Flames in the City

The city had swallowed them whole and spit them out on opposite ends. After arriving together, Helena and Julian separated without a word, as if something invisible had torn them apart.

She took refuge in a small apartment with peeling walls, her computer the only beacon in the dimness. He, on the other hand, stayed on the move, changing routes every few hours, encrypted documents pressed to his chest like dynamite.

The upload wasn't just a click —it was a leap into the void.

Helena trembled. Not from fear, but from contained fury. She carried not only corruption files, but the voices of missing girls, the echoless screams of forgotten bodies, the marks of a network too vast to remain hidden.

When she uploaded the files and hit Send, she knew there was no return.

And the world reacted.

Headlines exploded. News portals crashed. In less than an hour, the name Santamaría had become synonymous with horror.

—We did it —Julian said over the phone, breathless—. But they're not going to like it.

It didn't take long.

Someone tried to intercept the publication. Helena's email accounts were blocked. Then her location was leaked on anonymous forums. The eyes of the system were now on her.

Then came the warning.

It wasn't a bomb. It was worse. A perfectly planned fire consumed the central clinical archive of one of Arturo's affiliated clinics. The very clinic that held the original list of "donors." No casualties, but a very clear message: erase the trail.

At the same time, Helena received a black envelope. Inside, a single photo: her as a child, lying on a gurney. Her name handwritten on the back: Lucía Montenegro.

Below, a note in cut-out letters:

"We always knew what you were worth."

Helena felt the ground open beneath her feet.

She called Julian, unable to speak at first. He arrived in less than twenty minutes. He didn't say a word. He just hugged her.

—They tried to play with fire —he whispered—. But they didn't know you were the fire.

Helena lifted her face. No tears. Only a new kind of fury. A colder flame.

—Now we'll burn it all down.