"And so, with the highest honors, the Board of Deans of Saint Thomas Aquinas University recognizes Dr. Douglas Lozada for his PhD thesis titled: From Usurpation to Legitimation: The Process of Settlement in Coups d'État. A Philosophical Approach to New Power Structures, for his academic excellence. It is an honor to welcome him both as an alumnus and as a sitting magistrate of the Superior Court of the Judicial District of Bogotá."
The auditorium erupted. It was not the polite applause of academia, but the roar of those recognizing a predator who has learned to growl in verse. Douglas Lozada stood, adjusting the jacket of his bespoke Italian suit. At forty-five, his figure emanated that blend of vigor and gravitas possessed only by men who have stopped seeking power and begun to exercise it. He ascended the stage with a rhythmic stride, each step an affirmation of his place in the hierarchy.
As he took the microphone, the silence was absolute. Douglas did not look at the crowd; he looked into the eyes of those in the front row—the masters of the board.
"Dr. César: friend, colleague, but above all, mentor. I am grateful for the beautiful words dedicated to me tonight. I also thank God, who in His infinite mercy has placed within me this profound passion for the law. To my parents—without them, none of this would have been possible. To my dear wife, Elena... I love you, my dear," Douglas said, offering a slight nod to the woman of icy elegance who smiled at him from the center of the hall.
He made a dramatic pause, letting the weight of his gratitude settle before shifting to a more incisive tone—that of an academic unafraid to stain his hands with reality.
"The renowned and respected philosopher Slavoj Žižek once remarked in an interview that he would sell his grandmother into slavery just to see what happened after the revolution, specifically in the film V for Vendetta. What obsessed Žižek, and what has robbed me of sleep during these five years of research, is not the explosion of gunpowder, but the silence of the day after. How should the basic norms of law be reconstructed once the past order collapses and a new one seizes power by force?"
Douglas leaned on the lectern, projecting his voice with the mastery of a Roman orator.
"Drawing upon Rousseau's concept, my thesis proposes that the 'social contract' is not a static document, but a living organism that requires an immediate transfusion of legitimacy following a rupture. The universal maxims I have distilled from successful coups in contemporary history—those that did not degenerate into endless civil wars or immediate counter-coups—are summarized in an iron triad: Institutional Inertia, Emergency Economic Stabilization, and the Narrative of Necessity. If the usurper manages to make the common citizen prefer the security of the new order over the justice of the old, the usurpation dies to give way to the State. I have analyzed how, after the initial blow, the key to preventing further upheaval lies not in repression, but in the speed with which the new power becomes 'invisible,' integrating itself into the pre-existing bureaucracy until the people forget there was ever another option."
The speech lasted an hour. Douglas dissected the mechanics of governance in power vacuums, citing everyone from Machiavelli to modern international banking protocols. When he stepped down from the dais, he was not merely a Doctor of Laws; he was an architect in waiting.
The reception was held in the building's VIP lounge, a space of glass and marble offering a panoramic view of Bogotá at night—a smudge of amber lights sprawling across the savannah.
"Brilliant, Douglas. Simply brilliant," said Dean César, approaching with a glass of cognac. His small, shrewd eyes glinted behind his spectacles. "Legitimation is the art of making the inevitable appear desirable."
"I have only systematized your teachings, César," Douglas replied, clinking his glass.
Beside him, Elena took his arm. She was the daughter of a former minister and understood the language of power better than any manual. "Magistrate of the Superior Court today, but with this thesis and the right connections..." she whispered, glancing sideways at Magistrate Santofimio of the Supreme Court, who was chatting a few meters away, "the High Court will be a mere formality."
"Cheers, my love. So it shall be," Douglas said.
"Dad, can we go now?" asked Mateo, his twelve-year-old son, looking uncomfortable in his first tuxedo. His younger daughter, Valeria, simply played with her phone, oblivious to the weight of the evening.
Douglas smiled at them with a tenderness he rarely showed. "Soon, champ. Just a few more hands to shake. Success is a muscle that one never stops exercising."
He spent the next hour navigating circles of influence. He greeted Santofimio, who promised a private meeting to "discuss the vacancies of the next legislature," and Retired General Vargas, who praised his understanding of the "logistics of order." Douglas moved with the precision of a grandmaster, sowing favors and harvesting promises.
