7:00 PM. A House on the City Outskirts.

  The family ate together. Father, mother, two children. The gentle clink of spoons against plates. Soft laughter when the youngest spilled sauce across the table. The father—Carlos Márquez—ruffled the boy's hair and smiled.

  7:16 PM.

  Four men entered without knocking. Black uniforms. Faces covered. Rifles raised.

  The mother screamed. A spoon clattered to the floor. The nine-year-old daughter froze. The eleven-year-old son began to cry.

  Carlos stood. His hands rose slowly. His face was pale, but his eyes tried to remain calm.

  "What... what's this about, gentlemen?"

  The tallest man stepped forward. His eyes swept across the dinner table, then returned to Carlos.

  "Carlos Márquez?"

  Carlos nodded.

  "We have an arrest warrant." The man produced a sheet of paper—a large red stamp prominent—showing it briefly. "You're coming with us."

  "My wife... my children... they don't know anything—"

  "Coming. All of you."

  The mother sobbed uncontrollably. The daughter hugged her younger brother. The son screamed, "Papa! Papa!"

  Carlos reached for his wife's hand. "Stay calm, just follow along. Don't resist."

  They were herded outside. Four neighbors on their porches watched. No one moved.

  ***

  7:42 PM. A Deserted Road on the City Outskirts.

  The black car rolled slowly along a gravel path. Darkness and the sound of crickets. Inside, Carlos sat between two armed men. His wife and children were in another vehicle behind them.

  Suddenly the car stopped. An empty road cutting through sugarcane fields.

  The man in the front passenger seat got out. Opened the door.

  "Out."

  Carlos stepped down. His wife and children were forced out of the other vehicle. The night air was cold, carrying the scent of fresh sugarcane.

  The tallest man approached. In his hand, another sheet of paper.

  "Carlos Márquez." His voice was flat. "In the name of the National Security Corps, you are being detained on charges of involvement in organized criminal networks, bribery of public officials, and providing protection for illegal activities."

  Carlos's eyes widened. "What? I—"

  Two subordinates pulled him aside, handcuffing his wrists.

  "My wife! My children! They don't know anything!"

  The man stared at him. Silent. Then turned back toward the vehicles.

  His wife screamed. The nine-year-old daughter clung to her mother's legs, hysterical. The son kept crying.

  The men in black uniforms pushed them toward another vehicle—which had emerged from behind the sugarcane field. The door slammed shut. The engine roared.

  "Father! Father!" His daughter's voice faded into the distance.

  Carlos fell to his knees in the dirt. His arms were pulled, and he was dragged to the other vehicle. The door banged shut.

  ***

  8:38 PM. Simultaneous. Ministry of Finance Building.

  The corridor lights still burned. Several offices remained illuminated—employees working late, finishing monthly reports. On the fourth floor, Room 407. A large desk, stacks of files, a family photograph in the corner.

  Alejandro Quintana, Secretary for Economic Affairs, was signing documents. His jacket hung on his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened. A forty-year-old man with thinning hair, reading glasses perched on his nose. His face showed exhaustion but focus.

  The door opened without a knock. Two men entered. Black uniforms. Faces covered. Rifles in hand.

  Alejandro looked up. Froze. His hand still rested on the paper.

  "Alejandro Quintana?"

  "Yes... yes, that's me."

  "We have an arrest warrant."

  Alejandro stood slowly. His hands—trembling slightly—straightened his shirt. The reflex of someone accustomed to appearing presentable, even in situations like this.

  "There's... there's been a mistake, gentlemen. I'm a government official. I have immunity—"

  "Your immunity was revoked an hour ago." The man showed the paper. The red stamp. The President's signature. "You're coming with us."

  "But... these documents... I need to finish—"

  The man gestured. Two subordinates stepped forward, pulling Alejandro from behind his desk. His hands were cuffed.

  "My family—"

  "They'll follow."

  Alejandro stopped. His eyes went wide. "What? No! They don't know—"

  The man had already turned away, walking toward the door. Alejandro was pulled along behind him.

  In the corridor, several employees watched. A young secretary covered her mouth with her hand. A middle-aged man dropped his folder. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Only the sound of shoes on marble floors, fading into the distance.

  ***

  A Hilltop Villa, The Luxury Sector.

  Thick iron gates. Expansive gardens. A swimming pool with underwater lights glowing blue. Inside, a two-story Mediteranian-style home—cream walls, terracotta roof tiles, large windows overlooking the city.

  The upper floor. Master bedroom.

