Power smells like this—strong coffee in a sealed room, the stale sweat of uniforms that haven’t been changed in three days, and the faint scent of mahogany polish lingering on the former President’s desk.

  I inhale deeply, savoring it.

  From the window of this office, someone can see the entire central plaza. Right now, it is empty. Armored patrols crawl through it like giant beetles. Curfew starts at six. Highly efficient.

  The phone on my desk rings. The seventh time this morning.

  “Report, Colonel.”

  “Proceed.”

  “The Eastern District is completely quiet. Forty-three arrests overnight. Three resisted. Neutralized.”

  “Neutralized how?”

  “They will not be a problem again, Colonel.”

  “Good. Continue.”

  I hang up.

  Numbers. That is the real reality. Forty-three. Clean statistics. Easy to digest.

  Unlike faces—wide eyes, mouths praying or cursing. Faces are irrelevant.

  What matters are trend lines. Chaos decreasing. Control increasing.

  But there is one number that bothers me.

  One short radio transmission—ten seconds—that slipped past our filters yesterday.

  “Guerrero detained. Mendez is a traitor. The military is divided.”

  The content isn’t the issue. It’s nonsense. Guerrero is indeed “secured,” for his own safety.

  I am not a traitor—I am a security guarantor. The military is not divided—it is finally unified under clear leadership. The problem is that the sender hasn’t been found.

  One gap in a system that should be airtight. Like finding a grain of sand inside a freshly cleaned machine. Small. But capable of destroying everything.

  I stand and walk to the window. In the distance, smoke still rises from the Eastern District—a minor logistics warehouse fire. Not a strategic target. Just an irritation. Like a mosquito bite on an already wounded arm.

  They—the rebels calling themselves the People’s Liberation Movement—an overblown name for a group of ex-soldiers and frustrated students—are changing tactics. No longer direct attacks. Now they spread doubt.

  Smarter than I expected. But every movement has a center of gravity. For them, it is Javier—the former sergeant. A dignified but naive man. He believes the struggle is about remembering.

  History is written by the winners, Sergeant. And winners never write about their defeats.

  Another call. Antonio Ruiz—the professor turned Secretary-General. His voice is like olive oil on glass.

  “Colonel, there’s an interesting development on the diplomatic front. The Nordic Federation’s embassy has requested an urgent meeting.”

  “Nordic?” That major Northern Europanian power is usually silent. “About what?”

  “In diplomatic language—‘deep concern regarding human rights developments and a request for observer access.’”

  I almost smile. “They want to know who’s going to win before choosing sides.”

  “Exactly. But it’s also a signal. The international community is starting to watch. We’ll need… a softer narrative.”

  Ruiz always talks about narrative—as if nations are built on stories rather than force. Still, he’s useful. He provides the intellectual legitimacy some people need to sleep at night.

  “Schedule the meeting. Friday. I’ll see them. Show declining violence statistics. Highlight Guerrero’s southern pilot projects—as proof of goodwill.”

  “And the Guerrero family?” Ruiz asks.

  “They are part of the narrative. A symbol of unity under pressure.”

  Them. The wife with eyes like cold knives. The serious teenage girl. The strange boy. And the irritating little girl.

  “Keep them confined. But make sure they appear healthy if asked. Add… humanitarian elements. Send toys for the youngest. Books for the teenager.”

  “Toys? Books?” Ruiz hesitates.

  “Perception, Professor. The world wants rulers who are firm yet compassionate—even toward their rivals’ families.” I glance at my reflection in the glass. “But inspect the toys. And make sure the books contain no dangerous philosophy.”

  “Understood.”

  After the call ends, I look out at the city again.

  Perception. That is the true battlefield. Not empty plazas or burning districts—but people’s minds. Their fears. Their hopes. Guerrero understood hope. That was his weakness. He thought hope was something you could give, like a gift.

  In reality, hope is a far stronger tool of control than fear. Fear makes people obey. Hope makes them want to obey.

  Now, their hope lies buried with Guerrero’s unfulfilled promises. And me? I provide calm. Order. Clarity.

