Dawn fell over the Solís mansion with the delicacy of a body that bleeds slowly. The rain had been reduced to a constant thread, a breath of the sky over the glass. In the kitchen, the industrial lights emitted a cold white that made the objects seem more real than the people. Sebastián stood before the jars containing the blue powder; the inner glow of the compound flickered, as if it remembered having once been alive. His silence was not concentration, but calculation.

Virka wiped the plates marked with the Smiths' seals using a metallic cloth. The surface responded with reflections of heat—scars of an art that sought to be exact. Her movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, and each stroke sounded like a steel string. In the corner of the counter, Narka, in reduced form, watched them without intervening. "The enemy doesn't destroy… it polishes what it touches." His voice, deep even in his minimal size, broke the air like an ancient warning.

The smell of wet iron mixed with the subtle perfume of steam. Valentina entered, staggering, covered by a blanket, her eyelids still heavy. She looked at Sebastián and asked in a low voice, "Are they coming back?" He nodded with the calm of someone who had already chosen a fate. "Yes, but not to fight. To see what they left." Virka closed the black suit; the sound of the metal zipper blended with the faint tapping of the rain. Outside, a camera suspended at the mansion's corner turned on its axis, watching in silence.

In the basement, Helena monitored from her station; her face, projected on a screen, had the stillness of marble. Beside her, Selena analyzed the thermal data. "When the enemy cleans too much, it's not afraid of being seen. It only fears not being understood," said Helena, without taking her eyes off the figures.

The return journey to the institute began before dawn. The sky was still a sheet of liquid shadow. The back door of the north block was open, with no signs of forced entry. The air smelled of fresh paint. The hallways that had once been a battlefield were restored: smooth walls, replaced glass, floors shining as if they had been sterilized. It was a cleanliness so meticulous it hurt to look at.

In a ventilation grille, they found a metallic rose with silver petals and a copper core. It was warm, as if someone had left it there seconds earlier. Narka spoke: "They left their signature for us to see. It's their way of measuring us." Virka tried to break it, but Sebastián stopped her with a gesture. "Don't erase what they want to show. Perhaps the message is in the shape." The metal seemed to gleam for an instant, reflecting their silence.

On the floor, a thin layer of gray ash disintegrated at the touch. Sebastián observed it closely: "Modified living matter. It changed phase." The ring on his finger emitted a flash, marking the location. The vibration that followed didn't come from the ground or the air, but from the sensation of being watched.

The drone they carried hovered before them. The images of Helena and Selena were projected onto the wall. "The records were altered from within," reported Selena, her voice measured, cold. "There was no intrusion. Only someone with authorization." Helena intervened: "A repeated code appears: THPM-β, dynamic pressure core." Virka looked up, confused. "What is that?" Helena replied: "A military prototype. Hyper-adaptive pressure technology. It shouldn't exist in any institute."

Sebastián lowered his gaze to the copper rose. "Then the Smiths don't manufacture drugs. They manufacture bodies." The words hung in the air, heavy. Selena added in an almost scientific tone: "The compound contains reconstructed DNA. Each fragment breathed." The drone shut down. Only the faint hum of a digital echo remained in the air.

They returned to the mansion with the dawn still incomplete. Valentina waited for them by the window, a towel in her hands. The kitchen smelled of hot metal. Helena projected the analysis onto a translucent sheet: synthetic biomass, traces of artificial tissue. Sebastián spoke without taking his eyes off the data. "Then the enemy didn't come in. It was already inside." Virka replied: "The Smiths aren't guests. They're the furniture." Narka, with his stone-like tone, concluded: "Every house is more dangerous when it believes it's clean."

Selena appeared in the projection, her face crossed by lines of blue light. "Today the façade begins. Make everything look normal." Helena nodded. In the window, the sky opened with a glow of steel. Sebastián looked at it and said: "Nothing is more dangerous than fabricated calm."

Morning arrived with the precision of an order. The central plaza of the Santriel Institute swarmed with students, new flags, and announcements of reformed programs. Sebastián and Virka crossed the corridors like shadows pretending to belong. Valentina walked a few steps ahead, clutching her backpack; Narka slept hidden beneath her coat. The professor on the stage spoke in an affected tone: "Welcome to the new term. The Institute now integrates modules of Physical Control, Strategic Analysis, and Integral Competence." His voice rose: "The Rakzar program will be the core of this new stage."

