The sun had barely clawed its way over the horizon when two figures in worn work uniforms walked into the shantytown on Caraccass eastern edge.

  Their clothes were cheap and frayed, their faces forgettable, and their bags bulged with forms and pamphlets—the perfect disguise for field workers from The Bridge Project.

  But the way they moved, the way their eyes constantly swept the environment, the way they instinctively maintained a safe distance from every dark alley and blind corner—that wasn't the body language of social workers.

  "Who are we looking for again?" the younger one asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  "Camila Flores. Around fifteen. Two younger siblings. Widowed mother." The older one consulted the notes in his hand. "Personal request from Master Mateo himself."

  "Request? Out of all the people in this city, Master Mateo personally wants this girl found?"

  "Just trust it."

  They picked their way through ramshackle huts, past puddles of stagnant water that glistened with oil rainbows, around mountains of rotting garbage. The stench here—a nauseating cocktail of refuse, sweat, and cheap cooking oil—made their nostrils burn with every breath.

  Beneath a sprawling tree, a girl sat hugging her knees to her chest. Her face was pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. She stared at them with an expression that mixed suspicion with fear.

  "Camila Flores?"

  The girl nodded slowly.

  "We're from The Bridge Project. Someone wants to talk to you."

  ***

  Two hours later, the report lay on Mateo's desk.

  Camila's photograph was clipped to the upper left corner. Beside it, her family data: Mother, vegetable vendor. Younger sister, eight years old. Younger brother, four years old.

  Housing: a rented shack, single room, no electricity.

  Needs: food, school fees, and—Mateo paused at the final line—medical treatment for their chronically ill mother.

  He read the report twice. Then he folded it carefully and placed it in a special drawer. Not an intelligence file. Not a state document. Just... a personal note.

  Then he opened the next folder. The Ministry of Interior's Monthly Crime Report.

  The first number he saw made his brow furrow.

  38%... He read it again. Crime rates had increased 38% in the past six months. No misreading. No printing error.

  Homicide: up 45%.

  Armed robbery: up 52%.

  Theft: up 41%.

  Extortion: up 37%.

  Sexual violence: up 33%.

  Mateo set the report down. His eyes narrowed. His fingers began tapping against the desk—tap-tap-tap-tap, a rhythm that signaled his mind was racing through calculations, connections, consequences.

  He scrolled to the next page.

  Primary cause analysis: post-war poverty, unemployed veterans who hadn't been absorbed into the workforce, and most concerning of all—organized criminal syndicates beginning to fill the power vacuum left by Vargas's purge.

  These syndicates weren't new players. They were former indirect assets of Vargas who'd survived the purge three years ago, former hired thugs of Mendez now out of work, and—this was the most disturbing part—former NLU members who'd escaped and were now applying their skills to organized crime.

  Mateo read the report to the end. Then he read it again. Then he read it once more.

  For the past three months, he'd been focused on the war in Prussi, on negotiations for troop deployment, on the gunpowder factory and the labor laws. The police, petty crime, neighborhood security—he'd categorized all of it as... routine matters. Not priorities.

  He pressed the buzzer on his desk. Five seconds later, an adjutant materialized in the doorway.

  "Get Colonel Felix. Get Raúl Mendoza. Get Major Cruz." His voice was flat, but something in its tone—something that made the adjutant turn and practically sprint. "Now."

  ***

  One Hour Later. The Sun Palace Underground Meeting Room.

  This room was never used for guests. Concrete walls without windows, a single hanging lamp above a long wooden table. The air was cold, slightly damp—exactly what a basement should feel like.

  Felix sat on the left side, his uniform still crisp despite having just returned from the field. Across from him, Raúl Mendoza sat with the ramrod posture of a statue. At the end of the table, Major Cruz—commander of the National Security Corps—waited with an expression that revealed nothing.

  Mateo entered without knocking. He tossed a thick folder onto the center of the table. The harsh sound echoed off the concrete walls.

  "Read."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Felix grabbed the folder and opened it. His eyes swept over the numbers. He went silent, then exhaled a long breath—long and heavy, like someone who'd just discovered a corpse in their living room.

