The warmth of yesterday's joy still clung to his skin like a faint afterglow, but beneath his ribs, something older and colder had begun to creep.

  A sensation he had tried to forget, returning with greater intensity in recent years: fear. Not the fear of external threats, which could be parsed and neutralized, but fear of himself. Of the long shadow cast by a past that wasn't his, yet was buried deep within his memory and soul.

  He stood on the balcony, watching dawn sweep the sky with gray and pink. The morning wind whispered, carrying the scent of damp earth.

  But what he smelled was something else: burning gasoline, crushed concrete dust, and iron—the sharp, sweet metallic tang that always clung to blood.

  ***

  The memory didn't come as a dream, but as a direct assault.

  The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, reflecting mad heat off the rubble of a nameless city. His uniform, green and crumpled, stuck to his skin with sweat and dried blood.

  The comms in his ear were static, broken, but the message clear: "Clear the area. All movement is hostile."

  The narrow street was quiet, too quiet. Broken windows like blind eye sockets. He, then a young Lieutenant, led his squad, each of their steps echoing hollowly.

  Then, movement. A curtain twitched. A child, maybe eight or nine, peered from behind an overturned cart, eyes wide with a blind terror.

  "Fire!" someone shouted. Not from his squad. From behind. The voice of a distant, safe, air-conditioned command post officer.

  He saw the child. He saw his squad, faces tense and hollow beneath their helmets.

  The system was running. Orders were orders. Soldiers obeyed. He raised his arm, not to fire, but to signal a halt. But his other finger, trembling slightly, was already brushing the trigger.

  And then, not from one window, but from several rooftops and doorways, figures emerged—men, women, with old rifles, machetes, anything. An ambush.

  BANG!

  The first scream, the first shot wasn't from his squad. A soldier beside him fell, a red hole in his chest.

  Chaos.

  His control shattered. The trained war machine took over. He was no longer a commander; he was part of a high-velocity killing mechanism. His vision narrowed.

  Target. Threat. Eliminate. Target. Threat. Eliminate.

  He didn't remember the sound of his own fire. Just the recoil in his shoulder, the glint of shell casings in the air, and bodies crumpling. They weren't people; they were threatening silhouettes to be erased.

  The child? He didn't see him again. Maybe ran. Maybe fell. Maybe erased in the chaos of iron and lead.

  When the guns finally fell silent, the returning quiet was more terrible than the din. The smell of cordite hung thick, mixed with fresh blood and excrement. He stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by the wreckage he and his squad had created.

  Eight civilians? Twelve? He hadn't counted. They were statistics to be reported as "neutralized insurgents."

  His hands shook. Not from remorse—not yet. But from the sudden drain of adrenaline, leaving behind pure vibration.

  Instinctively, his fingers groped the chest pocket of his uniform, seeking a cigarette pack, a post-combat ritual to steady the nerves. Empty. He'd finished them last night.

  Empty. Just like he felt now.

  ***

  He gasped, his breath catching. His hands gripped the balcony railing, knuckles white.

  His right hand—the same hand that held the rifle—moved on its own, twitching toward the pocket of his pajama pants, fumbling through thin, empty fabric. Searching for a cigarette. An old habit from another life, triggered by the same traumatic memory.

  No. His mind hissed, cold and clipped. That wasn't me. That was then. That was him. The me of now is different...

  But the tremor in his hand was real. And the deeper fear—that "him" and "me" might no longer be clearly separate—hung in the morning air like a toxic mist.

  "Mateo?"

  Isabella stood in the balcony doorway, her sharp eyes instantly catching the tension in his shoulders, his vacant stare. She wore sleep clothes, a cup of coffee in her hand.

  He took a deep breath, slowly releasing his grip on the railing. The tremor in his hand stopped, suppressed by iron will. When he turned, his face was calm, a seamless mask slipped back into place.

  "Isabella. Morning."

  "Are you alright? You look pale." She stepped closer, offering the unasked-for cup of coffee. A gesture.

  "Just planning the day," he replied, accepting the cup. Its warmth was real, grounding. "Thank you."

