Disclaimer: This fanfic is created solely for entertainment purposes for readers to enjoy. No characters belonging to existing franchises are mine, except for my original creations.
Without further ado, enjoy.
-----
While the future scrappy runner was just being born in Barranquilla.
In the elevator heading to the surface of the bunker.
Jhon could already feel the insects coming. The mental connection, that strange bond that Echoes allowed him to maintain with thousands of tiny minds, pulsed at the periphery of his consciousness like a biological radar. Each insect was a point of light in his perception, gradually approaching.
So he just waited patiently.
The elevator rose with that monotonous mechanical sound that filled the metallic space. The walls reflected his distorted image: a young man who no longer looked nineteen years old, whose face had been sculpted by forces no surgeon could replicate.
His gaze was fixed straight ahead. Fixed but empty. It was the kind of look someone puts on when they are completely dissociating from reality.
The eyes, blue with those golden flashes that appeared when he used certain powers, stared without really seeing. As if they were focused on something kilometers away, or perhaps on nothing at all.
If someone who met Jhon two days ago saw him again, they wouldn't recognize him at all.
It wasn't just the physical, though that was undeniable. The more defined muscles, the straighter posture, the facial features perfected by the assimilation of Jason and Loki. It was something deeper. Something in the way he moved, in how he held his body, in the total absence of that youthful insecurity he used to have.
It's the kind of change you couldn't even achieve with surgeries.
Because surgeries couldn't alter the soul. And something in Jhon's soul had been fundamentally reconfigured.
And Jhon, meanwhile, couldn't help thinking about everything.
'If it weren't for the essence...'
The thought formed without him consciously invoking it. Like water slowly seeping from a dam. Aware that it was what kept him alive.
'If it weren't for these powers... what would become of me now?'
He knew the answer. He knew it with a brutal certainty that chilled him to the bones.
He would be the same young man who had collapsed after his parents' death. The one who had spent weeks in bed unable to get up. The one who had considered---just for a moment, just once, but he had considered it---if it was worth continuing to exist in a world where the people you loved most could be torn from your life in an instant of twisted metal and shattered glass.
And now, with the death of his uncles...
'Without these powers, without the assimilations, I'd be completely shattered.'
That was the thought that terrified him the most. Not the fact that he had changed. But the fact that he needed these powers to stay functional. To not collapse under the weight of consecutive losses that would break any normal person.
If you think a normal person is capable of mentally surviving the death of their parents, then their uncles, and being in the middle of an apocalyptic era change, without it severely affecting their mental health, you're very wrong.
He was aware---painfully aware---that if he hadn't assimilated Jason Todd, if he didn't have 50% of Loki running through his veins, he would be almost an empty shell right now.
Jason Todd had given him willpower. That determination that came from someone who had died and decided that death wasn't enough excuse to give up. That ability to keep going even when every fiber of your being screamed to stop.
And Loki... Loki had given him something different. An ability to compartmentalize. To separate emotions from logical thinking when necessary. To put on a mask and function even when everything inside was falling apart.
He knew that if he didn't have close living relatives, if he didn't have Miriam, Alanis, getting out of that depressive state would be very difficult.
They were the anchors that kept him tied to reality. The points of light in the darkness that reminded him why he kept fighting.
'But without these powers... without this borrowed willpower... I'd just be a shell. Going through the motions of living without really being alive.'
So yes, his willpower was clearly strengthened by the assimilations. It wasn't entirely his own, or maybe it was now, impossible to distinguish where Jhon Ariza ended and where the assimilated traits from Jason Todd and Loki Laufeyson began.
But it allowed him to keep functioning.
"Thanks," he murmured toward the elevator ceiling, toward whoever had helped him obtain the essence.
God, the universe, his future multiversal self if that was even possible, it didn't matter. Someone or something had given him this opportunity. And despite all the pain, despite the losses, he couldn't deny that without it he would probably already be dead.
Either literally or figuratively.
'Maybe I have a multiversal sugar mommy,' he thought with a dark humor that would have been completely inappropriate out loud.
"Haha," he laughed briefly while running a hand over his face, the sound coming out strange and hollow in the enclosed space of the elevator.
It was a stupid joke. But it helped. Those little moments of levity---even forced, even fake---were lifelines that kept him from falling completely into the darkness.
Beep
The electronic sound snapped him out of his thoughts. The elevator had arrived.
The doors began to open with a pneumatic hiss---*
pssshhh---revealing the ramp leading to the surface.
Jhon looked straight ahead, his expression turning neutral. That mask he had learned to use. The one he needed so his grandparents wouldn't see how close to the edge he really was.
He sighed deeply, filling his enhanced lungs with air. "Here we go."
"Echoes."
The Stand materialized behind him without needing further invocation. Its green, insectoid form floated silently, awaiting orders.
As he climbed the few stairs to the surface, Jhon felt the familiarity of the process. Echoes began writing in the air---bright kanji that dissolved upon contact with his body.
不可視 (Fukashi - Invisible)
無音 (Muon - Soundless)
無熱 (Munetsu - Heatless)
The sensation was strange every time. As if a layer of alternate reality slid over his skin. He didn't disappear---he was still there, still solid---but something fundamental had changed in how the world perceived him.
Or rather, in how the world stopped perceiving him.
It's likely that only those who are the same would perceive him.
He took the last step to the surface, emerging into the night air on the outskirts of Bogotá. His hands remained in his pants pockets---a casual posture that completely contrasted with the tension he felt in his shoulders.
----
And then he saw them.
A large number of insects flying toward where he was. It wasn't a simple cloud, it was a formation, an organized mass moving with singular purpose.
Thousands of them.
The collective buzz of their wings should have been deafening. But Jhon had specifically ordered them to keep the noise to a minimum, and they obeyed with the precision of a well-trained army.
Bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles. Dozens of different species, all moving as a single organism.
When they detected him, and it was instantaneous, as if they could sense his presence despite the invisibility, the entire formation stopped in the air.
And then they expressed something that could only be described as joy.
It wasn't something they could vocalize. Insects don't have vocal cords, they can't shout in excitement. But Jhon felt it through the mental connection that Echoes maintained.
A pulse of recognition. Of satisfaction for having completed their task. Of something primitive and simple that in more intelligent creatures would be called pride.
It was strange. Disturbing even. These things shouldn't have recognizable emotions. But the Ether had changed them, elevated their consciousness just enough to make them something more than simple biological automatons.
And atop the mass of insects, held by translucent bubbles of energy created by Echoes, were his grandparents.
And Daniel. The T-1000.
The android spoke first, its voice projecting clearly despite the distance and ambient buzz: "We have arrived at the designated coordinates."
Jhon's grandfather, Andrés, just waved his hand with that impatience he usually had: "Yeah yeah, I have eyes too, kid."