  A more stable currency.

  Still, the sand remains. One message. One leak.

  I spin my pen between my fingers.

  The logic is simple. A leak means contact. Contact between the outside world and a sealed palace means an internal connector.

  Who?

  Not the guards—they rotate, constantly monitored.

  Not administrative staff—they lack access to the family.

  That leaves the servants.

  Specifically, the senior one. Years in the palace. Knows the hidden corridors. Holds… personal loyalties.

  For example—the head housekeeper.

  Mother Rosa. She is an institution unto herself. Iron discipline. Perfect efficiency. But she also has a peculiar bond with the Guerrero children—especially the irritating little girl.

  I open the surveillance report. Nothing suspicious. Routine activity. Kitchen oversight. Linen inspections.

  But… a pattern.

  She always delivers meals to the family personally. Refuses to delegate.

  Dedication. Or something else.

  I won’t arrest her. Not yet. Better to watch. Follow her paths. Observe who bites.

  A good bait attracts many fish.

  Decision made.

  Meanwhile, there’s a more pressing issue—Javier. He needs a stage. Small. Controlled. Where he can display rebel “brutality,” and I can display military “truth.”

  I open the map on my tablet. Old industrial district. Empty buildings. Secondary supply routes. Perfect for a fake weapons shipment leak.

  Javier will hear it. He’s starving for symbolic victories. He’ll send men. And those men will walk into a clean, well-filmed trap—perfect for news consumption.

  Then the narrative: “Heavily armed rebels arrested while attempting to rearm.” Old weapons “discovered.” Carefully crafted confessions.

  Perception.

  My right hand—still holding the pen—trembles slightly. Too much caffeine. Too little sleep.

  I ignore it. Physical weakness is temporary. Strategic weakness is death.

  A knock on the door. Lieutenant Garcia—my trusted man.

  “Colonel. Report from the safe house. Guerrero requests a Bible.”

  “A Bible?”

  “Yes. He says he wants to reflect.”

  I consider it. Genuine request. Code. Or a test of boundaries.

  “Give it to him. But photocopy every page first. Check for hidden writing. Replace the cover—make sure there’s no space to smuggle messages.”

  “Understood.”

  “And Garcia…”

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  “Yes, sir?”

  “Add more guards at the safe house. Discreetly. Let him feel watched, not surrounded. We want him… cooperative.”

  Guerrero is still useful.

  As a unity symbol—a familiar face.

  As a distraction—as long as people talk about him, they don’t talk about me.

  And as leverage—as long as I hold him, his remaining loyalists will hesitate.

  But symbols can become martyrs.

  And martyrs are far more dangerous than living leaders.

  Balance. Always balance.

  “One more thing, Colonel,” Garcia says.

  “The bird.”

  “What bird?”

  “The old cockatoo in the palace. The one that talks. Some soldiers report… it’s shouting strange things. ‘Corruption!’ ‘Public property!’”

  I frown. Guerrero, the idiot, let that bird live. Now the damned thing has become an accidental political clown.

  “Has it said anything… sensitive?”

  “Not yet. But it imitates voices. Yours, Colonel. From yesterday’s speech.”

  My right hand stops trembling. Now it clenches.

  A bird. Mocking my voice.

  “Shoot it.”

  Garcia freezes. “Colonel?”

  “You heard me. Shoot it. Dead. Today.”

  “But… it’s just a bird. And the Guerrero children—especially the youngest—are very attached to it.”

  “Exactly.” I meet his eyes. “An objective lesson in consequences. No violence against humans. Just… removal of a disturbance. Do it cleanly. In the garden. Make sure the children see.”

  Garcia nods, face blank. He understands.

  This isn’t about the bird.

  It’s about control.

  That even jokes will not be tolerated.

  He leaves.

  I return to the window. Steel-gray morning sky. A calm, orderly city.

  But in my head, I hear the bird’s hoarse voice.

  “Corruption! Public property!”

  For a brief moment—just a moment—I wonder whether the machine I’ve built—statistics, patrols, perception—is truly under control.

