Seven days since the first meeting with Hector.

  Those seven days felt like seven months, every hour crammed with observation, planning, and the kind of waiting that makes your nerves feel like frayed rope.

  I sat on a pile of sacks filled with raw hides, hands folded neatly in my lap, eyes half-closed.

  From the outside, I probably looked like a tired boy resting after hard labor. In reality, every sense in my body was on high alert.

  Across the room, Isabella was reading a story to Eleanor in a low, rhythmic voice. Her tone, though weary, still held a softness that made simple words sound like a lullaby.

  Eleanor listened with half-closed eyes, occasionally letting out a small cough she tried to stifle with a tiny hand.

  "And then the dragon said," Isabella continued, "'I don't want war. I only want to see the Beautiful sunset and someone to share stories with.'"

  "But why was everyone afraid of him?" Eleanor asked, her voice raspy.

  "Because he was different," Isabella answered. "And people are always afraid of what's different."

  I opened my eyes fully, watching them. The kerosene lantern light danced on their faces, creating shifting shadows like the lives we were living—always changing, always uncertain.

  Mother approached, sitting down slowly beside me. She carried two cups of herbal tea made from wild plants Isabella had gathered by the harbor's edge. The sharp scent of wild mint mixed with the tannery's ammonia stench.

  "For you," she whispered, handing me one cup.

  "Thank you." My hand accepted the warm earthenware cup. "She coughed again tonight."

  "Yes." Mother sipped her tea, her face looking a decade older in the low light. "The air here... it's not good for her. Or for any of us."

  We don't have a choice, I thought. But I didn't say it. Some truths were too heavy to speak aloud repeatedly.

  "Tomorrow," I said instead, my voice low so only she could hear. "Isabella starts work as a translator at the ADF Store."

  Mother nodded slowly. "I know. She's nervous."

  "But she's capable. More capable than they'll guess."

  "That's what worries me." Mother looked at me, her tired eyes still sharp. "Capability attracts attention. And attention is the last thing we need right now."

  She was right. But staying silent and invisible wasn't an option either. We were trapped in a paradox: needing access to survive, but access making us visible. Needing information to negotiate, but gathering information making us vulnerable.

  "We'll be careful," I promised, though I knew such promises meant almost nothing in a world like this.

  Isabella finished her story. Eleanor fell asleep, her breathing sounding like crumpling paper. Isabella tucked her in carefully, then joined us.

  "Ready for tomorrow?" I asked.

  She nodded, but her hands trembled slightly as she took the tea cup I offered her. "I've memorized everything. Background, family, even names of fictional cousins. But..."

  "But?"

  "What if they check? What if they have a way to verify my story?"

  "Your story is common enough to be true, specific enough to be believable, and tragic enough not to be questioned too closely." I sipped my tea. "That's the beauty of a well-built truth—it has the same gaps as real life."

  Isabella looked at me with a strange expression. "Sometimes I wonder where you learned all this."

  In another life, in a world harsher in different ways, I almost answered. But I just gave a thin smile. "By watching. Always watching."

  The night wore on, and eventually, we all tried to sleep on the always-damp straw pallets.

  I lay on my back, staring at the dark wooden ceiling, listening to the sounds of San Marcos at night—the distant blare of ship horns, the occasional drunken shout, and always, the never-ending sound of waves.

  My thoughts turned to Don Miguel.

  For the past three days, I'd observed him from a distance. I'd returned to my persona as blind Alejandro, sitting outside the coffee shop he frequented.

  Don Miguel was a creature of habit. He arrived every day at ten, bought the same coffee, sat at the same table, and read the same newspaper for exactly twenty minutes before continuing his day.

  But more interesting was who approached him.

  In those three days, I saw three different people approach him: a Prussi steamship captain in a thick sailor's jacket, a Venezian businessman with too many rings on his fingers, and a woman dressed like a nun who walked like a dancer.

  Each meeting was brief—no more than five minutes. Each time, there was an exchange: an envelope, documents, sometimes a small package. Don Miguel accepted everything with the same flat expression, nodded once or twice, then returned to his newspaper.

