea could be heard. Sebastián remained standing, watching the reflections of the lamp on the metal surface of the table. He wasn't thinking about money. He was thinking about what it meant to have something to hold without destroying it.

Virka approached slowly, with the light step of someone walking on sacred ground.

"What are you going to do with all that?" she asked, just to fill the air.

"Nothing different from what I already do," he replied. "Keep it in order."

The light flickered over their faces. Outside, the night continued to spread.

In the room above, Valentina stirred in her sleep. Narka, without closing her eyes, continued to watch from the foot of the bed.

In the rest of the house, the calm was so perfect that it seemed to come at a price.

The clock struck eleven with a deep sound, and the mansion breathed.

The night weighs like a body on the house. The light in the dining room remains steady, a lamp that forms an island in the midst of the silence; the clock in the hallway strikes eleven and remains there, with its sole authority, marking a beat that no one disputes. Outside, the wind is dry and breaks in the treetops; inside, the air smells of ink, paper, and metal, of what remains after closing accounts. The marks on the table speak of hands that have worked; the polished corners recall fingers that have counted and sorted. Virka stands at the edge of the dining room, as if her presence were a geometric mark in the room: back straight, legs firm, eyes fixed on him. Sebastián bears the weight of the night with the calm of one who knows that things are resolved with hands, not speeches. His jacket hangs loosely, his tie messes up the line of his neck; there is a tension in his body like that of an animal trained not to break.

He picks up the first briefcase naturally, brings it close to the ring on his finger; the shine swallows the metal with no sound other than the clasp: click. Another briefcase, the same gesture, click. It enters and closes with the same dry finish. The sound of the zippers lingers in the air like a short, precise heartbeat. When he finishes, he lets his hand fall to his side like someone dropping a tool. He doesn't look at the figures. He doesn't celebrate. The accounts no longer matter; what matters now is the silence that remains. He looks at Virka for a second, just long enough for both of them to confirm that everything is under control. No more words are needed.

She takes a step toward him, without looking for a seat, without sitting down in the calm. "Keep your share," he says without embellishment. The brothel is still in your name." She is not surprised; there is neither indignation nor pleasure in her eyes at the news, only the recognition of something she was already expecting. "Keep it," she replies. "In your ring. I have nowhere to leave anything." They exchange it as if passing a piece of equipment: quietly, without ceremony. The trust between them requires no witnesses.

The atmosphere stretches out. The administrative term is behind them; what comes next cannot be articulated with accounts or papers. Virka looks toward the stairs, assessing Valentina's proximity with a glance, Narka's presence watching from below. "I'll sleep with her," he says with the same economy of words with which he does everything. He listens and does not answer; he takes a deep breath, the air becoming heavier in the dining room. "Cultivate before closing the day," she adds, advice that sounds like a habit in her voice, not a command. There is no drama in this: it is care.

Then he says what is not a proposal but a fact: "I want to do something first." He blurts it out as if describing a pending task. Virka looks up calmly, cutting him off: "What?" "Be with you," he replies with the same restraint with which he keeps his belongings. He doesn't ask. He doesn't beg. It's an order that needs no command. She doesn't smile. She steps forward, stands in front of him, and places a hand on his chest; her fingers feel his steady heartbeat, checking it. With her other hand, she takes his neck and pulls him closer. At that distance, their breath is shared without lips asking for it: the decision is no longer abstract.

There is no haste in the movements, but everything happens with a speed that allows no turning back. Clothes are superfluous and are removed without delicacy: zippers, buttons, fabrics that get tangled and give way. His jacket falls onto the back of a chair; his tie kisses the floor. She drops her own garment where it can serve as a mark. The air in the dining room takes on the smell of skin and heat, direct, without guesswork. Sebastián lifts her by the waist and sits her on the table; the thud of the wood against the structure sounds dry, without drama. She wraps her legs around his waist, not to invite him, but to fix him in place. They seek each other with their lips, not with courtesy: they seek contact, access, response. Her hands entwine around the back of his neck, taking him where she wants him, pushing and guiding him. He responds with pressure, with rhythm, with a hardness that does not try to be elegant. There are no words; they would be noise amid the clash of breaths.

The table protests with the first serious demand: one leg gives way, another resists. He drags it to find better support and the tabletop creaks, groans and, in one movement, breaks enough to make the whole thing uneven. Splinters fly in tiny particles. The two fall half a meter; the impact elicits a raw gesture, an exhalation that is a mixture of surprise and will. They do not stop: the floor offers its hardness and teaches limits that force them to recompose their posture. The fall reorganizes the anatomy of the encounter, but does not stop it. They continue, with short movements, with measured pushes and pulls that do not ask permission. The house registers every collision: a chair tips over and leaves a stain of skin on the carpet; a lamp is tilted; the wall receives a new scratch that did not exist before.

The floor is unforgiving. There is stone under the knees, hardness on the elbows; friction leaves immediate marks. The rhythm shortens, becomes denser; there is no need to describe what is happening, because the noise—the sharp blows of hands and hips, the short gasps, the cut-off sighs—constructs the scene with sufficient clarity. Virka lets out a restrained sound, a muffled cry that does not beg and does not require permission. Her hands dictate the pace: she pushes, brakes, drags, holds. At times she takes control, at times she relinquishes it; he responds with the same alternation, with the skill of someone who knows when to hold on and when to let go. The smell of sweat mixes with that of chlorine, which they will later remember in the pool; the dining room, a witness, begins to look more like a training area than a formal dining room.

The marks appear and speak without asking for explanations: red lines on the skin where the nails have left their mark; small bites that signal nonverbal agreements; scrapes that will burn tomorrow. There are no apologies; there is no apparent tenderness. There is an honesty of movement: both register the other's body as if it were a work tool. The contact feels full, closed, like an operation that does not allow for failure. Breathing becomes a metronome: short, deep, repeated. There is no future in those minutes; only the task of keeping up the pace.