  Hernán Castillo—Director of the Port of Caraccass—was sleeping. Beside him, his wife Elena also lay in deep sleep. Steady breathing. Light blankets. The clock showed 9:15 PM.

  In the next room, their daughter Camila, fourteen, was reading by flashlight under her covers—she should have been asleep an hour ago. Their son Manuel, eight, slept with a dinosaur toy clutched in his arms.

  Outside, four black vehicles stopped silently. Twenty men in black uniforms stepped out. They spread out, surrounding the house.

  The front door wasn't knocked on. It was blown open.

  Boom!

  Hernán jolted awake. The sound of impact. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. His wife screamed.

  "Hernán! Hernán!"

  He leaped from the bed. Reached for the nightstand drawer—but his hand stopped. The pistol was there. But what for? How many of them were there?

  The bedroom door burst open. The lights came on. Four men in black uniforms stood in the doorway. Rifles raised.

  "Hernán Castillo?"

  "Yes."

  "Get down."

  Elena clutched her husband from behind. Weeping. "No! He hasn't done anything!"

  The man—the squad leader—looked at her. His face was covered, but his eyes were flat. "Elena Castillo?"

  Elena froze. "Yes... but—"

  "Coming. All of you."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "She doesn't know anything!" Hernán shouted. "My children—they're just kids! They've never—"

  From the corridor, another sound. Camila screamed. Manuel cried. Hernán tried to break free—but two men already held his arms.

  "Bring them all," the squad leader said. His voice carried no emotion.

  They were herded downstairs. In the living room, Camila held Manuel close. Her hair was disheveled, still in her pajamas—pajamas with cat prints. Manuel kept crying, still clutching his dinosaur toy.

  Elena ran to her children. Embraced them. Hernán watched—and for the first time that night, something inside his chest cracked.

  "This is outrageous!" His voice was hoarse. "My children don't know anything. My wife has never—"

  The man turned to him. "You know what you did, don't you?"

  Hernán fell silent.

  "Then you also know the consequences."

  They were herded outside. A neighbor in the adjacent villa—a wealthy businessman—stood on his terrace, drawn by the explosion. He watched. He didn't move. Didn't dare.

  Inside one vehicle, Hernán sat between two men. In another, Elena and the children. Camila wept silently. Manuel had fallen asleep—exhausted from crying—still gripping his toy.

  Hernán pressed his forehead against the window glass. Watched his villa recede into the distance. The lights still burned. The front door hung in ruins. The pool still glowed blue.

  "My children," he whispered. "Forgive me."

  ***

  10:12 PM. National Security Corps Building, Interrogation Wing.

  Dim lights. The smell of disinfectant. Polished concrete floors gleamed slickly. At the end of the corridor, the sound of children crying drifted from a nearby room.

  Hernán Castillo was forced into a metal chair. Interrogation Room 6. Like all the others—a table, two chairs, gray walls, painfully bright white lights.

  The door opened. A man entered, Major Cruz. Crisp uniform, carrying a thin folder. He sat across from Hernán.

  "Hernán Castillo."

  Hernán raised his face. His eyes were red. Not from exhaustion—from anger.

  "My son is eight years old! My wife never knew what I did! My daughter is fourteen—" His voice broke. "She has school exams next week. And you people—"

  Cruz raised a hand. "You know what you did at the port?"

  Hernán was silent.

  "Three years. You looked the other way for twelve containers of weapons. You signed false documents for six shipments. You took money—large amounts—from José Machete." Cruz opened the folder. Read. Then looked at Hernán. "You thought that wouldn't reach the one at the top?"

  "I knew the consequences." Hernán's voice was low. Trembling. "But my children—they never—"

  "Do you know how many children died because of weapons that entered through your port?"

  Hernán froze.

  Cruz pulled out a black-and-white photograph. Slid it across to Hernán. A photo of a young boy—maybe ten years old—lying in a drainage ditch. A gunshot wound in his chest.

  "This is from the Southern District, three months ago. Gang war. Using weapons from the container you signed off."

  Another photograph. A young woman—a teenager—at a hospital entrance. Weeping.

  "This is his sister. Now she's the sole provider for three younger siblings. Their parents died in the same attack."

  Hernán looked down. His cuffed hands trembled.

  "I didn't know," he whispered. "I never—"

  "You never wanted to know." Cruz stood. "You just wanted the money. The big house, the swimming pool, the expensive schools for your children."

  Hernán looked up. His eyes were wet. "What's happening to my family now?"

  Cruz walked to the door. Stopped.

