The warehouse reeked of cotton bales and machine oil that had settled over years. Tucked behind my textile factory, hidden behind stacks of unprocessed cotton bales, there existed a small room that didn't appear on any building blueprint.

  This was where we gathered. Six men—six of the wealthiest industrialists in the Republic of Venez. Six lives that felt threatened by those 120 pages of foolish legislation passed just last week.

  "That boy's insane," Alvaro hissed—my old friend, owner of the largest cacao plantation. His mustache quivered with rage. "He thinks he can regulate us like slaves? Free lunches? A minimum wage of 35 Bolívars? That's outright robbery!"

  I raised my hand, calming him. Alvaro had always been quick to anger. It was his weakness. "We're not here to complain, gentlemen. We're here to strategize."

  Carlos Fuentes—the Minister of Commerce who attended cabinet meetings—sat in the corner, his face taut with tension. He'd come secretly, through the back door, with a hat pulled low to shadow his features. His presence was a significant victory. Two ministers aligned with our interests.

  "Mr. Salazar," he said, voice low, "I need to return to the palace before the afternoon session. Make this brief."

  I nodded. "First, legal loopholes. We'll comply with this legislation... precisely as written."

  Several of them smiled. They already knew where this conversation was heading.

  "Article 4 regarding lunches," I continued. "We can provide food... but there are no regulations concerning quality. Stale bread, half-rotted eggs, worm-infested beans—they're still bread, eggs, and beans. Not violating any law."

  Quiet laughter rippled through the room. Alvaro nodded with satisfaction.

  "Article 1 on working hours. Eight hours. But there's nothing about overtime. We'll dismiss all permanent workers, then rehire them as daily casual laborers. They can work eight hours under a 'primary contract,' then four more hours under a 'supplementary contract' at lower wages. Total twelve hours, wages still effectively below 35 Bolívars."

  "This is brilliant," murmured another industrialist, a garment factory owner. "We're not breaking the law, but the legislation's intent—"

  "—shattered," I finished. "Precisely."

  Carlos Fuentes scribbled something in his small notebook. "Be careful with the new inspectorate. They'll have fifteen hundred inspectors."

  "Fifteen hundred for the entire republic?" I chuckled dryly. "My friend, we have two hundred factories in Caraccass alone. Those inspectors will be overwhelmed. And they can be... persuaded. Through appropriate channels."

  Alvaro grinned wolfishly. "We already have contacts within the Ministry of Labor. Several officials are displeased with that 'wonder boy.'"

  "Excellent." I leaned back, satisfied. "We wait a few months. Let this legislation run its course... and fail. When permanent workers grow poorer, when production remains stagnant, when businesses start collapsing—" I met each man's gaze in turn, "—they'll come crawling back to us. Begging us to stay in business. And when that happens, we'll dictate the terms."

  A rumble of approval filled the small space.

  Then the door burst open.

  Not slowly. Not gently. It flew inward from a vicious kick that made the hinges shriek. Light from outside flooded the room, making all of us squint.

  Dark silhouettes poured in. Fast. Well-trained. Short-barreled rifles raised.

  "HANDS UP! EVERYONE!"

  I was startled half to death. Alvaro nearly toppled from his chair. Carlos Fuentes went pale as a corpse.

  Twelve men in black uniforms bearing the insignia of the National Security Corps filled the room in seconds. Behind them, a man with a stone-carved face and eagle-sharp eyes stepped inside. Major Cruz—Commander of the National Security Corps.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," he greeted, his voice flat, almost cordial. "An interesting gathering."

  He walked to the table, picked up Carlos Fuentes's still-open notebook. Read it for a moment. Smiled.

  "'Stale bread, half-rotten eggs, worm-infested beans.'" He shook his head. "A remarkably... creative strategy."

  Alvaro attempted to rise. "You have no right—"

  "Please remain seated, Se?or Alvaro." Cruz didn't even glance at him. "We possess arrest warrants for all of you. Article 110 of the Penal Code concerning conspiracy against the government. Article 115 concerning incitement. Article 120 concerning—" he glanced at the notebook again, "—attempts to manipulate public policy."

  Carlos Fuentes trembled visibly. "I... I'm a minister! I have immunity!"

  Cruz laughed—a short sound, utterly devoid of humor. "Mr. Fuentes, diplomatic immunity doesn't protect traitors." He gestured, and two of his men lifted Carlos from his chair. "You'll face trial in military court. Not civilian."

  I stood, attempting to maintain some dignity. "Major Cruz. We can negotiate. I know your superiors. I know—"

  "Mr. Salazar." Cruz fixed his gaze directly on me. "My superior—Master Mateo Guerrero—asked me to deliver a message."

  I swallowed hard. "What message?"

  He stepped closer, almost whispering. "He said: 'I'm waiting.' That's all."