At that moment, the bubbles enveloping them began to partially dissipate. The upper part became transparent until it disappeared, leaving only the lower platform where they could stand.
They no longer needed full protection. They weren't going at speeds that would affect their bodies now. Just descending gradually toward where Jhon waited.
The grandmother, Carmen, pinched Andrés's waist. "Don't talk to him like that, Andrés. The young man helped us back there."
The grandfather grimaced, rubbing his side. "Ouch, woman. I was just talking."
"Talking with that retired sergeant tone of yours," Carmen scolded him, but there was affection in her voice. "Nobody wants to hear orders all the time."
The T-1000 observed this human interaction with intensity.
It was learning. Every gesture, every tone of voice, every nuance of human communication was stored in its memory for later analysis.
Not because it had been ordered to. But because on some deep level of its programming, rewritten by the gacha when it was summoned, it had the impulse to get closer to its master. And getting closer to Jhon meant understanding humans better.
The grandfather said louder, clearly hoping Jhon could hear him even though he couldn't see him: "Hey, these bugs came down fast. I want to ask Jhon where the hell he got a full military base. Did he buy it downtown?"
He was trying to make a joke. It was his way of dealing with tense situations, humor, sarcasm, keeping things light.
But there was an undercurrent of real concern in his tone. Because a nineteen-year-old young man shouldn't have access to underground military facilities. And if he did, it meant he was involved in dangerous things.
The grandmother didn't respond to the joke. She just seriously hoped her grandson was okay. That he was still the same sweet boy who used to visit them.
But deep down, she knew that was impossible. No one goes through an apocalypse and comes out the same.
At that moment, the insects dispersed.
The organized mass fragmented into hundreds of individual streams, each flowing in different directions. Some toward nearby trees. Others toward the ground. Disappearing into the night.
But a few hundred remained, forming a living staircase that gradually descended from where the three passengers floated to the ground.
Andrés looked down, evaluating the "staircase" with a critical eye. "Well, I've seen weirder things today."
Carmen clung to his arm. "Be careful going down."
"Woman, I survived twenty years in the army. I think I can handle some insect stairs."
But still, he went down first, testing each "step" before allowing Carmen to follow.
The T-1000 descended last, its feet barely touching the insects before its weight automatically redistributed. Its liquid poly-alloy composition allowed it to adjust its density, making itself lighter so as not to crush the creatures serving as steps.
And then they touched solid ground.
Jhon approached, his steps completely silent thanks to Echoes' effects. Only they could see him.
The grandmother was the first to see him, her eyes widening in surprise upon seeing the person in front, trying to recognize him well.
Andrés didn't startle, he just narrowed his eyes evaluating because a porn actor came to them.
Jhon was about to approach to hug them, his arms already half-raised, when Andrés moved.
Not aggressively. But deliberately.
He placed himself between Carmen and Jhon, an instinctive human shield. His eyes scanned Jhon from top to bottom.
And Jhon saw it happen. He saw the exact moment his grandfather saw his transformed appearance and didn't recognize him immediately.
Which was... fair. It made sense.
The Jhon his grandparents knew was an average-built college student. One meter eighty-eight tall, yes, but slim. With that facial softness that comes from never having faced real physical adversities.
The man in front of them now was different.
Defined muscles that showed even under clothing. Perfect posture, as if every vertebra was aligned by a divine chiropractor. Face that had lost all unnecessary facial fat, leaving only clean and angular lines that seemed sculpted from marble.
And the eyes. Those damn eyes that now had golden flashes in the blue, glowing faintly in the darkness.
Andrés looked him up and down completely and said with that tone that tried to sound casual but was clearly affected: "And who are you?"
It was the kind of question asked not out of true confusion but out of disbelief. Out of denial of what your eyes are telling you.
And there was something else in his expression that made a grimace appear on Jhon's face. Something Jhon recognized immediately because he had seen it thousands of times in college, at the gym, anywhere men compared themselves.
Envy.
Not malicious. Not serious. But definitely present.
The envy of a sixty-two-year-old man, still strong for his age but feeling the weight of decades, looking at someone who seemed blessed by the gods with perfect genetics.
Carmen grimaced, recognizing her husband's expression. She gave him a tap on the shoulder. "Andrés, it's okay. It's him."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I'm his grandmother. A grandmother always recognizes her grandson, no matter how he looks."
Andrés hesitated for one more moment, then stepped aside with a sigh. "If you say so."
But he murmured low enough that only Carmen heard: "Though if it turns out he's a plastic surgery impostor, I charge for the hugs."
Carmen ignored the comment and approached. Her steps were slow, almost fearful. As if she feared that if she moved too fast, this apparition would disappear like smoke.
When she was in front of Jhon, she raised both hands and placed them gently on his cheeks. Her wrinkled hands, stained by age, but still surprisingly soft, held his face with that infinite delicacy only grandmothers can achieve.
Her brown eyes, watery now with unshed tears, studied him intensely.
"Jhon?" she finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.
And in that simple word there was so much weight. Are you really you? Are you in there? Are you still my grandson or did this change take you somewhere I can no longer reach?
Jhon's eyes clouded over.
He felt the moisture building in the corners, the pressure behind his eyelids indicating tears were seconds from falling.
But then he lightly activated laser vision and eliminated them, without them noticing.
The tears evaporated. Literally. The heat increased microscopically around his eyes, drying the moisture before it could become visible crying.
Because he couldn't cry now. Not in front of his grandparents who had already suffered so much. Not when they needed to see him strong, capable, as someone who could protect them in this world that had gone mad.
"Yes, grandma," he said with a smile that was genuine despite everything. "It's me."
And then he hugged her.
His arms enveloped her carefully, aware of his new strength. He could crush her effortlessly if he didn't control every gram of pressure. So he held her as if she were glass, with that delicacy that comes from knowing exactly how much damage you could cause and choosing not to.
Carmen sank into the hug, her head barely reaching Jhon's chest. "Ay, mijito," she murmured against his shirt. "You're so handsome now. What happened to you? Did you join one of those expensive gyms?"
It was an innocent question. Seeking normality in the abnormal.
Jhon laughed softly. "Something like that."
"You must have several girlfriends now with that face."
"Grandma..." he protested weakly, feeling strangely like an embarrassed teenager again.
"What? It's true. With those blue eyes and that jaw... ay, if I were fifty years younger."
"Grandma!"
"What? I'm paying you a compliment."
Jhon murmured so low that even with his grandmother's enhanced ears she shouldn't have heard: "Well, the plan is to become a responsible Diomedes Diaz."
"What did you say, my love?"
"Nothing, grandma. It's nothing."
Carmen looked at him with those eyes that clearly said 'I know you're hiding something,' but decided not to press. There would be time for interrogations later.