  Then I banish the thought.

  Doubt is just another grain of sand.

  I have a country to run.

  ***

  “Calculation” is too grand a word for what I’m doing now. This is more like… waiting while collecting puzzle pieces that may never form a complete picture.

  Mother Rosa gives me her second report of the morning—slipped inside a bread roll. A small note, tightly written: “Bird. Target. Be careful. Channel still live.”

  Bird? Target? Coco? What threat does a talking cockatoo pose?

  Then I understand.

  This isn’t about what Coco says. It’s about who loves him. About showing that even our smallest happiness can be taken.

  A message from Mendez: I see everything. Even what you consider trivial.

  I crumple the paper and swallow it. It tastes like bitter pulp.

  We’re in the family room, performing a parody of “normal routine.”

  Isabella quizzes Eleanor on capitals. “Lisbon!” Eleanor shouts.

  “Correct! Now… Germania?”

  Eleanor frowns. “Berlim!”

  “Good.”

  I watch them, trying to memorize the moment. Isabella’s patience. Eleanor’s concentration. Mother stroking Eleanor’s hair while her eyes drift elsewhere—likely toward Father.

  This is what I want to protect.

  But a massive hand is poised to smash it with a hammer.

  I need to warn them about Coco. But how?

  “Hey Eleanor, your favorite bird might be executed today as a political lesson”? No.

  I choose indirection.

  “El,” I say, “how about we keep Coco inside today? The weather looks… unstable.”

  She looks at me, then the window. Gray sky. “But he likes the sun! And he promised to teach me how to say ‘thank you’ in English!”

  “Who said that?”

  “He did! Through bird telepathy!”

  …What?

  Mother smiles faintly. Isabella shakes her head. I sigh.

  “Bird telepathy… is unreliable. How about we build him a little house inside? Blankets and chairs.”

  Eleanor hesitates. Blanket forts are powerful temptations.

  “Okay! But he has to join!”

  “Of course.”

  Simple plan. Keep Coco inside. Away from windows. Away from any sniper that might already be on a rooftop.

  But the world has a dark sense of humor.

  Manuel—the kind but clueless gardener—decides to “clean” Coco’s cage and carries the bird outside without telling anyone.

  When Eleanor sees through the window, she screams.

  “Coco! He’s outside! I have to save him from the bad weather!”

  She runs before anyone can stop her.

  My heart stops. “Eleanor, wait—!”

  Too late.

  She dashes down the corridor toward the garden door. The guard there—a young soldier with an expressionless face—steps in front of her.

  “Garden access is closed, Miss.”

  “But my bird! He’ll get cold!”

  “No one is allowed outside.”

  I rush over, followed by Isabella and Mother. The scene is absurd—Guerrero family pleading with a guard over a bird.

  “Let her go quickly,” I say. “Two minutes. Grab the bird. Come back.”

  The soldier hesitates. He’s probably been ordered to guard us, not traumatize children. But orders are orders.

  As he thinks, I glance through the window beside the door.

  Coco is perched on his open cage, pecking seeds. Manuel is shoveling droppings nearby.

  And then I see it.

  A flash on the rooftop of the west wing. Too fast. Like sunlight off glass.

  But there is no sun today.

  A lens. A scope. Or… iron sight.

  “Don’t let her out!” I shout, suddenly.

  Too late!

  The guard—out of pity or pressure—nods and opens the door slightly. “Quickly, Miss.”

  Eleanor slips through like a kitten.

  I shove the guard, trying to follow, but he blocks me. “Only her, young sir.”

  "She’s in danger!”

  “Danger from what? A bird?”

  I look back at the roof. The flash is gone. Maybe glass. Maybe imagination. Eleanor reaches the cage and gently lifts Coco. The bird nips her finger playfully.

  “Come on, Coco, let’s build a house!”

  “House! Play!” Coco squawks.

  She turns, smiling.

  And then the sound comes.

  Not an explosion—but a sharp crack, like a massive plank snapping.

  Crack!

  A spark on the rooftop.

  And in the garden, in Eleanor’s hands—the cage explodes into splinters of wood and wire.