  My blood turned to ice.

  That night, six of Caraccass's wealthiest industrialists—and two ministers—were herded into three covered trucks. No resistance. No shouting. Only silent resignation.

  Inside the truck, in darkness, I heard Alvaro sobbing. That imposing man who'd been blustering in the meeting just this morning now wept like a child.

  I didn't weep. But my hands trembled. And inside my head, only one phrase echoed: 'I'm waiting.'

  ***

  Don Marcus Fuentes. Mining Industrialist, 58 years old (cousin of Carlos Fuentes)

  The La Belle époque restaurant was the perfect place to forget one's troubles. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Waiters moved like ghosts—swift, silent, always present when needed. The price of a single steak here could feed a working-class family for a month.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  But tonight, I couldn't savor it.

  Before me, my wife Elena smiled gently, feeding our youngest, Clara, who had just turned four. My eldest son, little Mateo—yes, the same name as that wonder boy, ironically—was busy with mashed potatoes on his plate.

  "Papa, why aren't you eating?" he asked innocently.

  I smiled, ruffling his hair. "Papa's thinking about work, sweetheart."

  Elena looked at me, her eyes brimming with concern. She knew, perhaps, that something was happening. But she was wise enough not to ask in front of the children.

  Outside the window, nighttime Caraccass glittered with ever-multiplying electric lights. This city was changing. Rapidly. Perhaps too rapidly.

  Carlos—my cousin, the Minister of Commerce—hadn't come to this week's family gathering. He claimed to be busy. But I knew. I knew he was somewhere, with Alvaro and the others, planning something I didn't want to know in detail.

  I hadn't joined them. Not because I agreed with that legislation—it would devastate my business. But because I had a terrible premonition. That wonder boy wouldn't remain passive. He had eyes everywhere. Everyone knew that.

  A waiter approached. Young, immaculate, wearing that perfectly professional smile.

  "Mr. Fuentes, forgive me for interrupting your dinner."

  I frowned. "What is it?"

  He placed a small plate before me—on it, a folded piece of paper. "A message for you."

  "From whom?"

  "He's already departed."

  I took the paper, annoyed. Family dinner, and someone dared to intrude. Perhaps Alvaro, trying to recruit me at the last minute. Or Carlos, bearing bad news.

  I opened it.

  'Don't do anything foolish, Mr. Fuentes. Or next time, you'll find a slip of paper under your child's pillow.'

  The world stopped spinning.

  My eyes read that sentence repeatedly. Five times. Ten times. Each word hammered into my brain like nails.

  The paper—ordinary paper, no signature, no seal—felt like burning iron in my hand.

  I looked up. My wife was still smiling at Clara. My children still ate happily. The waiters still moved like ghosts.

  But everywhere—in every corner of the restaurant, in every shadow—I felt watching eyes.

  That elderly couple at the next table. Were they glancing this way too often? The waiter pouring wine. Was his smile too perfect? The man at the bar, drinking whiskey alone. Was he too still?

  I crumpled the paper, shoving it into my jacket pocket.

  "Papa, why are you so pale? Are you sick?" little Mateo asked.

  Elena stared at me, now with genuine alarm. "Marcus? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." My voice sounded foreign to my own ears. "Just... work. I need to step out for a moment."

  I stood. My eyes continued sweeping the room. Searching. Finding nothing. And that was precisely what terrified me most.

  Outside, after ensuring my wife and children were in the car and heading home with an escort, I stood on the sidewalk, shivering though the night wasn't cold.

  Caraccass, with its beautiful lights, suddenly felt like an enormous prison. Every person was a supervisor; every passerby, a spy.

  I pulled out the paper again, reading it once more. Neat handwriting, impersonal, as if machine-printed. No clues.

  But I knew. I knew where this came from.

  From the palace. From that boy. From that fifteen-year-old who'd built a gunpowder factory, sent troops to Prussi, and now—knew my every move, my every breath.

  I tore the paper into tiny pieces, scattering them into a gutter. Then I walked home, not daring to take a carriage, not daring to be escorted. All along the way, I heard footsteps behind me. Every time I turned, there was no one.

  At home, I went straight to the children's room.

  Little Mateo was already asleep, clutching his favorite wooden toy. Clara, in the bed beside him, sucked her thumb peacefully.

  With trembling hands, I lifted little Mateo's pillow.

  Empty.

  I exhaled with relief—but that relief lasted only a second. Because when I turned to Clara's bed, I saw it.

  A slip of white paper, neatly tucked beneath her pillow, only a tiny corner visible.

  My world collapsed.

  I reached for it, opening it with shaking hands. The same handwriting.

  'This was only the first warning. Let there not be a second.'

  I fell to my knees beside my children's beds. Tears flowed uncontrollably. Tomorrow, I would withdraw from all meetings. Tomorrow, I would comply with that legislation perfectly. Tomorrow, I would become a model citizen.

