The blast dragged me back to a place I never wanted to visit again.

  Not a specific memory, but a sensation.

  The vibration in my chest bones that came before the sound.

  The smell of damp earth mixed with warm metal and something sweet—tobacco—

  or maybe even burnt flesh…

  then the wailing siren, screaming like a song of death.

  Just a moment. A flash behind my eyes. Then gone.

  But it was enough to make my palms sweat, my breath hitch for a fraction of a second longer than it should have.

  This body was ten years old, but something inside it—an echo from another life—still understood the language of violence.

  I took a deep breath.

  The palace air smelled of lemon polish and candles. Not sweat and gunpowder.

  You are here. You are safe. For now.

  ***

  From downstairs, Eleanor’s crying grew louder. I hurried down.

  The city did not sleep that night.

  Or rather, it slept restlessly—cut apart by sirens, distant shouts, and the occasional small explosion that rattled the windows.

  We gathered in the family room—Mother, Isabella, Eleanor, and me. Dim lights. Rosa arrived with a tray of chamomile tea, her face a carefully trained stone mask.

  “All doors and windows are locked,” she reported flatly, as if giving the weather forecast. “The perimeter guards have been replaced. New faces.”

  “Mendez’s faces?” Mother asked.

  “Faces that didn’t smile when Eleanor waved at them this afternoon,” Rosa replied.

  That explanation was more effective than any political analysis.

  Eleanor sniffed, her eyes swollen. “They didn’t like my wave.”

  “Your wave was excellent,” I said, pulling her close. “They’re just… busy.”

  “Securing prisoners,” Isabella murmured, staring into her teacup as if trying to read the future there.

  That was exactly how it felt. Prisoners.

  The palace, once a fortress, now felt like a more luxurious cage.

  The old guards—the ones who knew us, who sometimes slipped Eleanor candy—had been replaced by soldiers with sharper uniforms and emptier eyes.

  “Father,” Eleanor whispered. “I want to see Father.”

  “Father is trying to fix things,” Mother said, gently but firmly.

  But her eyes met mine, and in them was the same question.

  What has really happened to my husband?

  Dawn broke in a dirty gray.

  No birds sang in the garden. Perhaps they sensed the tension too—or perhaps Coco had scared them all off with his nonstop cries of “Danger! Danger!” throughout the night.

  I decided to scout.

  Using the excuse of “getting a book from the library,” I walked the corridors. Every few meters, a guard stood rigid. They didn’t look at me, but I could feel their eyes following me like poorly installed security cameras.

  Near Father’s office, the situation was clearer.

  Two unfamiliar soldiers stood at the door—not regular army uniforms, more like special forces, their unit insignia removed. The door was locked.

  “Where is my father?” I asked, stopping in front of them.

  One of them—a man with a square jaw and narrow eyes—looked down at me.

  “The General is on duty, Young Master.”

  “Where?”

  “That is operational information. Please return to the family area.”

  Polite words. Clear meaning.

  Go away.

  I nodded as if accepting it and turned around.

  At the end of the corridor, I caught a glimpse of Captain Rios—Father’s longtime aide—being escorted away by two soldiers just like them. His face was pale.

  The purge had begun.

  This was no longer security.

  This was a quiet takeover.

  The official announcement came that afternoon—delivered by Colonel Mendez himself.

  He arrived without warning, his uniform immaculate, a thin, carved smile on his face. We were summoned to the formal sitting room—Mother, Isabella, and me. Eleanor was kept with Rosa under the excuse of “rest.”

  “Mrs. Guerrero,” Mendez said with a respectful nod. “Ladies. Mateo.”

  “Colonel,” Mother replied, sitting straight as a flagpole. “How is my husband?”

  “General Guerrero is safe,” Mendez said, sitting across from us without invitation. “He is currently… resting. Yesterday’s events were very stressful. As a friend and colleague, I felt it necessary to relieve him of some operational burdens—for his own health.”

  Polished words.

  Father had been stripped of power.

  Exiled was the more honest term.

  “And the situation in the city?” I asked, sounding like a worried child.

  Mendez turned to me.

  “Open conflict. The rebel group has crossed the line. An attack on a security headquarters is a declaration of war. We must respond with proportional force.”

  “Proportional?” Isabella cut in, her voice cold.

  “That means,” Mendez said smoothly, “that full martial law is now in effect. Curfews. Media censorship. And cleansing operations against destabilizing elements.”

  “Cleansing,” Mother repeated. The word hung in the air like rot.

  “To restore order,” Mendez finished. “The General agrees this is necessary.”

  I doubted Father agreed to anything. But he likely had no choice.

  “We want to see him,” Mother insisted.

  “Of course. When his condition allows.” Mendez stood.

