That morning, Camila woke earlier than usual.

  Not because she wanted to—but because her eyes had snapped open at five in the morning, and after that, sleep refused to return.

  This new room still felt foreign. The walls were pristine white, not the rotting wooden planks of their old shack. Her bed was soft, the sheets fragrant with a clean scent. In the corner stood a study desk with a reading lamp—her very own, not borrowed.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her own hands. Still the same hands that had once wiped the feverish brow of her younger sibling. Still the same hands that had gripped her mother's as they were relocated.

  These past few weeks felt like a dream.

  A soft knock came at her door. "Camila, breakfast is ready."

  Her mother was healthier now, after treatment at a free clinic. The cough had vanished, color returning to her skin.

  Camila opened the door. Her mother smiled—a smile that had rarely appeared before but now emerged more frequently.

  In the small living room, her younger siblings were already seated at the table. Her little sister—eight years old—was engrossed in a drawing book. Her little brother—four—was attempting to spear an egg with his spoon, only for the egg to shoot across the floor. Their mother laughed, picked it up, and replaced it with a fresh one.

  The house was small but sufficient. Two bedrooms, a living room, a tiny kitchen. Outside, there was a narrow yard where they could hang laundry. Far from the slums, far from the stench of the market, far from the sounds of thugs who used to demand "protection money" every week.

  Camila sat down and reached for bread. Still warm, spread with butter and strawberry jam. Food she had only ever seen in shop windows was now on their table.

  "Sis," her little sister called out. "Are we still going to the plaza today?"

  Camila stopped chewing. The plaza. The news—everyone was talking about the President's upcoming speech. The seven-day victory. The execution of corrupt officials.

  "Mom?" She turned.

  Her mother shrugged. "Up to you. But they say the President is speaking today, and everyone wants to see. Might be exciting."

  Camila didn't know how to feel. For three weeks now, she had been living in a bubble. A new house, a new school (free), her mother healed. Whoever had sent them this aid—she didn't know their name, had never seen their face. Only a single unsigned piece of paper, accompanied by officials who were friendly but tight-lipped.

  "Someone cares," that official had said at the time. Nothing more.

  Who?

  ***

  Morning in Plaza de la República.

  The sun had risen but wasn't yet scorching. The air buzzed with the noise of thousands.

  Camila stood at the edge of the plaza, somewhat removed from the main crowd. Her mother and siblings were at home—they hadn't come. She had come alone, wanting to see, wanting to understand.

  Around her, people jostled for space. A man sold small flags, handmade banners, caps emblazoned with "CLEANSE THE PESTS." A woman hawked boiled peanuts, her goods selling quickly.

  Camila looked up at the massive stage at the far end of the plaza. A giant banner proclaimed: "TOGETHER WITH THE PEOPLE, WE WIN!"

  Long chairs lined the stage. People began ascending. First the aides, then ministers, then—

  She saw her.

  A woman in a blue dress, smiling at the crowd. The First Lady. Beside her, two teenage girls. The younger one clutched a stuffed animal. The older one had a stern expression.

  And behind them, slightly to the side—

  Camila gasped.

  That boy. The black suit, the expressionless face. Standing calmly beside his family.

  She recognized that face. The park bench, the shady tree. "I'll send someone."

  Camila stepped back. Then two steps. Her body trembled.

  The man beside her—the flag vendor—glanced over. "You okay? Feeling sick?"

  She didn't answer. Her eyes remained fixed on the stage.

  That boy was probably her age. The same face. The same eyes—cold, but beneath that coldness... something else.

  Camila remembered their conversation. Brief, but she recalled every word.

  "I'll send someone to your house. They'll ask what you need."

  The next day, officials arrived. Then, they moved.

  Now she knew. The "someone" who cared wasn't an official, wasn't a foundation, wasn't a regular government officer. It was that boy on the stage. The President's son. The one rumored in the markets to be orchestrating the arrests. The one celebrating victory over corruptors and murderers today.

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  One thing was certain: he was one of them.

  The crowd roared. The President began speaking, his voice booming across the square. But Camila didn't hear him. She was still staring at that boy—Mateo, that was his name, she remembered now.

  Mateo Guerrero.

  On stage, Mateo wasn't looking her way. His gaze swept across the crowd in a peculiar manner—as if calculating, analyzing, not merely observing. But for a moment, his eyes passed over the area where Camila stood.

  Just one second. Probably just coincidence.

  But Camila felt her chest tighten. She turned, leaving the plaza, walking quickly without knowing where she was going.

  The person who had saved her family was the same person who had killed people in public yesterday.

  How was that possible? How could the same person be both savior and executioner?

  She walked until her legs grew tired. Until the plaza was out of sight. Until the sounds of cheering were merely whispers in the distance.

  On another park bench—similar to the one where they had first met—she sat down, lowered her head, and wept. Not from sadness. Perhaps confusion, fear, anger? She didn't know.

  She just cried.

  ***

  14:18.

  Mateo arrived with two cars. One filled with guards, the other for himself. Felix sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes already sweeping the area since they'd stepped out.

  The factories at the foot of the hill had grown significantly larger than three months ago. Smokestacks billowed. Electric lights blazed even during the day—a sign of full production. But Mateo's destination wasn't the main factory.

  He walked east, past worker barracks, past storage warehouses, past guard posts that checked identification three times before opening the final iron door.

  Beyond that door lay a tunnel piercing deep into the hill. Lights lined the walls. The air was cold, carrying the scent of concrete and oil.

  The Military Research Center.

