03:00. His silver pocket watch ticked softly on the wooden table, the only marker of time in the windowless room. The kerosene in the hanging lantern hissed weakly, casting dancing shadows across tense faces.

  Mateo sat at the head of the long table. Before him, three blackboards were covered in names, connecting lines, and color-coded notations understood by only a handful of people in this room.

  Now was the time for the true autopsy. Vargas was dead, his body already cremated under the pretext of "epidemic risk." A grandiose military funeral had taken place yesterday—speeches about a "true soldier," a 21-gun salute, flags at half-mast. The public swallowed the narrative of a heart attack. But in this freshly "sanitized" basement of the NLU headquarters, the truth was darker and more crucial.

  "Initial report," Felix announced, standing before the central board. His uniform was still immaculate despite 18 hours without sleep. In his hand was a list of 127 names. "This is the core of Vargas’s network. Field commanders, regional intelligence heads, illicit logistics suppliers, and—" he paused, "—six individuals within the Sun Palace itself."

  A collective intake of breath echoed in the room. Mateo’s eyes didn’t flicker. Six people. Inside the palace. Among the servants, the guards, the administrative staff. All this time, Vargas had eyes and ears in their very beds.

  "Who?" Mateo asked, his voice flat.

  Felix pointed to the board. "The First Lady's personal driver. A chef in the main kitchens. Two guards from the presidential east wing detachment. A janitor for the archives. And," his breath hitched, "the personal aide to the Minister of Defense."

  Ricardo would be furious. Or, Mateo thought coldly, his father might have suspected and left them as bait. Not impossible.

  "Arrest them. All of them. Now. Before dawn."

  "Protocol?" asked Leo, who now led the rapid reaction unit Blindaje.

  "Standard. Quiet. Swift. No questions on-site. Apprehend and transport them to the Toro Island facility. Let them disappear." The words came out like a technical order, but in Mateo’s gut was a familiar metallic taste. The taste of blood, even if none had yet been spilled.

  Felix nodded, signaling a radio operator in the corner. A coded message was sent. Outside, in the darkness of Caraccass, wheels began to turn.

  "Phase two," Felix continued, moving to the left board. "Economics. Vargas wasn’t just building an army. He was building a shadow empire." He attached a diagram—shipping companies, warehouses, illegal tobacco plantations, gambling dens, even three steamships under the flag of the Republic of Phanama. "All funded from 'special operational budgets' never audited, and from extortion of businessmen who survived the Mendez era."

  "Who manages it?"

  "Vargas’s cousin, Manuel. Also a former cavalry captain. But the more dangerous player," Felix’s finger landed on a name at the diagram’s apex, "is Licenciado Ramon Valdez."

  A lawyer. Of course. Every kingpin needed a lawyer.

  "Valdez laundered the money. Valdez forged the documents. Valdez liaised with the Prussi arms smugglers." Felix met Mateo’s gaze. "He has a villa on the north coast. Guarded by well-paid mercenaries. Not an easy target."

  Mateo studied the diagram. The network was like a tree—roots burrowing into politics, military, economy. Cutting one branch wasn’t enough. It had to be burned to the root.

  "Special teams," he decided. "Not NLU. They’re still shaky. Use Sombra. Two teams. One for Valdez, take him alive. He knows too much. A second team for his assets—warehouses, ships, records. Clean them out."

  "And Manuel? The cousin?"

  "Relocate him." The word hung in the dusty air. "He’s just a blunt instrument. Useless for interrogation. But his presence would mobilize the remaining loyalists. Eliminate that possibility."

  Felix didn’t blink. Just noted it down. This was no longer about morality. It was about political sanitation. Pest control.

  The door to the room opened. Clara entered, her face pale in the kerosene light. "We have a problem. At the southern district prison. The political prisoners Vargas arrested—about thirty of them. According to documents, they were to be released last week by court order."

  "And?" Mateo asked, already knowing the answer.

  "The prison warden—the commandant is Vargas’s nephew. He’s refusing to release them. Claims 'orders from superiors' still stand. And..." Clara swallowed, "...he’s threatened to 'execute the traitors' if anyone intervenes."

  Reckless stupidity. Or fanatical loyalty. Both were dangerous.

  Mateo stood, walking to the third board—still empty. "This is the first test. If we let one small prison defy us, others will follow. If we slaughter the guards, we become no better than Vargas." He turned to Felix. "Opinion?"

