I am the fire and I am the forest and I am the witness watching it - Shaylinne (2024)

Chapter 1: a burnt child dreads the fire

Chapter Text

ENCANTO, Abuela Alma

“My son’s gift is very difficult,” snarled Alma, her hands balling into fists at the door and wondering whether she’d get away with unleashing them on the bald, greasy head in front of her, squawking about visions and being a very rich man.

His riches wouldn’t buy him anything. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him anywhere near Bruno. There were three iron-clad rules about living in Encanto, and she was always close to having them officially written out and hammered into the ground:

One, the Madrigal family was blessed by the miracle of Pedro Madrigal’s sacrifice, not a God. Two, the Madrigal family would help their community—but they took care of themselves, too. That was a new one. Alma was ashamed just how new it was. Three, Bruno Madrigal was not to be harmed in any way. Addendum to Rule Three: if you did, Julieta wasn’t responsible for fixing you when you discovered that your actions had consequences.

Of course, Alma loved all her children and grandchildren equally—it just happened that they’d all unconsciously agreed that Bruno needed more of well… everything. From patience, physical contact, rest, extra food at meals, socialisation, time, to getting him used to being back in the world—he simply needed more, and it was something that his family was more than happy to give him, if it meant that he would stay happy, well and safe amongst them.

They were all aware that years of isolation and ostracization weren’t something they could cure overnight with hot tea and bandages, no—it’d take work. It’d take real, hard work, time, effort, and love to get Bruno back to a place where he felt comfortable walking around outside the Casita without someone to cling onto, to guide him. He’d been able to do that before.

And he’d be able to do it again.

Damage be damned. Anything could be fixed if you had enough patience. You could break something in seconds. It was the healing that took work. They had all the time in the world.

The family didn’t even want to think about the time and work it’d take to make Bruno comfortable with using his gift again—the fact was, the ability to see the future was in hot demand with the villagers, even if they were the very same people who’d made Bruno feel inferior and even monstrous for his uncontrollable ability before. They didn’t leave him alone.

Except, Alma put a stop to any and all requests before they reached the rest of the family, let alone Bruno. She knew that he’d be unable to say no if someone asked him directly. Her son had always been too good for them, both the family and the village. She might have agreed to sand down her fierceness towards her family, but she hadn’t promised anything about unsolicited visitors trying to take her son away from her again.

Namely, the strange priest from a couple of towns over who insisted on trying his luck to receive a prophecy for his son’s love life.

“There’s this woman,” he repeated, “Elena, a local girl, she’s beautiful and she comes from a good family and my son’s been infatuated with her since he could walk but she’s never accepted a proposal. I told him to continue until she did—and of course, persistence will eventually be rewarded, but when?”

She wanted to say: I might not be able to see the future, but even I can answer your question. This Elena isn’t into your son because he’s pursuing her like a jaguar does its prey. Of course, she didn’t say that. Doing so would have been improper.

Alma raised her brow as she raised her hand to curl around the doorknob. “My son’s gift is very difficult,” she parroted, “Have you seen him? He does not eat and sleep well. It’s very taxing on him, to predict the future. He’s not healthy because of it.”

I want my son to be healthy. I want that more than everything. I want my son to be comfortable, warm and at home where he has his own plate and people to take care of him when he needs it. I’ll rip your tongue out through your teeth with my own if that’s what it takes to keep Bruno safe.

She glared at the intruder, hoping he could recognise the sharpness in her eyes as she clutched his gaze in hers, not intending to let go.

“Of course,” he chided, “Senora Madrigal, I hear and understand you. But of course, he could have a weekly session—I would wait until it, for you, I am very wealthy, he would be very well compensated, of course, especially for a private session—”

“No.”

She added: “My son’s well-being cannot be bought. Do not come here again.”

And Alma slammed the door in his face.

It was as simple as that. No. She’d already told Bruno that he didn’t have to use his gift—ever, even if it’d break her heart—if he didn’t want to. And she intended to keep that promise. Alma found herself determined to right her wrongs—to shatter the pedestals that she’d forced her family onto. Of course, they would still help their community—because they loved Encanto deeply, and that hadn’t changed, but it wouldn’t be their only reason to exist anymore.

No one would be shunned, that was for sure.

They would focus more on family. And that meant that they ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. And they all had their own plates, with their names written on them in her spindly handwriting. She’d made sure to make Bruno’s larger, so that no one would ever be able to claim that it wasn’t his.

Alma turned to Mirabel, watching her with a mischievous grin. “Are you coming to tell me that breakfast is ready?” she asked, answering Mirabel’s grin with her own and a wink. She’d known Mirabel was watching her, but she’d noticed her own protective streak when it concerned Bruno: so, Alma wasn’t particularly worried about corrupting Mirabel. That’d already happened.

And she simply wouldn’t comment on whether she thought that was good or bad.