She separated from the hug, allowing Jhon to turn toward his grandfather.
Andrés was still standing where Carmen had left him, but now his mouth was slightly open. His expression had evolved from protective suspicion to pure incredulity.
He looked at Jhon as if seeing a ghost. Or something worse, as if seeing his own youth reflected and magnified a hundred times.
He began to look at his hands. Turned them over, studying the prominent veins, the age spots, the skin that no longer had the elasticity of decades ago.
"And where did he get that genetics from," he murmured to himself, genuinely confused. "From my side of the family? No. I was handsome but not like that. From Carmen's side? Neither..."
His voice became higher, almost comical in his consternation: "Damn it, am I going to get like that too? Is it something from that energy? Am I going to get muscles out of nowhere?"
He began to flex an arm experimentally, observing it with hope. "Because if so, hey, I'm not complaining. I'm still in time to look good for Carmen."
Jhon couldn't help smiling at his grandfather's monologue.
He fully separated from his grandmother and walked toward Andrés, extending a hand for a formal greeting.
Andrés looked at him dubiously. "Are you really you? My grandson Jhon?"
"Yes, grandpa. It's me."
"The same one who used to cry watching Inside Out?"
"...Yes."
"The one who asked me to borrow money to buy a manga three months ago?"
"Guilty."
"The one who's afraid of flying cockroaches?"
"Hey, that's sensitive information," Jhon protested. "And technically I don't fear them anymore. I can control them mentally now."
Andrés processed that for a second. "...That's disturbing but strangely practical."
And then, without warning, he completely ignored the extended hand and pulled Jhon into a full bear hug.
"Kid!" He laughed, that deep and resonant laugh Jhon remembered from his entire childhood. "I'm glad to see you! I thought you'd died or something worse with all this mess, if it weren't for those insects and you calling us, we'd be really worried!"
Jhon laughed lightly, returning the hug while gently patting his back. "I'm still alive, grandpa. It takes more to kill me now."
"I hope so. Your grandma would kill me if I let something happen to you."
"I heard that, Andrés!" Carmen called from where she watched the scene with a smile.
A few meters away, the T-1000 remained completely still, observing the entire interaction, with a stoic movie face.
Andrés finally released Jhon, giving him one last pat on the shoulder that would have knocked down a normal man but that Jhon barely felt.
"Well," said the old man, discreetly wiping his eyes. "Enough emotions for now. We have to talk about important things."
"Like what?" asked Jhon.
"Like where you got an underground military base. Because that's not something you find downtown, kid."
Jhon opened his mouth to respond, with his hand lightly scratching the back of his neck, when his gaze shifted to the T-1000.
And his expression changed completely.
It was like seeing a curtain fall. The warmth he had been showing, genuine but carefully maintained, evaporated instantly.
His features became serious. Hard.
The eyes lost that playful sparkle and became something deeper. His posture straightened, losing that naturalness.
It wasn't his grandfather standing in front of him now. It was a subordinate.
"You fulfilled the mission well," said Jhon, his voice devoid of all the emotion it had had seconds ago, however, it is undeniable that his gratitude was real.
Now we talk. I need to speak with you about the next steps."
The T-1000 responded with that equally flat voice: "Affirmative."
Andrés and Carmen exchanged a glance.
The grandfather narrowed his eyes, studying his grandson. This abrupt personality change reminded him of his years.
Of the young soldiers who returned from combat zones. Those who had learned to compartmentalize, to separate the person they were with family from the person they needed to be on the battlefield.
It was worrying to see it in a nineteen-year-old. Especially in his grandson.
But he decided not to say anything. Not now. There would be time for those conversations later.
'Everyone has their secrets,' he thought with resignation. 'And in this new world, we probably need them.'
Carmen, however, did not share her husband's discretion.
"Jhon Ariza," she said with that tone, THAT tone every Latin mother and grandmother uses that immediately puts men of any age on alert. "Don't talk to that boy like that."
She approached and gave him a tap on the arm. Not hard, but definitely not soft.
"He helped us get here safe and sound. He protected us from those horrible things out there. The least you can do is treat him with respect and gratitude."
Jhon blinked, taken completely by surprise.
And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, his expression softened again. The cold mask slid off his face, replaced by an apologetic smile.
"You're right, grandma. I'm sorry." He turned to the T-1000. "Thanks for taking care of them, Daniel."
The T-1000, accustomed to being treated as a tool, not an individual, processed this for 0.3 seconds before responding: "No need for gratitude. I was following orders."
"Still. Thanks."
Carmen nodded satisfied. "That's better. See? It costs nothing to be kind."
Jhon just shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. 'My grandma could scold a god and the god would probably apologize.'
Andrés had been observing all this with a thoughtful expression. Now he spoke, his tone more serious than before:
"Jhon. I need to ask you something."
"What is it, grandpa?"
"Your uncles. Jorge and Adriana." He paused, and Jhon could see the effort it took him to ask the next question. "Did you bring them too? Where are they? It's been a while since I last saw them."
And Jhon's world stopped.
The sound disappeared. The wind that had been blowing gently became silent. The insects still buzzing in the distance fell quiet.
All he could hear was his own heart, beating painfully in his chest.
'No. No, no, no.'
He had been preparing for this moment since he knew his grandparents were coming. He had mentally rehearsed how he would say it. What words he would use. How he could soften the blow.
But now that it was here, in front to his grandfather who looked at him with genuine hope...
All those carefully prepared words evaporated like water on hot asphalt.
The smile faded from his face as if it had never existed. His eyes, those eyes that moments before had shone with warmth upon seeing his grandparents, became empty.
Not cold. Not hard. Empty. Like windows to a bottomless abyss.
"Grandpa..." he began, his voice coming out hoarse, rough, as if he had ground glass in his throat. "I..."
He stopped. The words, those damn words he needed to say, got stuck. They refused to come out. As if his entire body rebelled against the idea of pronouncing them out loud.
Because once he said them, it would become real. Permanent.
It would no longer be just something he knew. It would be something everyone knew. And that would make it true in a way that hurt a thousand times more.
'How do I tell him?' he thought desperately, his mind accelerated by Intuitive Aptitude processing and discarding a thousand different formulations. 'How do you tell someone they've lost another child?'
"I arrived late"?
No. Too simple. Too clinical.
"There was an accident"?
Lie. It wasn't an accident. It was murder. It was a conscious choice by cruel people who didn't deserve the air they breathed.
"I'm sorry"?
Insufficient. Completely, painfully insufficient. The most useless words in the Spanish language when trying to fill a void the size of a human life.
'It's my fault,' he thought with a brutal clarity that hurt physically, as if someone was stabbing needles into his chest. 'I should have gone for them first. I should have...'