  Felix frowned. "That prison commandant—Captain Pedro—I know him. Stubborn. But not an ideologue. He’s just scared. Scared that if those prisoners walk free, they’ll testify about what happened in that prison."

  "Torture."

  "And extrajudicial executions. Yes."

  Mateo thought quickly. The logic of his former war-machine mind whirred. "We can’t let the prisoners die. But we also can’t allow open rebellion." His eyes met Clara’s. "How many guards?"

  "According to reports, fifteen. Plus Pedro."

  "And the prisoners? Condition?"

  "Weak. Half are sick. They’ve been in the underground cells for months."

  Can’t fight. Can’t become martyrs.

  "Alright," Mateo said. "We won’t send troops. We’ll send a message."

  ***

  04:30. Southern District. The Small Prison on the Outskirts of Caraccass.

  The prison was more of a modified warehouse—high stone walls, a wooden watchtower, barbed wire fencing. In the tower, a young guard shivered in the cold, his rifle lying across his lap.

  Captain Pedro couldn’t sleep. He paced his small office, a bottle of cheap wine nearly empty on his desk. He’d torn up the prisoner release order, but the shreds were still in the wastebasket. The threat from above (Vargas) was gone. But the threat from below (the prisoners who knew his sins) was very real.

  If they walked free… if they talked…

  He heard something. Not from outside. From inside the prison. A knocking. Slow. Rhythmic.

  Ding… ding… ding…

  Like an iron spoon tapping on bars.

  Pedro froze. Then he grabbed his pistol and walked out of the office toward the damp underground corridor. The stench of urine and infection filled the air. In the cells, human shapes lay on filthy straw.

  The knocking came from the end cell. The isolation cell.

  Who was in there? He couldn’t remember. Many went in, few came out.

  "Stop that!" he snarled, his voice echoing in the wet corridor.

  The knocking ceased. Then, a voice. Hoarse, barely audible. "Captain… they sent me."

  The voice made the hairs on his neck stand up. It wasn’t the voice of a broken prisoner. It was the voice of…

  "Open the door, Captain. Let’s talk."

  He hesitated. His hand on the pistol was sweaty. But curiosity—and fear—overcame logic. With trembling fingers, he slid open the iron peephole slot.

  A pair of eyes stared back. Not the desperate eyes of a prisoner. They were clear, cold, like glass.

  "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

  "The back door, Captain. You know how easy it is to bribe the night watch." The voice was almost conversational. "I’m here to offer a way out."

  "A way out?"

  "Vargas’s death has made a lot of people… anxious. Including you. But it doesn’t have to end badly."

  Pedro pressed his face closer to the slot. "What do you want?"

  "The prisoners here. They will be released tomorrow morning. Peacefully. You will sign the documents, escort them to the gate, and walk away."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then tomorrow morning, it won’t be prisoners walking out. It will be your corpse. And the corpses of all your guards." The voice was flat, devoid of threat, stating a simple fact. "But that’s messy. Risky. My superiors prefer things tidy."

  "Who are your superiors?"

  "The man who now controls the NLU. The man who has a list of everything you’ve done here. The torture. The illegal executions. The skimming of prisoner rations." The voice paused. "You have a wife, don’t you? And a young son. In the village."

  Pedro gasped. "Don’t you threaten my family!"

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  "It’s not a threat. It’s a choice. You work for us now. Or…" The voice sounded like a devil’s whisper. "You know how we deal with traitors, right? Or rather, how we deal with them now."

  Cold sweat trickled down Pedro’s back. This was no empty threat. It was a trap already sprung shut.

  "If I agree… my family?"

  "We’ll arrange things. You’ll get a new post. Up north. Far from here. With a clean record."

  "And these prisoners? They’ll talk."

  "We’ll handle that. They’ll receive… compensation. And an understanding that raking up the past is unhealthy for their future."

  Pedro stared into the cold eyes behind the slot. He looked for a sign of deceit. There was none. Only inexorable reality.

  He stepped back, unlocked the cell door. The man inside stepped out—plainly dressed, with an unremarkable face, not the monster Pedro had imagined. The man extended a hand. On his palm was a small gold seal bearing a sun. The Seal of the Sun Palace.

