Inside Tristan's house, the first thing that struck me was how… normal it was. Disappointingly normal, even. No hidden wires on the ceiling, no glowing screens embedded in the walls. Just a modest living room with an old couch, a coffee table, and a television still playing some overly dramatic noon soap opera—its characters crying loudly over something that probably could've been solved with a single conversation.
That illusion of normalcy shattered the moment I looked down.
Empty cans, crumpled wrappers, plastic containers, and things I couldn't immediately identify were scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a very lazy raccoon invasion. Some of the trash had been kicked under the couch. Some hadn't even bothered pretending to be discreet.
Tristan followed my gaze and laughed.
"Ah. Yes. Organized chaos," he said proudly. "Don't worry, I know exactly where everything is. Mostly."
He swept a pile of garbage off the coffee table with one arm in a single, practiced motion. The cans clattered onto the floor, joining the rest of their kind.
"Sit here for a moment," he said, patting the cleared space. "I'll get something to eat. What do you want to drink? Tea, soda, juice—" he leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially "—or maybe some beer. But keep it secret from your father. He'll kill me if he finds out I corrupted his son."
"I'll just take soda," I said automatically.
"Wise choice. Living longer is generally preferable."
He turned toward the kitchen, disappearing behind a half wall. Almost immediately, I heard clattering—metal hitting metal, a drawer slamming shut, followed by Tristan muttering to himself.
"…No, not that one. Why is this here?"
So he was already in the kitchen earlier. That explained the noise before I came in.
Left alone, I leaned back slightly and let my eyes wander. The walls were lined with picture frames—real ones, not stock photos or decorations. They looked old. Faded at the edges.
One frame caught my attention.
I stood and stepped closer.
It was my parents.
My mother looked younger there, her hair styled neatly, her smile bright and unburdened. Based on what she was wearing, it had to be her college graduation. She was holding my father's arm proudly. My father, as stiff as ever, wore a suit that didn't quite suit him. He was smiling—but awkwardly, like someone who had practiced the expression in a mirror and still wasn't sure he'd gotten it right.
Beside him stood another man.
Handsome. Clean-cut. Wearing a tailored suit, his posture confident, his smile effortless.
I frowned.
"That?"
"Oh, that's me," Tristan's voice came from behind me.
I nearly jumped.
He was holding a can of soda and a pack of biscuits, grinning as if he hadn't just appeared out of nowhere. He followed my gaze to the photo and nodded. "Yeah. You heard me right. That's me. Taken the day your mother graduated."
I stared at him, then at the picture, then back at him.
The man in the photo looked nothing like the Tristan standing in front of me—no crooked tie, no oversized pants, no tired eyes behind cracked lenses.
"What… happened?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He snorted. "Research happened."
He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Unlike your father—who, by the way, is a complete beauty maniac—all he cared about back then was impressing your mom with his face. Me? I stayed in the lab. Nights, weekends, holidays. Turns out science doesn't moisturize."
"I see," I said, though I really didn't.
"I may look older," he added casually, "but your father and I are the same age."
That somehow made it worse. They're like night and day. My father looked younger than his age, but Tristan aged differently. He looked older than he should be.
He handed me the soda and biscuits. "Eat. Thinking on an empty stomach makes people dramatic."
I sat back down, curiosity gnawing at me. "The villa in front," I said after a moment. "Who owns it? The people there didn't seem… friendly."
"Oh, that?" Tristan waved it off. "Herman Cortez. Leader of the Urboz gang."
I froze. "You live next to a gang base?"
"Unfortunately, yes. I asked them to keep the noise down. They didn't listen."
"Aren't you afraid they'll hurt you?" I asked. "They looked pretty pissed just hearing your name."
He tilted his head. "Tell me something. If your eyes itch, do you scoop them out?"
"What? No. I'd use eye drops."
"Exactly." He smiled. "Even if they want me dead, they can't kill me. Because they need me. Without my eyes and ears in this slum, the Urboz gang would've collapsed years ago."
That didn't make me feel better.
He stood abruptly. "Come. I'll show you something."
He stopped beneath the staircase and opened a small door. Flicked on the light. Then he rotated the switch several times in a specific pattern, like cracking a vault. The wall shuddered—and slid open.
A hidden staircase appeared.
"Follow me," he said, already heading down.
I hesitated, then followed. After more than twenty steps, I couldn't help asking, "Is this a nuclear bunker or an underground base?"
"Neither. It's my haven," he replied cheerfully.
At the bottom stood a steel door. He placed his hand on a scanner. It beeped softly and slid open.
Inside was pitch black.
"Lights on," Tristan said.
The lights ignited one by one.
My breath caught.
The space was massive. White-coated walls stretched far beyond what should've fit beneath a two-story house. Weapons lined the room—pistols, rifles, machine guns. There were armored vehicles, even a tank. Bulletproof vests, helmets, riot shields. At the far end, countless monitors displayed live feeds of streets and alleys across the slum.
Every blind spot. Every corner.
All visible.
Tristan spread his arms proudly. "Welcome to my sanctuary," he said. "My safe haven."
I swallowed.
Whatever my father had sent me into, it was far bigger—and far more dangerous—than I'd imagined.
I let my eyes sweep across the room again—the weapons, the vehicles, the silent wall of monitors watching every artery of the slum breathe in real time. The scale of it pressed down on my chest.
"So this is why they can't harm you," I said quietly. "Because you're untouchable."
Tristan puffed his chest out a little, hands on his hips, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Yep. But not exactly untouchable. It's more about mutual benefits." Then his shoulders slumped. "Though honestly? I think I'm getting the short end of the stick. I give them information, equipment, maintenance support—sometimes emotional advice, believe it or not—and in return I get a few pennies and the privilege of not being stabbed at the back. Sounds like a terrible deal when you say it out loud."
"But they give you protection," I said.
He shook his head so hard his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up with one finger. "Wrong. Completely wrong, kid. I'm the one protecting them."
I frowned. "How?"
He walked toward one of the racks, talking as he went. "Tell me this. In a war, what's the most important thing?"
"Weapons?" I guessed.
He clicked his tongue. "Nope. Wrong answer." He picked up a revolver from the table, inspecting it like a toy. "Weapons are just tools. A shiny sword is useless in the hands of a blind soldier."
He reached for a single bullet lying nearby and slid it into the cylinder with a soft, deliberate click. The sound echoed more than it should have.
"Information," he continued, spinning the chamber absentmindedly. "Knowing where your enemy sleeps. What they fear. Who they trust. Knowledge is sharper than any blade, unbreakable like a shield, and far more destructive than bombs."
He raised the revolver.
Pointed it at me.
Time slowed.
My body reacted before my brain could argue. My arm came up instinctively, muscles tensing, heart slamming against my ribs. For a split second, Cerberus stirred—alert, eager.
Tristan pulled the trigger.
Click! Click! Click!
Three times. Nothing happened.
Click! Click! Click!
I froze, breathing hard, heat rushing to my face.
Tristan burst out laughing, doubling over, one hand on his knee. "Look at you! You should see your face."
He straightened, still chuckling. "If you'd known the shell was empty, you wouldn't have reacted like that. That's the power of knowing." He tapped the side of his head. "Information changes everything—even fear."
He set the revolver down casually, like he hadn't just shaved years off my life.
I lowered my arm slowly, swallowing. "You're insane."
"Professionally," he said proudly. "Now… your father didn't send you here just to admire my toys."