"Acting" President Mendez stared at the report on his desk, and for the first time in his year of power, his hands trembled.

  Not with fear—never that—but with a rage so concentrated it felt like molten metal in his veins.

  Situation Report No. 47

  'Empty Chair' movement spreading to 12 provinces

  Low-level desertion up 300% in 3 months

  Weekly broadcasts untraceable, foreign tech suspected

  Slogan: 'Family Waits, Family Will Not Wait Forever'

  He crumpled the paper in one fist, the tendons in his hand standing out like steel cables.

  "EMPTY CHAIRS?" he roared, his voice echoing in the opulent presidential office of the Government Palace. "THEY CALL THEMSELVES EMPTY CHAIRS?"

  General Alvarez, his gray-haired chief of staff, stood rigidly across the desk. "Leader, it's merely a metaphor—"

  "I KNOW WHAT A METAPHOR IS!" Mendez stood so fast his chair toppled backward with a crash. "They are mocking me! Saying this presidential chair is empty? That I am illegitimate?"

  He paced on the thick Persiani carpet, his steps heavy and erratic. Morning light hit his normally controlled face, now contorted by anger and—yes, admit it—a sliver of panic.

  "First the dark radio," he hissed, more to himself than Alvarez. "Then desertions. Now farmers refusing land surveys. Teachers talking about 'complete tables' in class. This isn't armed rebellion. This is... an infection."

  Alvarez sighed. "Conventional methods are ineffective, Leader. You cannot shoot a metaphor. Cannot jail a memory."

  "BUT WE CAN JAIL THE PERSON MAKING THE METAPHOR!" Mendez whirled, eyes blazing. "Who is behind this? Guerrero old supporters? Democratic Party remnants?"

  "Intelligence suggests... someone younger." Alvarez opened another folder, voice cautious. "The speeches reference a 'son' and a 'father'. Linguistic analysis indicates a young speaker. But the rhetoric is sophisticated. Too sophisticated."

  Mendez stopped. "A youth?"

  "Or an actor playing one." Alvarez laid photos on the desk—grainy images from surveillance operations. "What is clear is they have high-level technical support. Mobile transmitters, variable frequencies. Not local equipment."

  "FOREIGN." The word came out like a curse. Mendez clenched his fists. "Prussi? Brittonia? ADF?"

  "Likely Prussi. They are most aggressive in seeking influence in our region." Alvarez hesitated. "There is another report, Leader. About Colonel Vargas."

  Mendez narrowed his eyes. "Vargas? What about him?"

  "His movements are odd. Radio-cleaning operations directed to irrelevant areas. He received night visits from... foreigners."

  The sudden silence was more frightening than the rage. Mendez stared at Alvarez, and in that gaze was something cold, dangerous, like a knife honed too sharp.

  "Vargas is playing both sides," Mendez whispered. "I always knew he was too ambitious. Spent too much time looking in the mirror imagining a general star on his shoulder."

  He walked to the window, looking down at the plaza where his troops paraded in perfect order. It looked orderly. It looked controlled.

  But beneath that display, in villages, markets, humble homes, something was cracking.

  A story was being told. And that story—about family, about loss, about empty chairs—was proving stronger than all the rifles in his hands.

  "This is not a war I can win with armies," he murmured, almost inaudible. "This is a war of stories. And they have the better story."

  ***

  In San Marcos, three hundred miles from the panic in the palace, I was preparing the final move.

  The basement room behind the textile shop was dark and stuffy, lit by a single oil lamp. On a rough wooden table lay an updated map of Loos Nevados marked in red ink.

  Captain Raúl Mendoza, a former soldier loyal to Father with a scarred face and eyes that had seen too much, pointed to a spot on the map.

  "Drainage tunnel here. Still passable. But only for fifty meters. After that, we emerge and cross an open courtyard—fifteen meters to the pavilion where he's held."

  Beside him, Richter stood stiffly. His two Prussi men—Hans the technician and a muscular man named Schmidt—watched silently.

  "Guard schedule?" I asked, my voice calm despite my pounding heart.

