Surge Ramorez

I

I stare unblinkingly through the scope, my eyes locked on the window 600 meters away.

Jennifer sits sideways on her chair again, just like last night. She's just finished cleansing her face and is now patting her cheeks softly—a habit she has after applying her night cream. Then, she picks up her brush and runs it slowly through her hair, almost as if she knows I'm watching her.

It's been a week since I finally moved into this apartment.

The moment I saw Jen through that window, I didn't hesitate. I agreed to rent the place on the spot. I didn't even bother packing up my old apartment—I just left it, furniture and all. This new place wouldn't match that old furniture anyway. It's smaller, cleaner, and I decided to furnish it with a sleek, modern minimalist style.

According to Andy, the so-called "Best View" that the previous owner bragged about wasn't Jennifer—it was the couple in the next tower over. Apparently, they're sex addicts, going at it at least twice a day. But since Andy isn't exactly interested in straight couples having sex, he got bored quickly and shifted the scope.

That's when he spotted her.

Lucky for the previous owner, he never knew Jennifer existed—otherwise, he might've ended up in the hospital instead of happily relocating.

Jennifer finishes her nightly ritual, lowers the curtain, and turns off the light.

And just like that, my show is over.

I lower the scope slowly, murmuring unconsciously, "Good night."

Sighing, I move to my white couch, where my laptop is still running, monitoring the program I uploaded to the cloud. My computer couldn't handle the process on its own—I realized that pretty quickly when I got a stack overflow error.

Following Thief's suggestion, I signed up for a cloud server and ran the program there instead. It's working, but it's still slow. I've tried three different comparison methods so far, but none of them have produced any meaningful patterns. I can only hope this fourth attempt gives me something useful.

I stretch out on the couch, feeling my body relax.

I don't know why, but ever since I started seeing Jennifer—even from a distance—I feel calmer. My mind doesn't race as much.

I even feel… sleepy.

Just as I'm about to drift off, my phone vibrates.

I reach for it, rubbing my eyes as I read the message from Dr. Lamos.

[I finally got in touch with Surgeon Ramorez. He agreed to meet you two days from now in Country V.]

What?!

Two Days Later

"Sir, we have arrived," a sweet female voice wakes me from my sleep.

"Oh, right. Thanks," I reply groggily, unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping off the plane.

"We'll be on standby here for 48 hours, sir. Hopefully, you can make it back before then," the pilot—a middle-aged man with a sincere expression—reminds me.

I nod in acknowledgment. "Appreciate it."

Country V has been in chaos since the beginning of the year. No commercial flights are operating here, so I had to rent a private plane willing to make the trip.

My plane didn't even land at the main airport—it's been shut down. Instead, we touched down at an abandoned hangar on the outskirts of the city.

I walk out, scanning my surroundings.

The guy I arranged to rent a motorcycle from was supposed to meet me right in front of the hangar. I can only hope he kept his word. Not only have I already transferred the payment, but he also promised to bring me a local burner phone.

Luckily, he's there.

Although… not what I expected.

He's not a man.

Hell, he's not even a young man.

He's a kid—probably ten years old.

And the motorcycle he's sitting on?

Also not what I imagined.

I agreed to rent a bike for two days, with him acting as my guide, plus a new phone—all for only a hundred dollars. Naturally, I expected some beat-up, standard motorcycle.

Instead, this child is perched on a 250cc racing motorbike.

"Hello, sir!" he greets me in rough English, hopping off the bike.

"Mister Torron?" I ask cautiously.

"No. Mister Torron is mi padre (my father). Me… I'm Roberto," he corrects.

I nod. "Bennet."

Roberto's eyes light up. "Ahh! Mister Bennet! Welcome, welcome!"

He hands me a set of keys and a phone.

I ignore the keys, grabbing the phone first.

"Full charge!" he says proudly.

"Gracias," I reply, already busy plugging in the small translator device Thief told me to bring. She said I'd need it—turns out, she was right.

Once activated, the device syncs with a pair of Bluetooth earpieces, allowing real-time translation between Spanish and English. It's not exactly groundbreaking—I've seen similar products on the market. But Thief's version has zero internet dependency and requires no buttons to operate, making it perfect for my current situation. As an added bonus, it adapts to the user's voice for a more natural translation.

I hand Roberto an earpiece. "Wear this," I instruct, demonstrating how to put it on.

He hesitates, then follows my lead.

"Can you understand me now?" I ask.

His eyes widen in amazement as he hears my words translated into Spanish. He nods rapidly.

"You can speak in Spanish—I'll understand," I assure him.

"Okay!" he says excitedly.

I finally take the keys from his hand and straddle the bike.

"Hop on. I'll take you home," I say, settling behind the handlebars.

But Roberto shakes his head.

"I have your money. It's my job to guide you."

"It's too dangerous for a kid," I counter.

"I'm not a kid!" he protests. "I'm small, but I'm thirteen already!"

I'm about to argue that thirteen is still a kid when he adds—

"I rode this big motorcycle here safely, didn't I?"

Damn it, he's got a point.

Besides, I came here to meet Dr. Ramorez peacefully. The last thing I need is to draw attention by wandering around alone in a foreign country with no internet access to help me navigate.

I sigh, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

"Do you know this place?" I ask, handing him the address.

Roberto takes a look and nods. "I know the area."

"Alright then," I say, handing him a helmet. "Put this on."

He grins like a kid on Christmas morning.

Because, well—he is still a kid.

