Morning in Plaza de la República.

  The sky was clear, the air fresh and crisp.

  One hundred fifty thousand people crammed into the plaza. They had arrived since dawn, carrying small flags, handmade banners—some had even brought straw effigies of corrupt officials and burned them the night before. Ashes still scattered along the roadside.

  Yesterday, in this very place, three wooden chairs had been drenched in blood. Today, those chairs had been cleaned away. No trace remained. Only a massive stage with an enormous banner: "TOGETHER WITH THE PEOPLE, WE WIN!"

  On the stage, the Guerrero family sat in a row. President Ricardo in the center, his white uniform spotless. To his left, Sofia Guerrero in a blue dress, her smile perfectly trained. To his right, Isabella and Eleanor—Isabella tense, Eleanor clutching her beloved cat plushie, her eyes scanning the crowd.

  And behind them, slightly to the side, stood Mateo in his black suit. His face was expressionless. His hand rested in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the silver pocket watch from Isabella.

  Second by second ticked by. Ricardo stepped forward to the microphone. Thunderous applause erupted.

  "PEOPLE OF THE REPUBLIC OF VENEZ!"

  His voice boomed across the square. Thousands of hands shot into the air.

  "Seven days ago, I stood here and made a promise: we would cleanse this nation of its pests!" He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "TODAY, THAT PROMISE HAS BEEN FULFILLED!"

  Cheers erupted. Banners waved in the air.

  "212 corrupt officials! From central government officials to village heads! Paid thugs, rotten judges, traitorous council members—ALL HAVE BEEN ARRESTED! ALL HAVE BEEN TRIED!"

  He raised his hand. The crowd fell silent.

  "And for those who dared to fight back—who murdered our soldiers, who bombed our markets, who slaughtered innocent civilians—" his voice dropped, becoming heavy, "—THEY HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED!"

  The plaza exploded. Shouts, applause, grown adults weeping.

  From behind, Mateo watched a woman in the front row. Three days ago, she might have been one of those screaming "EXECUTE THEM!" during the execution. Today she wept, clutching her child. Satisfaction? Relief? Or fear?

  It didn't matter. What mattered was that she was here, showing support.

  Ricardo continued his speech. Numbers. Promises. A bright future. Mateo stopped listening, his mind elsewhere.

  ***

  4:00 AM Earlier. Interrogation Room, Bull Island.

  Flickering lights. The stench of sweat and dried blood hung heavy in the air. In a metal chair sat a thin man with a battered face. Hands cuffed, his shirt covered in brown stains—coffee? Blood? Hard to tell.

  His name was Pedro. Not his real name, but it's what he'd offered during three hours of interrogation yesterday. Last night, after an injection of certain chemicals from a doctor "borrowed" from the military hospital, he'd started talking.

  Cruz stood nearby, folder in hand. Felix lurked in the corner, smoking. Mateo sat across from Pedro, staring at him without blinking.

  "Repeat it," Mateo commanded.

  Pedro swallowed hard. His throat was parched. "The boss... The Don has been here a long time, but he's not originally from here. He's from the north, far away. But not one of us. He... he sent money, sent weapons. Through ships, through routes guarded by his people in customs. But you've already arrested the customs officials, so... so now we've lost contact."

  "Physical description?"

  "Never seen him in person. Only heard his voice—an old man. His language... strange, mixed. But his accent wasn't from here."

  Felix stubbed out his cigarette. "Where did the weapons come from?"

  Pedro hesitated. Cruz tapped the folder. Pedro immediately spoke.

  "ADF. Lots of merchandise from there. Rifles, ammunition, even... even homemade bombs. They shipped them through a shipping company. The company name was... Atlantic Trading? Something like that. I only heard it from a middle-level boss."

  Mateo was silent.

  "Do you know what the ADF is?"

  Pedro nodded slowly. "A big country up north. Powerful and they love money."

  "Do you understand what it means if they're involved?"

  Pedro didn't answer. But his eyes responded with fear.

  Mateo stood. Walked to the door, then stopped.

  "Feed him and let him wash. Tomorrow, move him to a special cell." He glanced at Cruz. "Don't finish him off—he's still useful."

  Outside, the sea air was salty. Felix caught up.

  "This is trouble."

  Mateo didn't respond.

  "The ADF isn't some local thugs. This is a major power. If they're really behind this, we—"

  "I know."

  They stood on the small pier. The lights of Banteng Island behind them glowed dimly.