  Mendoza produced a small notebook. "Shift change at nine PM. Three-minute gap between outgoing and incoming patrols. Floodlights sweep the area every two minutes. We have a forty-seven-second window between sweeps."

  "Forty-seven seconds to cross fifteen meters with a possibly weakened man," Richter murmured.

  "But possible." I looked at each of them. "I'm going in."

  Everyone stared. Mendoza shook his head. "Impossible, Master Mateo. Too risky."

  "I need to be there. If Father refuses to go—if he doesn't trust foreigners—he'll trust me."

  Richter raised an eyebrow. "You are not trained for operations like this."

  I was trained in my previous life, I thought privately.

  "I am trained in survival. And I know my father." I met his gaze unblinkingly. "It's my condition. No me, no operation."

  A pause. Then Richter nodded, once, sharp. "Fine. But you follow my orders in the field. One disobedience, and I will sedate and extract you."

  "Agreed."

  Mendoza still hesitated. "Master Mateo, with all respect—"

  "Captain," I cut in gently. "You are loyal to my father. But I am his blood. And blood has a voice that loyalty does not."

  Finally, he nodded, face grave. "I will protect you with my life."

  "That's what I worry about," I replied. "Protect my father. I can protect myself."

  ***

  Preparation took seven days. Seven days where I slept only a few hours each night, studying every detail, every contingency.

  During the day, I maintained the routine—visiting our "office," meeting Don Miguel, even recording another broadcast (pre-recorded, to air while we were gone).

  Don Miguel knew of the plan, of course. Nothing could be hidden from him in San Marcos.

  "He wants to meet," Isabella said the night before departure, as we sat in the sitting room of the house on Calle Moránn. "Tonight. He says it's important."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The same café. The same table. Don Miguel waited with two cups of coffee.

  "Tomorrow night," he said without preamble, as I sat.

  "You always know."

  "San Marcos breathes, and I feel its breath." He sipped his coffee. "There is a new development. From Vargas."

  I waited.

  "Vargas knows the operation is imminent. He got word from his own spies at Loos Nevados." Don Miguel looked at me. "And he is offering... a distraction."

  "A distraction?"

  "At exactly nine PM, when you enter through the drainage, there will be an incident at the main gate. A small fire in the supply shed. It will draw half the guards." Don Miguel smiled thinly. "He calls it a 'gesture of goodwill'."

  "What does he want in return?"

  "When your father is restored... the position in Minister of Defense. And a pardon for 'actions taken under pressure of the Mendez regime'."

  I considered. Vargas was clearly playing all sides—still serving Mendez, working with Prussi, now offering us aid. A true player.

  "The risks?"

  "A trap. Or he could inform Mendez and capture us all." Don Miguel shrugged. "But Vargas is a pragmatist. He bets on winning horses. And now... your horse is starting to look like a winner."

  "Thank you for the information."

  Don Miguel nodded, then his expression shifted—softer, almost like concern. "Mateo. Operations like this... they rarely go according to plan. You understand that?"

  "I understand."

  "Listen." He leaned forward. "If something goes wrong—if you are caught—say you were kidnapped. Forced by the Prussi. I will arrange the story. Your family will be safe."

  I stared at him, surprised. "Why?"

  He shrugged again, but this time there was something like weariness in the gesture. "Because I have seen many boys walk into fire. Some become steel. Most become ash. And... I have grown fond of you. Strange, isn't it?"

  I gave a small smile. "Very strange, Don Miguel."

  "Go. And come back. San Marcos would be boring without you."

  ***

  The night of departure. Eleanor cried, though we said I was only going on "business travel." Mother hugged me fiercely, her whisper firm in my ear: "Bring him home, Mateo. Bring your father home."

  Isabella gave me a small bundle—food, basic medicine, a pair of warm socks. "For Father," she whispered. "He must be cold in the mountains."

  We left in a closed carriage in the dark. Four of us: me, Richter, Schmidt, and Mendoza. Hans remained in San Marcos to operate the transmitter and receive signals.

  The journey to the mountains took a full day. We alternated between carriage and narrow footpaths. The air grew colder, thinner.