  “In the meantime, for your safety, additional security will be assigned to this residence. I strongly advise you to remain inside. The city is… unhealthy for your family right now.”

  The threat was subtle, but unmistakable.

  After he left, Isabella hissed, “He’s like a snake that just swallowed a rat whole and is trying to smile.”

  “And Father is the rat,” I muttered.

  Mother closed her eyes.

  “We must stay calm. And alert. And… stay together.”

  Staying together became harder when the outside world broke in through the television.

  Mendez held a press conference. He stood before the flag, looking grave and responsible. He spoke of “terrorism,” “national stability,” and “the iron hand required to protect the weak.”

  Then they aired an “exclusive interview” with a detainee.

  The man sat in a chair, his face bruised, his eyes unfocused. He muttered about “plans to overthrow the government” and “foreign backing.”

  I recognized him.

  A moderate labor union leader. A man known for supporting dialogue.

  Now he looked like a broken puppet, reciting lines clearly fed to him.

  “That’s a lie,” Isabella whispered, her face pale. “They’re forcing him.”

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  Mother turned off the TV.

  “They’re not just fighting rebels. They’re fighting the narrative. And they’re winning.”

  That was the most terrifying part.

  Physical violence was one thing.

  Violence against truth—twisting reality itself—was a poison that seeped into the marrow of a nation.

  Eleanor, who didn’t fully understand, simply asked,

  “Why is that man sick? Should we send him soup?”

  I patted her head.

  “Some illnesses can’t be cured with soup, El.”

  “You always say chicken soup fixes everything.”

  “I was wrong,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  In all this, Rosa became our unexpected lifeline.

  She didn’t bring good news—there was none left—but she brought information. And in a quarantined world, information was oxygen.

  “The General was moved to a safe house in the hills,” she whispered to me in the kitchen, pretending to supervise bread-making. “He’s unharmed. But he has no control. His phone is tapped. Visits restricted.”

  “Does anyone still support him?”

  “A few. But they’re quiet. Like rats in the walls while the cat prowls.” She kneaded the dough hard.

  “Mendez is moving fast. Promotions, threats… and sometimes, uncooperative people disappear for ‘questioning.’”

  “And us?” I asked. “What’s his plan for us?”

  Rosa stopped kneading.

  “You and your family are symbols. As long as the General lives, he is legitimate in some people’s eyes. You are… his family. You could be useful martyrs. Or useful puppets. Mendez hasn’t decided yet.”

  Charming choices.

  “What can we do?”

  She looked at me for a long moment.

  “You’re a smart child, Young Master. But intelligence doesn’t beat rifles. Patience might. And luck.” She lowered her voice.

  “There are… channels. Unofficial ones. People who don’t like how Mendez does things. They see cruelty, not order. If a message needs to be sent… there are ways.”

  A sliver of hope. Small. Fragile. But real.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Think fast,” she whispered, then raised her voice.

  “Does Young Miss Eleanor like raisins in her bread? Or is she still in her ‘everything green is suspicious’ phase?”

  “Green is still the enemy,” I replied.

  “Raisins it is.”

  ***

  That afternoon, in an effort to preserve our sanity, Isabella declared we needed a “project.”

  She took an old world map from the library and hung it in the family room.

  “We’ll study geography,” she said, wild determination in her eyes.

  “One country per day. Mother can talk about culture. Mateo, you read the history. Eleanor… Eleanor can choose the color to mark the country.”

  It was absurd.

  Outside, the city might be burning. Inside, we discussed foreign capitals.

  But it worked. It gave us structure—something to do besides listening to sirens and guessing our fate.

  Eleanor solemnly chose a green marker for “Brazilian” because

  “Coffee and rubber look rich, and they probably need industrialization.”

  Flawless logic.

  That was when Coco—his cage moved indoors for “security”—decided to contribute.

  “Rion de Janeiro!” the bird shouted, loud and proud.

  We all stared.

  “What?” Isabella said.

  “Rion de Janeiro! Capital! Coffee!”

  Apparently, during our weeks in the library, Coco had been listening and absorbing information.

  He now possessed a vocabulary that included not just political slogans, but world capitals.

  “That bird is more educated than half the parliament,” Mother muttered.

  For the first time since yesterday, we truly laughed.

  It was choked. Fragile. But real.

  At night, reality knocked again—or rather, slammed the door.

  Clashes in the distance. Closer than before. Bursts of gunfire, fast and mechanical. Then screams.

  We gathered in the hallway, hearts pounding. Rosa appeared, her face granite-hard.

  “Not here,” she said quickly. “But close. Diplomatic district.”

  “What happened?” Mother asked.

  “Unclear. But our guards are at full alert. No one in or out.”

  We waited. Time crawled.

