Location: Ashwick Corridors — Andreas Ferrano's Private Suite — Night
The suite was dim.
Only a single lamp burned on Andreas's desk, its amber glow casting long shadows across the walls. The curtains were drawn. The windows were dark. The city outside might as well have been a dream.
Andreas sat in his chair.
His elbows rested on the desk. His fingers pressed against his temples. His eyes were open, but they were not looking at anything in the room. Dark circles carved hollows beneath them. His skin was pale, almost gray.
Three nights, Alma thought. Three nights without sleep.
Arturo stood beside the desk, his arms crossed, his expression the face of a man who had run out of comforting words days ago.
"You need to rest," he said.
"I'll rest when this is over."
"It's never over."
"Then I'll never rest."
Alma stepped closer. Her hand touched his shoulder.
"Jefe, please. You're killing yourself."
"I'm already dead."
The door opened.
Diego walked in.
His steps were soft on the carpet. His hands hung at his sides. His face—soft, round, forgettable—was calm.
Alma's expression shifted.
"What are you doing here? This is a private—"
"He shouldn't be here," Arturo said.
"Who let him in?"
"I did," Diego said.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
"The door was unlocked."
"Get out."
"No."
Arturo moved.
His hand shot out—not to strike, to grab. His fingers aimed for Diego's collar.
Diego's body shifted.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... elsewhere.
Arturo's hand passed through empty air.
Diego's palm struck Arturo's chest—not hard, precise. The air left Arturo's lungs. His knees buckled. His back hit the floor.
Alma lunged.
Her fist aimed for Diego's throat.
Diego's hand caught her wrist. His other hand pressed against her elbow. He twisted.
Her body turned.
Her shoulder hit the carpet.
Her arm was pinned behind her back.
"What are you—"
"Shh."
Diego's voice was soft.
"Don't struggle. It will only hurt more."
---
Andreas tried to stand.
His chair scraped backward.
His hand reached for the drawer where he kept his pistol.
Diego was already there.
His palm pressed against Andreas's chest. Not hard. Just... firm.
"Sit down."
Andreas sat.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"What do you want?"
"Answers," Diego said. "You're going to give them to me. And then—"
He reached into his jacket.
His hand emerged holding a small glass vial.
Inside, something moved.
---
The centipedes had been waiting.
Elijah had kept them in the orrhion chip world, in a containment sphere that pulsed with pale blue light. They had multiplied. What had been a handful was now a swarm—their bodies thin, segmented, their shells iridescent, their legs moving in constant, restless waves.
I called them Xolotl, Elijah thought. After the Aztec god of lightning and death. The one who guided souls to the underworld.
They're small. They're hungry. And when they enter a human body, they don't leave.
They become part of you.
And you become part of me.
He uncorked the vial.
The centipede inside was no larger than a fingernail. Its body was pale, almost translucent, its legs twitching.
"What is that?" Andreas whispered.
"Your new friend."
Elijah tilted the vial.
The centipede dropped onto Andreas's hand.
It moved fast—across his palm, up his wrist, under his sleeve. Andreas's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. No sound came out.
His body stiffened.
Then relaxed.
His eyes—still open, still aware—were different now.
"Can you feel it?" Elijah asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
He turned.
Alma was still on the floor. Arturo was still on his back. Their eyes were fixed on him—wide, frightened, uncertain.
"Your turn."
---
Two more vials.
Two more centipedes.
Alma's hand trembled as Elijah uncorked the first. Her lips moved—a prayer, maybe, or a curse. The centipede dropped onto her palm. It moved up her arm, across her shoulder, under her collar.
Her body stiffened.
Then relaxed.
Arturo didn't struggle.
His jaw was tight. His fists were clenched. But he didn't struggle.
"You're making a mistake," he said.
"Am I?"
"The Mysterium clan will—"
"The Mysterium clan won't know. Not until I want them to."
Elijah uncorked the third vial.
The centipede dropped onto Arturo's neck.
It moved fast—up his jaw, behind his ear, into his hair. His body stiffened. His eyes closed. His fists unclenched.
When his eyes opened, they were calm.
"Welcome to the family," Elijah said.
---
The Muchachos were gathered in the main hall.
Ba stood near the door, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. Valeria leaned against the wall, her arms folded, her eyes scanning the room. Lucia sat on a crate, her legs crossed, her hands in her lap.
Mateo paced near the window.
"Where is he?" he muttered.
"Who?"
"The dishwasher. Diego. He's been gone for hours."
"Maybe he left," Valeria said.
"Maybe he's dead."
"Maybe we should be so lucky."
Mateo stopped pacing.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"It didn't sound like nothing."