  At the base camp—a small hidden cave three miles from Loos Nevados—we made final preparations. Dark clothing, shoes with cloth soles to muffle sound, face paint of charcoal and mud.

  Richter distributed weapons: pistols for him and Schmidt, knives for Mendoza and me.

  "During confrontation, avoid gunfire," he instructed, voice flat and professional. "Sound will wake the entire compound. Use knives, or hand-to-hand."

  Mendoza nodded. "I know some of the guards. Former soldiers loyal to President Guerrero. If we encounter them... they might be persuaded."

  "No," Richter said firmly. "No negotiations. No conversations. In, extract, out. Silent."

  I checked the knife in its sheath. Light, balanced. In my previous life, I'd handled weapons often. Now, it felt like an extension of my hand.

  "Time," Schmidt whispered, checking a pocket watch. "Eight forty-five. Fifteen-minute travel to the drainage."

  We moved.

  The darkness in the mountain forest was unlike any I'd experienced. Thicker, more alive.

  Night creatures called, wind rustled leaves, and in the distance, the lights of Loos Nevados were like the eyes of a giant, awake.

  We crawled, didn't walk. Each step measured, each breath controlled. Richter led, followed by Schmidt, then me, with Mendoza at the rear.

  The drainage was hidden behind a thick curtain of vines. The smell of stagnant water and decay filled the air.

  "Go," Richter whispered.

  The opening was narrow—we had to crawl. Icy water up to our waists assaulted my body like a sting. But I kept moving, following the faint light of Richter's lamp ahead.

  Fifty meters. It felt like five miles.

  Then, Richter stopped. Above us, an iron grate. He pushed it slowly—corroded by rust, it moved with a low groan.

  We emerged into thick bushes. From here, I could see the compound clearly.

  Loos Nevados wasn't an ordinary prison. It was once a mountain resort for the elite—now a luxury detention for one man.

  The main pavilion, where Father was held, stood apart in a manicured garden. A light burned in its window.

  "Two minutes to nine," Schmidt whispered.

  Then, as Vargas promised—smoke began to plume from the main gate area. An alarm bell sounded. Shouts. Lantern lights moved quickly toward the fire.

  "Distraction is active," Richter murmured. "Now."

  We burst from the bushes, crossing the open ground. My feet were light, heart pounding in my ears. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five.

  The pavilion's side door was unlocked—Vargas had arranged this too. We slipped inside.

  A dark corridor. Smell of old wood and candles. Richter gestured—left.

  We approached a door. Two guards before it—but they weren't alert. Distracted by the commotion outside.

  Richter and Schmidt moved like shadows. Two swift motions, and both guards slumped without a sound.

  The key was on one guard's belt. Richter took it, opened the door.

  Inside, a simple room with a small fireplace. And in a chair near the fire, a book in his lap, sat Father.

  He was thinner than I remembered. His once jet-black hair was now heavily streaked with gray. But his eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with pride in the palace—still held the same light.

  He saw us, and wasn't surprised. Just nodded slowly.

  "It is time, then?" His voice was calm, hoarse from disuse.

  Richter stepped forward. "Mr. President, we are here to—"

  "I know why you are here." Father stood, the book falling to the floor. But his eyes weren't on Richter. They were on me, standing behind Schmidt.

  And something cracked in his controlled face. "Mateo?"

  I stepped forward, pulling down the face covering. "Father."

  He staggered, as if slapped. "No. It cannot be. They said you were—"

  "They lied." I moved closer, and now I could see the details—deeper wrinkles, a small scar on his hand that wasn't there before, the way he stood slightly stooped, like someone who'd carried a weight too long. "We all survived. Mother, Isabella, Eleanor. We are waiting."

  Tears glimmered in his eyes. But he didn't cry. Just stared, as if afraid I'd vanish if he blinked.

  Richter checked his pocket watch. "Mr. President, Mateo, we must go. Now."

  Father nodded, gathering himself. "I am ready."

  We exited the same way. In the corridor, the sound of approaching footsteps. Many footsteps.

  Richter cursed. "Plan change. They are returning early."

  Mendoza looked around. "There is a servants' exit through the kitchen. A service tunnel."