"Don't stop," says Virka, close to his ear, without a hint of theatricality. He does not respond with words. The load is a natural movement: he lifts her with a precise gesture, holds her against his chest as if carrying equipment, and they head for the hallway, leaving behind a trail of splinters and scattered clothing. They cross the dim light that outlines their bodies; sweat draws paths that shine on their skin. The house seems to make way for them, as if it understands that what is happening there does not need spectators. The presence panel raises the intensity of the light by one point, and the reflection on the ceiling shows their progress in a clear line.

The hallway leads them without negotiation to the indoor pool. Along the way, there are collisions against the smooth wall, pushes that upset their balance and are resolved with a stolen kiss and a firm shove. She, hanging from his neck, keeps her thighs tight; one hand holds her hair at the nape of her neck in a gesture that simultaneously commands and demands. There are no pauses: the sliding door gives way and the echo of the water arrives before the sight of the edge.

The water receives them without surprise; there is no jump or fall, only the cold envelope that does not extinguish the fire but contains it. Sunk up to their chests, the surface offers them another law: buoyancy redistributes forces, demands adjustments. Beneath the skin of the water, bodies move in different patterns: firm grips seeking anchorage, turns that prevent loss of rhythm, pushes that raise small waves noticed by the ceiling. Floating forces them to use their legs differently; their shoulders work differently, their thighs burn sooner. Their hands slip and grip, so they close more tightly. Fingers hunt for grips on the stone edge, on the metal ladder, on any fold that can serve as support. The sound of water is constant, a succession of low blows when a movement breaks the surface.

Virka directs with minimal details: a touch on the chin, a barely perceptible turn of the hip, the tension in the hand holding the back of the neck. He responds as if he had been trained to read these signs: he adjusts angles, corrects impulses, holds on when the water steals balance, yields when her body asks for control. There is no pretense of tenderness; there is a tactical exchange that nevertheless allows for a fraction of a touch on the cheek that lasts as long as it lasts and then disappears. Sometimes she is on top of him, sometimes he is on top of her; no matter the position, the evidence is the same: breaths that quicken again, light blows against the edge, small explosions when a movement breaks the surface. They are not seeking aesthetics. They are seeking continuity, endurance, the ability to continue until the muscle says enough.

The intensity does not escalate to a decorative climax; it stabilizes on a high, hard plateau where persistence is the measure. Staying there is exercise: repeating, sustaining, recovering, repeating. The water cushions and prolongs. When the force begins to yield, it does so without defeat: it is a consequence. The body surrenders to physics and the steam begins to draw a curtain around the two of them. Breathing takes time to settle; the skin, freshly marked, itches with salt and chlorine. The red signals light up again with the friction of the water, as if the skin were demanding its own attention.

They float for a few minutes without excessive movement; they use the edge as support, her head resting on his chest. Their heartbeats feel clear, intimate in their rhythm. He runs his hand down her back once, a gesture of recognition, not of promise. They don't speak. They don't make gestures that they want to turn into a story tomorrow. Only that dense, true silence that follows physical exhaustion. They dry themselves slowly with their eyes and bodies; there is no rush to return to public form. When they stand up, the water dripping from their bodies leaves a trail on the stone floor that rises to the bench and disappears in drops.

"Five minutes," he says, without tone.

"Five," she replies, just as flatly.

They make no grand plans. They know that tomorrow the table will be replaced and the house will return to its service. They gather their clothes where they left them: a jacket deliberately trampled by her, his tie forgotten for later. They walk down the hallway covered in steam, without words to explain what happened; they let the house return to its usual rhythm. Valentina sleeps upstairs; her breathing marks another cadence. Narka hasn't moved, but her presence weighs heavily, silent.

The final image remains in the water: the drops running down their shoulders, the dimensional ring barely glinting on her hand, the broken reflection on the surface closing again. The dining room behind, with splinters and footprints, is now something else: a place to repair. Here, in the pool, the scene ends; here, between the steam and the stone, the night ends, seeking neither reconciliation nor confession, only the momentary repose of spent strength.

The Solis mansion awoke under a silence that seemed to prolong dreams. The steam from the pool rose slowly, turning golden under the first rays of the sun, and the light coming through the windows did not hurt: it caressed. The warm water retained the memory of the night, but there was no longer any tension or desire, only an extended stillness reminiscent of the earth's repose after a storm. Sebastián and Virka slept there, in the liquid center of calm, naked not out of intimacy, but because the body had ceased to be armor. Their breathing mingled in the same cadence, and the surface of the water barely moved with their rhythm. That dawn did not look upon them with judgment, but with a serenity that seemed to have forgiven them. Their skin, marked by the night, reflected the light as if the blows and exhaustion had been replaced by a deeper, almost sacred weariness: that of those who had finally found an hour without violence. There were no thoughts, no purpose, no shadow of desire; only that absolute rest that comes when the body stops resisting and the soul, for a moment, allows itself to be silent.

In the upper room, Valentina awoke before the light filled the windows. Narka's deep, steady breathing marked a nearby rhythm, like the echo of a sleeping mountain. She blinked several times, searching the darkness for Virka's familiar contours, but the place next to her bed was empty. The air still smelled of her: warm metal, skin, something she couldn't name but that reassured her. She sat up slowly, her bare feet on the cold floor, and looked around the room. The curtains moved slightly. The house seemed alive, breathing with soft sounds that Valentina mistook for whispers. Curiosity drove her forward without fear: she wasn't looking to understand, just to find. She walked toward the hallway with short steps, letting the echo blend with the distant murmur.

On her journey, her small eyes witnessed things she did not understand as adults did. She saw a splintered table, an overturned chair, scattered clothes. Where others would see traces of disorder or sin, she saw only traces of life. Each mark on the floor was a tiny story to her, a movement that asked for no explanation. The dining room, still permeated with the smell of broken wood, looked to her like a field after a dance. She touched one of the splinters curiously and smiled. In her mind, nothing was broken; everything had form, even chaos. The adult world filtered through her eyes, but she did not judge it. In her innocence, destruction was not evil, just energy that had passed through. That pure, guilt-free interpretation was what kept her intact amid the rubble of the adult world.

