Through the noise, I heard Matthew let out a low, breathless laugh.

“It’s over, Alvaro,” Matthew said.

Then, the connection went dead.

I stood in the quiet apartment, the silent phone still pressed to my ear.

The green light on my laptop screen suddenly blinked twice.

A new window popped up on the desktop.

It was an incoming video stream from an unlisted source.

I dropped the phone onto the table and leaned over the keyboard.

“Lucía,” I said. “Look at this.”

The video feed resolved into a dark, grainy image of a hallway.

It was the corridor outside Alvaro’s private office in Madrid.

A single figure was standing in front of the door, holding a small black device against the electronic lock.

The indicator light on the lock turned from red to green.

The door clicked open.

Lucía stepped closer to the desk, her wool coat brushing against my shoulder.

She smelled of cold rain and cheap tobacco.

On the screen, the figure on the security feed moved with quiet deliberation.

It was Matthew.

He did not look at the camera, but he knew exactly where it was positioned.