  She studied him, skeptical. "Yesterday... it was good for you. But this morning, you look like you've returned from battle."

  Too close. "A different battlefield," he admitted, sipping the coffee. "But the principles are the same: know the terrain, anticipate the enemy, claim victory."

  Before Isabella could respond, Mother Rosa appeared from inside, her face a mix of matronly concern and razor-sharp efficiency—the qualities that made her both a formidable head of household and an invaluable intelligence asset.

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  "Apologies for the intrusion, Young Master," she said, her voice low and full. "A messenger from your father's office last night. He requests your presence at a meeting today. The three-nation railway matter. The Prussi are pressing. It's urgent."

  A glimpse of information, but enough to assemble the picture. A Prussi demand. A railway crossing the Republic Ecuad, Colomba, and Venez. His father, the President, would be present. This wasn't just infrastructure; it was geopolitics.

  "What time?" he asked, his voice already flat, professional.

  "Before noon. Transport is arranged."

  He nodded. "Inform him I will attend."

  Mother Rosa nodded, her keen eyes noting the lingering tension in his shoulders before she turned away. Isabella sighed.

  "So much for the respite, then?"

  "Respite is preparation," he said, meeting his sister's gaze. "And now, I am prepared."

  ***

  The room deep within the old Presidential Palace in the capital was far from ostentatious luxury. It was a functional conference room, dominated by dark wood and a large map on the wall. The air smelled of strong coffee, paper, and unspoken tension.

  At the long table, the parties gathered. His father, President Ricardo Guerrero, sat at the head, posture erect, face like an eagle accustomed to power. Beside him, his key ministers.

  Across sat two delegations: one from Republic of Colomba, one from Republic of Ecuad, both middle-aged men in good suits and watchful eyes.

  And then, the Prussi authorities envoy. A man named William von Wittelsburg, slim, with neatly combed blonde hair and glasses with thin lenses. He smiled, but his eyes were cold as northern sea ice.

  Richter, the usual Prussi authorities envoy to Venez, was ill, temporarily replaced.

  Mateo sat slightly behind and to the side of his father. A seemingly humble position, yet allowing full observation. He was the "advisor," the shadow observed by outsiders.

  "Thank you all for being here," President Ricardo began, his voice filling the room with natural authority. "We are gathered to discuss the ambitious proposal from our friends in the Prussi Empire: a connecting railway that will enhance trade and connectivity in our region."

  William gave a slight bow. "Our Empire sees great potential on this continent. We wish to be partners in progress. This line will bring prosperity to all."

  The delegate from Republic of Ecuad, a man named Juan with a neatly trimmed mustache, cleared his throat. "The principle is much appreciated, Mr. Wittelsburg. However, the proposed route... crosses ecologically sensitive mountain regions in our country. And of course, the matters of funding and operational sovereignty..."

  "The costs will be fully borne by a Prussi-backed consortium," William interjected smoothly. "And we respect sovereignty. We only require right of passage and joint management for... efficiency."

  Right of passage and joint management. Polite words for de facto control. Mateo watched the face of the Republic of Colomba delegate, Ruiz, his eyes blinking rapidly. A landlocked nation, fearful of neighbors with bigger militaries.

  President Ricardo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Our nation also sees the strategic benefits of this project. Increased transport speed for goods will benefit all our economies. And," he paused, his voice deepening, "in an unstable world, having robust infrastructure and a... reliable partner... is an invaluable security asset."

  Mateo didn't miss the way William eyes narrowed, a small smile appearing. His father had just inserted the element of security—the vague threat of military might—into an economic conversation.

  "Security is indeed a concern for us all," President Ricardo continued. "The Republic of Venez, as you may know, has reallocated resources to modernize its armed forces. Not for aggression, of course. But for regional stability."

  The room grew still. The threat was unspoken but hung in the air: We are building a military. We are strong. Do not obstruct.

  Juan looked pale. Ruiz swallowed hard. Neither wanted a war.

  William capitalized on the momentum. "Precisely, President Guerrero. Prussi also values stability highly. In global uncertainty, forward-thinking nations must unite. Collaboration on a project like this sends a strong message... to parties who might have disruptive intentions."