Her search led her to the corridor leading to the indoor pool. The air changed: it became more humid, warmer. The light of dawn spilled across the walls, reflecting fragments of gold on the tiles. Valentina walked forward until the steam enveloped her, and there, among the motionless waves, she found them. Sebastián and Virka slept in the water, embracing each other. Their bodies looked like sculptures formed by the night and bathed by the sun. There was no shame in that vision, no suggestion; it was a scene of primitive peace, a pause between before and after. The marks on their bodies were visible, but the dawn transformed them into warm, almost luminous traces. Valentina looked at them for a long time and smiled with the serenity of someone contemplating something right. To her childish logic, this was affection, not desire; it was love translated into rest.

With that innocent certainty, she decided to approach them. The impulse did not arise from curiosity, but from the desire to belong to that moment. She took off her clothes with clumsy movements, folding them as she had seen adults do, and approached the edge. The water seemed like a large, friendly mirror. She took a breath and jumped. The splash broke the silence with a clear, crystalline sound. The waves spread until they touched the sleeping bodies, and the water, as it moved, seemed to gently wake them. Sebastian opened his eyes first, without startling. Virka followed with a slow blink. They both turned their heads and saw her floating, her white hair spread out like a thread of light on the surface.

Valentina smiled.

"Good morning," she said, with that voice that still doesn't understand the weight of the hours.

Sebastián slowly sat up, the water sliding down his torso like liquid armor. Virka, next to him, settled in without haste, watching the girl move through the waves. There was no nervousness in her gestures. The scene was so pure that even modesty seemed like a mistake. Valentina watched them intently, without fear. As she approached, she noticed the reddish marks that still covered part of both their skin and tilted her head.

"Why are you so marked, Daddy Sebastián... Mommy Virka?" she asked, without malice or shame.

Sebastian looked at her with the calmness of someone who understands the fragility of such a question. Virka looked down at the water, and for a moment a wordless language passed between them. There was no way to explain what those marks meant; not yet. But they couldn't lie to her either. Sebastian spoke softly, his voice deep as a submerged stone.

"They're training marks, little one."

She nodded without hesitation. In her mind, that made sense. Life itself, for her, was practice. She moved closer and hugged them, wrapping her slender arms around them both. The contact was warm, real. Virka stroked her hair with a tenderness she rarely showed, and Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the embrace to exist without resistance. In that circle of three bodies—the warrior, the beast, and the girl—the world seemed to suspend its judgment.

From the stone edge, a shadow began to grow. The air vibrated with a deep, ancient sound. Narka emerged with the slowness of an awakening mountain, her dark shell dripping water as if she were dragging the weight of another era. The red veins on her body glowed in the light of dawn, and her presence filled the space with a solemnity that needed no words. It took a step forward and stopped at the edge, observing the three. Its golden eyes did not blink, but there was something like a smile in them. Without warning, it submerged. The water stirred with a heavy but harmonious movement, as if a fragment of the ancient world had decided to bathe in calm. There was no shock: only vibration. The pool welcomed him without resistance, and the steam mingled with his mineral breath.

Virka, Sebastián, and Valentina looked at him with the familiarity of those who see a guardian return. Narka emerged partially, his gigantic face in front of them, and for a few seconds they communicated without words: an invisible synchronicity, a communion made of presences. None of them needed to speak. In that silence there was absolute understanding.

Meanwhile, dawn continued to break through the windows. The light entered in golden beams that fell on the water and mingled with the crimson reflections of Narka's shell. Each breath seemed to be part of the same pulse, a joint vibration that united the air, the stone, the water, and their bodies. Sebastián observed this image and understood that, for the first time in a long time, the world was complete. Not in victory, nor in domination, but in balance. Virka rested her head on his shoulder; Valentina, between them, closed her eyes with a small smile. Narka remained motionless, as if guarding the scene. No one spoke. There was no need to.

The sun rose slowly, bathing the surface of the pool in liquid gold. The reflections spread across the walls, and the calm that had been born of exhaustion transformed into something more lasting: a silent promise. At that moment, neither the past could reach them nor the future claim them. There was only that suspended present, that peace that is not earned by merit but by attrition, by having resisted long enough to deserve it. Outside, the house breathed in time with them. The distant sea murmured its echo of eternity. And beneath the golden steam, four presences shared the same heartbeat: three human hearts and one immortal shadow, united by the simple certainty of still being alive.

The water remained still. Dawn enveloped them. And the world, for a moment, seemed to reconcile with itself.

The water moved slightly, as if awakening from a long sleep. The golden reflections covering the surface broke into fine lines when a bubble rose from the bottom and burst silently. Sebastián opened his eyes without urgency; the world stretched out before him with the calm that only fatigue can bring. Virka rested a few steps away, leaning against the stone edge, her gaze lost among the ripples. Valentina floated in the middle, playing with her submerged hands, catching the fragments of light that glided like tiny fish on the water. Narka remained motionless at the opposite end, her wet shell reflecting the sunrise, breathing like a hill that has not yet decided to move. Nothing seemed to demand action. Until Virka's voice broke the balance, soft but firm, the tone of someone who commands without needing to impose themselves. "Come here, little one." Valentina raised her head, drops on her eyelashes. It's time for your real bath. The girl smiled, advanced with small, clumsy strokes, and Virka received her in her arms, holding her with just enough strength so as not to break her.

She opened a bottle resting on the shore: a pale pink shampoo with children's drawings on the label. The scent of sweet fruit mingled with the smell of warm water and clean stone. It was a tiny object, but it symbolized something greater: the change that the mansion had undergone. Before, that place had only the essentials for survival; now, thanks to the care that Selena and Helena had brought months ago, there were lotions, soft towels, little things that spoke of life. Virka poured the liquid into her hand and applied it to Valentina's hair. The white foam formed slowly, reflecting flashes of gold. Valentina laughed and tried to imitate Virka's movements, but the foam covered her eyes, and she closed her eyelids with a gesture of surrender. "Be still," Virka murmured patiently, with that mixture of harshness and affection that only she knew how to balance. Her hands, which were claws in combat, were now instruments of calm. Narka watched the scene from the edge, motionless. Her golden gaze held the solemnity of ancient witnesses. The air filled with a faint perfume, and for a moment the space lost its natural violence.