The students applauded, but the applause sounded hollow. Rakzar. The name resonated like a relic of war. It was more than a sport: a combat simulator born in military bases, later turned into a public spectacle. In it, competitors fought in a circuit called the Ring, wearing biomechanical suits linked to the Vital Core. The suits—called ARMEX—amplified strength and speed but didn't eliminate pain. Every impact was real; the protective capsule only activated at the brink of death. The audience didn't celebrate victories—they idolized those who endured without breaking.

While the speech continued, Sebastián observed the crowd. Among the students, two opposing figures stood out: one with light hair and golden gleams, gray eyes, and measured steps; the other with fiery red hair, golden eyes, and a body carved by discipline. The first hid behind timidity; the second, behind perfection. Neither seemed to belong there, yet both reflected extremes of the same human spectrum: fragility and control. Sebastián barely turned his face. Virka noticed but said nothing.

The noise grew as the figure in the black exosuit stepped onto the stage. The shining material reflected the sunlight with an almost liquid glow. The red lines of the suit pulsed like artificial veins. The professor's voice announced to the crowd the beginning of the Rakzar trials. The term "Integral Competence" was lost among the cheers. Narka, hidden, murmured gravely, "Some humans still believe the body is a toy."

Sebastián didn't respond. In the back of his mind, the echo of Helena's words merged with the roar of the students. He felt that the entire institute was a machine breathing a prefabricated order. Virka knew it too: the calm surrounding them was a skin too perfect to be real.

The main classroom filled precisely at eight o'clock. The tutor explained the rules, the regulations, the medical protocols. His voice floated like smoke. Sebastián sat in the last seat; the girl with light hair was a few rows ahead. The light from the window drew a shadow shaped like a metallic rose on the wall. No one saw it. No one knew that this dawn marked the beginning of a meticulous trap.

Calm reigned. Manufactured with precision, sustained by fear and silence. Somewhere in the institute, the cameras turned on their own, recording every breath. And while the world pretended normality, an invisible truth waited beneath the surface: sometimes, the school doesn't teach; it only measures how much you can endure before you break.

The digital bell shattered the air with a metallic sound that felt more like an order than a notice. The classroom lights flickered for an instant before stabilizing. Hands began to move in silence: notebooks closing, pencils being put away, controlled breaths. Sebastián looked up just as the shadow of the metallic rose disappeared from the wall. He said nothing. Virka stood calmly, her hair falling over one shoulder, indifferent to the murmurs around her. The hallways filled with movement, but not with life. Every step echoed with the same mechanical rhythm, as if everyone obeyed a shared pulse. The cameras in the corners turned slowly, watching without blinking. The system announced in a neutral voice: "Next class: Geography and General Politics of the Liria Continent." The air smelled of disinfectant and damp paper. On the walls, the screens displayed phrases that seemed like prayers to a faceless god: "Order is clarity."

Sebastián walked beside Virka toward classroom 2B. The sound of the automatic doors marked the rhythm of the day. Inside, the teacher awaited them before a suspended hologram of the continental map. The blue figure rotated slowly on its axis, revealing mountain ranges, inland seas, deserts, and energy zones scattered like ancient scars. "Liria," said the man in a dry voice, "ninety million square kilometers of territorial stability." His words were not a lesson; they were a record. He explained the unification five thousand years ago, the creation of the ten main nations, the maritime alliances, and the exchange platforms.

He named the seven outer nations, their treaties, their forgotten wars. He said it all without a soul, like someone reciting a prayer learned out of obligation. Sebastián wrote without emotion, every word identical to the last. Virka watched the map with an animal calm, perceiving in that projection more control than knowledge. The hologram turned one last time; the blue light washed over the attentive, uniform faces of the students, turned for an instant into the same reflection.

The classroom change was brief. In 3C, a young teacher awaited them with a gentle tone—too human for that environment. "Religions and Social Thought," she announced. The lights dimmed. Symbols, temples, and painted faces appeared on the screen. "In Liria there is no single god," she said, "but many reflections of the same fear." She listed philosophical currents, cults of silence, communities that worshiped physical action, pantheons that represented human virtues as if they were deities. She explained that faith persisted in rural areas despite centuries of rational education. Some students laughed discreetly; others debated which religion was more useful. Sebastián recalled a phrase from Helena: "Do not fear the foreign god, but the one who uses his name to measure your worth."