  A thousand people worked here. Scientists, engineers, technicians, draftsmen. They came from universities, from industries, from abroad—recruited with high salaries and promises of "national projects." Most didn't know exactly what they were designing. They were merely given specifications, drawings, targets.

  Who provided those specifications? Mateo, certainly.

  In his mind, thousands of images from a past life. Not perfect details—he wasn't a mechanical engineer. But the broad outlines, operating principles, rough forms. Enough to begin, enough to keep these scientists working for years.

  And with data from Prussi—Felix's reports, artillery sketches, photographs of new weapons—they advanced even faster.

  Mateo entered the main hall. High ceilings illuminated by massive lights. Along the thick concrete walls, drawing boards stood at attention. In the center, workbenches displayed small prototypes—models made of wood, metal, wire. Some were toy-sized, others table-sized.

  A man in a white coat approached, his face weary, eyes swollen. Yet a spark of enthusiasm flickered there.

  "Master Mateo. We didn't know you were coming."

  Mateo nodded. "Show me the progress."

  This was Professor Ortega, a mad researcher from Prussi who had been expelled for conducting insane experiments.

  Ortega led him to the first table. Upon it sat a model with a peculiar shape—a large box with a long muzzle, wheels on the sides, but unlike conventional artillery.

  "This is what you requested," Ortega said. "A tracked armored vehicle. We've built a 1:5 scale prototype. Heavy, slow, but capable of traversing muddy terrain and trenches."

  Mateo touched the model. In his mind, images of early tanks—slow, prone to breakdowns, yet revolutionary.

  "How long until a full-scale prototype?"

  "A year. Maybe eight months if the special steel from the eastern plants arrives faster."

  "Accelerate it. Six months."

  Ortega frowned. "But—"

  "Six months."

  They moved to another table. Light machine guns—smaller, lighter than Prussi models, operable by a single soldier. Ortega explained cooling innovations and new feeding systems. Mateo listened, nodded, offered notes.

  The next table. Long-range artillery—cannons with extended barrels, capable of reaching targets over a dozen kilometers away. Data from Felix in Prussi had proven invaluable. Sketches sent in code, translated, reproduced, enhanced.

  "These can hit targets behind hills," Ortega said. "But accuracy isn't perfect yet."

  "Improve it."

  Next table. Grenades. Landmines. Improvised explosives. The latest field radio communications. Weather-resistant uniforms. Even concepts for reconnaissance aircraft and bombers—something highly advanced for this era, though still in conceptual stages.

  Mateo moved between tables, hearing reports, examining drawings, issuing brief commands. The scientists regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. This boy knew exactly what he wanted. More than they did. More than anyone.

  At the final table, something different. Not a weapon. A device. Tubes, copper wire, primitive circuit boards.

  "A portable radio," Ortega said. "As you requested. Can be carried by one person, range of five kilometers. But still heavy—seven kilos."

  Mateo picked up the device. Light in his hands—but he knew that in another world, a radio this heavy would be obsolete. Here, it was revolutionary.

  "Mass production?"

  "Another eight months. Could be faster if we expand the component factories."

  "Accelerate it."

  Ortega nodded but hesitated. "Master... there's something I'd like to ask."

  Mateo regarded him.

  "All these designs... where do they come from? Not just from Prussi reports, right? They're too detailed. Too... advanced."

  Mateo was silent.

  "Consider it," he finally said, "from dreams."

  Ortega didn't understand. But he knew better than to ask further.

  They walked to a small conference room at the end of the corridor. Thick concrete walls, a wooden table, a large map on the wall. Felix was already there, smoking.

  Mateo sat down, studying the map. The continent—Europania—was still burning. But on this map, what mattered wasn't the front lines but the distances. The distance between Caraccass and the northern coast. The distance between them and any enemy that might come.

  "A new threat," he said.

  Felix stubbed out his cigarette. "ADF?"

  Mateo nodded. "They're behind the terror. Weapons from there, core personnel from there, money from there. But we can't prove it—yet. And we can't fight back—yet."

  Ortega listened, his face tense.

  "I need everything accelerated," Mateo continued. "Tanks, artillery, radios, rifles. Everything. Not six months—five months at most."

  "Five months?" Ortega nearly choked. "But—"

  "We have funding. We have personnel. We have—" Mateo paused, his eyes cold. "—a reason."

  Ortega swallowed hard. "Even with Prussi data, this is insane."

  "Then we'll be insane together."

  The room fell silent. Felix lit another cigarette, smoke rising toward the low ceiling.

  "There might be someone who can help," Felix said suddenly. "Our informants in Valverde. They mention an ADF officer who frequently visits the port. Not the official ambassador, not a military attaché. But a field operative—possibly intelligence."

  Mateo fixed his gaze on him. "Find out who. Find out his schedule. Don't make contact—just observe."

  "You want direct evidence."

  "Yes."

  Ortega, not fully following the conversation, could only sit silently, contemplating how to accelerate the research.

  Mateo stood. "Five months minimum, Professor. I'll return, and I want to see prototypes—all of them."

  He exited, Felix following. In the corridor, the lights flickered briefly. Maybe a power disturbance. Maybe a warning.

  Outside, the sun was beginning its descent. The El ávila Valley was bathed in orange light. In the distance, factory engines roared. Night shift workers began arriving.

  Felix stood beside Mateo. "Do you think we can do this?"

  Mateo didn't answer. His gaze swept across the valley—the factories, the smokestacks, the lights beginning to flicker on. All of it built from his memories. All of it for a single purpose: survival.

  "We have to," he finally said.

  He entered the car. The door closed. The engine roared to life, carrying him back to Caraccass, to the palace, to his family.

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