  Clever, Mateo thought, silently admiring William wordplay. The Prussi weren't just using Venez's strength as a stick; they were positioning themselves as the shield, the necessary ally in a dangerous world. They were making Republic Colomba and Ecuad afraid twice over: afraid of an armed Venez, and afraid of being left alone without Prussi protection.

  Ruiz finally spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse. "And... Prussi support on security matters, if... certain issues were to arise regarding this project?"

  William smiled, warmer now. "Prussi stands with its partners. Always. Our investment is not merely financial."

  It was a promise. A promise of military intervention if needed.

  Juan looked from President Ricardo to William, like a cornered animal. Mateo saw the logic, the calculus of fear spinning in the man's head: Refuse, and face the wrath of a Venez possibly backed by Prussi. Agree, and surrender some sovereignty, but gain 'protection' and investment.

  "The people of the Republic Ecuad..." Juan began, weakly.

  "...will have jobs, growth, and security," President Ricardo finished for him, his voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "We all will. This is a historic moment for our region."

  Mateo observed, his mental notes running: His father was perfect. He was using their fear of Prussi (a far stronger foreign power) as the prod, while simultaneously projecting Venez's own strength. Republic Colomba and Ecuad felt caught between two threatening powers, choosing the giant that offered money and protection, even with chains.

  Finally, with a despairing exchange of glances, the two delegates nodded. No enthusiasm, just weary acceptance.

  "The Republic Ecuad... agrees to discuss details further," Juan mumbled.

  "The Republic Colomba, as well," Ruiz added with a quick nod.

  President Ricardo's smile widened, triumphant. William nodded, satisfied. Protocols were signed, photos taken. Mateo, the young advisor, remained silent, watching the diplomacy of coercion work to perfection.

  After the meeting, in the quiet of his private study, his father looked at him. "Your assessment?"

  "Efficient," Mateo answered. "You used their fear of Prussi to push them into your embrace, while making Prussi feel like the dominant partner. They will pay, they will build, and we will control the traffic flowing through our territory."

  His father smiled, a rare, proud smile. "You saw everything, son. Fear is a more reliable currency than gold."

  The words echoed in his head like a death knell. Fear is currency.

  Just like he had done...

  Just like he might be doing with his sisters, on a different scale.

  Just like that young Lieutenant had done, by pulling a trigger.

  ***

  That night, in the quiet, solitary Palace of the Sun, he stood again on the balcony. The city of Caraccass glittered below, a beautiful, fragile, man-made tapestry.

  His hands didn't tremble anymore. He had played his part perfectly today, observing, calculating.

  But the victory felt hollow.

  The meeting had been full of veiled threats, pressure, conquest without bloodshed. It was the civilized version of what had happened on that shattered city street.

  The principle was the same: coerce, control, neutralize. His father did it with words and posture. His past self did it with bullets.

  And his present self? Was he truly better? Or merely more subtle?

  He hoped—and this was a weakness he rarely acknowledged—that he wouldn't fully become that person from his past life. The shadow of that young Lieutenant, the efficient killing machine, felt too close.

  The skills were the same: cold analysis, ruthless execution, the suppression of humanity. The only difference was the battlefield.

  Fear me, he thought, staring at his reflection in the dark window glass. Because I am growing more afraid of myself.

  He didn't reach for the empty pocket again. But he felt the urge, the craving for something to fill the void, to burn away the fear. He pushed it down.

  Instead, he turned from the window, leaving his reflected shadow with the city lights. There were plans to refine, strategies to tighten. In the dark of his apartment, the only light came from a computer screen, emitting cold data waiting to be parsed.

  He might fear what he was becoming. But he would use that fear as fuel, as a reminder not to fall too far.

  He would keep playing this game, manipulating, controlling, because it was the only way to shield Isabella and Eleanor's small world from the coarser violence.

  But deep down, the question hung, unanswered: When you do everything to defeat a monster, how do you ensure you don't, in the end, simply become a smarter monster?

  For tonight, there was no answer. Only deliberate calm, and a silence that felt louder than any shout.

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