  Then the private phone in Mother’s room—the direct line to headquarters—rang.

  She answered. Her face didn’t change, but her hand gripped the receiver until it went white.

  “I understand,” she said, then hung up.

  “Father?” I asked.

  “No. Mendez.” She exhaled.

  “He claims there was an attempted terrorist infiltration near the embassies. Contained. But as a precaution, all movement within the palace is restricted. Even between wings. We must stay in the family wing.”

  Total confinement.

  “How long?” Isabella asked.

  “Until the situation is… under control.” Mother looked at us.

  “We’ll be fine. We have food. We have each other.”

  But we also had fear.

  And fear thrives in confinement.

  Two days passed like murky water. Without open windows, without fresh air, the palace began to feel like a slowly sinking submarine.

  Eleanor grew restless. Her imagination turned anxious. She began drawing labyrinths over and over.

  “I’m looking for the exit,” she said.

  So were we.

  I spent my time in the small family-wing library, reading anything—cookbooks, repair manuals, ancient epics. My mind circled, searching for solutions, cracks, anything to relieve the pressure.

  Then I found it.

  Or rather, I remembered it.

  A thick book on city infrastructure. A chapter on the palace water system. Boring text. Complex diagrams.

  The palace had been built over an old colonial fortress.

  And fortresses had tunnels.

  Evacuation routes. Supply lines. Most were sealed, abandoned.

  But according to the book, one tunnel—leading to an old storage building at the edge of the garden—was still technically open.

  Unused.

  And “not recommended due to risk of collapse.”

  Collapse risk was better than being shot by Mendez’s guards.

  It wasn’t a good escape route.

  But it was a route.

  I closed the book, heart racing. This was valuable information.

  But for what?

  Escape? To where? Leaving Father behind?

  Not yet.

  But as a last option.

  On the third day of confinement, Rosa smuggled a message.

  She brought our meals—plain bread, plain soup—but beneath my bowl was a folded scrap of paper.

  Safe. Patient. Channel active. Await signal.

  That was all.

  But it was enough.

  That night, while the others slept fitfully, I sat in my room, staring at a city map I had redrawn from memory. Marking the palace. Headquarters. The hillside safe house. The diplomatic district.

  I wasn’t a military strategist—though I understood some things from my past life.

  I’d seen conflict. I knew patterns.

  Mendez would consolidate power in the capital first. Then purge provincial loyalists. It would take time—weeks, maybe.

  But he also had to deal with the rebellion.

  And a rebellion led by a former sergeant was not an easy opponent.

  My thoughts turned to the man.

  What did he want?

  To burn everything down?

  Or something else?

  ***

  Sergeant Javier

  They called him El Sargento.

  Not because of his former rank, but because of his direct, stripped-down leadership style. Sergeant Javier—his real name—had been discarded long ago.

  He sat in the back room of a motorcycle workshop turned temporary base, cleaning a long-barreled rifle with ritual precision.

  Oil. Cloth. The clean click of metal.

  Outside, the city breathed short, hot breaths.

  “They say on TV you want to be president,” Rico said, a young man with awful sideburns, chewing bread.

  Javier didn’t look up.

  “If I wanted to be president, I’d wear a tie and give speeches in the palace. Not hide in a workshop that smells like oil.”

  “Then what do we—what do you want?”

  Javier finally raised his head. His faded hazel eyes looked like cracked glass.

  “I want them to remember. Remember that before those gray-blue uniforms, there was something else. And that we’re not livestock to be managed by decrees and batons.”

  “Sounds like poetry,” Rico scoffed.

  “Maybe.” Javier reassembled the rifle.

  “But poetry doesn’t blow up military police headquarters.”

  True.

  Their action yesterday—improvised, risky—had worked. It forced Mendez out of his hole. It showed they weren’t afraid.

  But Javier wasn’t a romantic. He’d been inside the system. He knew how the machine worked.

  Violence would be met with greater violence.

  And with limited resources, they would lose.

  Unless—

  Unless something changed.

  Unless pressure came from elsewhere.

  Unless parts of the machine itself began to jam.

  A courier arrived—an old woman with a basket of vegetables. She handed over a stack of bills. Between them, a slip of paper.

  Javier read it, then pocketed it.

  Mendez sidelined Guerrero. Rapid consolidation. Beware major provocation.

  Major provocation.

  That meant Mendez needed an excuse for a full purge. A big attack. Civilian casualties he could blame on “terrorists.”

  They were trapped in the same game.

  Mendez needed them to be brutal so he could be more brutal.

  They needed to resist without giving him the card he wanted.

  “Rico,” Javier said. “We change tactics. No major military targets for now.”

  “Then what?”

  Javier smiled thinly.

  “We target perception. We steal the narrative.”

