A safe house was not a home, and it felt anything but safe. It was closer to an elegant aquarium, where I was the ornamental fish—kept alive, observed, and patiently awaited until my usefulness expired.

  The room measured five by four meters. Oak-paneled walls. A single bed. A writing desk. A bookshelf filled with meaningless collections—books on orchid cultivation and eighteenth-century maritime history.

  A panoramic window overlooked rolling hills of breathtaking beauty. The glass, however, was three inches thick and sealed shut. A steel door hid behind the bookshelf, permanently locked from the outside. I called it the forced meditation suite.

  Mendez, with his paranoia disguised as professionalism, called it “the General’s retreat for long-term strategic contemplation.”

  At the moment, the only strategy I could focus on was how to survive without losing my sanity.

  Every turning point begins with small details. Like the daily ritual of my guard, Lieutenant Vargas.

  The young man—perhaps twenty-five—always looked as though he had just smelled something unpleasant.

  Every morning at exactly seven, he brought breakfast: one boiled egg, a slice of bread, and a cup of aggressively black coffee.

  “Good morning, General,” he said, placing the tray on my desk with military precision.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant. Any interesting news today?”

  “Clear weather, General. Temperature expected to reach twenty-five degrees Celsius.”

  That was his standard response. No deviation. I had begun to think of him as my personal meteorological report.

  “Could you ask them to add a little salt to the egg tomorrow? It tastes like oval-shaped chalk.”

  Vargas didn’t react.

  “I will convey your request, General.”

  I was fairly certain he wouldn’t. Or if he did, the cook would ignore it. This wasn’t about food—it was about reminding me who controlled even the seasoning on my plate.

  Still, I found amusement in testing Vargas’s invisible limits.

  “Lieutenant, what kind of bird do you think keeps chirping in the oak tree to the west?”

  “I am not authorized to comment on wildlife, General.”

  “Why? Are the birds intelligence agents too?”

  “Security protocol, General.”

  These exchanges made me laugh inwardly. Vargas was the perfect product of the system I had built—or once built. Obedient. Unimaginative. Entirely predictable.

  Beneath this calm, my mind was another battlefield.

  Mendez had won this round—undeniably. He had relocated me here seamlessly, seized command, and confined my family to the palace. A coup within a coup, executed with surgical precision. But every victory carries the seed of its own weakness.

  Mendez was too confident. He believed that by locking me away, projecting strength through patrols and curfews, he had secured everything. He forgot that real power doesn’t come from fear—but from people’s willingness to be led.

  I had given him that willingness when we toppled the old regime. Now he had to maintain it. And his methods—violence, disappearances, terror—were a recipe for long-term erosion.

  In this solitude, my youthful idealism collided with bitter reality. I once believed that overthrowing a tyrant would automatically bring freedom.

  Naive. What I delivered was uncertainty. And in the vacuum of uncertainty, men like Mendez—practical, ruthless, efficient—thrived.

  But there was one thing I still possessed that Mendez did not: legitimacy.

  My name still meant something—to the people, to parts of the military, to the international community.

  As long as I lived, I remained an alternative symbol. That was why he hadn’t killed me. I was more valuable alive as a dignified prisoner than dead as a martyr.

  The calculation was cold—almost cruel. Accepting that my life was preserved for its propaganda value.

  But in this game, one uses what one has.

  Days were measured by routine. After Vargas came reading time. Then physical exercise—push-ups, sit-ups, running in place—anything to maintain strength and clarity.

  Afternoons were for writing. They gave me a journal and a pen—after, of course, ensuring it couldn’t be used as a weapon.

  I wrote thoughts. Not escape plans—that was pointless—but analysis. Economics. Military structure. Mendez’s psychology.

  Writing sharpened the mind. And clarity was the only weapon still free.

  ***

  One afternoon, the routine shifted.

  It wasn’t Vargas who brought lunch, but an older soldier, his face weathered like leather left too long in the sun.