  Eleanor falls backward in shock. Coco screams—pure bird panic, no words.

  Manuel drops his shovel. The guard curses.

  I look at the roof. Nothing. The sniper is gone. Job done.

  They didn’t shoot the bird. They shot the cage. Right in front of Eleanor.

  The message is crystal clear: We could kill her anytime. We chose not to.

  Not mercy.

  A display of power.

  Eleanor starts crying—not from fear, but confusion.

  “Coco’s cage… exploded?”

  Mother, pale with fury, pulls her inside, hugging her tight. Isabella stands in front of them like a living shield.

  I stare at the soldier. “What was that?”

  He doesn’t answer. His eyes avert. He knows. Or suspects.

  “Mateo. Inside.” Mother’s voice cuts sharp.

  We return to the family room. Eleanor trembles. Coco perches silently on her shoulder, feathers puffed.

  “Why did the cage explode?” Eleanor sobs.

  “Lightning,” Isabella says quickly. Flat voice. “Lightning struck.”

  “But there was no lightning.”

  “Small lightning. From the sky.”

  Eleanor looks at her—knows it’s a lie—but accepts it. Sometimes lies are easier than truth.

  Mother looks at me. Same question in her eyes.

  I shrug, then subtly tilt my head upward. Rooftop. Sniper. Mendez.

  She understands.

  This isn’t confinement anymore.

  This is psychological terror.

  Coco suddenly speaks. “Bad bird.”

  We all stare.

  “Bad shot,” the bird adds, then whistles a short tune that sounds like… mockery.

  The almost-executed bird mocks its shooter. Absurd. Insane.

  But within the chaos, one thing is clear—Mendez made a mistake.

  Not shooting the cage—that was effective.

  The mistake was doing it in front of witnesses.

  The guard saw it. Manuel saw it. Now there’s a story.

  A story about a regime that shoots bird cages to scare children.

  It’s not heroic.

  It’s small. Petty. Shameful.

  And stories like that erode authority faster than a hundred propaganda speeches.

  I need to send a message. To Captain Rios. To the underground network.

  Mendez is getting sloppy. Cruel, not strong.

  But how? Mother Rosa warned the channels are monitored.

  Then a simple idea forms.

  “I want to write a letter,” I say.

  “To who?” Mother asks.

  “Diego.”

  All eyes turn to me.

  “Why Diego?” she asks.

  “Because he loves information. Has connections. And…” I pause. “…he’s the type who spreads interesting stories—even if they hurt us.”

  Understanding dawns in Mother’s eyes. She nods subtly.

  Diego’s letters will be read by Mendez’s censors. Of course.

  But the content won’t be subversive.

  Just… descriptive.

  I take pen and paper.

  Dear Diego,

  A strange day at the palace. Bad weather caused a small accident in the garden—the birdcage was damaged by… lightning? Eleanor was startled, but she’s fine.

  Coco the cockatoo is staying indoors now. He learned a new phrase today: “Bad shot.” No idea where he picked that up.

  We’re all healthy. Confined to the family wing, but comfortable. Mother is reading. Isabella is teaching geography. I’ve been reflecting on how easily something that looks sturdy—like a wooden cage—can be destroyed in an instant.

  Please send our regards to your family. We hope conditions in the city improve soon.

  Sincerely,

  Mateo

  Perfect. No complaints. No requests. Just daily life.

  But for those who know how to read between lines: Bad shot. Shattered cage. Startled child.

  Diego will understand something cruel happened. And being an opportunist, he’ll store it—or leak it as gossip.

  And Mendez’s censors? They’ll see a harmless letter. Maybe even weakness.

  I fold it and hand it to the guard. He looks at me strangely but accepts it.

  Step two: ensure other witnesses spread the story.

  Manuel.

  ***

  I wait by the kitchen window. Half an hour later, he appears.

  “Manuel,” I call softly.

  He turns, pale. “Young sir… the bird. Is he okay?”

  “Coco is fine. But the cage is destroyed.”