  "A thirty-eight percent increase," he murmured.

  Mendoza took the folder and read. His mustache twitched. "This... this is insane! How did we not know?"

  Major Cruz read last. His face didn't change, but his jaw tightened visibly.

  "We knew," he said quietly. "But the ministry reports were always... downplayed. They called it 'normal fluctuation.' They called it a 'transitional period.' They said—"

  "They said bullshit." Mateo cut him off. His voice was cold, but not his usual cold. This was the kind of cold that made the officers across from him break out in sweat. "While we were busy in Prussi, while we were focused on the gunpowder factory and the labor laws, while we—" He stopped himself, clenching his fist. "Damn it."

  The room fell silent.

  Felix stared at him. "We can't keep blaming ourselves. What matters now—"

  "I know what matters now." Mateo walked to the large map on the wall. A map of Caraccass City, with red dots scattered across various districts. "Look at this. The crime pattern isn't random. This is organized."

  His finger pointed to each dot in sequence. "The port. The main markets. The industrial district. The slums. In every single one of these locations, crime increased more than the average. That's not coincidence."

  Mendoza moved closer. "Someone's controlling it?"

  "Has to be." Felix joined them, squinting as he analyzed the map. "Classic pattern. Syndicates take over territory, extort merchants, sell 'protection,' then recruit the unemployed and build networks."

  "Former Vargas people?" Cruz asked.

  "Or Mendez's old thugs. Or—" Felix's eyes met Mateo's. "—former NLU members who got away."

  Mateo didn't answer. But his jaw tightened.

  "Felix." His voice cut through the silence. "I want you to investigate this. The syndicate. Their network. Who's behind it. Who's protecting them. Who in the government is looking the other way—or taking a cut."

  Felix nodded. "How long?"

  "One week, max." Mateo held his gaze. "I don't want half-measures. I want names, addresses, structure, and their weak points. Take your best team and use whatever resources you need."

  "Understood."

  "Mendoza."

  Mendoza straightened his back. "Sir!"

  "Palace security. Review every protocol. Every weak point, every suspicious person. If these syndicates are this big, they might already have people inside the government."

  Mendoza nodded firmly. "I'll check everything from the ground up. Personnel, schedules, supply chains. Nothing gets past me."

  "Three days. Full report."

  "Understood."

  Mateo turned to Major Cruz. The man stood motionless, waiting.

  "Cruz." Mateo's voice dropped an octave. Lower. Heavier. "You know what you need to do."

  Cruz nodded slowly. "A cleansing operation."

  "Not cleansing." Mateo stepped closer, stopping barely a meter away. His eyes—cold, empty—bored directly into Cruz's. "Eradication."

  The room felt colder.

  "Get all the intelligence from Felix. The moment you have targets, you move. Fast. No warnings. No negotiations." Mateo paused, choosing his next words with care. "I want them afraid. Not afraid of arrest. Not afraid of prison. Afraid of—" he made a cutting gesture with his fingers, "—disappearing."

  Cruz swallowed. But he nodded. "Understood."

  "But—" Mateo raised one finger. "—no carelessness. Felix finds the targets, you execute. Coordination goes through me. No direct contact between your teams. I don't want any friendly fire incidents."

  Felix and Cruz exchanged glances. They nodded.

  "Meeting adjourned." Mateo turned and walked toward the door. But at the threshold, he stopped. Without turning around.

  "Felix."

  "Yes?"

  "One more thing."

  Felix waited.

  "That girl. Camila Flores." Mateo's voice shifted slightly—almost imperceptibly, but Felix caught it. "Make sure she and her family are safe. Move them to... somewhere more decent. A modest house in a safer neighborhood. The children's school expenses should be covered by the scholarship program. Her mother—if she's sick, arrange treatment."

  Felix blinked. Behind him, Mendoza and Cruz stood frozen.

  "Master..." Felix chose his words carefully. "Is this... a special operation?"

  "No." Mateo still hadn't turned around. "This is personal. Just do it."