"It was nothing."
The door opened.
Diego walked in.
His hands were behind his back. His face was calm. His eyes moved across the room—taking in Ba, Valeria, Lucia, Mateo, the others.
Behind him, Andreas walked.
His face was pale. His eyes were clear. His expression was the face of a man who had just seen something he could not explain.
Behind Andreas, Alma.
Behind Alma, Arturo.
They walked in a line, their steps synchronized, their postures straight.
"Jefe," Ba said. "What's going on?"
Andreas didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on Diego.
"From now on," Diego said, "all of you will be my…"
He paused.
His lips curled.
"…espadas. My swords. You will move when I tell you to move. You will strike when I tell you to strike."
He spread his arms.
"I am your jefe now."
Ba's hand moved toward his belt.
"I don't think so—"
"Ba."
Andreas's voice was quiet.
"Stand down."
"But—"
"Stand. Down."
Ba's hand dropped.
His eyes moved from Andreas to Diego and back again.
"What did you do to him?"
"I showed him the truth," Diego said.
"What truth?"
"That the old way is dead. That the new way is here. And that I am the one who holds the keys."
He turned.
His eyes found Mateo.
"You've been wanting to kill me for weeks," he said. "Haven't you?"
Mateo's face went pale.
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't lie to me."
Diego stepped closer.
"I saw it. In your eyes. In the way you looked at me. The killing intent. The lower vibrational impulse."
He stopped inches from Mateo's face.
"If I were ordinary scum, I would be dead by now. Wouldn't I?"
Mateo's throat moved.
"I… I don't…"
"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."
Diego's hand patted Mateo's cheek.
"You're going to be my sword, too. Whether you like it or not."
---
The room was silent.
Valeria's eyes moved from Diego to Andreas to Alma to Arturo. Her internal thoughts churned.
This is a dream, she thought. It has to be a dream. None of this makes sense.
The dishwasher. The soft one. The one who couldn't even look people in the eye.
He's… he's in charge now?
How?
Lucia's eyes were on Diego.
That feeling, she thought. The pull. It's back.
Stronger than before.
I thought it had gone away. I thought I was free of it.
But it's still there.
It's always been there.
He's always been there.
Ba's hand was still at his side. His fingers were still curled. But he wasn't reaching for his weapon.
He's not lying, Ba thought. Andreas isn't pretending. Alma isn't pretending. Arturo isn't pretending.
They're… different.
Like something inside them has been… replaced.
Or awakened.
What is he?
Mateo's face was still pale.
His hands were trembling.
He knows, Mateo thought. He knows I wanted to kill him.
And he's not afraid.
Why isn't he afraid?
---
Diego walked to the center of the room.
His hands were still behind his back. His face was still calm. His eyes moved across the Muchachos—taking in their fear, their confusion, their dawning understanding.
"You have questions," he said. "I understand. You're confused. You're frightened. You don't know what's happening."
He paused.
"That's alright. You don't need to understand. You just need to obey."
He turned.
His eyes found Valeria.
"The conspiracy—the one that brought us here tonight—it's bigger than you know. Rico and his Joder gang were just pawns. The real players are Kuvitich and Long Walk. They've been working together. Scheming. Trying to slow down Andreas's business. Trying to starve the Muchachos."
He began to pace.
"The mole—Chico—he was in contact with both. His call logs showed it. Messages. Coordinates. Times. All of it."
He stopped.
"But there was more. Another thread. A text from someone higher up."
He looked at Andreas.
"The order came from the Lacera turf faction. From Zhang Han himself."
Andreas's face didn't change.
But his eyes flickered.
"He wanted three-quarters of the Muchachos' cash flow to stop flowing through Andreas. He wanted the Joder gang to act as a proxy. A pathway. The Muchachos would become stuges—earning peanuts—while the real money went straight to the Lacera."
"In return, Kuvitich and Long Walk would double their shares."
The room was silent.
"That's why you've been losing shipments," Diego continued. "That's why your routes keep getting hit. That's why your people keep disappearing."
"You've been betrayed. Not by one of your own. By the people above you."
He spread his arms.
"And now, you have a choice. You can keep pretending that nothing has changed. That the old way still works. That you can trust the people who have been bleeding you dry."
He let his arms drop.
"Or you can follow me."
---
Ba was the first to kneel.
Not because he wanted to. Because his body moved before his mind caught up.
What am I doing? he thought.
But he didn't stand.
Valeria was next.
Then Lucia.
Then Mateo, his hands still trembling, his face still pale.
One by one, the Muchachos knelt.
Diego stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, his face calm.
"Good," he said.
"Very good."
---