Rain fell relentlessly over the stone streets of San Miguel de Allende, striking the old cobblestones with a rhythm that felt almost deliberate, as if the sky were knocking, demanding to be heard.
Water rushed through the narrow gutters, carrying dust, petals, and fragments of a day that refused to stay whole.
From the back seat of a black armored SUV, Diego Salazar watched it all through tinted glass. Thin rivers slid down the window, distorting the colonial facades outside, bending reality into something softer, sadder. At thirty-six, Diego owned more than most men would dare to dream of—servers, patents, companies spread across continents. He could buy time, silence, influence.
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