  Felix exhaled heavily. "What can we do? Fight the ADF? Our country just stabilized. Our military is still green. The economy—"

  "I know." Mateo turned and walked toward the boat.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  "For now, we stay silent. Finish the operation. The people need to see us victorious. Later—" he jumped into the boat. "—we'll think about the ADF."

  The boat pulled away. Felix remained on the pier, a fresh cigarette in his hand, its smoke swallowed by the darkness.

  ***

  10:30 AM. At the Plaza, the Speech Ended.

  Ricardo waved to the crowd. They cheered. The Guerrero family stood, holding hands—a perfect image of unity. Journalistic cameras flashed.

  Mateo smiled. A fake smile. One he'd practiced thousands of times. Precise, proportional, warm enough.

  But behind that smile, his mind was racing.

  ADF. The American Democratic Federation. The superpower to the north. They had the largest weapons factories on the continent. They had warships, they had influence, they had eyes everywhere. For the past three years, they'd been "friendly" toward the new government. Economic aid. Trade agreements. Military consultants "assisting with modernization."

  And now, their weapons were being used to bomb markets, to kill his own soldiers.

  Was this official policy? Or rogue elements? Or private companies playing both sides? Unknown. But one thing was certain: if the ADF was truly involved, this was no longer a war against local thugs. This was a war against the shadow of a superpower. This was deeply troublesome and dangerous.

  Mateo felt something in his gut. Not fear. But... weight. A burden already carried too long, now growing heavier.

  Beside him, Isabella squeezed his hand. Her hand was cold.

  "Are you alright?" she whispered.

  Mateo nodded. Smiled. "I'll tell you later."

  Isabella studied him, then nodded.

  ***

  The President's Office.

  Ricardo removed his uniform, sinking into his chair with a heavy breath. Before him stood Mateo, Felix, Cruz. Their faces didn't look like victors.

  "Tell me," Ricardo said.

  Felix stepped forward. He reported everything. Pedro's interrogation, the ADF weapons, Atlantic Trading company. The possibility of official or unofficial involvement.

  Ricardo was silent. His fingers tapped the desk. Tap-tap-tap.

  "ADF," he muttered. "Damn."

  Cruz added, "We've traced Atlantic Trading. Their office was in Caraccass, but it's been empty for two days. Documents burned, personnel vanished."

  "The police?"

  "Our police... can't do anything. This involves a foreign power. If we move too aggressively, we could be accused of being anti-ADF. Diplomatic relations—"

  "Damn it!" Ricardo slammed his fist on the desk. It was rare for him to explode like this.

  Mateo remained silent, letting his father's anger run its course.

  "We just won," Ricardo said, his voice dropping. "The people trust us, the media supports us, this seven-day plan went perfectly. And now—" he exhaled deeply. "—now we learn the real enemy isn't just local corruptors. It's a shadow from the north."

  Mateo finally spoke. "For now, we stay silent. No one needs to know. The people are satisfied with this victory. We control the media—give them the story that the network has been broken, that nothing remains."

  "And the ADF?"

  "We investigate quietly. Gather stronger evidence. If they truly are the masterminds, we—" he paused. "—we'll think about it later."

  Ricardo stared at him. "Do you know what it means to fight the ADF?"

  Mateo nodded. "Yes."

  "We can't win a war against them."

  "I know, but..."

  "But?"

  Mateo was silent. Then, softly, "But we don't have to win the war. We just have to survive. Long enough for them to get bored, long enough for the cost to outweigh the profit."

  Felix raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll get bored?"

  Mateo met his gaze. "We'll see."

  ***

  3:00 PM. Caraccass Port.

  The cargo ship "Santa Cruz" was now docked at a quiet pier. Inside, four metal crates. Contents: ADF weapons seized from Atlantic Trading's warehouse.

  Mateo stood on the dock, accompanied by Leo and his aide. Felix beside him.

  "This is the evidence," Felix said. "Assault rifles manufactured in ADF factories, serial numbers filed off but traces remain. Grenades, ammunition. All brand new, straight from the factory."

  Mateo opened one crate. Touched the cold metal. Weapons used to kill thirty people at the market. Weapons used to bomb Korps headquarters.

  "Atlantic Trading," he murmured. "A shell company."

  "Should we hand this over to the ADF ambassador? Demand clarification?"

  Mateo closed the crate. "No... Not yet."