  "They're in another cell. Decent conditions." He turned his head. "But you should know—your daughter keeps asking, 'What did Father do? Is Father bad?' And your son, he's not crying anymore. He's just silent."

  Hernán slumped forward. Pressed his face against the table. His shoulders heaved—suppressed sobs that couldn't fully emerge, caught between shame and anger and utter devastation.

  Cruz opened the door. "If you cooperate, give us all the names—your superiors, your government connections, everything—maybe you'll see them again. Maybe."

  The door closed.

  Hernán sat alone. From somewhere—perhaps the next room, perhaps the detention block—the sound of a child crying drifted through the walls.

  He didn't know if it was his child or not. But the pain was the same.

  11:00 PM. Temporary Holding Area, Basement Level.

  Rows of chairs. Dull green walls. Dim lights—one flickered intermittently. In the corner, Elena held Camila and Manuel close. Camila had stopped crying—her eyes were empty, staring at the wall. Manuel slept in her lap, exhausted.

  The metal door opened. Another woman entered—escorted by two men. Disheveled hair, nightgown, swollen face. Alejandro Quintana's wife. Behind her, two children—a teenage boy of sixteen, a girl of twelve. They were also still in their pajamas.

  The woman sat in a chair across from Elena. Their eyes met briefly. Then looked away.

  No one spoke. Only the sound of the flickering light. And the breathing of sleeping children.

  ***

  Morning. Three Newspapers.

  La Voz del Pueblo

  Front Page: PHOTO—Bodies strewn before a port warehouse. Blood still wet, spreading across the concrete floor, forming pools that reflected the dock lights. In the corner, a figure with an indistinct face, hand still gripping a machete.

  Headline: BLOODY NIGHT AT THE PORT: 38 DEAD IN SECRET OPERATION?

  By: Dona Esperanza

  Dear readers, what you see on today's front page is not a photograph from the battlefields of Prussi. This photograph was taken at the Port of Caraccass, in the early hours of this morning, by one of our contacts who happened to be passing by.

  Thirty-eight bodies. Four warehouses burned. Three different locations in the capital. And the government? They remain silent.

  We have contacted the Ministry of Interior, the National Security Corps, even the President's spokesperson. The answer was uniform: "No comment."

  No comment? Thirty-eight people dead, and no comment?

  An anonymous police source whispers that this was a "cleansing operation" against a criminal syndicate that has been running rampant. José "Machete," the syndicate's leader, has been confirmed dead.

  But the questions remain unanswered: By whose order? Under what authority? And most importantly—were all those killed truly criminals? Or were some of them simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  An eyewitness living near the port warehouses told us, "I heard rapid gunfire, lots of screaming. Then silence. In the morning, bodies were everywhere. But who did the shooting? No one saw."

  We will continue investigating. The people deserve to know the truth.

  El Sol Nacional

  Front Page: PHOTO—Security officers standing guard before a government building, faces stern, uniforms crisp. Behind them, the republic's flag waves.

  Headline: GOVERNMENT ACTS DECISIVELY: CRIMINAL NETWORK ERADICATED OVERNIGHT

  Editorial

  Good news for Caraccass residents who have been troubled by rising crime rates. Last night, according to information from inside the government, security forces successfully neutralized the largest syndicate network that has been disturbing public peace.

  In an operation that unfolded simultaneously across three locations, combined forces from the National Security Corps and the Police successfully eliminated 38 members of the syndicate led by José "Machete"—a major criminal who had long evaded justice.

  "Tonight, we send a clear message to all criminals: there is no place for you in the Republic of Venez!" This according to an official statement from the Ministry of Interior, which we quote directly.

  The Minister of Interior added that this operation demonstrates the government's commitment to creating a sense of security for all citizens. "We will not hesitate to act decisively against anyone who disrupts public order."

  In addition to the 38 killed, 16 others have been detained for further investigation. They are strongly suspected of involvement in extortion networks, weapons smuggling, and providing illegal protection.

  Citizens are urged to remain calm and support the authorities in maintaining national security. Let us work together to create a safe and prosperous Venez!

  El Independiente

  Front Page: PHOTO—The National Security Corps building in the morning light, appearing ordinary, with no signs of activity. In the corner, an elderly woman sits on the sidewalk, staring blankly.

  Headline: NIGHT OPERATION: BETWEEN DECISIVE ACTION AND INHUMANITY?

  By: Investigator Leonardo

  Thirty-eight dead. Sixteen detained. Zero casualties among security forces. These numbers, if accurate, indicate a highly planned and highly lethal operation.