The options unfolded in his mind with perfect logical precision, courtesy of that enhanced brain that could now process scenarios at superhuman speeds.
I should have sent the T-1000 directly to their house which was closer instead of to my grandparents first.
I should have used the insects to monitor all my family properties simultaneously.
I should have ignored the zoo and prioritized family over strangers.
I should have, I should have, I should have.
A million "should haves" that changed nothing. That only served to open deeper wounds in his consciousness.
'I thought they'd be fine,' the internal admission was bitter as poison. 'I assumed, with that stupid arrogance that comes from having power, that in the general chaos, MY family would be safe. That danger would pass them by simply because they were important to me.'
How incredibly, painfully stupid he had been.
The universe didn't work that way. Fate didn't care who was important to whom. Death didn't make exceptions for personal affection.
And he knew it. He had known it since his parents died on that road.
But somehow, in some corner of his mind, he had let that arrogance seep in again. He had let his new powers make him feel invincible by association.
And his uncles had paid the price for his complacency.
"Jhon?" His grandfather's voice sounded tense now, aware, painfully aware that something was very, very wrong. "What happened?"
The old man took a step forward, his hand starting to extend. Wanting to offer comfort or receive it, Jhon wasn't sure.
Jhon closed his eyes.
He breathed deeply once. The air filled his enhanced lungs, processing with superhuman efficiency.
Twice. Perfect oxygenation of every cell, preparing his body for stress that wasn't physical.
Three times. Forcing himself to find calm in the midst of the storm raging in his chest.
When he opened them again, there were tears held in the corners. Not many, his control was too good for that, but they were there. Glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He didn't let them fall. Not yet. But he allowed them to be visible.
Because his grandparents needed to see that this hurt him. That he hadn't become so cold, so inhuman, that his family's death didn't affect him.
They needed to know that the mask he wore, that facade of perfect control, was just that. A mask. And that underneath he was still Jhon.
"I arrived late," he said finally, each word torn from the depths of his being, each syllable feeling like he was spitting pieces of his own soul. "When I went to look for them... when I finally got to the house..."
His voice cracked slightly on "finally." A microscopic crack in the control.
"It was already too late."
The silence that followed wasn't simply the absence of sound.
It was something heavier. More oppressive. As if the air itself had solidified, becoming dense and hard to breathe.
Carmen turned pale.
Not gradually. Instantly. As if someone had drained all the blood from her face in a second. Her brown and healthy skin moments before became almost grayish.
One hand rose to her mouth, trembling violently. The arthritic fingers but that had held so many things in her life, now barely able to stay still.
"No," she whispered, and the word came out broken, fragmented. "No, no, no it can't be..."
Her knees began to buckle. That kind of collapse that comes when your body simply decides it can't bear the weight of reality anymore.
Andrés caught her before she fell completely. He wrapped his arms around her, arms that had carried rifles and fifty-kilo backpacks for twenty years of service, and now barely able to hold his wife's weight.
Because he had been hit too. And hard.
It seemed to Andrés Ariza as if more wrinkles had appeared in the last five seconds. As if every year of his age had manifested simultaneously on his face.
The lines around his eyes deepened. His mouth
that moments before had been smiling, became a thin and tense line. His jaw clenched so hard that the muscles showed under the skin.
But the worst were his eyes.
Those eyes that had seen combat. That had seen death. That had seen things that would break lesser men.
Now they had something Jhon had never seen there before.
Defeat. Absolute, complete defeat.
Carmen began to cry. Not softly. Not with that contained dignity that sometimes comes with pain.
This was raw. Primitive. The cry of a mother who has just lost another child.
"Jorge?" she sobbed against Andrés's chest, her voice so broken it was barely intelligible. "My Jorge? My baby?"
It didn't matter that Jorge was forty-two years old. It didn't matter that he had been an adult man with his own family.
For Carmen, he would always be her baby. The child she had carried for nine months, given birth to, raised.
And now he was dead.
"And Adriana..." she continued, the words coming out between sobs. "My God, Adriana too... those poor souls..."
Her hands clung to Andrés's shirt, wrinkling it, as if she needed something, anything, to hold on to so as not to fall completely into the abyss.
Andrés held her, but Jhon could see the effort it cost him. Not physically, his body was still strong despite the years. But emotionally.
The old man kept a single tear suspended in his right eye. Just one. Refusing to fall. As if that single tear dammed an entire ocean of pain behind it.
His mouth moved opening, closing, without sound. The unconscious movement of someone desperately trying not to cry. Not to break down. To keep at least a fragment of composure.
Because if he started crying, if he let go, he feared he could never stop.
And Carmen needed him strong now. She needed him to be the anchor while she shattered.
Jhon watched them, feeling every second like knives being stabbed into his chest.
He expected many things when he told them. He expected pain, that was inevitable. He expected tears.
But part of him, a small, terrible part that he hated to admit existed, had also expected anger.
He had expected them to yell at him. To tell him how he could be so reckless, so careless. To ask him why he hadn't arrived sooner, why he hadn't been faster, why he hadn't used his powers to save them.
He had expected, perhaps even desired, that they blame him.
Because then at least the pain would have a direction. An outlet. He could absorb their anger, let them hit him, accept any punishment they wanted to give him.
It would be easier than this.
Than seeing his grandmother collapsing. Than seeing his grandfather, that man who had faced guerrillas and drug traffickers without blinking, trembling while holding his wife.
But he received no anger.
He only received pain. Pure, distilled pain, impossible to mitigate.
And somehow, that was infinitely worse.
Carmen was crying now in sobs that shook her entire body. "First Juan... then his wife... and now Jorge and Adriana... why, God? What did we do to deserve this?"
She didn't expect an answer. It was the kind of question thrown to the universe when you have no one else to ask.
The kind of question that never has a satisfactory answer.
Andrés finally found his voice. When he spoke, it sounded like sandpaper had been run over his vocal cords.
"The girl?" he asked, each word coming out with visible effort. "Alanis. Is she also...?"
He couldn't finish the question. As if pronouncing the full words would make the possibility real.
And Jhon understood what his grandfather was doing.
He was looking for at least a light. A small flicker of hope in the midst of absolute darkness.
Because if Alanis had died too...
If they had lost that entire branch of the family in one blow...
Jhon wasn't sure his grandparents could survive it emotionally.
"No," he said quickly, his voice firm despite the pain. "Alanis is alive. I found her in the basement, hidden like her mom had told her. She's here, in the bunker. Safe."
The news hit Carmen like electricity.
Her head lifted from Andrés's chest so fast that Jhon heard her neck crack. Her red, swollen eyes, still crying, fixed on him with intensity.
"Really?" she whispered, her voice loaded with desperation. "Is she really okay?"
"Yes, grandma. I promise. She doesn't have a scratch."