Sebastián rose from the water. Steam clung to his dark skin, marking his tense muscles. There was no modesty in his nakedness: his body was a tool to him, not an ornament. He walked toward the stone steps as the drops fell heavily at his feet, marking an irregular rhythm on the marble. Narka followed him, emerging slowly. Together they advanced toward the corridor, leaving behind the sound of water and the girl's laughter. As they crossed the glass door, the sun hit them head-on, covering them with warm light. Their shadows were cast long on the floor, like two presences that the house recognized. They reached the damaged dining room: there, the remains of the broken table preserved the memory of the previous night. On a chair, carelessly folded, were Sebastián's clothes and Virka's garments. Sebastián bent down, picked up his black jacket and shirt, and began to get dressed. Each movement was precise, without drama. Narka, a few feet away, shook off the water with a controlled twist; the air vibrated, the drops shot out like tiny crystals, but nothing broke. The mansion seemed to accept her strength, as if it had learned to breathe it in.

Dressed and with the dimensional ring glowing faintly on his finger, Sebastián crossed the hallway to the kitchen. The change in atmosphere was abrupt: from damp stone to shiny steel. The mansion's industrial kitchen was a new space, built with state-of-the-art technology. The metal walls reflected his figure as he turned on the panels. Steam began to escape from the valves with a low hiss. He heated milk, cut fruit, toasted bread. His hands moved with the precision of someone trained not to waste energy. The smell of breakfast spread through the ventilation ducts, reaching the pool. As he worked, he watched his reflection on the surface of the steel. For a moment, the man looking back did not look like a warrior, but someone learning to sustain a life without breaking it.

In the pool, Virka continued with the bath. She rinsed Valentina's hair and used a light lotion that left her skin glowing. The girl closed her eyes, relaxed. Virka held her with one hand while with the other she squeezed the water from her own black hair, which fell in thick strands down her back. Her naked body, bathed in light, had a beauty that was neither human nor complacent: it was the natural expression of who she was, a perfect form born of instinct and strength. Valentina opened her eyes and looked at her with quiet admiration. "All done," Virka said finally, lifting her out of the water and wrapping her in a white towel. She carried her with ease, the contrast between the girl's skin and her own pale skin forming a picture of unusual purity. She walked toward the hallway, leaving a trail of steam behind her.

She arrived in the dining room naked, her body glistening in the slanting sunlight. She placed Valentina on a chair and spread the towel so she wouldn't feel cold. There were her clothes, where Sebastián had left them. As she picked up hers, he appeared from the hallway, freshly dressed, his hair still damp. They looked at each other in silence. There were no words for that form of recognition; it was a language of bodies that understand each other effortlessly. Sebastián approached her, took her by the waist, and kissed her. It was a brief, controlled kiss, more promise than impulse. The tension dissolved into the air, and when they separated, Virka held his gaze with a firmness that needed no tenderness to be love. Behind them, Valentina smiled, not fully understanding. Sebastián leaned toward her and kissed her on the forehead. The girl hugged him around the neck. On his shoulder, Narka—in her reduced form—watched quietly, her golden eyes blinking once, as if approving of the scene.

They ate together on the floor, next to the window. Light filled the dining room, reflecting off the broken surfaces and making them beautiful. Valentina ate happily; Virka watched the horizon; Sebastián remained silent. There was no ritual, no protocol: just shared food and presence. When they finished, Virka wiped the girl's face with the corner of a napkin and stood up. "Let's go," she said.

Outside the mansion, a vehicle was waiting for them. It was no ordinary vehicle, but an elegant, metallic, silent transport designed for them. The door opened with a slight hum. Valentina got in first, her uniform impeccable. Virka followed, still drying her hair, and finally Sebastián, with Narka on his shoulder. The interior of the vehicle smelled of new metal and cold air. When the doors closed, the mansion was left behind, bathed in daylight. Inside, Valentina looked out the window at the city stretching out in endless lines. Sebastián rested a hand on his head. Virka, next to them, kept her gaze fixed ahead. The vehicle moved silently along the stone path. And as the world awoke beyond the walls, they set off for the second day, carrying with them a calm that, for the first time, needed no defense.

The vehicle stopped in front of the institute like a dark fish beaching itself on a shore of voices. The main gate breathed new order and fresh paint, but the entire structure exhaled the weariness of places that have learned to feign righteousness. Sebastián got out first, feeling the hidden pulse of the campus under his soles; it was not a heartbeat, it was a scattered vibration, a murmur of traffic that did not belong to the children or the teachers. Valentina got out next, backpack on her shoulder, uniform clean, eyes open as if the world were made for her. Virka came out last, still naked of any human mask, enveloped in a light that asked no permission: her beauty was not an ornament but a natural state, a certainty that even the adults watching from afar could not name and, for that very reason, preferred to ignore. The morning breeze, laden with urban dust and old sea salt, crossed the courtyard and left a metallic taste on the tongue. Narka, reduced to his minimal form, tilted his golden head over Sebastián's shoulder, and his deep, almost mineral voice dropped an observation that did not break the air, but densified it: "The energy here smells like old shadow." There were no comments, only Sebastián's slight nod, a gesture accepted by the ancient shell as if both had remembered, at the same time, that calmness is also investigated. Then Narka slid toward the zipper of the backpack and disappeared inside, with a touch that seemed like play to Valentina and gave shape to the structure of the day: hidden protection, patient eyes under childish fabric. The girl laughed unsuspectingly and adjusted the strap on her shoulder. They went inside.

The reception area had an order that seemed improvised to conceal the original disorder: tables with campus maps, printed brochures with rules, screens showing orientation routes for new students. It was the second day, and like any institution that wants to believe in its efficiency, the institute devoted the first part of the day to adaptation: freedom on the surface, tutors still in training, groups mixing, faces repeating themselves until they became anchors. A guard with a tense jaw and polite gaze gestured courteously toward the general registry; he wore a metal bracelet with a symbol that to a distracted eye would have seemed decorative. Virka looked at him as one might measure a blade and kept walking. Sebastián walked through the lobby without stopping and mentally noted exits, cameras, blind spots, handrails that could be used, a ceiling with modular panels, side doors with maintenance access; his mind divided the architecture into options. Valentina squeezed Virka's hand for a second and then let go with the naturalness of someone who trusts that adults will remain close even if the world disperses. A murmur of children filled the air like the buzzing of a docile swarm. The three crossed the threshold into the central courtyard.