  "Your decision, Captain?"

  Armas nodded, defeated. "I agree."

  "Wise. Now, let’s prepare the paperwork."

  ***

  06:00. North Coast Villa.

  The sea was still dark, waves crashing against the cliffs below the lavish Mediteranian-style villa. Ramon Valdez was having breakfast on the terrace—Khuba coffee, fresh fruit, toast with imported butter. The morning paper lay open beside him, the headline about the "tragic death of Commander Vargas."

  He allowed himself a thin smile. Tragic? Perhaps. But also opportune. With Vargas gone, many records could "disappear." Many accounts could be diverted. He’d already packed a bag—new passports, diamonds, Brittonia government bonds. A ship from Phanama waited for midday.

  But first, he had to clear the safe in the basement. The transaction logs, Vargas’s letters, proof of payments to officials…

  As he descended the cool stone steps to the cellar, he heard something. Engine sounds. More than one.

  He turned, rushing to the library window on the second floor.

  In the villa’s driveway, three unmarked trucks had come to a halt. Men clad in black disembarked swiftly, submachine guns in hand. Not NLU uniforms. Not police. They moved like dark liquid, encircling the villa.

  His guards—four mercenaries—were readying themselves. But they were outnumbered. And outmaneuvered.

  Valdez didn’t panic. He was trained for this. He pulled back a Persiani rug in the library, revealing a hidden floor panel. A narrow tunnel led to the seaside cliffs. A small speedboat was hidden in a cave below.

  But as he swung open the trapdoor, someone was already standing there.

  A woman. Dressed like a fisherwoman. But her eyes were sharp, and in her hand was not a net, but a pistol.

  "Licenciado Valdez," the woman said tonelessly. "My superiors wish to speak with you."

  Valdez smiled, attempting bravado. "I don’t speak to fishermen."

  "We’re not ordinary fishermen." Behind her, two more men materialized from the tunnel’s darkness. "You have two choices. Come quietly. Or we take just your head. My superiors need information, not the whole package."

  Valdez glanced back toward the window. The sound of gunfire—short, precise bursts—echoed. Then silence. His guards were finished.

  He swallowed. "Who are your superiors?"

  "The man who now controls the seal you forged, the documents you laundered, and the army you paid." The woman stepped closer. "Your time is up, Licenciado."

  Valdez raised his hands. He was no hero. He was a lawyer. "I’ll cooperate. But I want assurances—"

  "You’re in no position to bargain." The woman snatched his small travel bag, opening it. Passports, diamonds, bonds. "Sailing? Sorry. Your voyage is canceled."

  They led him out through the tunnel to the beach. Another boat waited—larger, faster. As they emerged from the cave, Valdez saw his magnificent villa beginning to burn. Black smoke billowed into the reddening dawn sky.

  Goodbye, old life.

  ***

  08:00. Harbor Warehouse 7.

  Manuel, Vargas’s cousin, was in a rage. His trucks were impounded. His warehouses sealed. His men reported that "new people" had taken over the NLU headquarters and issued a warrant for his arrest.

  "You bastards!" he roared at a cowering aide. "You think you can just topple the Vargas family like that? I still have friends! I still have weapons!"

  He stomped to a table in the center of the empty warehouse, where several crates of weapons lay open—smuggled Prussi pistols, grenades, ammunition. "Round up everyone. We hit the district headquarters. Take back what’s rightfully ours!"

  But nobody moved. His aide just stared at him, face pale.

  "What are you waiting for?" Manuel bellowed.

  "Sorry, sir," the aide whispered, pointing toward the warehouse’s rear door. "They… they’re already here."

  He whirled around. At the back door stood three men. Not soldiers. They were dressed as dockworkers—worn trousers, faded shirts. But the way they stood, the way their eyes scanned the room… they were no laborers.

  "Who are you?" he challenged, his hand going to the pistol at his belt.

  The man in the center—the oldest, with a face like river stone—held up an empty hand. "We’re here to deliver a message."

  "From who?"

  "From the man now in control." The man stepped inside, his two companions remaining at the door. "You have a choice. Leave. Be out of the country by tonight. Or…"

  "Or what?" Manuel raised the pistol, aiming. "I’ll blast you all to hell!"

  The man showed no fear. He even smiled faintly. "You can try. But if you fire, my men on the rafters will drop the prepared gasoline cans. And this warehouse—with all your weapons—will be your tomb."