Something in Carmen's expression changed. Not happiness. How could there be happiness when she had just lost a child?, but yes a relief so deep it was almost physical.
"Thank God," she exhaled, closing her eyes. New tears rolled, but these were different. Still painful, but mixed with gratitude. "At least she... at least our baby is safe..."
Andrés also seemed to relax microscopically. The tension in his shoulders decreased just a bit, he was still shattered, but now there was something to keep fighting for.
A reason not to give up completely.
Carmen sobbed again, but her words were different now: "My granddaughter... I have to see her... I need to see her..."
"Later, love," Andrés told her softly, stroking her back. "First you need to calm down. You can't see Alanis like this, you'll scare her."
"But..."
"Carmen." His voice became firmer. "Breathe. Take a moment. Alanis is safe. Jhon made sure of that. She's not going to disappear if we wait ten minutes."
Carmen nodded weakly against his chest, trying to control the sobs that still shook her.
Jhon watched all this with a crushing weight on his chest.
The guilt, that damn guilt that had been gnawing at him since he found the bodies, threatened to drown him.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them. "I'm so sorry. I should have arrived sooner. I should have sent help faster. I should have... I should..."
His voice broke completely.
"It's my fault. If I had acted differently, if I had prioritized better, if I hadn't assumed they'd be fine..."
"Jhon." Andrés's voice cut through his spiral of self-recrimination like a knife.
The old man looked up, his eyes, still with that single tear unfallen, meeting Jhon's.
And in them there was no hate that Jhon expected. No accusation. No anger.
There was only pain. And understanding. And something like pity.
"It's not your fault," said Andrés, his voice coming out softer than Jhon had ever heard. "This world went crazy. Things are happening that no one could predict. You can't be everywhere at once."
"But if I had..."
"No." Andrés shook his head. "I'm not going to let you destroy yourself over this. I already lost a son. I'm not going to lose a grandson too, even if it's to guilt and remorse."
He breathed deeply, clearly fighting to maintain his own composure.
"Yes, it hurts. God, how it hurts. I feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. But it's not your fault, do you hear me? It's the fault of the damn ones who did it. And you... you at least saved Alanis. You gave her a chance to live."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, finally letting that tear fall.
"That has to mean something."
Jhon felt his own throat close. He wanted to believe his grandfather. He wanted to accept the forgiveness being offered.
But he couldn't. Not completely.
Because he knew the truth. He knew his choices, conscious or not, had contributed to this. That if he had acted differently, even a little, his uncles might be alive.
But he also couldn't reject the comfort his grandfather was trying to give him. Not when Andrés clearly needed to believe those words as much as Jhon.
Not when it was the only thing preventing both from collapsing completely.
So he nodded. He accepted the words without fully believing them. And swallowed the pain like he had swallowed so many other things.
Andrés studied Jhon with those eyes that had seen too much in his life. Eyes that now evaluated something completely different in his grandson.
Something that worried him more than he wanted to admit.
After a long moment, he spoke. His voice was deeper now, loaded with the weight of military experience he would prefer not to have had.
"Jhon. I need to ask you something."
"What, grandpa?"
Andrés adjusted his grip on Carmen, making sure she was stable before continuing.
"The ones who did it. The ones who killed Jorge and Adriana." He paused, and his expression hardened into something Jhon hadn't seen before, "Are they still alive?"
The question hung in the air.
Carmen lifted her head slightly, also awaiting the answer. Her red and swollen eyes fixed on Jhon with an intensity that contradicted her shattered state.
Because she needed to know too. She needed to know if there was justice. If someone had paid for what they did to her family.
Jhon felt something change inside him.
The guilt, which had been consuming him moments before, transformed.
It didn't disappear. It never would completely. But it mixed with something darker. More visceral.
Rage.
Pure, distilled rage that had been boiling under the surface since the moment he found the bodies.
His face transformed. The masks he had been using, the loving grandson, the stoic leader, disintegrated, replaced by something primal.
His eyes became cold. Not with the coldness of indifference, but with the coldness of ice that burns. The kind of anger that doesn't shout, that doesn't make dramatic scenes.
The kind of anger that kills.
His jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tensed visibly. His hands, which had been in his pockets, closed into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white.
And when he spoke, his voice was dangerous, but loaded with a bloodlust that made even the T-1000, standing motionless several meters away, process the information as a potential threat.
"I killed them," said Jhon, each word pronounced with lethal precision. "The two who were in the house. The ones who did this directly."
He paused, and something terrible crossed his expression.
"One tried to escape. I broke his collarbone with the first blow. He tried to beg. He tried to tell me he was just an addict, that he was forced, that he had reasons."
His smile was completely devoid of humor. It was the smile of someone who had crossed a line and had no intention of going back.
"I broke his neck anyway. Slowly. So he knew what was coming."
Andrés remained completely still, processing this.
Internally, he was surprised. Not by the violence, he had seen and caused enough violence in his military life. But by how natural it sounded coming from his grandson's mouth.
Jhon wasn't boasting. He wasn't trying to impress. He was simply stating a fact, with the same inflection you'd use to say "I bought bread at the store."
And that was... worrying.
Because Andrés knew that disconnection. He had seen it in young soldiers after their first real combat. After their first kill.
The way talking about killing someone became as casual as discussing the weather.
It meant something fundamental had changed in the person's psyche. That they had crossed a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed.
And seeing that in his nineteen-year-old grandson, in the boy who used to cry at Pixar movies, hurt him in a way that not even the news of Jorge's death had achieved.
Because Jorge had lived. He had had a full life, a family, decades of experiences.
But Jhon... Jhon was still at the beginning of his life. And he had already been forced to become something no one his age should have to be.
What he didn't know is that killing people didn't affect Jhon like others, his assimilations helped with that, experiences from an assassin and a guy who lived thousands of years. What he observed now was only the purest form of rage he could have now.
But with the deep pain Andrés felt now, with the image of his dead son still fresh in his mind, he had no energy to probe further.
He had no emotional capacity to worry about the psychological implications of what his grandson had just confessed.
He only had room for one emotion: a dark and vengeful relief that the bastards who killed Jorge were dead too.
The rage in his chest, which had been seeking a target since Jhon uttered the words "too late," diminished slightly.
It didn't go away. It probably never would completely.
But at least now he knew the direct killers had paid. That they weren't somewhere laughing about what they had done, planning their next victim.
They were dead. And that would have to be enough.
For now.
Andrés just nodded slowly, his expression somber. "Good," he said simply. "Good."
Carmen, still in his arms, said nothing. But her crying softened slightly. As if that small justice, inadequate but existing, gave her at least a fragment of peace.
Jhon watched them for one more moment, then looked toward the bunker entrance.