  He nods nervously. “I saw… lightning. But strange. From the roof.”

  “Roofs are good places for lightning,” I say calmly. “But sometimes what looks like lightning is… something else.”

  His eyes widen. He understands.

  “You’ve worked here a long time, Manuel. You know other gardeners. At other palaces. Ministers’ homes.”

  “Yes…”

  “Sometimes, interesting weather stories deserve to be shared. About lightning that comes from rooftops, not skies.”

  He swallows. Risky. But Manuel is a simple man with simple justice. Scaring children is wrong.

  “I… have a cousin. Works at the Agriculture Minister’s residence. He likes weather stories.”

  “Good,” I say. “Share today’s weather. Just remember—it’s only weather. Not politics.”

  He nods and leaves quickly.

  Alternative channels. Gardeners, servants, drivers—the city’s subconscious network, invisible to men like Mendez.

  Back in the family room, Eleanor is calmer. She’s building a new “cage” from a shoebox and crayons. Coco sits on top, fascinated.

  “Look! It’s better! You can color it!” she says.

  Coco pecks the box. “Modern design.”

  We laugh. Tense, but real.

  Even in terror, there is still humor. Still life.

  ***

  That night, after everyone sleeps, I sit in my room, analyzing Mendez’s move.

  A small cruelty today means he feels safe. Too safe.

  People who feel safe make mistakes.

  Yesterday’s radio message. Today’s bird incident.

  Cracks are forming.

  But something worries me more.

  If he dares do this to us—in the palace, in daylight—what is he doing to Father at the remote safe house?

  I need information. And I know exactly who might have it.

  Mother Rosa arrives with late supper. Simple soup. As she sets it down, I whisper, “I need details about the safe house. Security. Guard rotations.”

  She doesn’t react. Just adjusts the spoon. “This soup needs salt,” she says normally. “I’ll get some.”

  She returns. As she sprinkles it, her whisper barely audible:

  “External guards: Mendez’s special forces. Internal: two men, rotating every twelve hours. Limited communication. One phone line. Tapped.”

  “Patterns?”

  “Shift change at seven a.m. and seven p.m. Five-minute overlap.”

  Five minutes.

  “A window.”

  “Access?”

  “Impossible. Too remote. Too guarded.”

  “Doesn’t have to be human,” I murmur.

  She looks at me, confused.

  “Coco.”

  Her brow furrows. Then her eyes light up.

  The bird. Madness.

  Coco is a pet—not a carrier pigeon.

  “Insane,” she whispers.

  “We need insane,” I reply. “Normal plans won’t work.”

  She nods slowly. “I’ll think about it. Not now. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

  That night, before sleeping, I open my hidden notebook.

  Day 7 of Confinement

  Event: Warning shot (birdcage).

  Message: Measured cruelty.

  Responses:

  1. Letter to Diego (passive dissemination).

  2. Gardener network (working-class witnesses).

  3. Insane idea involving Coco (not viable yet—but indicates need for extreme creativity).

  Mendez Analysis:

  Overconfident. Shooting a birdcage is a psychological error—reveals petty cruelty, not grand strength.

  He controls perception but forgets that the most enduring stories are about cruelty toward the innocent (children, women, elderly, pets).

  Priorities:

  1. Family safety (especially Eleanor—emotional leverage target).

  2. Identify gaps in Mendez’s surveillance (overconfidence → negligence).

  3. Contact Father (how?)

  I close the notebook and stare at the ceiling.

  Outside, the city sleeps under curfew.

  Inside my head—noise. Plans. Fear. Hope.

  And one small, ridiculous voice: “Bad shot. Bad shot.”

  Maybe Coco is the key.

  Or maybe I’m desperate.

  But in a game where the enemy calculates every move with cold logic—perhaps only madness, and a loud-mouthed cockatoo, can tip the balance.

  I close my eyes.

  Tomorrow is another day.

  Maybe there will be more lightning from rooftops.

  Maybe there will be opportunity.

  One thing I learned today: Even the strongest cage can be shattered.

  And sometimes, what flies free afterward is not what the shooter expected.

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