Virka rested her head on her hand. Her red eyes followed each gesture, each word—not out of interest but out of distrust. On the final slide, a phrase appeared in gray letters: "Liria does not fear the gods; it fears the void left when it forgets them." No one spoke. The bell rang again, softer this time, almost as if the institution itself exhaled.

In classroom 1A, the next teacher was an older man with a sharp face. He didn't need to introduce himself. His deep voice filled the space with a tone that commanded silence. He projected a timeline crossing the five millennia of continental history: unification, industrialization, the digital era, technological expansion. The images showed factories, floating cities, battlefields turned into parks. "Technology replaced art and craft," he said. "What was once expression became efficiency."

Then he spoke of Rakzar, which he called "a symbol of national discipline." He recounted how it began as a military experiment, how the first exosuits were crude, heavy, expensive. Over time, they became the new faith of the body. "Rakzar," he concluded, "does not measure strength. It measures endurance." The students applauded with learned enthusiasm. Sebastián watched the gleam in their eyes, a fervor he did not understand. Virka crossed her arms. In her pupils there was no admiration, only a silent suspicion: humanity had replaced its gods with its machines. The projector turned off, leaving an electric hum in the air. Silence once again became the only living matter in the classroom.

The next room, 4D, smelled of old ink and white light. The language teacher awaited them with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Common Language and Literature," she said. Her voice was firm, measured, charged with institutional precision. On the screen appeared the history of Liria's unified language: a tongue designed to avoid conflict, "the invisible fabric of social order." The words projected seemed to pulse: Clarity is obedience.

The students repeated it aloud, like a dry chant. Sebastián lifted his eyes from his notebook, noticing that no one questioned the phrase. Virka barely murmured it, without emotion. The final bell rang with a longer tone, signaling the end of the morning session. Outside, the air was saturated with the uniform noise of footsteps—the collective breathing of a society that had turned calm into duty.

The cafeteria of the Institute was a vast white hall, filled with lights that imitated the warmth of the sun. Metal trays clashed against each other with a hollow echo. Sebastián sat beside Virka in a corner. She remained rigid, observing the groups who laughed without joy. The cameras on the walls turned slowly. On the screens, institutional announcements displayed smiling faces under the slogan "Efficiency is happiness." The murmur was constant, repetitive, almost soothing.

The door at the back opened, and a primary school teacher entered, holding a small girl by the hand. "Excuse me," she said, "the girl insisted on seeing her parents. She said they were in tenth grade." Her voice sounded uneasy, as if such a request didn't fit within the protocols.

Virka arched an eyebrow. Sebastián lifted his gaze. The girl, recognizing them, let go of the teacher's hand and ran toward them with a disordered smile. It was Valentina. She carried a small metal lunchbox and a blanket draped over her shoulders. She sat between them, as if that place belonged to her. The teacher hesitated, then withdrew.

Valentina opened her lunchbox. The smell of sweet bread mixed with the sterile air of the cafeteria. She began to speak as she ate, her voice filling the gaps between the metallic clatter of trays. She said she had learned to write her name and the word "Liria," that her teacher told her clouds travel because they're looking for their home. She showed a folded drawing: a sun, three figures, and a clumsy house made of lines. Virka looked at it without expression, but her fingers relaxed on the table. Sebastián adjusted the blanket on the girl's shoulders without saying a word.

She kept talking—asking if they had eaten yet, if they could get dessert, if someone was going to pick them up. Each question was a tiny crack in the invisible wall of that controlled world. Other students watched curiously: a primary school girl sitting between high schoolers, an image outside the norm.

Valentina pulled a few small paper stars from her backpack and began to count them on the table. Each one was a word that didn't exist in the language of Liria. Sebastián watched her in silence while, in the background, the institutional voice repeated: "Remember: efficiency is happiness."

For an instant, something in the scene broke. Not the order, but its perfection. Virka turned her gaze toward the window. Outside, the sky was too white to be natural. Inside, calm persisted, but it was no longer absolute. And amid that clean architecture, a little girl counted paper stars, unaware that sometimes the most innocent act is the only form of resistance.