  “Lieutenant Vargas has been reassigned, General,” he said curtly.

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  “Something wrong?” I asked, feigning disinterest.

  “Sudden drills.” He placed the tray down. “The meat’s tough today. I recommend chewing slowly.”

  An odd remark. Kitchen staff never commented on quality. I studied him. His eyes avoided mine, yet he didn’t rush away like Vargas usually did.

  “Thank you for the advice,” I said.

  He nodded and left.

  I inspected the food—beef, mashed potatoes, green beans. Normal. But when I cut into the meat, I felt resistance. Not bone. A small plastic capsule hidden inside.

  My heart accelerated.

  Contact.

  I swallowed it with the meat, as expected. Two hours and plenty of water later, the capsule emerged. Inside was a tightly rolled slip of paper.

  The handwriting was microscopic. I needed full daylight to read it.

  Safe. Family. Locked in palace, under heavy watch. Bird incident. Warning shots at the cage, near Eleanor. Terror message.

  M. growing confident. Small cracks—guards, servants. Channel risky. Do not respond. Wait for signal.

  - R.

  R. Rosa. Mother Rosa. A resilient woman. She’d found a way.

  The information froze and burned my blood at the same time.Warning shots near Eleanor! They fired near my daughter!—to frighten my family! To threaten me! White-hot rage surged so intensely the room blurred.

  I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. I wanted to crush Mendez’s skull with my bare hands. To hear bone splinter.

  Then—breathe. In. Out. Cold.

  Anger was a luxury I couldn’t afford. It clouded judgment. Mendez might even want me furious—irrational.

  I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  I burned the note in the ashtray, watching it turn to dust. The message had been received. Now—response.

  I couldn’t send anything back. Too dangerous. But I could signal—something to show I was still thinking, still planning, and that my family remained the priority.

  ***

  The next morning, when Vargas arrived, I sat staring blankly out the window.

  “General? Breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry, Lieutenant.”

  “Procedure requires you to eat, General.”

  “Procedure also requires a father to protect his children,” I said flatly. “Yet here we are.”

  Vargas fell silent. It was the first time I’d strayed from weather talk.

  “I want to send a message to Mendez,” I said at last.

  “What message, General?”

  “Tell him…” I paused thoughtfully. “Tell him the orchid by the southern window needs more water. Otherwise, it will die. And that would be a great loss. It’s a rare orchid.”

  Vargas stared, confused.

  “I will relay the message about the orchid, General.”

  “Do so.”

  The message was absurd. But Mendez would analyze it. The orchid could symbolize something—the state, peace, perhaps myself.

  Southern window might refer to the southern provinces. More water—a request for resources or amnesty. Death—an implicit threat.

  Let him waste time decoding a message that didn’t exist.

  The real message was simple: I’m still here. I’m still thinking. And there are rare things your negligence can destroy.

  It was also a test for Vargas.

  Days passed. No visible change.

  Then, three days later, dinner arrived with a plate of fruit. Among apples and pears was a fig.

  They had never served figs before.

  I split it open. Inside wasn’t seeds—but another folded note.

  Message received. Orchid monitored. All healthy. C as courier? Insane. But maybe necessary.

  - R.

  C… Coco? The Cockatoo? They were considering using a cockatoo as a courier? That was insane. And perhaps only insanity could work against Mendez’s rational machine.

  A smile touched my face.

  Mateo. That had to be his idea—my strange son, who thought in metaphors and unexpected angles. Now he was contemplating animal warfare.

  Pride swelled in my chest—alongside the sharp pain of absence.

  That night, during exercises, my thoughts turned to Coco. The bird could fly. It could leave the palace unnoticed. But how to direct it? Fifteen kilometers of tightly monitored city.

  Unless…

  They didn’t need to send it here. They only needed to get it out. Coco wasn’t the courier. He was the distraction. Or the symbol. Subtle intelligence—that was Mateo’s way.

  I decided to reinforce the narrative.

  The next day, I made another request.