  "But—"

  "Felix. If we hand it over now, they'll say 'rogue elements,' 'private company,' 'we had no knowledge.' They'll apologize, promise an internal investigation, and then it all disappears. No one will be held accountable."

  Felix fell silent.

  "We'll keep this evidence for now and gather more. Find connections to their government, their military, to anyone we can actually pressure." Mateo turned, leaving the dock. "For now, the people have their victory. Let them enjoy it."

  ***

  6:36 PM. The Hilltop Villa.

  The old man read the report. His face was calm. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky painted orange.

  "Our core people?"

  Felipe stood beside him. "Safe. Two are abroad, one is hiding in a village. No one was caught."

  "Atlantic Trading?"

  "Empty. I've destroyed all documents."

  The old man nodded. "Good."

  Felipe hesitated. "But sir... those weapons. They might have been found. If they trace them back to the ADF—"

  "Let them." The old man smiled. "That boy is clever—he's probably already figured it out. But he's also clever enough to know he can't do much. The ADF is too big. He'll stay quiet, gather evidence, bide his time."

  "And us?"

  "We wait too." He sipped his cold tea. "The war isn't over, Felipe. Just paused."

  ***

  The Sun Palace.

  Mateo's Room.

  He sat at his desk, staring at a pile of reports. Victory reports. Execution reports. Public opinion reports showing improvement. But in the bottom drawer, there was another folder. A black folder. Contents: photographs of ADF weapons, transcripts of Pedro's interrogation, the empty address of Atlantic Trading.

  He opened the drawer, looked at the folder. Then closed it again.

  Outside, Eleanor's laughter drifted in. Probably playing with Fantasma. Her small world was safe. For now.

  Mateo took out the pocket watch. Opened its cover. The second hand ticked steadily onward.

  Time kept moving.

  Morning Newspapers,

  La Voz del Pueblo

  Page 1: PHOTO—The plaza from a different angle, a mixture of cheering and silent faces.

  VICTORY OR ILLUSION?

  By: Dona Esperanza

  The President declared victory. The people cheered. But in the corners of the plaza, some faces didn't join the shouting.

  We don't doubt that corrupt officials have been punished. The evidence released by the government—money transfers, testimonies, documents—is strong enough. But questions remain: were all those arrested truly guilty? Were some made scapegoats?

  A lawyer who accompanied the families of executed prisoners said, "My client never faced trial in a civilian court. No appeals. No defense attorney. Only a brief military tribunal, then execution."

  The government calls this efficiency. But efficiency isn't always justice.

  We will continue to watch. Today's victory may be real. But without oversight, victory can transform into tyranny.

  El Sol Nacional

  Page 1: PHOTO—President Ricardo waving at the plaza, cheering crowds.

  VICTORY! 7 DAYS CLEANSING THE NATION OF PESTS!

  By: Editorial

  Exactly seven days after declaring war on corruption, President Ricardo Guerrero stood in the same plaza and announced: WE WIN!

  212 corrupt officials arrested. 38 executed by firing squad. The criminal network that had rotted this nation for years—GONE!

  The people cheered. The people wept with emotion. Justice has arrived.

  "This is only the beginning," the President declared in his speech. "We will continue to watch. We will continue to cleanse. Anyone who dares try—will follow!"

  Venez Arise! Long Live the President! Long Live the People!

  El Independiente

  Page 1: PHOTO—The aftermath of the market explosion, wreaths placed at the site.

  THE CURTAIN OF VICTORY: WHAT LIES HIDDEN BEHIND THE 7-DAY SUCCESS?

  By: Editorial

  Seven days of operation. 212 arrested. 38 executed. These numbers are impressive. But behind the numbers, questions remain unanswered.

  Who was the mastermind behind the terror attacks that killed 30 people at the market and Korps headquarters? The government named Julián Montero. But Montero is dead, unable to speak, unable to defend himself.

  And where did those weapons come from? Our intelligence sources indicate possible foreign involvement. But the government is silent, and the pro-government media is silent.

  Is this a sign that the real enemy isn't local corruptors, but a shadow from abroad?

  We don't know. But we will keep asking. Because in a democracy, questions are the breath of freedom.

  That night, in his room, Mateo read all three newspapers. One praised, one doubted, one questioned.

  He folded El Independiente and stored it in the bottom drawer—the same folder holding the ADF evidence. The others he discarded.

  Outside, the city celebrated. Lights blazed. People were probably still partying.

  But inside, Mateo just sat there, listening to the ticking of the watch, contemplating what needed to be done next.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)