She gestured to the stairs, “Is everyone up?”
Mirabel shook her head. “I haven’t seen Tio Bruno this morning.”
Alma smiled. “Of course,” she replied, “My son always sleeps late. Would you be a dear and go wake him? He really shouldn’t be missing any meals.”

BOGOTA, Martinez

“A what?” he asked, not sure whether he’d heard correctly. He couldn’t have—

“A seer,” corrected his father harshly. “A man who sees the future.”

He speared another piece of overdone steak with his fork. “You can’t possibly be talking about the folk stories, can you? You know that it’s just a man doing the same as us: preying on the idiots of society.”

“I know the difference between belief and being the victim of a particularly good con-job,” the gravelly voice clarified, “And I know that this is belief. Send for a vehicle immediately once you leave my company. Thank you.”

ENCANTO, Mirabel

In the weeks after they’d gotten their house back, Mirabel had written herself a list of goals: one of them being the simple one noted only as rehabbing Tio Bruno. It was glaringly obvious to everyone—not just the Madrigals, but the whole village—that the decade in the walls had done a number on him. It’d even gone so far that after Bruno collapsed at market—and of course, after carrying him back, Agustín desperately encouraging him to just open his eyes as his slack head bounced against Félix’s chest and safely ensconcing him in blankets on the couch—they’d had a family meeting about it.

Mirabel’s gaze couldn’t help but dart to Tio Bruno, still unconscious on the couch—Mama had looked at him, and attested that he’d just collapsed from stress (whether it was hunger, tiredness or dehydration, they couldn’t rule that out), that there was nothing immediately wrong with him. Apparently, he’d done that as a child. It’d been three weeks since he’d returned.

It couldn’t possibly be the first time. It was just pure luck that he collapsed in front of one of the few townspeople who liked Bruno enough to help him, apparently, he’d predicted a bad yield one year and allowed the man to adjust and have a plumbing business alongside his fruit stand.

They’d been called for, and found Bruno curled under a fruit stand, shaded and with a wet cloth laid across his forehead. He could just as well have been beaten up. Mirabel knew that enough people wanted to. It was just pure luck.

That couldn’t happen again. They couldn’t allow it to happen again.

It felt strange to say about an adult: but Tio Bruno was fragile in a way she didn’t know anyone else was. Not just physically, even if it sometimes looked like a too-strong gust of wind could knock him right over, but of mind. She’d seen how his eyes flickered around the dinner table, how he flinched at loud sounds and hid in small spaces. How he refused to go outside alone.

How he’d been alone today—he wasn’t supposed to, he’d been with Luisa, but someone had asked her if she could help hauling a couch and she’d walked away because of course, Tio Bruno would be fine, it would just be for a few minutes. She’d even told him where she was going, but looking back, she’d said that she wasn’t entirely sure that he’d heard her.

“He seemed far away,” Luisa continued, raising her hands to do a grabbing motion, “Like he was somewhere else entirely. I didn’t—I didn’t think anything of it, I know I shouldn’t have left him alone. I know we said we wouldn’t leave him alone until the town has calmed down and Bruno is safer.

“And healthier,” she added, her voice low and looking towards Bruno. Mirabel met her gaze. She had a point. It’d been an open secret that everyone knew Bruno to be unhealthy. He was too thin, got winded easily and they were all terrified of what’d happen if he got sick.

It wasn’t going to happen. Bruno was safe with them. Bruno would remain safe with them, and he’d slowly get better, until they wouldn’t have to hold his hand outside of Casita.

Mama chimed in, voicing Mirabel’s internal concerns, “I know that most of the townsfolk don’t like Bruno. It’s unnervingly fortunate that someone helped him today. It won’t happen again, I’m sure of it. And we simply won’t let it. From now on,” she glanced at Luisa, “You don’t leave your Tio Bruno alone outside. I know it might seem invasive, but until the town has calmed down, he won’t be able to defend himself from an enraged horde that thinks he made their goldfish die.”

And now, they were going to go back into the market. Bruno hadn’t willingly gone to town since he collapsed, but today would be the day: at breakfast, Mirabel would convince him to go in with her and Luisa—just her and Luisa running an errand, no big Madrigal family outing, no, no—and Mirabel was sure he’d agree, because she’d never seen him say no to her.

Perhaps it was a little cruel to exploit this part of Bruno’s nature, but it was for his own good in the long run. She’d get him out of the house and get the townsfolk to see how wonderful her Tio was, which might encourage him to go out more. Maybe he’d even make a friend.

Of course, Bruno had his family—but then he had no one else. Mirabel tried not to think about that, or how the years of loneliness in the walls might have affected him—how she always needed to have people around, and probably would have cracked within the first month—because that made her want to curl up in a ball. And that wasn’t productive.