  “I need something to occupy my mind, Lieutenant. A strategy game. Chess, perhaps.”

  They brought it—a simple wooden set.

  I played against myself daily, resetting the board each time. Complex positions. Strategic problems.

  And always, one piece stood out: the knight.

  The knight. The unpredictable piece. The one that jumps.

  Sometimes sacrificed. Sometimes savior.

  If someone—Rosa, or another watcher—noticed the board through surveillance, they would see the pattern.

  Knight. The unconventional move. Perhaps Coco.

  I didn’t know if the message would land. But it kept my mind alive.

  Two weeks passed. Isolation wore strangely.

  I started talking to a spider in the ceiling corner, named Fernando.

  “Tell me, Fernando—does Mendez talk to spiders too? Or is he too busy running the country for arthropod philosophy?”

  Fernando remained silent. Wisely.

  ***

  Small random moments still happened.

  Like when Vargas dropped a spoon, and we both bent down at the same time, nearly colliding heads. For a moment, we weren’t guard and prisoner—just two idiots on the floor. He made a strangled laugh before regaining composure.

  Or discovering the maritime history book was written by a professor who clearly hated the sea, ending each chapter with cynical remarks like:

  “And once again, humanity wasted resources and lives chasing a geographical illusion.”

  I began looking forward to his complaints.

  Yet beneath the humor, the cruelty of reality lingered.

  Dreams came.

  Sometimes peaceful—Eleanor laughing in the garden, Isabella reading, Sofia smiling.

  Sometimes nightmares—gunshots, screams, bird cages exploding in slow motion.

  I woke drenched in sweat, heart racing, gripped by the most primal fear: being unable to protect those I loved.

  In those moments, cruelty stopped being abstract. I imagined what I’d do to Mendez if he stood before me. Slowly. Thoroughly.

  Then nausea followed.

  Because I recognized that desire.

  It was his logic.

  Was the difference between us only opportunity?

  No.

  I clung to the belief there was still a line I would not cross. You are not him. You will not become him.

  ***

  Change came subtly.

  One morning, Vargas said, “The eggs are saltier today, General.”

  I looked up. That was a deviation.

  “I appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

  He nodded. Something flickered in his eyes—not sympathy, but recognition.

  The next day, he brought another book—astronomy.

  “I thought you might like it. The stars are very clear from this hill.”

  “Do you like astronomy too?” I asked.

  “A little. My father had a small telescope.” He stopped himself. “Enjoy your book, General.”

  Small. Meaningless, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

  That night, I asked, “Lieutenant—could you show me the brightest star tonight?”

  He hesitated, then pointed. “That one. Sirius.”

  “Beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and left.

  A tiny shift. But sometimes that’s all there is.

  ***

  The climax arrived without warning.

  Mendez came alone.

  He entered unannounced, immaculate uniform, practiced expression. Vargas withdrew.

  “General Guerrero,” Mendez said, seating himself without invitation. “I hope your accommodations are adequate.”

  “Comfortable for a prisoner.”

  “We don’t call you that. You are a guest requiring protection.”

  “And my family?”

  “The palace is the safest place for them.”

  I studied him. Dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Why are you here, Colonel?”

  “I want your opinion. The eastern districts are… problematic.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “Once, you preferred softer methods.”

  I leaned back. “And they failed. That’s why I’m here.”

  “So force is the only language?”

  “No,” I said calmly. “It’s the only one you understand. They speak anger. Humiliation. Despair. You can kill the speakers—but not the message.”

  “The message is chaos.”

  “The message is that they’re not afraid of you. And that terrifies you more than weapons.”

  He stiffened.

  “You shoot bird cages. You scare children. But as long as someone out there isn’t afraid—you haven’t won.”

  He left soon after.

  I sat by the window, thinking.

  My family waited beyond these walls.

  They were my reason not to surrender to cruelty.

  I picked up the knight piece.

  The game wasn’t over.

  It had just reached the interesting phase.

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