The cafeteria remained full, but the noise had turned into a slow-breathing murmur. Sebastián chewed slowly, staring without focus, while Virka returned with four desserts on a polished steel tray. She placed them on the table without a word. The steam from the warm sweets rose with the scent of honey and hot metal. Valentina's eyes widened in fascination, and she tapped the table softly, as if that gesture itself were a spell of joy.

—And what did you learn today? —she asked in a small, almost solemn voice.

Sebastián looked at her for a few seconds before answering.

—We learned about the place where we live. About how this continent was born, how people came together so they wouldn't kill each other anymore. —His tone carried no irony, only a quiet truth.

Virka added without lifting her gaze from the dessert—: And about how words can organize things… or chain them.

Valentina frowned, trying to understand. Sebastián softened the answer. —We learned how the world is made, so that you can know it later.

The girl nodded, satisfied with that version.

They ate in silence for a while. Virka cut the cake into equal portions and distributed them with a domestic calm. Her movement was both mechanical and maternal, a form of tenderness she had never learned but that her body somehow remembered. Sebastián took his piece without looking; the texture dissolved in his mouth, without real flavor. Even so, Valentina smiled, crumbs clinging to her lips.

—It's good —she said, and extended a piece toward Narka, who peeked his reduced head over the table.

The creature bowed his neck solemnly and received the offering with an almost ritual slowness. He didn't speak; he didn't need to.

Valentina stroked his shell affectionately. —Here, Uncle Narka. —The word floated among them like something sacred. Then she looked at Sebastián and Virka, and without thinking added: —Thank you, Dad… Mom.

The silence was immediate. Only the metallic clatter of trays filled the air. Some students at nearby tables turned; others laughed discreetly.

Sebastián looked at her, without blushing or correcting. He simply placed a hand on her head, with a stillness that was acceptance.

Virka lowered her gaze, and for the first time, her expression was neither cold nor distant: it was human.

Valentina kept talking, cheerful and unaware of the curious stares. She said that in her other life she had never had dessert, nor anyone to share it with. She said she liked these moments because they felt real. The words were so simple they hurt.

The primary school teacher appeared shortly after. Her smile was polite, but the gesture betrayed hesitation. —Excuse me… the girl must return to her classroom. —Valentina protested with a pout, hugging her lunchbox.

—I promise to wait for you later —said Virka.

—And we'll eat more cake —added Sebastián, barely audible.

The girl smiled, and as the teacher took her by the hand, she opened her backpack for an instant so that Narka could slip inside, hidden beneath the blanket. No one noticed.

The door closed, and the cafeteria returned to its steady rhythm.

The system announcement ordered everyone to proceed to the biological registration area. The crowd moved through the corridors illuminated by blue light. The posters read: "Transparency is health."

Sebastián, Virka, and the others followed the flow into the divided sections—men to one side, women to the other.

The women's changing room smelled of dust and cheap perfume. Virka removed her jacket slowly. The other students watched her from the corners of their eyes. Her white skin gleamed under the cold light, and on her left breast, the Mark of the Inverted Thunder glowed faintly, its lines like sleeping lightning.

—Is that a tattoo? —asked a trembling voice.

Virka looked at her without answering. She didn't need to. Around her, the whispers rose like small waves; she ignored them and dressed in the standard shirt, concealing the mark.

In the men's changing room, Sebastián did the same. His body was a landscape of scars and tense muscle. The boys around him pretended not to look, but the silence betrayed them. When he raised his arm to put on his shirt, the reflection of an old wound crossed the light. Some looked away; others froze, unsure whether to admire or fear him.

In the scanning hall, the air was sterile. Sensors hung from the ceiling like insects. An automated voice gave the instruction: "Please remain still."

White light, electric hum, restrained breaths.

The monitor displayed cascading graphs.

Sebastián: irregular pulse, bone density off the scale, elevated body temperature.

Virka: unclassified metabolism, fluctuating internal energy.

Valentina, in the children's section, showed vitality above average—a small, almost imperceptible anomaly, but present.

At the central system, Selena observed the data from the mansion. Her eyes traced the lines in silence. She typed a command, and the records normalized. —Done —she whispered, while Helena, beside her, kept her gaze fixed on the screen.