  But behind the numbers, troubling questions remain: Were all those killed truly criminals? And more importantly, did the authorities have the legal right to conduct "summary executions" in this manner?

  We interviewed a lawyer who requested anonymity. "Under our laws, every person has the right to a fair trial. Even criminals. Operations like this—storming in, shooting to kill without warning—violate the basic principles of justice."

  A Police spokesperson, when contacted, would only say that the operation was conducted "according to procedure" and that there would be an "internal investigation." Standard phrases that typically mean nothing will be investigated.

  Also noteworthy: among the 38 killed, were some ordinary citizens who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? A merchant at the main market reported that his nephew, who worked as a porter at the port—not a syndicate member—has not returned home since last night. "He was just a laborer. He didn't know anything about syndicates," the woman said, weeping.

  We have not yet been able to verify this claim. But the shadow of doubt remains: among those 38 bodies, there may be innocent people.

  The government needs to release information. The people need to know the extent of this operation, and whether adequate oversight existed. Without transparency, all that remains is fear.

  ***

  A House on the Hill, Outside the City.

  No nameplate. No house number. Only a black iron gate. Inside, a colonial-style villa with expansive gardens and a swimming pool that was never used.

  A man sat on the terrace. A cream silk bathrobe. White hair combed smoothly back. His face—aged, but his eyes sharp as an eagle's. In his hands, three morning newspapers. On the table beside him, a cup of black tea without sugar.

  He read La Voz del Pueblo first. His eyes swept over the photographs of bodies at the port. His expression didn't change. He read the article. No change.

  He read El Sol Nacional. A thin smile touched his lips. "'Will not hesitate to act decisively,'" he murmured. "That boy is clever at managing the media."

  Then he read El Independiente. He read more slowly. His eyes stopped at the paragraph about "possibly innocent civilians." His eyebrow rose slightly.

  He set the third newspaper on the table. Sipped his tea. Was silent.

  A young man—perhaps in his thirties, impeccably dressed, standing by the glass door—waited. Didn't speak. He had worked for this man long enough to know when to speak and when to remain silent.

  "Felipe." The old man's voice was soft. But something in its tone made the young man step forward.

  "Yes, Don."

  "Machete is dead."

  "Yes. Last night. A major operation."

  The old man nodded. His fingers tapped the armrest of his chair. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  "His network?"

  "Destroyed. Thirty-eight killed. Sixteen detained. Perhaps a few escaped, but his organization no longer exists."

  "Our people?"

  Felipe shook his head. "No one was involved. Machete was paid by us, but we maintained distance. No trail."

  The old man exhaled. Long. Heavy. Then, suddenly, he laughed. Not a laugh of amusement. A strange, dry laugh, like someone who'd just seen a clown at a funeral.

  "That boy," he said. "Mateo Guerrero. He's only fifteen years old, and he just wiped out one of the networks I built with painstaking effort, in a single night."

  Felipe remained silent.

  "Machete wasn't important. He could be replaced." The old man picked up La Voz del Pueblo again, staring at the photograph of the bodies. "But the way he did this... no warning, no negotiation, no mercy... that's a message."

  "A message for whom, Don?"

  The old man looked at him. His eyes—cold, empty, like a winter lake—bored into Felipe's. "For everyone who thought they could play outside his rules. Including us."

  He stood. His bathrobe fluttered gently in the morning breeze. He walked to the edge of the terrace, gazing toward the city in the distance—Caracas, with its factory smoke and lights beginning to dim in the morning.

  "I've seen many leaders in this country, Felipe. But this one..." He shook his head. "He's different. He has no fear. And more importantly—he has no doubt."

  "What should we do?"

  The old man was silent for a long moment. The morning breeze carried the scent of flowers from the garden. Birds sang. The world seemed peaceful.

  "We strike back," he finally said. He turned, walking back to his chair. "I want him to taste blood."

  Felipe nodded. "Yes."

  On the terrace, the old man continued reading the newspapers again. His face was calm. But inside, something churned. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

  Rage. Not rage because Machete was dead. Not because the network was destroyed. But because a fifteen-year-old boy had just shown him that in this country, a new power existed—one he couldn't control. And that—that could not be allowed.

  He folded the newspapers. Placed them on the table. His tea had gone cold.

  "An interesting day," he murmured. "A very interesting day."

  In the city, bells tolled eight times. The city of Caraccass began its new day. At the port, the bodies were being removed. At the National Security Corps office, interrogations continued. At the palace, a young man read reports and planned his next move.

  The game wasn't over. It had just begun.

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