I sigh again and rev the engine.

"Hold on," I say as we take off, heading toward the other side of the city.

"So, where is your father?" I ask Roberto as we ride through the desolate streets.

"Sick," he replies. "He's been sick for three months now. My mother went to the neighboring country to buy food for us… but it's been a week, and she hasn't come back."

A beat of silence passes before he tightens his grip around my waist, just for a second.

"We were starving," he continues. "So my father told me to sell this bike. But then I heard that you just wanted to rent it."

I feel a small smile tug at my lips. I pat his hand. "You're welcome, kid."

By the time we reach the city, the place feels almost… dead.

Only a few vehicles are moving. Most cars are abandoned—some left stranded right in the middle of the road.

"What happened here?" I ask.

"They ran out of gasoline," Roberto explains with a hint of pride. "Gas is rare now. But my father always fills the bike up right after riding it."

Smart man.

We continue forward until we hit a crossroads.

"Where now?" I ask.

"Straight ahead," Roberto directs. "We need to cross the city. The place we're going is just outside of it."

I nod and push forward.

The road is wide—but empty. My bike is literally the only thing moving.

Then, out of nowhere, I hear it—

A deep rumbling sound, like distant thunder.

But the sky is clear.

A few seconds later, I realize what it is.

Not it. Them.

From the corner of the street, dozens—no, hundreds—of people appear, sprinting toward us.

"What the hell—?"

"Riot!" Roberto shouts. "They're about to plunder that warehouse we passed. It's a government facility. I heard on the news this morning that the government just received—"

"Tell me where to go, now!" I cut him off, eyes locked on the angry mob barreling toward us.

"Left!"

I make a sharp turn, veering into a narrow alley—only to realize it leads to a dead end.

"Right!"

"What?! There's no—"

"RIGHT!"

I don't argue. I yank the handlebars and swerve into an abandoned warehouse.

At least, I thought it was abandoned.

"Keep going! There's another exit at the back—just hurry—they have—"

"¡DETENER!" (STOP!)

A voice roars from behind us.

Yeah. Not happening.

A gunshot cracks the air. I make a sudden maneuver, dodging the bullet.

Another shot follows.

A second later, I spot an open-top jeep racing after us.

Shit.

I push the bike harder, grateful it's a 250cc racing model. Speed is my only advantage here. The jeep falls behind easily, but the shooter is good. The bullets keep coming, whizzing past us.

"Please tell me you're okay," I say, realizing Roberto has been way too silent.

"I'm fine," he answers.

"You're not hit?"

"No," he reassures me.

Good.

I focus on one thing—getting us the hell out of here.

My reflexes sharpen. I can see the bullets coming, almost in slow motion. I dodge each one, weaving through the open warehouse floor like a ghost.

"That's the gate!" Roberto shouts, pointing ahead.

I check the rearview mirror—

A bullet is coming straight for Roberto's head.

"DOWN—NOW!" I bark.

Thankfully, he's smart. The second he ducks, I swerve sharply, dodging the bullet at the last second.

It still grazes my shoulder, but at least it didn't hit him.

I grit my teeth, push through the pain, and gun it toward the exit.

The gate is locked.

I don't stop.

I slam into it full force, shattering the lock as we burst through and leave the compound behind.

-

"You're hit!" Roberto exclaims, his voice laced with worry.

"It's fine, kid. Just a scratch," I say through clenched teeth.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Just keep giving me directions."

"Go straight. At this speed, we'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says.

As I ride, I unbuckle my belt and hand it to him.

"Wrap it around my shoulder—tight," I instruct.

"Okay, okay!" He scrambles to do as I say.

The bullet is still inside me.

I know it didn't hit anything vital, but I need to slow the bleeding.

"Here," Roberto says quietly, fifteen minutes later.

I frown.

We're in the middle of nowhere.

A single, deserted road splitting a dense forest.

"You sure?" I ask.

Roberto hesitates. "H-hmm… yes."

There's reluctance in his voice.

Then, before I can react, he lets out a long whistle.

A second later, figures emerge from the trees.

Dozens of them.

Some drop from the branches above.

Shit.

I barely have time to register what's happening before Roberto jumps off the bike, scurrying toward them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers before disappearing into the group.

I take in the situation.

Kids.

They're all kids.

But they're armed.

Guns in their hands, eyes locked on me like I'm prey.

One of them gestures for me to get off the bike.

I raise my hands in surrender and step down.

I could easily reach for my gun. Grab Roberto as a hostage.

But…

They're just kids.

A tall one steps forward and ties my hands with rope. Then, he pulls a black sack over my head.

I stay silent as I feel the muzzle of a gun press against my back, urging me forward.

A door creaks open.

I listen.

Steps.

Downward.

"Stairs," Roberto whispers beside me.

I nod, feeling for the first step before cautiously making my way down.

A cool breeze brushes against my face.

More shuffling. Then—

"Uncle, please don't hurt him!"

Roberto's voice.

Footsteps move away from me.

"You promised you wouldn't hurt anyone!" he pleads.

A deep, calm voice answers.

"No te preocupes, chico." (Don't worry, my boy.)

"No lo lastimaré." (I won't hurt him.)

The sack is lifted off my head.

I blink, adjusting to the dim light.

In front of me stands a man—middle-aged, rugged, with calculating eyes.

He offers a small, knowing smile.

"Hello, Scott Bennet."

His voice is smooth.

"I'm Surgeon Ramorez."