  Rico frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t need to. Get spray paint. And… find someone who can imitate radio voices.”

  ***

  At the palace, we heard it the next morning.

  In the middle of official broadcasts, the radio signal was interrupted. Ten seconds.

  A distorted voice, but the message was clear:

  “Guerrero is detained. Mendez is a traitor. The military is divided. Do not believe the lies.”

  Then silence.

  Mother turned off the radio. We all shared the same stunned expression.

  “Who was that?” Isabella whispered.

  “Someone not on Mendez’s side,” I said.

  And someone smart enough to attack with information instead of bombs.

  That was more dangerous to Mendez than explosions.

  Because explosions could be contained.

  Doubt spread like a virus.

  The response came fast and hard.

  Mendez appeared on TV, furious—or convincingly pretending to be. He called it “dirty propaganda” and announced stricter controls, including rolling blackouts.

  But it was too late.

  The message had spread.

  In our eyes.

  In the servants’ exchanged glances.

  In the guards who might now be asking questions.

  That same day, Rosa gave me the signal.

  As she handed me clean towels, she whispered one word.

  “Tonight.”

  That night, when the palace sank into darkness from the blackout, I slipped out of my room. Emergency red lights bathed the corridors in a low-wattage hell.

  Rosa waited near the kitchen intersection. Without speaking, she led me to the laundry room.

  Between stacks of sheets was a small floor hatch, almost invisible.

  “Down,” she whispered. “Five minutes. He’ll be waiting.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who needs to see you. And whom you need to see.”

  Heart pounding, I opened the hatch.

  A narrow iron ladder descended into darkness that smelled of earth and mold.

  Below, a small room lit by an oil lantern.

  And sitting on a wooden crate—

  Captain Rios.

  Father’s missing aide.

  He looked ten years older. His uniform was dirty. But his eyes were still sharp.

  “Mateo,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve grown.”

  “Captain. Are you… safe?”

  “For now. The underground network still exists. But it’s weak.” He studied me.

  “Your father sent word. He wants you to know he’s all right. And… he apologizes.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being able to protect you like he promised.” Rios inhaled.

  “The situation is complex. Mendez has the support of most field commanders. They’re tired of dialogue. They want a ‘solution.’ But among mid-level and lower officers, there’s doubt. They see Guerrero as legitimate. They see Mendez as… a usurper.”

  “So there’s a split.”

  “Cracks,” he said. “Cracks that can be widened.” He leaned closer.

  “We need something. Proof that Mendez crossed a line. Or that your father still has influence. Or… something to push the hesitant into action.”

  “The radio message,” I said quickly. “That was the rebels?”

  Rios nodded.

  “Indirect contact. They don’t love your father. But they hate Mendez more. Enemy of my enemy…”

  “…is an unpleasant ally,” I finished. “But useful.”

  “Exactly. Now Mendez will try to bait them. A major incident. To justify total cleansing. We must prevent it—or… redirect it.”

  “Redirect it?”

  “If something must happen, let it shame Mendez, not strengthen him.”

  This was a dangerous game.

  And in the middle of it—

  Us.

  “There’s a tunnel,” I said suddenly. “To an old storage building at the garden’s edge.”

  Rios frowned.

  “I know it. It’s unstable.”

  “But it’s a path.”

  He considered.

  “Keep it as a last resort. For now, you must stay here. Stay calm. And continue as usual. Sometimes the best move is doing nothing.”

  Hard advice.

  But probably true.

  “Can you pass a message to Father?” I asked.

  “I can. What is it?”

  I thought.

  Not grand plans. Not strategy.

  “Tell him… Eleanor draws constantly now. Isabella memorizes books. Mother stays strong and preserves the family’s dignity as best she can. And I… I’ll think of something that might help.”

  Rios smiled—genuinely.

  “That will mean a lot to him.”

  We parted after that.

  I climbed back up into the world of clean sheets and red emergency lights. Rosa nodded and sealed the hatch, hiding it once more.

  Back in my room, I stared through the locked window. The city was dark, but distant fires still burned.

  The fight wasn’t over.

  But now, we weren’t blind.

  We weren’t alone.

  We stood at a crossroads.

  Down one road was Mendez and the certainty of violence.

  Down another, the rebels and chaos.

  And somewhere in between—

  Father.

  Us.

  And people like Captain Rios, trying to find a third path.

  A narrow one. Dangerous. Possibly imaginary.

  But as long as there were secret messages beneath the laundry room, as long as a cockatoo could name foreign capitals, and as long as a little girl drew labyrinths searching for an exit—

  There was hope.

  Today, we learned that resistance could be an explosion.

  Or it could be a whisper.

  And sometimes, whispers were harder to silence.

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