The first rumor arrived at dawn.Whispers from the north, spreading through markets and bars, traveling faster than the sunrise itself, a cartel had fallen overnight. Not toppled in war, not broken by rival gangs, but devoured from the inside.Before noon, everyone in the southside already knew the name: Los Halcones del Norte. A group so feared that even the police patrols avoided their turf. They had expanded too far, too quickly pressing into the ports and supply chains that belonged to Los Reyes del Barrio. Diego had expected a war. Instead, he got silent.In the upper office of El Faro, a refurbished warehouse turned corporate front, Diego Flinch poured himself black coffee and stared at the morning newsfeed.A reporter’s voice droned from the wall-mounted television:“...twenty-three arrests in simultaneous raids across the northern docks. Federal agents claim to have acted on anonymous intelligence, revealing smuggling routes and encrypted ledgers...”Diego leaned forward, muti

The city looked like a half-buried starfield from the rooftop - sparks of firelight still smoldering across the southern docks, cranes frozen mid-motion like exhausted giants, and the black water of the bay reflecting only the faintest bruised glow of neon from the streets.Harold stood there in the cold, his coat snapping softly against the wind. The smoke still carried a chemical tongue that stung the throat. Below him, beyond the tangle of steel beams and scaffolding, Diego’s men gathered in a rough semicircle before a cargo stage, their shadows moving like restless ghosts beneath the floodlights.He lifted a small pair of binoculars. Through the glass, Diego came into focus - no longer the street kid with torn sneakers and stubborn fire in his eyes, but a man in a tailored jacket, collar sharp, hair combed back, a scar at his jaw catching the light when he smiled.“Listen to me,” Diego was saying, voice steady, amplified by a portable speaker. “You think a raid ends us? You think

The morning began like any other - coffee steaming beside ledgers, sunlight breaking across the tiled floors of Diego’s study - until the television stole his breath.There he was. Hugo Martinez. Older, smoother, wearing the kind of suit power weaves for its chosen sons. The same voice that once ordered fires in alleys and raids on homes now spoke with the polish of statesmanship. Cameras flashed as he stood before a crowd of senators and reporters, smiling like a man reborn.“We must end corruption where it breeds,” Martinez declared, his tone measured, noble. “The time has come to reclaim our city from the grip of organized crime.”The audience applauded. Journalists scribbled. And Diego felt the echo of seventeen years collapse inside his chest.He leaned forward slowly, his jaw tightening, unable to tear his eyes from the screen. Beneath the applause, he could still hear the screams from that night, the crackle of flames, the shattering of glass, Harold’s voice calling his name th

Rain hammered softly against the cracked windows of Harold’s new safehouse - an abandoned textile factory overlooking the dead canals. The sound was steady, rhythmic, almost hypnotic, like the ticking of some divine clock marking each move in his invisible game.The room itself had become a war cathedral. Along the far wall stretched a mural of madness and order: clippings, photographs, red strings, handwritten notes, printed ledgers, and maps over maps. A tangle of wire and ink connected senators to smugglers, bank CEOs to street captains, journalists to killers.And at the center of it all - Hugo Martinez’s smiling face, printed from a newspaper and pinned dead center, the eyes crossed out in black marker.Harold stood barefoot on the cold concrete, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning between his fingers. The smoke coiled upward like ghosts trying to whisper advice. He was thinner now, his body honed by years of secrecy, but his mind - sharp as a blade soaked in patience.He moved

The café smelled of stale espresso and cigarette smoke, an odor that always seemed to cling to the underbelly of the city. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through dusty windows, painting long stripes across the scratched wooden tables. Lucia Navarro sat alone, tapping her pen against a notebook filled with scattered notes, clippings, and hastily scribbled names. Her eyes flicked to the door every few seconds, aware that someone might be watching - and rightfully so.When Marco entered, broad-shouldered and silent, she didn’t flinch. She had faced threats before, but this one carried the aura of the unknown - a soldier in the shadow wars of a city she barely understood.“Marco Duran?” she asked, keeping her voice steady, betraying none of the nerves fluttering in her chest.He nodded curtly, eyes scanning the room like a predator sizing up prey. “And you are?”“Lucia Navarro. I have information about The Writer. About the man who’s been manipulating the ci