She had a mission. Rehabbing Tio Bruno. She rapped her knuckles against his door, now glowing powerfully, but still with that creepy effigy. She’d silently asked Casita at night whether it could change it, and the house downright shrugged. She supposed that meant no.

But one thing that Casita seemingly could change was the layouts of the rooms: and now Bruno’s room was no longer an unforgiving mountain with the vision cave atop it, but instead a much snugger fit—instead of the mounds of sand, Bruno’s door opened into a relaxed apartment-style space, with a small living room, study and bedroom (with a massive fluffy bed that must have been an improvement to the f*cking sleeping chair), all painted in light, relaxing colours, with sunlight streaming through windows.

“Tio Bruno,” she called, “Breakfast’s ready!”

Mirabel was glad that Bruno’s room had changed, even if it’d taken a while for them to notice. For the first week after their home had been completely rebuilt and the magic returned, Bruno had downright refused to enter his room. It was only by chance, Antonio nudging the door open one day, that they’d realised it was no longer the terrifying landscape that’d previously greeted them.

Mirabel wasn’t sure how it’d changed, but as previously stated: she was very glad. Bruno still didn’t always sleep in his room, but at least he’d stopped sleeping in the cupboards.

Listen, there was a lot to work with when it came to Bruno. Luckily, they had all the time and patience in the world. He could go at just as slow a pace as he wanted; his family would always be there to pick him up, and encourage him again, to try new things, when he was ready.

But he still hadn’t answered her generous call of breakfast. That wasn’t unusual. Bruno’s circadian rhythm was another victim of his isolation, causing him to (still) naturally sleep late during the day, and be more active at night. Alongside his generally poor health, it caused Bruno to constantly be tired—and yet, he still slept terribly when he did sleep, plagued by nightmares.

“Tio Bruno,” she repeated, “Are you awake in there?”
She knocked again, waited a minute and when she heard no response, slowly nudged the door open with her foot. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, but it still kind of felt like invading Bruno’s privacy, but the chance that he was doing anything other than sleeping soundly was slim.

When he was awake, Bruno was flying to open the door before you’d even knocked, or at least it felt like that. He wasn’t Dolores, after all, who did quite literally open the door for you before you knocked.

She tip-toed through his living room, decorated with plush furniture and shelves full of tchotchkes, past what served as his study (containing a single desk with one single glimmering green tablet lying on it, the only vision Bruno had performed since coming back to them) and into his bedroom, already knowing that she’d found her target when she laid eyes on the mound of blankets and heard the soft snoring coming from its centre.

As quietly as possible, she closed the distance between them, kneeling by the bedside table to see what remained of Bruno’s face, the blankets practically pulled up to his eyes, pale, thin fingers holding onto the edge and shivering slightly. Encanto had been experiencing a non-Pepa Madrigal related cold snap, and it seemed that Bruno handled cold about as well as they’d expected.

Mirabel didn’t want to startle Bruno, but she also knew that he had to get up and eat something. Despite her mother’s best efforts, Bruno was still dangerously underweight—and seemingly unaware of that fact. Unless prompted, Bruno would eat terribly little, and his stomach still hadn’t gotten used to regular food anymore, so it was a delicate balance of having him eat enough to gain weight without feeling sick.

They’d found that it worked best that alongside the three meals with his family, they all made sure, in their own small ways, that Bruno was eating throughout the day. Mirabel had tallied it up recently: and her Mama seemed to ensure that Bruno ate at least six times a day, even if it was just a bites of fruit salad or a couple spoons of pudding. Food was food.

Anything they got into him worked against his bones jutting out of his skin when he moved: something the entire family was in support of exterminating as quickly as possible.

While his weight hadn’t changed much from what they could tell—his energy had. It’d been hard to notice in the first couple of days, with the chaos of having no home and trying to rebuild said home and all that but afterwards: it became obvious. Bruno was frail, and tired much quicker than the others. Even without the visions that caused him to collapse, Bruno was the most liable to collapse from heat, tiredness or just plain forgot to eat again.

Which he did. A lot. Scaring Luisa when he did and she’d even without super strength but still considerable muscle mass, have to haul him up into her arms and notice just how light he was, how his bones stabbed into her arms and chest.

Of course, they felt guilt when anyone struggled—everyone had suffered—but there was something especially painful with watching Bruno struggle, and thinking about him desperately watching from afar, in his cold, damp and lonely self-imposed exile.

Yep! Anything that could prevent that was good! Mirabel slowly tried to pull down the covers to see more of Bruno’s face, laughing softly when he resisted, but didn’t wake.

“Tio,” she gently spoke, “Good morning. There’s breakfast downstairs and Mama says you don’t have any other choice but to join us.”