  He was a hub. The central point where various interests intersected. And like all hubs, he had value—and vulnerability.

  Tomorrow, Isabella would enter that circle. And I would observe from outside, looking for patterns, looking for weaknesses, looking for opportunities.

  ***

  Dawn broke with thick fog that draped San Marcos like a burial shroud. The air felt damp and heavy, carrying the smell of salt, fish, and the sweet-rotten scent that always hung around harbors.

  Isabella prepared carefully. She wore our best clothes—simple but clean fabric, pressed with hot stones warmed over a small fire.

  Her hair was neatly combed and tied back with a worn ribbon. She looked exactly like what she claimed to be: an educated girl from a family fallen on hard times, trying to maintain dignity amidst misfortune.

  "How do I look?" she asked, turning slowly.

  "Perfect," Mother answered, smoothing her collar. "Not too neat to be suspicious, not too shabby to invite excessive pity."

  Eleanor, sitting on her blanket with a pale face, watched her big sister with shining eyes. "You're pretty."

  Isabella smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, sweetheart. Pray for me."

  "Always," Eleanor whispered.

  I approached, carrying a small cloth bag with a lunch bundle and some writing tools. "Remember," I whispered, "you're Maria Flores. Your father was a teacher who left books but no money. Your mother sews but her eyes are failing. You need this job."

  "He read me poetry before bed," Isabella added, reciting part of her story. "Poems about the sea and freedom."

  "Good." I nodded. "Personal details make it feel real. Now, about your work today..."

  "Translating marketing documents. Not sensitive. Most likely a test."

  "Exactly. Do well, but make a few small mistakes—enough to show you're not a professional, but not enough to ruin the meaning."

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  "And about Don Miguel?"

  "Don't approach him. Don't ask about him. If he speaks to you, answer politely and briefly. He'll test you too, in his own way."

  Isabella took a deep breath. "I'm ready."

  "We're all ready," Mother said, hugging her briefly. "Come home safe."

  I walked Isabella to the ADF Store, staying in my persona as quiet Juan.

  We walked through streets already bustling with morning activity—merchants opening stalls, dockworkers trudging toward piers, children running errands.

  San Marcos was a city that never truly slept, but morning was when it took a breath and prepared for another day just like the last.

  In front of the ADF Store, Isabella stopped. "Juan," she said in a voice slightly louder than normal, for anyone who might be listening, "you should head home now. Tell Mother I'm fine."

  I nodded, looking at her for a moment longer than necessary. "Be careful."

  She gave a small smile, then turned and entered the building. I waited until the door closed before walking away, but not far.

  I took up position at the coffee stall across the street, where I could observe the entrance without being obvious.

  As blind Alejandro, I sat on a bench with a tin bowl in front of me, head bowed, dirty bandage wrapped around my eyes. A wooden stick leaned beside me.

  A picture so pitiful people avoided looking, which was exactly what I wanted.

  The morning crawled by. I counted people entering and leaving the ADF Store: eight in the first hour, twelve in the second. Mostly Venezians, some foreigners identifiable by their dress.

  Right at ten, as predicted, Don Miguel appeared.

  He walked with the same confident stride, wearing the same light linen suit, carrying the same newspaper under his arm. He didn't glance in my direction—why would he? Just a blind beggar boy.

  But my hidden eyes behind the bandage followed him carefully.

  He entered the ADF Store, and something interesting happened. Usually, he went straight to his favorite corner table.

  Today, he stopped at the front, speaking with Se?ora Alba. Their conversation was brief, but I saw Alba gesture toward the back, toward the staff area.

  Don Miguel nodded, then walked in that direction, disappearing from view.

  He was looking for someone. Or something.

  I waited.

  Thirty minutes later, Isabella appeared at a second-floor window. She stood there a moment, looking out, before someone called her and she disappeared. A high position—staff workspace, probably.

