​The old garage smelled exactly the way Selma remembered: a familiar mixture of engine oil, rust, grease, and memories. He stood motionless at the entrance as the rain drummed steadily against the faded tin roof. For a long moment, no one spoke, as if no one wanted to disturb the heavy silence.​The small workshop looked as though time had stopped completely. The wooden workbench still rested against the wall, old wrenches hung neatly from rusted hooks, and a cracked calendar from twenty years earlier still clung stubbornly to the glass. In one corner sat the faded blue toolbox Rafael had always refused to replace. "A good mechanic fixes his tools before buying new ones," he used to joke.​Selma's throat tightened. He walked slowly across the garage, his fingertips gliding over the worn workbench where years of hard work had polished the wood smooth. For a moment, he could almost see his father standing there—sleeves rolled up, a wrench in one hand, and a warm smile on his face. "Co

​The cold steel of a pistol pressed against the back of Rafael's head, but he didn't flinch. Rain dripped from his hair onto the muddy ground as his wounded chest rose painfully with every breath. Behind him, a familiar voice broke the silence.​"You always did know how to survive."​A tired smile tugged at Rafael's lips. "I could say the same thing."​Silence settled between them while smoke from the burning garage drifted across the scrapyard. The flames reflected off piles of rusted vehicles, making the falling rain look like glowing sparks.​The man behind Rafael stepped closer. "You aren't even going to look at me?"​"I already know who's holding the gun."​The man let out a low chuckle. "Then say my name."​Rafael closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried more disappointment than anger. "Adrian."​The man smiled. "Adrian Cross."​He walked around until he stood face-to-face with Rafael. Time had changed him; gray streaks now lined his dark hai

​Victor slowly lowered the phone. No one spoke, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the night itself. Selma studied Victor's face before asking, "What did he say?"​Victor swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he repeated Rafael's final warning. "He only had enough strength to say one sentence: 'Don't go to the safe house.'"​Gabriel frowned in confusion. "What safe house?"​"The cabin," Samuel answered grimly.​Victor nodded. "He knew exactly where we were planning to go."​A cold chill swept through the group. No one had mentioned the cabin—not tonight, and not anywhere Vivian could have overheard. Yet somehow, Adrian knew.​Selma's jaw tightened. "Someone is feeding them information." The words struck everyone like a hammer.​Matilde looked around nervously. "You think there's a traitor?"​Samuel didn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes moved slowly across every face: Victor, Gabriel, Elena, Matilde, and finally, Selma. "If there is" he said calmly, "then he's been

​Selma's voice broke into a whisper. "Mom?"​The hallway seemed to disappear. The gunfire faded into the distance, and everything around him dissolved until only one person remained: Matilde Elias. She was lying in his arms, blood spreading rapidly across the front of her blouse. Her body trembled violently; the sniper's bullet, meant for Selma, had entered just below her shoulder. Without a second thought, she had thrown herself in front of him, never caring about the price she would pay.​Selma caught her before she could hit the floor, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "No… No… no, no..." his voice cracked.​Matilde slowly looked up at him. For the first time in decades, there was no pride, no bitterness, and no anger in her eyes—there was only a mother. With trembling fingers, she reached up and gently cupped his face. "I'm sorry" A single tear rolled down her cheek. "So sorry"​Panicking, Selma pressed both hands against the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but

​Samuel looked toward Adrian as the apartment fell into absolute silence. Nobody moved; nobody even blinked. Adrian's words echoed through the ruined living room:​"Someone just released the first part of the flash drive."​Selma instinctively reached into his jacket and pulled out the flash drive. It was still there—cold, solid, and untouched. He slowly held it up. "It's here."​Victor stared at it in confusion. "Then what did they release?"​For the first time since the confrontation began, Adrian's confident expression vanished, replaced by pure uncertainty.​Samuel suddenly smiled. It wasn't a nervous smile—it was the smile of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment. Rafael noticed it immediately. "You knew."​Samuel turned to him and nodded. "I hoped."​Adrian's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"​Without answering immediately, Samuel bent down and picked up the old leather notebook from the floor—the same notebook Adrian had dismissed as nothing more than a co