Alejandro pushed through the revolving doors of the warehouse like he did every morning, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, already mentally sifting through the backlog of emails waiting upstairs. The lobby felt colder than usual, unnaturally quiet, as if the building itself held its breath.
He flashed his usual half-smile at Rose behind the reception desk. "Morning, Rose. You look like you're ready to fight someone today."
She didn't smile back. She just stared at him, lips parted like words were trapped in her throat, her face drained of color.
Alejandro slowed his steps. "Everything okay?"
No answer. Her eyes darted away, filled with something like pity—or fear.
He turned toward the elevators, and that's when he noticed the faces. Every single person in the lobby—the maintenance guy with his cart, usually cracking jokes—was looking at him. Not glancing. Staring. Skin pale, mouths slightly open, like they'd just witnessed a tragedy unfold.
He forced a laugh, trying to shatter the tension. "What, did I forget pants or something?"
Nobody laughed. The silence thickened, oppressive.
From the left corridor, his closest colleague, Marcus, appeared. He reached Alejandro in quick strides, grabbing his forearm with a grip that was too tight. "Alejandro. Your access card. It logged in at 11:47 p.m. last night."
Alejandro blinked, confusion knotting his brow. "What? No, it didn't. I was home by eleven."
Marcus's voice cracked, his eyes wide with urgency. "The guards… both of them. They're dead, Ale. Stabbed. Multiple times."
The coffee cup suddenly felt like lead in Alejandro's hand. This had to be a dream—he pinched his arm discreetly, the sharp pain confirming the nightmare was real. His stomach churned, bile rising.
Marcus kept talking, words tumbling out in a rush. "Your card opened the outer door. Then the inner door. Gems stolen. The cameras caught someone in a hoodie who looks… a lot like you. Same height."
Alejandro opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. Shock rooted him in place.
That was when the uniforms stepped in. Four officers, hands resting near holsters, their expressions grim and unyielding.
"Mr. Alejandro?" the lead officer called out.
The lobby tilted, the world spinning. "Yeah," he managed, his voice a whisper.
"We need you to come with us. Right now."
He looked back at Rose. She was crying silently, one hand over her mouth, tears streaming.
The younger detective moved in. "Hands where we can see them, please."
Alejandro lifted both palms slowly, his mind screaming denials he couldn't voice.
They cuffed him tight, the metal biting into his wrists, guiding him back through the revolving doors he'd entered just minutes ago. Outside, the morning sun blinded him, too bright against the darkness closing in. A black van waited, rear doors open like a maw ready to swallow him whole.
He murmured to himself, "This could be a surprise, maybe it's a prank. I didn't do anything."
They pushed him gently but firmly into the back, and the doors slammed shut with a finality that echoed in his soul.
As the van pulled away, Alejandro's thoughts raced— who could have done this? And why did it point straight to him?
***
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the interrogation room of the Buenaventura Police Station, a fortress of corruption near the port, where the air carried the groan of ships and the salty breeze of the sea. Two detectives entered: one lean and sharp-eyed, the other with a mustache like a broom, his presence commanding.
Alejandro sat chained to a metal table, wrists raw from the cuffs. Sweat drizzled down his back despite the chilly AC, his heart pounding like a drum, adrenaline surging through him. He swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper.
"We need to know everything, Alejandro," the sharp-eyed one said, slamming a folder on the table. "Make it good. We've got all day."
Alejandro cut in immediately. "Look, I'm innocent. I'm not a criminal. I need to speak to my lawyer first."
The lean detective leaned in. "No one's saying you're guilty until it's decided. The warehouse—'Muzo Emeralds' secure facility, right? Shipping those green rocks worth millions out of Buenaventura port."
Alejandro nodded, his voice steady despite the fear. "They're mined in Boyacá; we handle exports here on the Pacific coast. I'm in logistics—mid-level supervisor. I've got a swipe card for the doors. I access loading vaults, schedule shipments—just paperwork. I don't touch the stones. Home by 7 p.m., dinner with my wife, bed by 10 p.m. That's it."