  Don Miguel came out fifteen minutes after that. His expression hadn't changed—still calm, still controlled. But something was different in his walk. A little quicker. A little more... watchful.

  He was carrying something—a thin brown document folder he hadn't had when he entered.

  He walked away from the ADF Store, and my instincts screamed to follow him. But I had a role to play here. Blind Alejandro couldn't suddenly stand up and trail a respectable gentleman.

  I waited ten more minutes before standing slowly, gathering my bowl and stick, and walking away with a stumbling gait. Once around the first corner, I removed the bandage and quickened my pace.

  I'd already investigated Don Miguel's habits. After the ADF Store, he usually visited the post office, then the small Brittonia trade office in the commercial district. If he deviated from that routine today, it meant something had changed.

  I took a roundabout route, reaching the post office before him. From behind a stack of crates across the street, I watched.

  Right on time, he appeared. Went inside for five minutes—shorter than usual—then came out without the envelope or package he usually carried when leaving. Went straight to the commercial district.

  I followed from a distance, using the morning crowds as camouflage. San Marcos was busy at this hour—merchants, sailors, housewives shopping—providing plenty of opportunities to disappear into the masses.

  Don Miguel entered the Brittonian trade office. A two-story stone building with narrow windows and a thick wooden door. A difficult place to observe from outside.

  But I knew its back entrance—a small alley alongside leading to a delivery door. From there, a small window gave a partial view inside.

  Carefully, I slipped into the alley, hoping no one was watching. The alley was narrow and dark, smelling of urine and decay. The window I remembered was still there, high and small, but enough to peek through.

  I pushed an empty crate underneath, stood on it carefully, and peered inside.

  The room was a small office—a large wooden desk, shelves of documents, maps on the wall.

  Don Miguel stood facing a blonde Brittonia man I recognized from Hector's description—the tall man with strange habits and leather gloves.

  They were speaking in low voices I couldn't hear clearly through the glass.

  But their body language was clear: tense. The Brittonia was shaking his head, his hand pointing at the brown document folder now open on the desk.

  Don Miguel responded with calm but emphatic hand gestures. He pointed at something in the document, then toward the window—almost directly at me, by coincidence.

  I ducked, heart pounding. Had he seen me? Impossible. This window was dirty and dark from outside.

  When I dared to peek again, the situation had changed. The Brittonia man was now sitting, face pale. Don Miguel stood before him with a posture that was almost... threatening. Calm, but full of authority.

  I didn't need to hear their words to understand the power dynamic in that room. Don Miguel held the upper hand. And whatever was in that brown folder was the key.

  The meeting ended quickly. Don Miguel folded the document, placed it back in the folder, and left without a handshake. The Brittonia man remained seated, staring at the desk with a blank expression.

  I climbed down from the crate, taking a deep breath. This new information was valuable, but also dangerous.

  Don Miguel wasn't just an information broker—he was a skilled blackmailer. And he had just blackmailed someone at the Brittonia trade office.

  The question was: with what? And how could we use this knowledge?

  ***

  I returned to the warehouse to meet Mother and Eleanor. Mother was teaching Eleanor to read with an old book we'd found in a trash pile. The book was badly damaged—cover missing, pages loose—but still usable.

  "How did it go?" Mother asked as I entered.

  "Interesting," I answered, taking a cup of water. "Don Miguel is more than we thought."

  "In a good way or bad?"

  "Both." I sat down, recounting what I'd seen. Mother listened with a serious expression, while Eleanor pretended to read but was clearly listening.

  "So he blackmailed the Brittonia man," Mother concluded when I finished. "With what?"

  "That's what we need to find out." I looked at Eleanor. "How's your reading today, El?"

  She shrugged. "The words are hard."

  "You'll get them," I said softly. "Like you mastered making Fantasma dance."

  A small smile touched her face. "I miss Fantasma."

  "We all miss him," Mother whispered, hugging her.

  Isabella returned just before dusk. Her face was tired but animated. She carried a small bundle—leftover food from the ADF Store, which she'd accepted with feigned reluctance after Se?ora Alba insisted.

