The pages containing Project Dualis seemed almost scorched in the safe, as if they had absorbed the intensity of the mind that conceived them.

  Mateo hadn’t touched them for three days. He needed distance. He needed time for the plan to settle, to test its own resilience before facing the harsher reality: his father.

  On the fourth day, he requested an audience.

  They met in the President’s private office. Here, Ricardo Guerrero shed his symbolic cloak. The room smelled of aged leather, expensive tobacco, and ink.

  The walls were lined with books on history and military theory, not art. This was a lion’s den in its truest form.

  His father stood by the window, watching the new gardener fuss with the hedges. He didn’t turn when Mateo entered.

  “The report from Puerto Cabellon indicates an eight percent increase in operational efficiency,” Ricardo said flatly. “Governor Miguel describes a calm that… feels suspicious. Like the calm before the storm.”

  “Or the calm after a thorough cleaning,” Mateo replied, closing the door softly. The click of the lock echoed like a challenge.

  Don Miguel had been appointed governor of Puerto Cabellon due to his services to the Guerrero family.

  Ricardo finally turned. His face looked older in the daylight, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper. “Your cleaning? Or Vargas’s?”

  “Both, perhaps. But that’s not what I came to discuss.”

  “I know,” Ricardo said, gesturing for him to sit before taking his own seat behind the massive, dark wooden desk. It was a fortress. “You have another plan. Something big. I can see it in your eyes. Like when you were a child, before you dismantled my antique clock just to see how it worked.”

  Mateo allowed a faint smile. “I promise this one won’t destroy the machinery of the state, Father. Quite the opposite. I want to build a safeguard within it.”

  He didn’t produce any documents. The plan was safely lodged in his mind. He started with the most persuasive approach: acknowledging the weaknesses.

  “Our palace is fragile,” Mateo began. “We rule from an empty symbol. Ten guards per wing? That’s not security—it’s an illusion. Vargas could send three armed men tonight, and they could reach Mother’s bedroom before the first alarm even sounds.”

  Ricardo made no denial. He merely tapped his fingers against the desk. “We have the army. Presidential guards.”

  “The army is loyal to the institution, to the idea of a ‘Republic.’ That can change. The Presidential Guard is loyal to the office. And offices can be taken. I’m talking about primal loyalty. Simpler. More fundamental.” Mateo leaned forward.

  “I’m talking about people who would die for the Guerrero family—not for the President or the Republic. Because they have no other concept. None.”

  Ricardo’s eyes narrowed. “Creating a personal force is dangerous. That’s a fast track to tyranny—or rebellion.”

  “This isn’t a personal force for conquest,” Mateo countered, calm but insistent. “It’s a two-layer shield and early warning system. One, visible, to deter ordinary threats and provide real security. The other, invisible, to detect danger before it even materializes… and to deal with it in the shadows, far from public eyes.”

  “Spies and executioners.”

  “Proactive intelligence and peacekeeping units,” Mateo corrected. “Every nation has them. Brittonia has MI9. Prussi has its unnamed intelligence offices. We will make ours… more integrated, with a laser-focused objective: the safety of the family and the stability of your administration.”

  Ricardo was silent for a long moment. He picked up his pipe, filling it with tobacco with slow, ritualistic motions. “You want me to grant you authority to recruit, train, and deploy a secret force under your sole command?”

  “Under our command,” Mateo emphasized. “You are President. You are the ultimate authority. But for operational efficiency, daily command must be centralized. With someone who understands both politics and the realities on the ground. I propose myself for that role. But”—he added before his father could interject—“I propose two operational commanders who will answer to me, whose legitimacy cannot be questioned.”

  “Who?”

  “For the visible unit—the Shield—I recommend Captain Raúl Mendoza.”

  Ricardo nodded slightly. Mendoza was a veteran loyalist from the early days against Mendez. A hard-line soldier whose devotion to Ricardo bordered on religious fervor. His blind loyalty was precisely what made him ideal.

  “And for the invisible unit?” Ricardo asked, lighting his pipe. Smoke curled between them like a gauzy barrier.