—No one must see the original figures —she said.

Selena nodded without emotion.

At the Institute, the scanner lights went out. Everything seemed normal.

The students left the area, dressed again in their uniforms. The afternoon air was heavier, filled with a calm that didn't belong to the sky. The hallway screens lit up suddenly. An institutional voice, solemn and hollow, echoed throughout the complex:

"Attention, Santriel Institute community. Tomorrow officially begins the Rakzar Physical Training Program. Excellence is our nature."

The students applauded with mechanical enthusiasm. Sebastián remained still, watching the words float over the glass. Virka felt a slight chill but said nothing. Valentina, from her classroom, looked up when she heard the announcement, not understanding why everyone was smiling.

The day ended. The sky had turned into liquid gray. At the exit, Sebastián, Virka, and Valentina met again. The girl carried her backpack tightly closed; inside, Narka breathed in silence. A dark vehicle awaited by the gate, bearing the luminous emblem of Helena's corporation.

They boarded without speaking. The streets were clean, without traffic, only an echo of engines. Valentina settled on Virka's lap and fell asleep before leaving the campus. Sebastián watched through the window: glass buildings, advertisements reflecting slogans of efficiency, the sunless sky.

Inside the car, the air smelled of ozone and damp fabric. No one spoke.

The ride to the mansion was brief. Helena and Selena were waiting at the entrance, under the drizzle.

—The records have been cleaned —said Selena as soon as they got out.

—And no one suspects —confirmed Helena. Her voice was low, but her expression firm.

Sebastián nodded. Valentina was still asleep; Virka carried her easily, covering her with her blanket.

They entered the mansion. The sound of rain hitting the glass accompanied the silence. On the table, the metallic rose was still there, untouched.

Sebastián stared at it for a long time before turning off the hallway lights.

Narka, now in his small form, spoke for the first time that day:

—Control measures everything, except what still breathes without permission.

No one replied. The house sank into a calm that was not peace, but a truce.

The rain had begun to fall again with the constancy of an invisible clock. The Solís mansion breathed in silence, as if guessing that something was watching it from afar. Valentina slept on the sofa, covered with her blanket; her breathing was calm, warm, unaware of what was coming. Narka, reduced, stayed beside her, watchful. In the center of the great dining room, where once stood a solid table, only fragments of twisted metal and wood remained. Helena and Selena stood, assessing the damage; the light from the window filtered over puddles of water and dust.

—We'll have to bring a new table —said Helena, not taking her eyes off the floor—. One that can withstand whatever it was that happened here.

Sebastián did not respond. Virka, seated on the edge of a broken piece of wood, lowered her gaze with a slight motion that was not guilt but caution.

Selena examined the holograms suspended over the wall. In one appeared the recovered data from Santriel Institute: partial files, diagrams, codes of incomplete manufacture.

—The material you brought from the laboratory confirms the existence of project THPM-β —she said calmly—. But we don't have the structure. Only remnants.

Helena crossed her arms. —That was enough to find this —she expanded a holographic map where three points flickered—. All records point to tests

Outside the Institute. The Smiths are still working, but we don't know where.

Virka raised her gaze. —The suits?

—ARMEX, military version —Selena replied—. The ones that were supposedly non-functional. There are improved models.

Sebastián frowned. —Then it was never a sport.

—Perhaps it was —Helena countered—, but now it's a façade. What you saw weren't prototypes; they were living adaptations.

The air in the dining room seemed to contract. Only the sound of rain filled the silence. Virka rested an elbow on her knee and murmured, —They're still works of the shadows.

Narka nodded, his voice deep though faint: —The smiths polish in darkness what cannot endure the light.

Helena turned off the hologram. —Tomorrow begins the full academic routine. If the Smiths already suspect, they won't take long to react. You'll have to maintain the role with greater precision.

—We know how to do that —Sebastián replied.

Selena glanced at him sideways, analyzing his tone. —But you can't avoid being what you are. The Institute's thermal records marked biological anomalies in both of you.

—You erased them, didn't you? —Virka asked.

—Yes —Selena answered—, but every system generates automatic backups. I can't guarantee no one has seen them.