"We should go in," he said, his voice returning to something more neutral. "You need to rest. And you probably want to see Alanis."
"Yes," Andrés agreed, adjusting Carmen so he could walk. "Yes, we should..."
Jhon nodded and began walking toward the stairs descending to the bunker.
His grandfather followed walking with his grandmother in his arms.
But then he stopped when he remembered something. He created a sphere with telekinesis, avoiding noise around.
He turned to the T-1000, who had remained completely motionless during the entire conversation.
His face changed again, returning to the seriousness with which he had spoken to him.
"Daniel," he said with a firm voice. "I need information."
"I am at your disposal," the android responded with that characteristic flat voice.
"In your memory system," Jhon narrowed his eyes slightly, analyzing the possibilities with what he has so far, "do you have data on the molecular composition of your poly-alloy? Technical specifications on how to create more T-1000 units?"
It was a logical question. If the T-1000 had that information stored, if Skynet had programmed its construction specifications in each unit as backup, then Jhon could replicate them.
An army of loyal T-1000s. Perfect soldiers who didn't need to sleep, eat, or question orders.
The T-1000 processed the question for 1.7 seconds, an eternity for its processor, before responding.
"Negative. My memory files contain operational parameters, mission protocols, and tactical data. They do not include detailed manufacturing specifications or molecular composition of my structure."
He paused in a way that would seem thoughtful in a human.
"Skynet kept that information centralized in its production facilities. Individual units did not have access to construction blueprints as a security measure, to prevent unauthorized replication in case of capture."
Jhon frowned, but nodded. It made sense from an operational security perspective.
"Understood."
But his mind was already working on alternatives.
'I have Intuitive Aptitude,' he thought. 'I analyzed it completely when I summoned it. Its molecular composition, the structure of its poly-alloy, how each "cell" functions as an independent processor...'
He had absorbed all that information. He had it stored in his enhanced memory with perfect clarity.
The problem was reproducing it.
Understanding something didn't mean automatically being able to create it. It was like perfectly understanding how an airplane works versus being able to build one from scratch.
He needed resources. Materials. Molecular-level manufacturing equipment that probably didn't exist yet in 2025.
'Unless...'
His thoughts shifted to the future. To the gacha points he would obtain. To the possibility of getting more advanced technology, or maybe a character with molecular engineering knowledge.
Tony Stark. Reed Richards. Even someone like Hank Pym.
Any of them could give him the technical knowledge he needed to complement his intuitive understanding.
'But that's for later,' he reminded himself. 'For now, I have other priorities.'
He looked at the T-1000 again.
His gaze softened, the first hint of emotion toward the T-1000 appeared on his face: "Thanks, thanks for bringing them safe."
The T1000 just nodded without any commitment. Jhon saw this and turned his gaze to where his grandfather was, who didn't notice the conversation.
Thinking it was quite difficult to talk to an emotionless Android.
"Okay. Then come inside with us. I'll need your presence in the command room later. We have to plan the next moves."
"Affirmative."
....
While Jhon entered the bunker...
Central Tower Building - Former Corporate Headquarters - North Sector of Bogotá
The building had been, until a week ago, the main headquarters of an international consulting firm. Thirty floors of glass and steel. Offices with panoramic views. Boardrooms where million-dollar mergers were decided.
Now it was a tomb.
Or more specifically, a fortress.
The windows from the first to the fifth floor had been boarded up with crudely welded metal plates. Improvised barricades blocked the main entrances, overturned cars, office furniture, sandbags stolen from some abandoned construction.
On the roof, armed figures patrolled. Not military uniforms. Civilian clothes jeans, t-shirts, leather jackets. But all carrying assault rifles. Mostly AK-47s, some AR-15s, a couple of Galils stolen from military depots during the initial chaos.
And on the fifteenth floor, in what had been the executive boardroom, the leadership of Los Renacidos was gathered.
...
The room was spacious. Solid mahogany table that easily weighed half a ton, surrounded by ergonomic leather chairs. The walls had been decorated with corporate art, abstract paintings that cost more than an average worker's annual salary.
Now the walls were stained.
Dried blood. Dark brown. Splatter patterns forming grotesque designs. Some chunks of organic material still adhered in the corners, too high for anyone to bother cleaning.
The air stank. Sweat. Fear. Something sweeter and more rotten that no one wanted to identify.
Eight men were seated around the table. Ages ranging from twenty-three to forty-two. All with that look of guys who had crossed lines that normal people didn't even know existed.
Scars. Prison tattoos. Calloused hands from violence, not honest work.
And in the center, in the main chair that had belonged to the CEO, was he.
The leader of Los Renacidos.
Mateo Vargas. Thirty-four years old. Sun-burned brown skin from years under the coastal sun. Black hair shaved military style. Several days' unkempt beard. Coffee-colored eyes so dark they seemed black under the dim light of the emergency lamps illuminating the room.
Compact but clearly strong body. Not muscular like a bodybuilder, more the functional strength of someone who had fought, killed, survived.
He dressed simply. Sleeveless black t-shirt. Olive green cargo pants. Military boots with untied laces.
He was reclined in the executive chair. Legs crossed with casual insolence. Hands, long fingers, surprisingly clean nails interlaced over his lap.
And on those hands, held with almost tender care, rested a dog.
No. The remains of a dog.
It was a German shepherd. Or had been. Now it was... something else.
Its body was slowly disintegrating. The skin turning to gray ash that fell like snow. The muscles underneath exposed, red and wet fibers. Then those too turned to ash.
Falling. Falling.
And then, miraculously, horribly, the process reversed.
The ash reconnected. Solidified. Formed muscle. Then skin. Then fur.
The dog existed again.
Only to start disintegrating again.
An infinite cycle of death and resurrection that repeated every thirty seconds.
The dog didn't bark. Didn't whine. Its completely white eyes, without pupils, stared into the void. Without seeing. Without feeling.
Dead but alive. Alive but dead.
Mateo watched it with fascination. Like a child studying an insect in a jar.
His own eyes glowed faintly. A pale red glow in the depths of his pupils. Barely visible. But there.
The eight men around the table waited.
The silence stretched. Something very heavy and suffocating.
One of them, Julián, forty-two years old, ex-military discharged for weapon theft, swallowed audibly. The sound echoed in the silence like a gunshot.
The others looked at him with expressions ranging from sympathy to annoyance. Idiot. Why did you have to make noise?
But Mateo didn't look up. He kept studying the dying-reviving dog in his hands.
Julián decided to break the silence anyway. Because silence with Mateo was worse than talking. Silence meant he was thinking. And when Mateo thought too much, someone ended up dead in creative ways.
"Boss." His voice came out raspy. He cleared his throat. "Boss, we have the numbers you asked for."
Mateo didn't respond.