  Manuel glanced upward. On the high ceiling, he saw a dark shape move. Someone was up there.

  "You son of a bitch," he snarled, but his voice wavered.

  "Test me." The man took another step, now just ten meters away. "But remember, my superior said: better you go. Than have your corpse become a symbol. Than have Vargas’s remaining supporters rally around your grave."

  He thought fast. He was no braveheart. He was a bully. Bullies needed backing. And that backing—Vargas—was dead.

  "If I go… guarantees?"

  "You live. That’s more of a guarantee than your cousin gave his enemies." The man nodded toward the weapon crates. "Leave those. Take whatever cash you have. A ship is at pier 3. Departs at 21:00. If you’re on it, you’re safe. If not…" he shrugged.

  He lowered the pistol. His bluster evaporated. He looked around the warehouse—his little kingdom, now turned into a prison cell.

  "Fine," he muttered. "I’ll go."

  "Wise." The man stepped back, clearing the path. "Oh, and one more thing."

  "What?"

  "Don’t come back. Or we’ll send… a reminder from home." The man’s eyes were glacial. "You have a daughter in school in Brittonia, don’t you? Pretty girl. Eight years old."

  Manuel froze. That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

  He nodded, unable to speak, then shuffled out of the warehouse. His empire had crumbled in a single morning.

  ***

  10:00. NLU Headquarters Basement.

  Mateo read the reports on the table.

  Southern district prison: prisoners released, Captain Pedro had "resigned" and would be transferred. North coast villa: burned, Valdez en route to the Toro Island interrogation facility. Harbor warehouse: empty, Manuel on his pre-arranged flight.

  Three problems, resolved with three different methods: coercive diplomacy, abduction, exile. All neat. All without unnecessary bloodshed.

  But the list was still long. 127 names. And the day had just begun.

  Felix entered, carrying another dossier. "The internal NLU purge is 40% complete. The hardcore Vargas loyalists have been removed. The opportunists were given a choice: work for us, or face imprisonment."

  "And their choice?"

  "Most chose to work. A few chose the cell." Felix sat, weary. "But there’s a new problem. External."

  Mateo looked at him. "Brittonia? Prussi?"

  "Closer. Remnants of the Mendez loyalists. They see the chaos within the NLU as an opportunity. Reports of armed groups moving near the southern border. Attacking remote outposts."

  Mateo sighed. It was logical. When one predator fell, others smelled blood.

  "Handle it. But not with the NLU. Use the regular army. And," he emphasized, "use this as a pretext to strengthen border patrols. As justification for our internal cleanup."

  Felix nodded, understanding. Politics was the art of turning problems into tools.

  He was thankful his father had given him so much power and freedom; it made every task significantly easier.

  "One more thing," Felix added, his voice lower. "Someone tried to contact Vargas’s family. His widow. Offered protection. Promised retaliation."

  "Who?"

  "We don’t know yet. But it was sophisticated. Using blind couriers, letters set to auto-immolate."

  A shadow enemy. There was always one.

  "Keep the family under watch. But not like prisoners. Give them comfort. And observe who approaches them."

  "Bait?"

  "Bait," Mateo confirmed.

  He stood, walking to the blackboards. 127 names. He took a piece of chalk, crossed off the three that were done. 124 remained.

  Each name was a person. Had a family. But in this struggle for power, they were just variables. Obstacles to be cleared so the system could function.

  Clara entered again, bringing a cup of coffee for Mateo. "Master, you have a visitor. The First Lady. In the palace gardens."

  His mother. Sofia Guerrero had likely grown suspicious.

  "Tell her I’ll come."

  ***

  11:30. Rose Garden, Sun Palace.

  Sofia sat on a marble bench, surrounded by blooming rose bushes. She wasn’t looking at the flowers. Her gaze was fixed on the fountain, but her mind was elsewhere.

  "Mother," Mateo greeted, sitting beside her.

  "Mateo." Sofia didn’t look at him. "Today, I overheard a conversation. About the southern prison. About prisoners suddenly freed. About a warden resigning."

  "Good news, isn’t it? Reforms are proceeding."

  "Reforms." Sofia finally turned to him. Her eyes, usually warm, were sharp. "Or a purge?"