Helena approached the window. —Then we must assume they're already following you.

The conversation was interrupted when the holograms flickered. One of them distorted, projecting corrupted images: the façade of the Institute, the mansion's coordinates, and a line of code repeating like an echo: "Incoming transmission — mirror protocol activated."

Selena typed rapidly. —It's not coming from the Institute. It's a copy of our drone.

Helena turned. —How?

—Someone reconfigured it with our own tracking signals. —Her voice grew tenser—. They're locating us.

Narka slowly straightened. The lights reflected the golden gleam of his eyes. —I can already hear them.

—Where? —Helena asked.

—In the rain.

The first impact came seconds later. The mansion's lights flickered. A metallic roar thundered outside. Sebastián moved toward the window; through the curtain of water, he saw figures approaching —black armors with lines of red energy pulsing in sync.

—Exomechanical suits —Selena said—. Combat type.

Helena activated the automatic defense, but the signal overloaded. —They've blocked the internal system.

—Then we'll do it the old way —Virka replied, standing up.

The first explosion shattered the glass. Shards rained onto the floor. The agents burst in with precise movements; they didn't fire without reason, they moved like hunters.

One of them spoke in a synthesized voice: —Confirm multiple biological anomalies. Priority capture.

Helena and Selena ran toward the sofa. Valentina was still asleep, unaware of the chaos. They covered her with the blanket and extended a luminous barrier over the area.

Sebastián was already moving. His body tensed to the limit; the sound of his steps struck like a dry blow. The first agent faced him, raising a compression weapon; the shot burst out as an invisible wave that split the air. Sebastián spun and deflected it with his forearm. The weapon's metal warped.

The second agent tried to take advantage of the angle; Virka lunged at him. Her movements were inhuman. The force of her leap left a mark on the floor. She brought him down with her shoulder, and the impact shattered the plaster wall behind him. The invader's helmet cracked, exposing the fear in his eyes.

—What are you? —he managed to say before darkness swallowed him.

The answer was silence.

Another agent tried to retreat, but Narka—now enlarged to occupy half the room—blocked the exit. His shell vibrated, releasing a gust of mineral heat. He wasn't attacking to kill, only to stop them.

Helena shouted from the back: —Careful! Your energy is destabilizing the structure!

Sebastián leaped toward an exosuit attempting to flank him; his fist struck the armor's chest. There was no explosion—only a hollow sound, as if the air itself had split. The enemy's body flew backward, crashing into the remnants of the furniture.

Virka spun beside him, synchronized. A pressure spear grazed her neck; she ducked under it and answered with a roundhouse kick that shattered the helmet.

The fear of the agents was visible now: rapid breathing, clumsy movements. They had come to capture—but no longer knew what they were facing.

One of them backed away and spoke through his communicator: —Targets out of parameter. Repeat, out of parameter.

Sebastián grabbed him by the chest and slammed him into the floor. His voice was low, restrained: —You should never have come.

The last agent tried to activate a detonator, but Selena neutralized him through the auxiliary system; a surge coursed through the suit, leaving him paralyzed.

When it was over, silence prevailed. Only the rain remained.

The air smelled of ozone and hot metal. Virka stood still, staring at the motionless bodies.

Helena approached the nearest one and removed a fragment of the energy core embedded in his chest. The blue pulse was identical to the Institute's.

—They match —she said quietly—. Same codes.

Selena examined the suit's data. —They knew we were here, but not what we are.

Narka slowly shrank back to his usual size. His deep voice resonated through the silence: —Fear precedes them, but they do not understand its cause.

Sebastián looked over the ruined room—the twisted metal, the intact blanket where Valentina still slept.

—As long as they don't touch her, they can all come —he murmured.

Virka approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers still trembled—not from fatigue, but from the tension left by the fight.

Helena looked at the shattered window. —This was a warning.

Selena closed the records. —And a confirmation. We are no longer invisible.

Outside, the rain kept falling. The drops dragged dust and blood into the cracks of the ground.

Sebastián watched as a fragment of the metallic rose, fallen among the debris, reflected the flash of lightning. For an instant, it looked like an open eye, watching them from within the metal.

No one spoke. The sound of the water covered everything, as if the world were trying to erase the scene before dawn.

__________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 44

The path continues…

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