Blood welled up instantly from reopened wounds, warm and thick against my skin.
I forced my eyes open.
Blinking. Struggling.
Tears mixed with the glare of the sun, distorting the world in front of me as I tried to focus.
Through the haze—
I saw them.
Men.
Surrounding me.
Masks still on.
Ten.
Twelve.
More.
Black balaclavas concealed their faces, but their eyes—sharp, alert, calculating—were visible beneath the fabric.
Tactical vests hugged their torsos, rifles slung across their chests, fingers close to triggers without quite touching them.
They stood in a loose semicircle around me.
Controlled. Ready.
The ground beneath us was cracked concrete, stretched wide and uneven, leading toward a massive fortified compound that loomed in the background like something carved out of war itself.
High stone walls.
Barbed wire coiled along the top.
Guard towers at each corner, already active—figures moving within them.
Floodlights swept in slow, deliberate arcs, even in the late afternoon sun, as though the place refused to rely on daylight alone.
This wasn’t some abandoned warehouse.
This was a fortress.
A stronghold.
Spanish-controlled.
Built with intention. Maintained with power.
I tried to count them again.
One.
Two.
Three.