Overwhelmed by the heat of adulation and networking, Douglas stepped onto the balcony for some fresh air. The night was exquisite, the air both frigid and warm; the Andean chill contrasted with the residual heat of the lounge. The alcohol in his blood gave him a pleasant sense of lightness, a controlled euphoria.
He rested his hands on the cold steel railing. "What a splendid night," he whispered to himself. "Now, it is only a matter of serving my time on the Superior Court and waiting for a vacancy on the Supreme Court. With a bit more political networking, I can ensure both the Senate and the President approve my candidacy… Just a little more and we will have triumphed scandalously in life—and best of all, without much effort, ha ha ha."
He allowed himself a silent laugh, one he could not show inside. He had played the system; he had studied it like a machine, and now he was about to become its primary operator. With a mischievous grin, Douglas turned to make himself more comfortable, adopting an open, chest-forward stance, savoring the oxygen at the summit.
It was then that a waiter appeared. He wore an impeccable white jacket and carried a silver tray.
"Sir, good evening. Would you care for a glass of champagne? It is a limited edition, part of the Dean's personal reserve, sent specifically for you."
Douglas arched an eyebrow. "Curious, I seem to recall César hated sparkling wine because it gave him heartburn… But as they say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he thought, reaching for the glass. "Of course, man. Leave the whole tray if you like; we are celebrating today, ha ha ha!"
The waiter did not move. His face remained in shadow, but a slow, humorless smile curled his lips. "Of course, Douglas... today, we all celebrate."
That "Douglas," uttered without title, without respect, and with a poisonous familiarity, froze the magistrate's blood. The man stepped into the light from the windows. His eyes were not those of a servant; they were those of a specter.
"It's you… you survived," Douglas managed to stammer.
In a second, the past Douglas had buried under layers of judicial rulings and political favors returned with the force of an avalanche. He remembered a case from fifteen years ago—an unjust expropriation, a family destroyed to favor a conglomerate that now funded his career. He remembered the eyes of that young man screaming for justice in a room where only the law was sold.
The waiter needed no weapon. A violent shove, taking advantage of Douglas's imbalance and lowered guard, was enough. Douglas's center of gravity vanished. His hands clawed at the air, searching for a railing that was no longer there. All he felt was absolute emptiness, the whistle of the wind in his ears, and the fleeting vision of Bogotá's lights receding upward as he fell from the seventh floor.
What followed was a sea of perpetual darkness where only Douglas's conscious mind floated. There was no body, only thought; a spark of ego in an ocean of void.
"I am dead," he told himself, and the idea brought not fear, but a cold irony. "Just like that. Dead and gone from the world where I thought I would achieve glory. All the knowledge, the ten-year plans, the network of contacts... trash."
He felt a stinging regret, not for his sins, but for his arrogance. He had theorized on how to control the masses, yet he could not foresee the will of a single wounded man. However, as time passed (if such a thing existed there), the agitation subsided.
"I suppose this is the end of the thesis. Death is the ultimate coup d'état: the only order that admits no appeal or subsequent legitimation. Now I only have to wait for Saint Peter to call me and see if we make it to heaven—though I highly doubt it. But hope is the last thing one loses," Douglas thought.
Suddenly, a crack of white light, nearly blinding, opened before him. It was not a celestial gate; it was a wound in reality that began to suck his soul in with centrifugal violence. Douglas tried to scream, but he had no lungs. The vortex swallowed him in seconds, leaving his mind agape at the impossible.
"Young Master! Young Master, please wake up! No! No! This cannot be. God, please no!"
A female voice was screaming at the top of her lungs. Douglas felt a jackhammer pounding against the inside of his skull. The pain was physical, visceral—which meant... he had a body?
"Look! He's moving! He's still alive! Quick, run and fetch the physician! Tell him to come at once if he doesn't want to lose his head! Yesterday wouldn't have been soon enough, damn it!"
This second voice was deeper, laden with a gruff authority and the weariness of a thousand battles. Douglas tried to open his eyes, but the light was like needles of fire.
"I don't recognize any of these voices… Physician? Lose his head? Where the hell am I?" he thought, trying to cling to his identity.
He felt a rough hand on his forehead and smelled cheap incense, sweat, and something metallic... blood? His magistrate's mind tried to process the data, but the fatigue of the soul was too great. With that final thought, Douglas blacked out, falling into a deep sleep as the echo of clashing armor resonated in the hallway outside.