"Sounds boring," the mustache detective snorted. "No vices? Not even a beer?"
"Rarely. But just that night… I swear."
The detectives exchanged stares. Mustache flipped open the folder, revealing gruesome photos: a guard with a slit throat in a pool of his own blood. "Guards dead, gems gone. Burglary and murder. The system logs your card swiped at late hours. Do you take this for a joke? Enough bullshit—tell us all we need to know."
"But I didn't," Alejandro hammered, his voice rising in desperation.
"Save it for the judge."
Alejandro's mind rewound through the night, panic clawing at him. "I think someone's set me up. Can I at least speak with my wife? Wait, Elena," he murmured to himself.
The lean detective stood against the wall, arms folded. Mustache paced, sleeves rolled up. "You still sticking to that story? You're telling me that's a ghost?"
Alejandro sobbed. "I'm telling you I was home. I didn't take anything. I've been with the company two years. Ask anybody."
Mustache leaned both palms on the table, creaking the wood. "Maybe we do this the hard way. Pliers, baton on the wrists. Five minutes of that usually changes a man's memory real quick."
Alejandro's breath caught, terror flooding him. "Please… don't. I swear on my life I didn't do it."
The door opened before Mustache could respond. A uniformed officer leaned in. "His manager's here."
Mustache straightened, nodding shortly. Both detectives stepped out.
Through the one-way glass, they watched the manager—mid-forties, charcoal suit, silver cufflinks—enter and sit opposite Alejandro. He looked calm, almost fatherly, studying Alejandro like fine print.
"Why would you steal from me, Ale?" he finally said, voice quiet.
"You know I wouldn't have believed it if the logs weren't screaming your name."
Alejandro's voice cracked. "I didn't. Look—I think my wife set me up."
The manager's eyebrow climbed. "Excuse me?"
"I was out at the bar last night. Came home late. She was... different. Cold. We've only been married twenty-one months. I still haven't met her parents, her brother, her sister—nobody. She appeared out of nowhere, man. I'm starting to think there's someone else. Some guy she's been seeing."
"What guy?"
"She said she met him at the gym. His name's Gad." Alejandro swallowed. "I caught him once—months ago—stole from me. Old panties my father wore since his twenties; he gifted them to me on my twenty-fifth birthday. That was five years ago. Said he liked wearing them for gym. I laughed it off back then. Thought he was just weird."
The manager leaned back. "And I'm supposed to buy all this… why?"
"Because you've known me longer than she has." Alejandro's eyes were desperate. "I'll fix this. I'll prove I'm loyal. Just give me a chance."
The manager sighed, desperate himself. "How?"
"First, I need to get out of here."
A long exhale. "Alright. If I'm going to work with you on this, we move fast. The CEO still doesn't know anything happened at the facility. We keep it that way."
"Trial's in four days. So here's the play." The manager leaned in, voice dropping. "You do as I say."
Alejandro blinked. "What?"
"Do we have an understanding?"
There're no witnesses; guards tried to attack you, and that's all. I'll make arrangements for a lawyer. When you're out, everything's cleaned. The cameras get scrubbed. The CEO never hears a whisper."
"Are these necessary right now?"
The manager's tone hardened. "Because if the CEO sees that footage—if he sees a man your exact height, wearing clothes that look exactly like yours, walking out with facility property—he won't ask questions. He'll bury you. Life sentence, Ale. No parole. You want that? Or you want to walk out with a clean record and a quiet life?"
Alejandro stared at the table, the weight of the choice crushing him.
The manager softened. "Look. I've watched you work. You're a good man. I'm trying to help you here. I want you to go home to your family—whatever's left of it—and live happy. But you have to trust me."
Alejandro gave one slow nod, sighing in reluctant relief.
"Let's round this up." The detectives walked back in. "You've had enough time," Mustache said, approaching.
"You've got to take it easy on him. In the meantime, make sure no one speaks with him," the manager whispered as he walked out.
But as the door closed, Alejandro wondered—had he just made a deal with the devil?