The campus breathed spaciousness. At that hour, the freedom to adapt resembled a marketplace of possibilities: on the side of the courts, a self-defense workshop cast shadows on the cement; under an awning, a group practiced local rhythms and dances; beyond, tables with drawings, cultural posters, brief science exhibitions made with borrowed materials and real enthusiasm; in the background, a track where the elders measured their endurance with strides of fragile self-sufficiency. Normality seemed authentic if one did not pay attention to the finer details. Sebastián and Virka walked among the groups with a naturalness that came not from pretense but from control; they did not need to look human, they needed to look inevitable. Valentina integrated into her children's section effortlessly: her laughter mingled with that of the other children and her white hair, backlit, looked like a trail of chalk in the air. Virka allowed herself to look at her for two seconds longer than necessary; she didn't smile, but something in her face—the softness of a line that no one else would have noticed—suggested an internal nod of approval. Then she followed Sebastián toward the older children's pavilions.

Freedom also causes disorder. Among the older students, there were groups who avoided eye contact, laughter muffled in shadowy corners, footsteps unsure whether to move forward or hide. The smell of fruit from the temporary stalls mingled, subtly and persistently, with a metallic undertone that did not belong to the morning. Virka detected it as one recognizes a footprint on stone: she inhaled, pierced the air with her gaze, and shifted her attention to the north corridor, where the breeze pushed that chemical profile with strange obedience. Sebastián registered the flow of students between buildings and, without changing his pace, measured imbalances in their gait, bursts of distracted attention, fingers holding, letters passing, minimal gestures of exchange at the edges of his vision. "Too much disorder for a second day," he thought without articulating, as if the thought had to pass through his skin before it could become language. As they turned a corner, they saw a wall with almost invisible scratches at hip height: lines in sequence, an interrupted triangle, a mark that simulated a defect in the plaster but was not. It was a sign. The places that hide distribution veins make maps with crumbs: they do not trust memory, they teach the walls to remember.

The mission breathed inside like a door opening without a sound. It was neither vision nor dream, but a useful memory that fit. Selena and Helena had defined it with three sentences that brooked no reply: "Cleanup project. Infiltration and tracking. Identify the Crimson compound channel within the campus. No intervention until internal network confirmed." No rhetoric, just function. The last line, the one that sticks like a splinter in the mind, had been more severe: "The drug moves among those who believe they are protecting order." Sebastián remembered it as he watched the courtyard fill with simulated colors and listened, behind the music, to a beat that belonged to no instrument. Virka finally spoke, in that voice of hers that never begs or asks, but only affirms with the certainty of someone who has smelled the blood of the world: "They call it a study, but it smells like ruin." He responded with a nod of his chin, enough to signify in the air the continuation of his task.

The façade demands trades that do not contradict its purpose. To blend in without diverting attention, Sebastián accepted a brief invitation to the defense sector: three basic movements, a posture correction, a demonstration that did not exceed the limits of what was acceptable. His hands guided a boy to take the weight on his feet; the force applied was exact, in proportion to teaching, not domination. Curious glances surrounded him and, from the periphery, two pairs of eyes lingered too long on the scene: they were not learning, they were weighing. Virka chose a different workshop, a tent for observing mystical species where the general fascination was a disguise for measuring resistance. She did not look at the specimens; she measured the observers: breaths cut short in the moment of amazement, fingers trembling not from fear but from mild withdrawal, a dry throat-clearing that betrayed a throat battered by dust. Three young people moved in coordination as if they had not rehearsed, as if coming from the same hole were a habit and not a plan. One wore a metal bracelet on his wrist with the same design as the guard's armband: a minimal pattern, easy to mistake for a school logo. Too visible to be casual, too inconspicuous for an adult without a reason. Virka did not follow them with her feet; she marked them with her gaze, and the mark remained.

The morning matured into a midday that seemed longer in the courtyards than in the rest of the world. The sun beat down on the windows with a brightness that forced people to squint, and the campus, full of movement, stopped for a few minutes to eat. The freedom shaped by the institution granted a pause: the little ones received trays of warm food; the older ones, time to continue their theater of independence. Valentina sat with her classmates in the open courtyard, and the backpack—with Narka inside—rested beside her like an animal pretending to be made of cloth so as not to disturb anyone. Sometimes, when the girl laughed, the zipper vibrated slightly, as if the shell responded to the sound with the language of minerals. Sebastián and Virka ate apart, without distracting anyone with their presence; they chose a shady spot in a corridor leading to the north wing. From there, the choreography of lunch looked like a map of currents inside an aquarium: groups mixing, currents touching, and suddenly, a line moving away toward a side door marked "maintenance." Two, three, five older students slipped through that entrance with the naturalness of those who repeat the route without ever being questioned. Virka carefully inhaled the air in that area: the scent of school soap and disinfectant could not quite hide the hint of metal and ash. Sebastián tilted his head, not to look, but to listen: in that direction, the sounds had a slight delay, as if they were passing through a duct filter. It was a clue.

The school demanded order in its own language. A digital bell cut the pause and summoned groups to tutors who had finally been assigned, schedules that were beginning to exist, hallways that were once again tracing their straight lines. The freedom of adaptation folded like an awning and revealed the real structure underneath. Just then, as Valentina was guided to her classroom by a woman with a kind voice and a tired back, as the older students pretended to dispense affection they did not feel and the teachers repeated instructions with faith in the usefulness of repetition, Sebastián and Virka left the general flow with a naturalness that required no secrecy: a drift toward the less beautiful side of the day. The maintenance access to the north wing was not closed, just unfamiliar; the hallway smelled of fine dust and tools that almost no one uses. They climbed a narrow staircase, black iron with peeling paint, and the noise of the school became a watery murmur that did not bother them. Above, a door with a tired hinge opened toward the ceiling.