  Because tonight, I learned one thing. That wonder boy wasn't playing games. And he could reach anyone. Anytime. Anywhere.

  I kissed my children's foreheads, then left the room, closing the door softly. In the dark living room, I sat on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and didn't sleep all night.

  ***

  Somewhere on the Southern Front, Prussi

  BOOM!

  The artillery thunder never ceased.

  Even at night, when both sides should have been resting, the cannons kept roaring, showering unknown positions with indiscriminate bombs.

  Juan sat at the bottom of the trench, his back pressed against the damp mud wall. Beside him, Carlos was wrapping a wound on his arm with filthy bandages. Ten days ago, their squad had been intact. Now, only four remained.

  "You hear that?" Carlos asked, his voice hoarse from smoke and screaming. "The radio. Broadcast from Caraccass."

  Juan shook his head. Their radio had been broken for three days now, struck by mortar shrapnel.

  "They replay the President's speech," Carlos continued. "Every night. Like a mantra."

  "Which speech?"

  "The one at the plaza. About us being 'students,' not soldiers. About three months. About the ships that would come for us."

  Juan didn't respond. He had that speech memorized word for word. Every syllable. Every pause. Every tremor in the President's voice.

  Now there was only artillery, mud, and death lurking around every corner.

  "You still believe it?" Carlos asked, his eyes vacant, staring at the night sky occasionally illuminated by flare bursts.

  Juan didn't know how to answer. Believe? In whom? In the President whose speeches played on repeat over the radio? In General Pérez, rumored to be negotiating at Prussi headquarters?

  "Back home," Juan whispered, "my mother must be listening to the radio every night. Waiting for news. Praying."

  "My mother's already dead," Carlos said flatly. "Last year, before I left. An illness that could have been treated the same day if there'd been a doctor. But in our village, there were no doctors."

  Juan didn't know what to say. He just reached for Carlos's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

  Suddenly, from the trench end, their Sergeant's voice—Sergeant Antonio, the only remaining officer—shouted.

  "There's a broadcast! Broadcast from Caraccass! Everyone gather!"

  They crawled through the mud, joining dozens of other soldiers huddled around a field radio that was battered but still capable of producing sound. That voice—crackling, full of static, yet unmistakable—was President Ricardo Guerrero's voice.

  "...and to our soldiers on the front lines, across the ocean, I tell you that you are not forgotten. Every night, before sleep, I stand on the palace balcony, gazing across the sea, toward where you fight. I cannot see you. But I know you are there. Struggling. Enduring. Being the finest this nation has to offer."

  Juan felt his chest tighten.

  "Ships will be prepared. Not merely to bring you home, but to carry back the knowledge you've gained. Every tactic you've learned, every technology you've witnessed, every experience you've endured—all of it will become a fortress for our children and grandchildren. So they need never experience what you are experiencing now."

  The voice cracked slightly—perhaps from emotion, perhaps from technical interference.

  "But most importantly, I want you to know that in Caraccass, in every city, in every village, there are people waiting. Mothers who cannot sleep until they hear news. Fathers who hide their tears behind newspapers. Little siblings who gaze at your photographs every day."

  Juan touched his uniform pocket. The photo of his mother and younger sister was still there, damp with sweat and mud, but intact.

  "They are waiting. And I promise—as I promised at the plaza—they will not wait in vain. You will come home. Perhaps not all. But those who return will carry stories that will be remembered as long as this republic endures."

  The radio went silent. Static returned.

  Silence in the trench. No one spoke. But Juan could hear muffled sobs from several directions.

  Carlos, beside him, suddenly spoke. "My mother's already dead. But if she were alive, she'd be proud."

  Juan turned. In Carlos's eyes—once vacant—there was now something. Not hope—hope might be too grand a word. But... a glimmer. A small light amid the mud.

  "She'd be proud," Carlos repeated, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

  Juan didn't smile. But he nodded.

  BOOM!

  Above them, artillery still roared. Ahead, across no man's land, the enemy still waited. Death still lurked around every corner.

  But tonight, Juan had heard the President's voice. And although he knew that speech might be recorded, might be manipulated, might be pure propaganda—he still chose to believe.

  Because if you didn't believe, what was left?

  In his uniform pocket, the photo of his mother and sister was damp with sweat. In his head, the President's speech played on repeat. And in his chest, something small—fragile, wavering, but still present—continued to beat.

  Hope.

  Juan closed his eyes, leaned against the mud wall, and tried to sleep. Beside him, Carlos was already asleep, his breathing heavy, perhaps dreaming of his dead mother.

  Because in the midst of hell, sometimes all a person can do is believe in something. Anything at all. And Juan chose to believe in the promise of a nation's father at a plaza that now felt like a dream.

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