  He left. The door closed with a heavy metallic thud.

  Inside the room, three grown men stared at each other.

  "Personal?" Mendoza repeated, disbelief coloring his voice.

  Felix shrugged. "Don't ask me."

  Cruz, usually the most taciturn, suddenly spoke. "This is highly unexpected..."

  They fell silent, processing his words. Then Felix picked up the report folder and stood. "I'm starting now. Mendoza, guard the palace. Cruz—" he met the major's eyes. "—prepare your men. I'll send data as soon as I have it."

  They parted without another word.

  ***

  That Night. The Shantytown.

  Two men returned to the same place. But this time they carried no pamphlets. Just a small bag and friendly smiles.

  Camila opened her shack door warily. Behind her, two small children peered out with eyes full of curiosity.

  "We're back," the older one said. "Good news."

  Camila stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "Someone wants to help you. New house, free schooling, and medical treatment for your mother."

  Silence. Then Camila's voice emerged, barely a whisper. "Who... who sent you?"

  The man smiled. "Someone who cares."

  Inside the shack, Camila's sick mother stirred awake. She heard the conversation. Her eyes grew moist. Her hand reached for her daughter's.

  Camila didn't know what to feel. Hope? Fear? Confusion? Everything churned together inside her.

  Outside, night was falling. And somewhere in the palace, a fifteen-year-old young man was reading crime reports, planning an eradication, and—for reasons he couldn't quite explain—thinking about a girl whose sibling had died because of a single day's delay.

  Two Days Later. Felix's Temporary Headquarters.

  The walls were covered with maps, photographs, and red threads connecting one point to another. Felix stood in the center, surrounded by his three best team members. They hadn't slept in 36 hours, but no one complained—this was Master Mateo's direct order.

  "Here he is." Felix pointed to a photograph of a middle-aged man with a scar across his cheek. "José 'Machete' Guerrero. No family relation to the President, fortunately. Former NLU field commander. Slipped through the purge three years ago because... someone at the ministry 'forgot' to include his name on the list."

  "Big player?" one team member asked.

  "He controls the port, the main markets, and half the industrial district." Felix traced red threads from that photograph to others. "These are his subordinates. Twenty-three core members, maybe a hundred and fifty street-level thugs. They extort merchants, sell 'protection,' control illegal gambling, and—" he pointed to another photo, "—smuggle leftover war weapons overseas."

  "Who's protecting them?"

  "Port police, a customs official, and—" Felix exhaled. "—a city council member."

  His team whistled softly.

  "Do we report this to Master Mateo?"

  Felix checked his watch. 3:00 AM. "Tomorrow morning. Right now, we gather every piece of evidence. I want no gaps."

  ***

  8:00 AM. The Sun Palace.

  Mateo read Felix's report with an expression that never changed. Page after page. Photograph after photograph. Complex network diagrams.

  He set the report down. Looked at Felix, who stood before him with eyes swollen from sleep deprivation.

  "Good work."

  Felix nodded. "Targets are clear. Just need execution."

  "Get Cruz."

  Ten minutes later, Major Cruz entered. His face also showed fatigue—he'd probably been sleepless too.

  "Cruz." Mateo pushed the report toward him. "These are your targets. Prioritize the leader first. José Machete. Bring him in alive if possible. I want to interrogate him. I want to know who's above him, who's protecting him, who's feeding him information."

  Cruz scanned quickly. "And his subordinates?"

  "The ones closest to Machete, capture them. The rest—" Mateo paused. His eyes went cold. "—clean them out."

  Cruz nodded. "Timing?"

  "Tomorrow night. Simultaneous operation at all points." Mateo pointed to the map on the wall. "The port, the markets, Machete's house, all their small bases. I want them to have no time to react."

  "Understood."

  "Felix, provide surveillance teams. Make sure no one slips through. Coordinate via encrypted radio."

  Felix nodded.

  Cruz nodded again. No words needed.

  They left. Mateo sat alone in the room.

  A 38% increase in crime... The number still floated in his mind. He folded his hands on the desk. "You've crossed the line," he murmured quietly.

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