“Stop,” Diego said suddenly.
The word came out rough, unfamiliar in his throat.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror.
“Sir… it’s raining heavily.”
“Stop.”
The SUV eased toward the curb.
Before the driver could open his door, Diego was already stepping out into the downpour. Rain hit him like a wall—cold, heavy, immediate. His tailored jacket darkened in seconds, water slipping down his collar, soaking his shirt. He felt none of it.
He moved toward the girl slowly, deliberately, stripping his posture of authority, his voice of command. He didn’t want to scare her.
She noticed him and stopped. Her shoulders stiffened. Those eyes—large, brown, alert—looked up at him with the instinctive caution of someone who had learned early that the world doesn’t always offer kindness for free.
“Are you selling bread?” Diego asked quietly.
The girl hesitated, then nodded. With careful fingers, she lifted the edge of the cloth. Inside were rolls, shells, small loaves—still warm, steam faintly visible despite the rain. She had wrapped them with care, as if they were fragile.