The dog in his hands completed another cycle. Ash. Reconstitution. Complete again.
Julián looked at the others. One, Carlos Mendoza, twenty-eight, gang member since fourteen made a gesture: 'Keep talking, idiot.'
Julián consulted a crumpled notebook in front of him. Notes scribbled in almost illegible handwriting.
"In the last seventy-two hours, we have... He corrected himself quickly. "You have expanded the territory by six additional blocks. From Calle 85 to 91. From Carrera 7 to Carrera 15."
Still no response.
The dog died again. Revived.
"We have," Julián wet his lips. "We have acquired enough provisions for three weeks. Weapons: twenty-three assault rifles, forty-two pistols, twelve shotguns. Ammunition: approximately twenty thousand rounds."
Another man, Diego Suárez, thirty-six, face marked with acid burns from a gang fight years ago, added:
"We also got vehicles. Eight vans. Two cargo trucks. All with full tanks and extra gasoline spares."
Silence.
The dog completed another cycle.
A third spoke, Andrés Villegas, twenty-three, the youngest in the group. He still had that nervous energy of someone who hasn't seen enough shit to be completely traumatized.
"And the women, boss!", His voice sounded proud. Stupidly proud. "We have forty-three now. Ages between sixteen and thirty-five. The youngest on the twelfth floor. The older on the eleventh."
He paused, expecting recognition.
It didn't come.
He shrank slightly.
"We...we keep them well fed. Under control. No problems so far."
"No problems" was a grotesque way to describe the situation. Everyone in that room knew exactly what happened on the eleventh and twelfth floors. The screams that filtered through at night. The pleas.
But no one mentioned it directly. Because mentioning things made them real. And if they were real, you had to confront what kind of monster you were.
Easier to just... not think about it and enjoy it.
Another man, Roberto "El Gordo" Paredes, thirty-nine, two hundred kilos of mass that was half fat, half muscle, added:
"And we've recruited. Fifty-two new members in the last three days. Mostly deserters. Guys who saw the government isn't going to protect shit and decided to join the winning side."
He laughed. A nervous, forced laugh.
"Plus, boss, we've eliminated resistance in four more buildings. Enemy casualties: thirty-seven. Our casualties: two. Both from their own stupidity, not the enemy."
Finally, the last in the group spoke Manuel Cortés, thirty-three, ex-cop who had crossed to the dark side when he realized criminals made more.
"The accounts are growing, boss. Between what was stolen from banks, jewelry stores, houses... we have approximately two billion pesos in cash. Plus gold, jewels, valuables we haven't appraised yet."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And most important: we've killed sixty-three people in total. Civilians, military, police. Whoever got in the way."
He paused dramatically.
"Your kingdom is growing, boss. Los Renacidos are the dominant force in this zone of Bogotá. No one opposes us. No one can oppose us."
The eight men leaned back in their chairs. Satisfied expressions. Proud.
They had done their job. Reported the numbers. Demonstrated their usefulness.
Now they just awaited recognition. Approval. Maybe even a congratulations.
The silence continued.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
And then Mateo spoke.
His voice was soft. Almost gentle. The kind of tone you'd use with a small child or a confused elderly person.
"And the government?"
The eight men blinked.
"Boss?". Julián wasn't sure he understood the question.
Mateo finally looked up.
His eyes, those eyes with the faint red glow in the depths, settled on each man one by one. Slowly. Evaluating them.
"The government", He repeated with the same softness. "How has the government reacted to what we've been doing?"
Julián exchanged glances with the others. No one seemed to want to answer.
Finally, Diego with the acid burns cleared his throat:
"So far... the military is focused on evacuating civilians. Establishing safe zones. Dealing with the mutated animals. They haven't..."He swallowed. "They haven't responded directly against us."
"I see." Mateo nodded slowly.
He turned his attention back to the dog. Watched it complete from ash once more.
A smile began to form on his lips. Slow. Wide.
It wasn't a happy smile. It wasn't the smile of someone sane.
It was the smile of someone who had found something hilarious in a joke only he understood.
"So". His voice kept that sickly softness. "If the government doesn't respond... if they're too busy... too overwhelmed to stop us..."
The smile widened. His teeth! perfectly white, perfectly straight, gleamed under the light.
"We just have to expand more and more through Bogotá, right?"
The eight men tensed immediately.
They knew that smile.
That smile meant Mateo was about to do something terrible. Something that would cross lines that even they, killers, rapists, thieves, found uncomfortable.
"Yes, boss". Manuel the ex-cop responded quickly.
"Exactly. We can expand. Take more territory. More resources."
"Mmm". Mateo kept smiling.
The dog in his hands completed another cycle. But this time, when it reconstituted, Mateo closed his fingers slightly.
And the dog disintegrated faster. Much faster.
In two seconds, it was completely reduced to ash.
Then it reconstituted. But not completely. Only partially. The rear half remained ash. Only the head and front torso were solid.
The dog, conscious again for a moment, tried to whine. But it had no lungs to produce the sound.
Mateo watched it with fascination. Then let it complete.
"You've been training your powers". It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Another tense silence.
"Boss?". Andrés, the young one, blinked confused.
"Your powers", Mateo repeated patiently. "The ones you awakened after the energy pulse. Have you been training them?"
"Yes, boss!". Roberto the Fat responded immediately.
"Every time we're free, we train. We all do."
Mateo's smile vanished instantly.
As if someone had flipped a switch. Expression completely neutral. Dead eyes.
"Come closer", He told Roberto.
Roberto blinked. His face, usually ruddy, paled visibly.
"B-boss?"
"Come closer". Mateo repeated. Same soft voice. "I'm not going to ask again."
Roberto stood up. His legs, thick trunks that normally supported his two hundred kilos without issue, trembled visibly.
He walked around the table. Each step sounded like thunder in the silence.
The other seven men watched. No one moved. No one spoke.
Roberto reached Mateo's side. He was sweating profusely. The sour smell of fear emanated from every pore.
"Boss, I... I just meant that"
"Shhh". Mateo raised a hand. An almost affectionate gesture.
Roberto shut up immediately.
Mateo stood up slowly. The dog in his hands completed another cycle and he gently placed it in the executive chair. The animal continued its endless death-resurrection even without direct contact.
Mateo was shorter than Roberto. Maybe fifteen centimeters shorter. But in that moment, he seemed the largest in the room.
He approached Roberto. Raised his right hand.
And caressed the fat man's cheek.
Gently. Almost lovingly.
"I thought", He began with that soft voice. "That I had been very, very clear when I told you to train your powers always."
His hand kept caressing. Fingers tracing Roberto's jawline.
Not "when you're free". He continued. Not "when you have time". Always. Constantly. Without rest. Because the more you train, the stronger you become. And I..."
His fingers stopped over Roberto's temple.