  Mateo stayed silent. His mother was too clever to be lied to.

  "How many, Mateo?"

  "How many what, Mother?"

  "Souls. How many souls did you sacrifice this morning to keep your father’s throne—and yours—secure?"

  The words were like a slap. But Mateo didn’t flinch. "This is all for our family. If anyone died this morning, it was to prevent more deaths tomorrow. Vargas was a cancer. The cancer had to be cut out. And the surrounding tissue had to be cleansed."

  "So you’re an executioner now? Not a statesman?"

  "Statesmen sometimes have to wield the axe, Mother. So others don’t have to."

  Sofia took a deep breath, studying her son’s face—a face still young but aged in the eyes. "I’m afraid, Mateo. Afraid you’ll be consumed. Afraid you’ll become like those you’ve eradicated."

  Mateo took her hand. It was cold. "I won’t. Because I remember what this is all for. For Eleanor to laugh in the garden without fear of kidnapping. For Isabella to read her books without worry. For the people to queue for rice and oil, not for a military tribunal."

  "And for you? What do you get?"

  "The satisfaction of seeing the system work." That was partly true. The other part was a burden growing heavier, a stain that would never wash out.

  Sofia looked at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Your father is proud of you. But I… I just want you to be safe. Morally."

  "Morality is a luxury we can’t afford right now, Mother. Only necessity."

  He stood, kissed her forehead, and left. Behind him, Sofia wept softly—not for the morning’s casualties, but for her son who had to kill a part of his own soul so the rest could live.

  ***

  13:00. The Basement Again.

  The list was down to 98 names. Some captured. Some "disappeared." Some allowed to escape—intentionally, because a controlled defection was better than a dead martyr.

  Mateo checked the time. 30 hours since the operation began. He hadn’t slept. But he felt no fatigue. Only a hollow sensation. Like a machine running on.

  Before him, the final report of the day: the Vargas family had been secured at a mountain retreat. The personal guards (loyal to Mateo) reported no further contact attempts. Valdez had begun talking at Toro Island—names of corrupt officials, offshore accounts, deals with foreign spies.

  Information was the new currency. And they were getting rich.

  Felix entered, bringing food—bread, cheese, water. "You need to eat."

  Mateo took a piece, chewing without tasting. "What’s next?"

  "Tomorrow, we announce the NLU reforms. New name: National Security Corps. New doctrine. Retraining. And," Felix sat, "we need a new commander. I can’t do it forever."

  "You have a recommendation?"

  "Major Cruz. The one who helped us at the headquarters. Smart. Not too tainted by the past. And," Felix gave a thin smile, "he’s afraid of you. That’s good."

  Mateo nodded. Fear was more controllable than love. "Agreed. Prepare the announcement."

  "And Vargas? The official narrative?"

  "A hero who died suddenly."

  Felix nodded, then looked at Mateo seriously. "Are you alright?"

  No, Mateo thought. But that’s irrelevant.

  "I’ll be alright when this is done. When the country is stable. When innocent children no longer go to sleep with empty bellies and fear in their hearts."

  "A nice dream."

  "A dream that must be paid for with nightmares," Mateo replied, standing. "I’m going home. Keep things running."

  He left the basement room, climbed the stairs, and emerged into the blinding midday sun.

  In the plaza before the headquarters, life went on as normal. Vendors sold their wares. Children ran and played. An old man played a folk instrument.

  They didn’t know. They didn’t need to know.

  Mateo walked to the waiting vehicle. Inside, Leo drove without asking. Clara sat in the passenger seat, her eyes watchful on the streets.

  "Where to now, master?" Leo asked.

  "The Sun Palace," Mateo answered. "I need to see my sisters. And…" he paused, "maybe have something sweet."

  Soda. He still missed it. A small symbol of his old world.

  But it was just a longing. A memory. Like the bodies buried today, that soda was gone forever.

  All that remained was the duty. And the burden. And the long road ahead, built on a foundation of his enemies’ corpses—and parts of his own soul.

  The vehicle pulled away, leaving the headquarters and the plaza behind. In the sky, the sun shone fiercely, scouring away the shadows of the night. But Mateo knew, some shadows never truly vanished. They just shifted, waiting in the corners, ready to emerge again when the light dimmed.

  Today’s purge was over. But the war for the soul of the nation—and his own—had only just begun.

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