  "Lead."

  We hurried through the dark corridor, into a small kitchen. On the floor, a trapdoor. Mendoza opened it—a wooden ladder descending into darkness.

  "Go, go, go!" Richter pushed us in.

  I went down first, followed by Father, then the others. Above, Mendoza closed the trapdoor just as voices entered the kitchen.

  The tunnel was narrower than the drainage. We crawled again, this time with Father struggling—his body weak, his breathing labored.

  "Hold on, Father," I whispered ahead of him. "Just a little further."

  "Eleanor... she is truly well?"

  "She coughs, but is healing. She talks about Fantasma and Coco every day."

  A small, breathless laugh. "My brave girl."

  Finally, light. We emerged at the forest's edge, a hundred meters from the compound.

  But there, waiting, were ten soldiers with weapons raised. And before them, Colonel Vargas himself.

  Richter raised his pistol, but Vargas held up a hand. "Calm. I am not here to arrest you."

  Father stepped forward, shielding me instinctively. "Vargas."

  "Mr. President." Vargas saluted, but it was a cynical gesture. "I suppose this is our farewell."

  "The distraction worked," Richter said, still wary.

  "Of course." Vargas smiled. "And now, I have one final request."

  "We discussed this—" Richter began.

  "Not from you. From him." Vargas pointed at me. "The boy who became a voice."

  All eyes turned to me. I stepped forward, facing Vargas. "What do you want?"

  "An assurance. When your father is in power—and you will be after him, I can see it in your eyes—remember that Vargas helped. That Vargas took a risk. And that Vargas... can be a very dangerous ally or enemy."

  I studied him. This man was an opportunist, a traitor, possibly worse. But he was also useful.

  "When the time comes, you will have your chance to prove your loyalty," I said, my voice steady despite the inner tremor. "And I will remember this night. And the fire in the shed."

  Vargas laughed, an unpleasant low sound. "Good enough. That will suffice." He stepped aside. "Your path is clear. But be quick. Mendez is sending special forces. They will arrive within the hour."

  We didn't need telling twice.

  ***

  The journey back was slower due to Father's condition. We had to stop often, let him catch his breath in the thin air.

  At the base camp, while the others rested, I sat with Father by a small fire.

  He looked at me, his eyes studying every inch of my face like reading a lost book.

  "Those broadcasts," he whispered. "That was you, wasn't it?"

  I nodded.

  "Who taught you rhetoric? The palace tutors?"

  "No. From Mother. And from... listening." I paused. "From living this far."

  Father nodded slowly. "They were beautiful. And dangerous. You have lit a fire, Mateo. A fire that can warm or burn."

  "I know."

  "And the Prussi? What is their price?"

  I looked at the fire. "A great deal. But we will find a way to pay it without selling our souls."

  Father placed his thin hand over mine. Cold, but strong. "You have become a man. In circumstances that should not make men from boys."

  "Circumstances are the only thing that ever do, Father."

  He smiled, genuinely for the first time. "Your mother and sisters... how are they?"

  "Strong. Stronger than I ever imagined." I looked at him. "They are waiting. A chair at the table has been kept empty for you."

  Tears again, but this time he didn't try to hide them. "I dreamed of that. Just... sitting together again. Hearing their voices."

  "You will," I promised. "Tomorrow night."

  Richter approached. "We must keep moving. Mendez's forces will be tracking us."

  We doused the fire, erased all traces. By dawn's first light, we were far down the mountain slope, leaving Loos Nevados and years of imprisonment behind.

  Father walked slowly, but with each step, he seemed to grow a little stronger. Like a wilted plant finally getting water.

  And I, I walked beside him, looking ahead toward San Marcos, toward the house on Calle Moránn, toward the dining table where a chair left empty for so long would finally be filled.

  We had taken the first step. The most dangerous one. Now, the next: bringing a president home, starting a rebellion, and fulfilling promises I'd scattered on the airwaves.

  But for now, this was enough: Father beside me, alive, breathing, free.

  And in the distance, the first sunlight touched the mountain peaks, glowing like gold, like hope finally realized after a long night.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)