"Don't want weaklings here."
He pressed slightly.
And Roberto exploded.
Not metaphorically.
His head literally disintegrated. Skull, brain, eyes, teeth, everything turned into a red mist that splattered the wall behind him in a grotesque Rorschach pattern.
His body, now headless, staggered. Blood spurted from the neck stump in rhythmic jets.
The other seven men jumped from their chairs. Several screamed. One vomited instantly.
Roberto's body fell to its knees. Then forward. It crashed to the floor with a wet thud.
And then something more horrible happened.
The blood mist on the wall began to change. The red turned gray. Then black.
Ash.
The blood had turned to ash. That floated gently in the air before settling on the floor like macabre snow.
Roberto's body, still bleeding, still headless, began to wither. The flesh dried. Cracked. Crumbled.
In thirty seconds, nothing remained except gray ash on the floor.
Not even the bones remained.
Roberto Paredes had ceased to exist.
Mateo returned to his chair. Sat down. Picked up the dog and put it back in his lap.
He looked at the seven remaining men. All were pale. Two trembling visibly. Manuel the ex-cop had urinated his pants---a dark stain spreading in his crotch.
None dared to move.
Mateo smiled again. Bright. Friendly.
"Remember". He said in an almost cheerful tone. "The more you train your powers, the stronger you become. The difference between life and death. Between being useful or being...", He looked at the pile of ash that had been Roberto. "Garbage."
He stroked the dog. His fingers traced the animal's spine as it disintegrated and reconstituted.
"I don't want weaklings here. Understood?"
The seven men nodded frantically. Heads bobbing up and down like puppets.
"Perfect". Mateo's smile widened.
He leaned back in the chair. Crossed his legs again. Adopted that posture of insolent relaxation.
"Okay. Dismissed."
The men stood up so fast that several chairs fell backward with a crash.
But they stopped. Turned around. Carefully picked them up. Put them back in place.
Because making unnecessary noise, bothering the boss with loud sounds, could mean joining Roberto as ash on the floor.
They walked to the door. Quick steps but trying not to run. Controlled breaths but clearly terrified.
One by one they left.
The door closed with a soft click.
Mateo was left alone in the boardroom.
Well. Alone with the endlessly dying-reviving dog in his lap.
He looked at the pile of ash that had been Roberto. Felt... nothing. No remorse. No particular satisfaction either.
Just the vague sensation of having done something necessary. Like taking out the trash or cleaning a spill.
He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply.
And then he felt the change in the air.
A soft pop. Barely audible. Like a bubble bursting.
He opened his eyes.
A woman was standing in front of him.
She had appeared out of nowhere. A purple flash, like compressed storm lightning in a point, had preceded her arrival by a fraction of a second.
Now she was there. Completely formed. Completely real.
She was beautiful.
Not just attractive. Not "pretty". Beautiful in a way that made people stop and look twice.
Twenty-seven years old. Fair skin with a perfect golden tone. Long black hair, straight as silk, falling down her back to her waist. Honey-colored eyes that glowed under the dim light. Naturally red full lips. Body that would make Renaissance sculptors cry, pronounced but proportional curves, narrow waist, wide hips.
She wore little. A red silk dress that barely reached mid-thigh. Sleeveless. Deep neckline. Black stiletto heels that made her taller.
Work clothes. Because before the world went crazy, Valentina Morales had been a luxury escort.
A thousand dollars an hour. Select clients only. Businessmen. Politicians. Occasionally rich women who wanted something different.
She wasn't ashamed of it. It was a job. It paid extremely well. And she was very, very good at what she did.
Until the energy pulse happened.
Until she awakened the ability to teleport.
And until Mateo Vargas burst into the penthouse where she was with a client, a fifty-year-old bank executive with expensive tastes and killed the man in front of her.
Not quickly. Not mercifully.
Slowly. Turning parts of him to ash while the executive screamed. Disintegrating fingers first. Then hands. Then forearms.
The man had taken fifteen minutes to die completely.
Mateo had watched the whole time. With the same clinical expression he'd use to observe a scientific experiment.
Then he had looked at Valentina.
And given her a choice: join him voluntarily, or die.
She chose to live.
Now she was his... what? Prisoner? Pet? Tool?
Not even she was sure.
...
Valentina teleported directly into Mateo's lap. Displaced the dog, which fell to the floor and settled on the man's legs.
Her arms wrapped around his neck. She pressed her body against his.
"Are you free now?". Her voice came out soft. Almost childish. The tone she used when she wanted something, while putting on an abandoned puppy look. "Don't leave me alone, please. I'm scared when you're not around."
It was a lie, of course.
She wasn't afraid of being alone. She was afraid of him. Of what he would do if she disobeyed. Of what she had seen him do to others.
But she had learned in her years as an escort how to read men. What they wanted to hear. What role they expected her to play.
Mateo looked at her.
And in his eyes, those eyes with the underlying red glow, there was nothing. No desire. No affection. Not even basic lust.
Just... he looked at her. Like someone looking at a tool in their toolbox.
Does it still work? Is it still useful?
"Remember your place". He said softly.
The change in Valentina was instant.
Her face, which had been acting "cutely worried", paled completely. The color draining as if someone had opened a tap.
Her hands, which had been caressing his neck, froze.
She pulled back slightly. Not much. She didn't want to offend by withdrawing too quickly. But enough to show understanding.
"I... I'm sorry". The words came out stuttered. "I just... wanted... I didn't mean... I'm so sorry."
She lowered her gaze. Hands trembling slightly on Mateo's chest.
Mateo watched her one more moment. Then nodded.
"Good."
His hand rose. Fingers caressing Valentina's hair. The gesture might have been tender in another context. In this, it was more like someone petting a dog that had behaved well.
Valentina forced a smile. Small. Submissive.
"Do you need anything?". She asked. Voice trembling but controlling herself. "Do you want me to... do something?", she finished the sentence looking at his crotch to confirm.
Mateo considered the question.
"No", He decided finally. "Just stay there. Quiet."
"Yes, sir."
She settled in his lap. Still as a statue. Barely breathing.
Mateo turned his attention to the window. To Bogotá stretching into the night. Thousands of flickering lights. Millions of people.
His city. His territory.
Soon.
His lips curved into that smile again. The one that didn't reach his dead eyes.
------
Hello, how are you?
This is the chapter I owed you.
The next 2 chapters are already the confrontation and when Jhon meets Helena for the first time.
The question is, who will win, my rooster or Helena?, bet with power stones hahaha.
There won't be so many sad things anymore, I'm bored of writing that.
If the fight ends with part of Bogotá, will Lin Yue notice Jhon?
Comment, I respond to all comments.
I hope you have a good rest of the day or start of it.
Thanks for reading.
[JhonDaoist]