  “Colonel Felix.”

  Ricardo paused, smoke frozen in his lungs. His eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, pinned Mateo. “Felix. A soldier who avoids politics, whose neutrality makes him suspect to all sides.”

  “Exactly why he is perfect,” Mateo said. “This unit must remain free from internal political games. Felix sees it as a tool to prevent chaos, not as a ladder to power. He is intelligent, cold, and professional enough to run operations this way.”

  “He may refuse. He avoids anything personal,” Ricardo muttered.

  “So we frame it not as a personal task, but as a high-level national security and counterintelligence unit. With a written mandate from the President. That should interest a professional like him.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Ricardo inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke. “You’ve thought of everything, my son. I admit… I feel uneasy.”

  “Only the scenario, Father. Implementation depends entirely on your approval—and their willingness.”

  Finally, after a silence that felt like an hour, Ricardo nodded. “No written documents beyond the general mandate from me. And, ehm… you take full responsibility. If this blows up, it’s on you. Not me.”

  It wasn’t a curse. It was recognition. A transfer of responsibility and trust. Mateo nodded. “Understood.”

  “Do it. And make sure Mendoza and Felix don’t try to kill each other at their first meeting.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  ***

  The meeting between the two commanders was set in a neutral location: an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts, owned by one of the family’s confiscated tobacco companies, secretly returned using his mother's name.

  The space was dusty, empty, lit only by a humming generator.

  Mateo arrived first. He stood in the center, feeling the solitude of the place.

  Felix arrived on the dot, as always. His eyes swept the room, analyzing entry points, exits, potential threats. He nodded to Mateo, expression unreadable.

  Five minutes later, Mendoza appeared. He wore full military attire, medals glinting on his chest.

  His square jaw and thick mustache made him look like a soldier from a different era. His gaze immediately sought a superior. It flicked to Felix.

  “Colonel,” Mendoza greeted, voice resonant.

  “Captain,” Felix returned, nodding curtly.

  “Please, sit,” Mateo gestured toward two simple wooden chairs facing each other. He remained standing. “Thank you for coming. What we discuss here never happened. The only record is in this room.” He tapped his temple.

  “Dramatic,” Felix muttered, perching.

  Mendoza sat rigidly, back straight. “Presidential orders?”

  “Orders for the safety of the Republic,” Mateo replied. “And the Guerrero family. Right now, they are one and the same.”

  He outlined the two-unit concept: Blindaje, the visible shield; and Sombra, the eyes and ears in the shadows. He explained their function, principles, oath, and doctrine of centralized command.

  Mendoza frowned deeper with each word. When Mateo finished, Mendoza leaned forward.

  “So, you want me—a Captain of the Army—to lead a group of guards with hidden identities? While Colonel Felix here,” his gaze sharpened, “runs a unit that can spy anywhere, maybe even into my barracks?”

  “Not ‘maybe,’ Captain,” Felix said flatly. “That’s the mission. And yes, your barracks, if it’s a weak point, will be my priority.”

  “See?!” Mendoza snapped. “This is a recipe for civil war inside our own security forces!”

  “It’s a recipe for sharpening each other,” Mateo interrupted. “Your Blindaje must be so strong that even Sombra struggles. That’s what keeps you precise. Conversely, Sombra must be silent, invisible, detecting gaps you even miss. You are not enemies. You are two sides of the same blade. And I hold the hilt.”

  “And who are you?” Mendoza shot, exasperated. “Even if you are the President’s son—”

  “—I am the designer of this system, with the full approval of the President,” Mateo said, calm, stating facts. “And I chose you, Captain Mendoza, because I know you will see protecting the Guerrero family as sacred duty. Not an office. Not politics. You protect Ricardo Guerrero and his lineage. And I trust you would shoot anyone—even Colonel Felix—if they threaten the President’s life.”

  Mendoza fell silent. His breath heavy. The words struck the core of his identity. He was a loyal soldier, not a bureaucrat. The logic, strange as it was, made sense.

  Felix interjected, analytical, clinical. “Recruitment. From where? We can’t take from the regular army. That would raise suspicion.”