From the roof, the campus was a board. The little ones' playground like a container of light; the courts like surfaces of glass shattered by lines of shadow; the cultural tents bending in the wind; the corridors like veins carrying sounds in both directions. Height does not embolden those who understand its weight: it only gives perspective. Virka took the first step on the grainy surface and left no visible footprint; Sebastián followed her, and his shadow, cast on the adjacent block, looked like an ancient signature. They did not run: they moved with the economy of predators who have not forgotten that silence is a weapon. They jumped from one roof to another with contained precision, their bodies folding and unfolding just enough. The air smelled different there: not like the courtyard, not like sweat, not like detergent. Like circuitry. Following the edge of a secondary wing, they found ventilation grilles whose mesh was not covered in dust from age, but with glass from use. At first glance, nothing. They looked closer: at the joints, a slight shine, an inappropriate blue, a fine grain embedded in the imperfection of the metal. Virka pressed a corner with two fingers and the piece gave way as if it had been waiting. The inside of the duct gave off a cold breath that smelled of a mixture: cheap solvent, some resin, that blue with a name they didn't say. Sebastián took a small, dull container out of the ring and scraped enough with the edge of a glove for the dust to fall inside like fake snow. He sealed it. The gesture was clean, without fanfare. They looked around: two other grates with the same hue. The network did not hide; it had become accustomed to the habit of no one looking up.

Downstairs, lunch had given way to that murmur that institutions confuse with concentration: muffled voices behind doors, hurried footsteps of those who miss class, instructions given out of habit. From the ceiling, those sounds were a uniform texture where anything different stood out like a pinprick. Three blocks away, above the science lab, a larger duct vibrated at a minimal frequency, an exhalation every thirty seconds that did not correspond to the ventilation planned for the climate: it was the pulse of an extra device, added without consulting the law of architecture. Sebastián pointed with his chin. Virka had already seen it; what stopped her was not the target, but the economy of the route to get there without leaving a greeting to chance. They took a route cutting through the maintenance panels, a corridor open to the sky where the shadows of the masts drew blades on the ground. Between one jump and another, the wind carried a phrase that did not belong to any class: "Delivery in the north, second. No sign." They did not know where it had come from, but they knew what it meant: the network spoke its usual language, that of the unsigned agreement.

The main duct showed signs of recent tampering: freshly marked screws, tape seals with clean glue, edges without cobwebs of memory. Virka put her ear to it and listened, not to noise, but to molded absence: behind it there was no stagnant air, there was occupied volume. Sebastián, without dismantling a single piece, placed the container with the blue powder next to the grate, as if the object did not want to leave the place where it had been born. He closed it. Sometimes, following the thread requires leaving a memory behind. Sometimes, the day allows you to leave a hook where no one is looking. The operation was not a raid, it was a question asked with hands. Their eyes met for a second and, in that moment, they confirmed that the language between them still needed no translation.

Meanwhile, the other half of her world breathed without suspicion. In the children's playground, Valentina had finished her lunch and, standing on a painted line, was showing two classmates how her drawing of the sea had a wave that seemed to move when you tilted the paper. The backpack, next to her, kept the zipper at rest. Inside, Narka was not sleeping: she was listening with her body like a stone, which is a slower but more faithful way of hearing. Through the fabric, she could sense vibrations that people mistake for campus music: footsteps that weigh differently when carrying something forbidden, throat patterns that reveal a dust that is not flour, that nuance of tone adopted by those who make a pact with fear and still believe that fear is alien to them. She didn't speak. It was enough for her to remember, to herself, that even clean places hold stagnant water in tile joints.

They looked at her again from above, as if reviewing the reason why a sword remains in its sheath. Virka, her hair stuck to the back of her neck from the honest sweat of action, looked toward the horizon of the campus, and her gaze, which had demanded blood in the night, now demanded accuracy. "This is not a distributor," she said, barely opening her mouth, as if the air were not invited to hear. "It's an incubator." Sebastián added no words; he nodded like someone who weighs the weight of a word and decides not to spare any muscle. The roofs reflected heat, the wind changed scent as the sun declined, and the school below seemed to return to its pattern of order. They had found dust in the building's breath. They had found their way.

Then the afternoon began to bend, not over them, but over the school's idea of itself. A tutor called the older students to new classrooms, and in that wave of functional movement, the small chain of young people they had seen hours earlier slipped back into a nameless corridor, as if continuing a ritual that needed no sanctuary. Sebastián memorized two faces: eyes that avoid glances so as not to recognize mirrors, lips that tell stories without speaking. Virka memorized a perfume: that chemical detour she had learned to separate from the rest. They agreed with a gesture on the plan for the night: non-intervention. The day could still tell them something more if they didn't hurt it. And beneath all that decision, a child's murmur crossed the courtyard and climbed up the wall, reached the edge of the roof and stayed there, as if the school itself wanted to preserve its only truth: Valentina's laughter rose and fell cleanly, and for a brief moment, almost indecent in its beauty, everything seemed to make sense.

The end of the first half of the day was not a closure; it was a deep breath before the next step. Sebastián picked up a piece of blue glass with two fingers from another grate and left it where it belonged, in its little metal hell; he filed away the gesture, not the trophy. Virka looked toward the side maintenance door, the same one that had revealed the false steps at lunchtime, and heard something that was not sound: the promise of a nighttime journey along the same lines, with silence as a map and height as a guarantee. Below, Valentina lifted the sheet of her drawing to wave goodbye, and the edge of the paper fluttered like a signal. Inside the backpack, Narka opened her golden eye in the darkness and closed it again with the patience of someone who doesn't need to see to watch. They said no more. The institute, at the perfect distance, seemed—at last—like something they would breathe in their own way: neither as victims nor as intruders, but as surgeons who understand that the first movement of the scalpel is to accept the pulse of the skin they are about to cut.