  "How was your first day?" Mother asked as we sat for dinner—boiled salted fish with corn, plus stale bread soaked in broth.

  "Promising," Isabella answered. "I translated brochures about farm machinery. Boring, but..." She hesitated.

  "But?" I prompted.

  "He was there. Don Miguel. He came into the workroom, spoke with the American supervisor. I pretended not to notice, but I overheard a bit."

  "What did you hear?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  "They were talking about shipments. Something about 'changed schedules' and 'security assurances.' And then..." Isabella lowered her voice. "Don Miguel asked if there were any new hires recently. The supervisor pointed at me."

  My heart beat a little faster. "What happened then?"

  "Don Miguel approached me. Asked my name, where I was from. I answered according to our story. He listened, then nodded and left." Isabella shook her head. "But his eyes... he looked at me like I was an interesting specimen."

  Mother set her spoon down. "That's dangerous."

  "Perhaps," I said. "But also an opportunity. If he's interested in you, that means you have value. And if we can understand what he wants..."

  "We can use that," Isabella finished, but her voice held no enthusiasm. "Mateo, I don't want to be bait."

  "You won't be," I promised. "We'll be careful. We'll observe first. Understand his patterns."

  That night, after Isabella and Eleanor fell asleep, Mother and I sat together before the small fire we'd lit to warm the damp room.

  "You see something," Mother said quietly. "Something I don't see."

  "We all see what we can see," I replied. "I see patterns, connections, opportunities. You see danger, risk, consequences."

  "And Eleanor? What does she see?"

  I looked at my sleeping sister, her pale face lit by firelight. "She sees the people she loves slowly turning into something frightening."

  Mother sighed, a sound heavy with burden. "We can't go on like this forever, Mateo. At some point, we have to choose: keep hiding and rotting in this place, or take a risk and maybe be destroyed."

  "I know." I stared into the fire. "That's why we need leverage. Something valuable enough to buy us a way out."

  "And Don Miguel is the key?"

  "He's the key to many doors. But keys can be used to unlock or to lock."

  A pause, just the crackle of the fire and Eleanor's uneven breathing.

  "I trust you, Mateo," Mother whispered finally. "But please... don't forget who we really are. Don't let saving our lives cost us our souls."

  I didn't answer. Because in the quiet, I already knew the answer: We might have already lost part of it. And what remained depended on how far we had to go, and what we found at the end of that path.

  The fire died slowly, leaving us in darkness lit only by the pale moonlight creeping through roof gaps.

  In the distance, a ship's horn sounded, a low, melancholy call like a summons from another world—a world that kept spinning, indifferent to our little game in this stinking tannery.

  But that game was everything to us. The only thing standing between us and total ruin.

  And tomorrow, the game would continue. With Don Miguel as the main player who didn't know there was a new player on the chessboard, watching from the shadows, studying his moves, waiting for the right moment to make our own.

  I lay down, closing my eyes but not sleeping. Instead, I mapped everything I'd learned today, every observation, every interaction, every possibility.

  Don Miguel blackmailed the Brittonian with something in the brown folder. Don Miguel asked about the new person at the ADF Store. Don Miguel was a hub for many interests.

  We needed something from him. Or rather, we needed something he had: access, influence, protection.

  The question was: how to get it without becoming one of his puppets? Or worse, without becoming another victim of his blackmail?

  The answer, as always, lay in information. We needed to know more. About the document in the brown folder. About his relationships with Brittonia and the ADF. About his weaknesses.

  And for that, we needed to get closer. But carefully. Like approaching a sleeping lion—one wrong step, and we'd be torn apart.

  I finally fell asleep, dreaming of brown folders opening to show blank pages, and Don Miguel smiling with dead-fish eyes, saying, "You're looking for something that isn't there, little boy. You're looking for meaning in a world that has none."

  And when I woke in the morning, with fog once again shrouding San Marcos like a wet blanket, one thing was clear: The game was on. And now, there was no going back.

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