  “We’ll take from the fringes,” Mateo replied. “Orphans of war, former political prisoners with grudges, street kids who’ve survived on skill alone. We give them new identities, new narratives, new loyalty. To the unit. To the mission. Indirectly, to the family they protect.”

  “Brainwashing,” Mendoza hissed.

  “Training,” Felix corrected, almost intrigued. “Extreme, but… logical. Special units need a specialized mindset. They must be isolated.”

  “And you agree, Colonel?” Mendoza asked, incredulous.

  Felix looked at Mateo, then Mendoza. “I don’t have to like it. I just have to judge whether it works for stabilization. And… yes. In theory, it’s effective. An autonomous security machine, immune to political tides. But,” he glanced at Mateo, “the risk is high. If the central command—that is you—becomes corrupt or incompetent, or if we clash, this machine could destroy what it is meant to protect.”

  “I acknowledge the risk,” Mateo said. “That’s why the mandate is absolute, and the selection perfect. That’s why I chose you two. Captain Mendoza, for your loyalty untouched by ambition.” He paused.

  “Colonel Felix, for your intelligence and integrity, to balance blind zeal. You need each other. And I need both of you.”

  He let the words hang in the dusty air.

  Mendoza exhaled, rubbing his face. “The President… agrees?”

  “Completely,” Mateo replied. “With one caveat: if it fails, I take full responsibility. Not him.”

  That changed perception. For Mendoza, it was a silent acknowledgment of trust from Ricardo. For Felix, it was proof Mateo was willing to stake everything.

  “I need a list of resources,” Felix said suddenly. “Remote facilities, a black budget, authority to ‘erase’ people from the civil record.”

  “I need authority to train with… unconventional methods,” Mendoza added reluctantly. “Including live-fire simulations inside the palace.”

  “You will have them,” Mateo promised. “Make the list. Encrypted channels will be set up. You’ll communicate directly with me, and with each other only when necessary, using pre-agreed codes.”

  Two more hours passed, discussing technicalities: chain of command, selection protocols, activation procedures.

  Arguments flared—Mendoza insisted on uniforms and strict procedures for Blindaje; Felix rejected anything that could make his people identifiable.

  But a thread of consensus emerged: the mission mattered. This system, terrifying as it was, was necessary.

  When they left, Mendoza offered a crisp military salute to Mateo—a silent acknowledgment. Felix only nodded, eyes filled with unspoken warnings.

  “Keep this fire in the forge, Mateo,” Felix whispered as he exited. “If it escapes, the first to burn will be the blacksmith.”

  They departed, leaving Mateo alone in the dark, dusty warehouse.

  Fatigue washed over him, but deep intellectual satisfaction lingered. The plan was no longer on paper. It had breath, life.

  But, as Felix said, he was the blacksmith. He had just placed two white-hot blades in the forge. Now, he had to temper them without burning himself.

  He stepped out, inhaling the crisp night air. Caraccass twinkled in the distance. The next layer awaited: the most human, the first line.

  The palace needed servants. Not just guards. Faces of warmth, hands of efficiency, eyes and ears naturally observant.

  They were the first layer—welcoming guests, serving tea, silently noting every strange word, every lingering glance from diplomats or officials alike.

  For this, he needed Mother Rosa.

  She was more than a head housekeeper. She was a living archive of the Guerrero family, a keeper of tradition, and the sharpest natural spy.

  She could distinguish a nervous diplomat from a nervous assassin just by the way they held a cup.

  Mateo looked up at the night sky. The planning phase was over. The creation phase had begun. And creation always started with consulting the old keepers of the flame before lighting the new one.

  He would meet Mother Rosa at dawn. For now, he needed sleep.

  But a small, trivial desire crept back: the craving for a cold, overly sweet soda, burning his throat and washing away the iron dust of secret meetings.

  He chased it away with the last sip of mineral water. This was not a world for soda. This was a world for plans, shadows, and ever-growing responsibilities.

  He walked home, the unborn shadows of the future trailing him faithfully, silently.

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