The rooftop bid them farewell with a silence that seemed unnatural, as if the building had kept a clean breath for itself and offered it only to those who knew how to ask for it quietly. The sun had surrendered to the afternoon and left a warm memory on the stone roof; in that memory, Sebastián adjusted the ring on his finger, noticed the subtle vibration that brought back names in the darkness and the certainty that the night, far from being an absence, was going to be his most decisive ally. Virka felt the surface with her fingertips, not looking for warmth but for texture, listening to the law of materials, understanding from the friction whether boots had walked across the roof that very hour. Narka, compressed in Valentina's backpack like a living fossil, made a sound that was more sensation than word, which Sebastián understood as a nod of agreement. They descended the service staircase silently, like those who have learned to detach their shadows from their bodies before the world notices them; the first flight filled them with air that did not ask permission to be dense: the maintenance corridor smelled of metal and engine dust and that primitive solvent found in places where things that should not be seen are hidden. They were not equipped with ostentatious weapons; their tools were gestures, glances, and the certainty that whoever controls calm controls the ambush.

The campus changed as evening fell: haste arrived disguised as order, and the students who had been playing in the light now filled classrooms with the solemnity of those who occupy a predetermined role. Sebastián and Virka separated with the slowness of those who do not confuse speed with efficiency. She took a corridor that smelled of recent cleaning and paint, a place where habit had erased footprints; he went to find the route where they had seen the older students slip away, a side entrance that connected the service quarters to the north wing. In his pocket, the ring pulsed with more than just information: it picked up small signals, memorized fragments. It was not technology that deserved to be explained aloud; it was memory contained on a silent disc. They went down to the threshold of a door marked for technical use, and there they waited, like someone waiting for the wrong voice to pass by their ear. From inside the building came the murmur of footsteps that were not schoolchildren's: a restrained, measured rhythm, the pace of those who have made exchange a choreography rather than a necessity.

The first contact was a small echo, without theatrical violence, almost a correction of the atmosphere: two or three figures that had emerged from behind a line of shadow and took the side exit with the naturalness of those who know the route. There was no haste in their movements, but there was a cadence of repetition that Sebastián found irritating, like a song stuck in the memory of the building. They followed them through the shadows of the ducts, close to the walls where the darkness was thickest; they did not need to hide, they needed to be inevitable. In a corridor lit only by an emergency lamp, they caught up with them: not torsos, only profiles that were silhouetted by the brevity of the artificial light. The interception was a work of hands and silence: a hand over the mouth that does not silence the sound but regulates it, an arm that tilts the body toward the coldness produced by the truth, a voice that does not shout but names the fault with the serenity of one who passes sentence. "It's not in your best interest to scream," Sebastián murmured, so quietly that his words commanded the respect usually reserved for oaths. Virka, with her commanding presence, stood beside him like a wall; her gaze did not seek blows, but rather the slightest gesture that would betray a lie: a dry tongue, an evasive look, rapid breathing that was not typical of children. The young man who belonged to them was no older than the night would have us cruelly believe; he had the tenderness of someone who had come to lose himself, not to take possession. There were no blows, because it was not the time for visible wounds; there was pressure, fingers on collarbones, a chill running down the spine and forcing a confession of the geography of one's own mistake.

Virka spoke, and her voice was something he would never forget: true to her nature, her tone appealed not to pity but to clarity. "Tell me who gave you this," she ordered, the phrase stitched with calm. The young man tried two names that were not names but murmurs. Sebastián did not need impulsiveness; he used the law of time: he let silence fill the gaps and doubt settle in the throat of the interrogated like a bird waiting to be fed in order to sing. Calmly, he extracted a tiny spark from the ring: a light that did not show itself, that only grazed, like someone who takes a fingerprint and puts it on paper without anyone seeing the operation. The disc was stored; the sample was archived in a container that was more a box of silence than an instrument. "You are not guilty in spirit," said Sebastián, the phrase so measured that it sounded like a factual promise. "You are a tool. Have they taught you to copy the voices of those in charge? The boy, worn down by the fatigue of someone who has surrendered to something he does not understand, blurted out a real name: an address, a nickname, a reference that was only a thread in a larger fabric. He said it without understanding that this word would later be the light that would illuminate other corners.

They weren't interested in blood: they were interested in the network. The network is not dismantled with anger; it is discovered with patience, marked with signs that only those who know how to read can find. Virka, with fingers that once broke ribs, marked the wall with a tiny sign—a barely visible parallel line, a mark that the light would only recognize if they looked for it. It was the signature of those who clean without showing their faces: a way of remembering that this spot had been visited and that the next time, if the network returned, it would find a reckoning. The young man was wrapped in a cloth that did not hurt him but immobilized him. They did not take him far; they left him in a clean room, safe, with a note he could not read and should not read. If the network claimed him, the note would be the key; if not, it served as a warning. The operation, in its first phase, had to be anonymous so that the network would believe that the threat was just hot air and that the territory could be reoccupied without risk. They didn't want the press; they wanted intelligence.

Meanwhile, on another floor of the building, Virka had followed another lead: a young man staring intently out the window, his breathing seemingly shaken by something he shouldn't have had in his mouth. She stopped him with a presence that was not threatening but decisive; she asked him to say a complete sentence out loud. The boy, confused by the calm, said made-up words that were commercials at night. Virka, with the precision of someone who knows the line between animal and person, needed no more: her questioning was simple and deadly in its effect: one question, then another, and another, formulated like soft blows that strip away the structure of the lie. There was no torture, no spectacle; there was the nakedness of truth. When he said the name of a classroom, everyone fell silent: confirmation. Sebastián, who had returned with the first young man, felt the importance of the word and understood that what they had given was enough to follow the trail, not to destroy the hive. The operation had to be surgical.

They returned, through the same shadows from whence they had come, to the areas of ducts that seemed to have hot spots. The network is not where it is seen, but behind what appears to be useful; there, improvised ovens, false vents, and windows used to pass packages are discovered. On one of the panels, they found a piece of plastic stuck with industrial tape, where the blue of the compound adhered as if it were a vein. Sebastian, wearing gloves that did not shine, took a sample with the delicacy of someone who picks a flower to find out its name and places it in the ring container: a gesture that contained evidence and, at the same time, made it intangible to any police officer who might come in and search for it with their mouth. The disc archived the fragments and turned them into something that only their eyes would be able to read when they projected them in the dim light of the mansion. They didn't want public exposure; they wanted it hidden.

The guy who ran the incubator was not a visible name; it was a custom in which custody and commerce were mixed. They found evidence that the drug was not distributed by uncontrolled students but by groups that appeared to be protective: service personnel who knew the schedules, tutors who looked on with tolerance, adults who knew how to look the other way for a small payment. That was the deepest wound: the hand that washes the dirty one and signs off on the cleanliness. Virka looked at him with cold contempt and began to understand why sometimes human violence does not seek physical force but lukewarm complicity. The campus, on the outside, was light; on the inside, an incubator. With that image, Sebastián's chest tightened in a gesture that was not air but meant that the operation had dimensions that could exceed his simple cleaning plan.

The night, however, offered them other advantages. They had greater latitude to move around, and darkness, used well, was a cloak that hid both the guilty and those who purified. They began to use the geometry of the ceilings, the network of ducts, and the energy registry to move around as if playing with the building's topography. On one of those roofs, Virka found a recently sealed opening and recognized it with the certainty of someone who smells a lie: a metal cover whose seal bore tape marks and a number that did not correspond to the inventory. What followed was a suturing job: not opening it with blows, but leaving a tiny mark that would show anyone who wanted to understand that they had been there. They placed, in a spot invisible to the untrained eye, a label with a sequence of dots that did not spell out words to just anyone. For them, that sequence was a warning and a mark; for the network, it would be the first sign that someone knew.

They returned to the lower area with a sample archived and the mental evidence of the pattern. They had intercepted several young people, left a mark on the wall, collected faint blue particles, and, above all, understood that the "protective" staff was participating by omission. That omission was the real distributor. The operation had been carried out with the elegance of someone who harvests without making a sound, and its result was a box of evidence that needed no fanfare to be useful: they were fragments that, in their silence, demanded a second, much more precise round. Sebastián did not get carried away by the euphoria: a poorly executed mission opens up routes, and routes can become traps. Virka, for her part, made an almost imperceptible gesture: she took a small strip of cloth that no one had noticed before out of her backpack and held it up to the light; it was a sample that carried an ancient scent, and there were no words on her lips, but there was determination.

While they took stock of what they had obtained, the campus pulsed below with its deceptive normality: Valentina left her classroom with the joy of someone who had made a new drawing and ran to show it off. The backpack, without anyone suspecting, concealed the mineral presence of Narka who, in her reduced form, analyzed every pulse. When the girl approached Sebastián, he kissed her forehead tenderly and whispered that everything was fine; it was a small promise, a protective alibi that also served to silence the inner storm that any man who holds the safety of a child in his hands keeps inside. Then, without ceremony, they slipped away from view and returned to the mansion with steps that were not hurried but contained an ancestral urgency: it is not about arriving first, it is about arriving with your skin intact and with the map of the wound.

In the kitchen, the light was whiter than at the school; the steel gleamed with a cleanliness that Sebastián, as he placed the samples in a safe space in the ring, found jarring. It was not the feeling of someone who fears being discovered: it was the tension of someone who knows that each fragment now weighs like a stone of judgment. Virka, who had entered later, dried her hair with movements that did not diminish her dignity; her nakedness was not exhibitionism, it was truth. They placed the small blue capsules on the board without speaking. The ring cast a strip of light in the shadow of the kitchen where the specks appeared as if they were tiny stars: evidence retained, not exposed. They stored the names collected that afternoon as one stores seeds. It was a harvest that had to ripen: calling too soon would attract the response of those who guard their routes; waiting patiently would force the network to move and reveal its anatomy.

The night did not end calmly at the mansion. As they reviewed their notes and markings, they came across signs they would rather not have seen: a camera in one of the corridors of the north wing had recorded strange movement in a blind spot, and although the recordings were distorted by unnatural interference, something had left a luminous trace that was not random. It was unclear; they did not identify it as an open alert, just a dot that, if looked at patiently, could belong to them or could belong to those watching them. Virka saw it first: her gesture was a slight twitch of her jaw. Sebastian displayed the electronic sample with the same calmness used to turn on a spotlight. On the screen, the flicker showed a shadow that they did not know was their own or imposed; the sensation was like a breath cut short. No one called anyone; no one shouted; no one moved with the haste of fear. They had been partially observed, or perhaps the domestic building had activated a forgotten witness. In the dim light of the kitchen, the line between being the hunter and being observed became thin.

Narka peered out from the backpack with her golden eye barely open, like someone looking at the world from the edge of a dream. Her voice, low and mineral, uttered a phrase that was more warning than news: "There are eyes that do not sleep in their own darkness." Sebastián and Virka understood the breadth of the message without needing more. They had made the first purge: they marked the incubator, collected the evidence, left signs that someone had been there. But the scent of risk now clung to everything: the campus would continue to breathe with its apparent order and with the seeds of suspicion in its veins.

The decision was immediate and silent. It was not a time for celebration; it was a time to select names and build the patience of a larger fabric. They packed the evidence into the ring as if placing pearls in a wooden box and prepared for the night to come: a more precise operation, with alternate routes and clearer portraits. Before leaving, Sebastián placed his hand on Valentina's head and said, without drama, as if talking about something simple: "Hold on to what makes you draw waves." He didn't explain anything else; it was a small, human pact, the key to ensuring that the girl didn't know the weight that the adults carried. Outside, the mansion exhaled, the night closed in on her chest, and the city, as always, looked without knowing how to look.

The end of the night left a note that was neither shadow nor light: a minimal interference in one of the cameras, a short breath recorded in a blind spot, a signal that could be theirs or the others'. The building's matrix had not yet allowed its secret to be complete; something there, an old mechanism or an eye that did not like the habit of darkness, had tried to record an insistence. It was not an alarm; it was a warning. Virka understood it for what it was: an invitation to slow down the next step and increase precision. Sebastián picked up the ring and felt, for the first time in the operation, the chill of what could turn into war if someone decided that the incubator had to defend itself. They ended the day with the certainty that they had been useful and with the awareness that the landscape would respond, that the network already knew that its corridors had been touched. The mansion breathed with them, complicit and expectant, and the pulse of the city continued its march, unperturbed, as if nothing had happened.

___________________________

END OF CHAPTER 42

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