Bruno groaned. Mirabel placed her hand against his forehead, just to make sure that he didn’t have a temperature. Usually, he’d have jerked awake by now, already stringing up a line of apologies. She was glad that he seemed comfortable, but it was a little out of character for him, still. He didn’t seem warm—quite the opposite, actually, so she lightly shook his shoulder, being much gentler than she’d be to Camilo—the other person liable to sleep late in the household.

Camilo needed to be humbled. If she was physically able, she’d punt him out of bed. She’d managed to convince Luisa to assist her, the next time they caught him. She couldn’t wait. He’d have a hard time finding a way to out-prank that one. She was sure he would, but it’d have him scheming for at least a week. And a scheming Camilo was too busy to stir sh*t in town.

Win-win. She’d deal with the brutal consequences of his retribution, because then she’d get to think up another one, too.

Bruno’s eyes slipped open. “Ah,” he spoke, his voice slurred and making it obvious that he still wasn’t entirely with her, “Mirabel.”

Mirabel grinned, pushing herself back to her feet, brushing errant sand off her dress, “There’s breakfast downstairs,” she repeated, “Mama will kill you herself if you’re not down to eat with us. We miss your lovely company and,” she poked at him, “You’re too damn thin, still.”

Bruno nodded listlessly, trying to shove his head back under the blankets as Mirabel turned her back on him. “You have five minutes to make yourself presentable—that means brush your hair— before I break back in again.”

If it was Camilo, she’d add: and kick your ass. And she’d add it with a grin. But this wasn’t Camilo.

BOGOTA, Miquel

Miquel entered the bar with unearned confidence, walking across decks of grizzled criminals with grease stains across their hands, holding sloppy, cheap beers, as if he were amongst them—as if he spoke their language of senseless brutality.

Settling himself at the bar, he flagged down the bartender, who gave him a one-over, and seemingly having decided that he fit the clientele, slowly raised a brow.

“Liquor,” he answered, “The cleanest one you have. I can pay you for the new one, please.” He wasn’t a man to say please, but if anywhere could make you a religious man—it’d be at the Fishing Market. Despite the name, there’s no fish sold here, nor fishermen hired. At the Fishing Market, what’s on the table is murder and the assassins to carry them out. Cloaks and masks are provided to those who want them.

The bartender nodded curtly, and without taking his eyes off his client, “Anyone you’re here to see?” he asked as he pulled out a bottle with a viscous brown liquid that Miquel couldn’t identify. That was t always bad. But with his company, Miquel would be taking small sips, just in case someone had decided to demonstrate their new poison live.

He was just here on a favour. Paying off debts. He didn’t intend for his story to end here, surrounded by pockmarked faces and women who’d escaped the pleasure houses but still ended up serving the same men, just now, in a different capacity—but still throwing their bodies on the street in the desperate bid to stay on the census for another day.

“Morinaga,” he answered quietly, not sure of the man’s reputation around here anymore. The bartender nodded again, handed him his drink which smelled more of antiseptic than something fit for human consumption and in an equally small voice, replied: “Mr. Morinaga is currently with another client, but I’ll see to it that you don’t wait long.”

With the smirk he tacked on at the end, Miquel couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d just condemned a man to die. The Fishing Market did that to you, made you think that every little thing you said got someone killed, something stolen or even a regime toppled if you had the money.

It was no secret that pretty much every watering hole in Bogota had hitmen and prostitutes on offer if you knew who to ask, but the Fishing Market was the capital of that—and he had very specific taste. Or, his orders were. He didn’t know who the Night Woman was, but he knew that his key to finding her—and paying off a small mistake called gambling debt to a man who wasn’t as dead as he’d like him—started here, with Morinaga—a man who’d escaped the Japanese and would stab you with a fork if you looked at him wrong.

Certainly, it’d be an interesting evening, and he was just glad that he was coming with money, not bad news.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Surprisingly, Bruno was out in less than five minutes, already shoving Camilo’s yellow ruana over his head. It was a temporary loan—even if Mirabel was sure that Camilo would end up giving it to Bruno anyways, seeing how much he’d grown to like it, Camilo might be a little sh*t, but he was also one of the kindest people Mirabel knew—until she managed to make him a new one in his preferred colour. Even if Mirabel thought that yellow looked rather good on Bruno. It managed to bring out what little of a complexion he did have.

He’d even pulled his hair back into a semi-respectable ponytail. Mirabel snickered. He must have heard her comment about his hair, even if she thought him too groggy to comprehend anything. Mirabel settled on smiling widely as he stepped out, instead of commenting on it. It was a good morning. She wasn’t going to try anything—of course, other than what she’d planned.

That she was absolutely going to try now—because Bruno looked too nice to be seen only by them. He had to go out and network with the townsfolk, both for himself to realise that they weren’t bad, and for them to realise that he wasn’t the devil disguised as the world’s least intimidating man (sorry Tio Bruno! But the truth’s the truth, a spear’s a spear and you’re decidedly not one).

Without saying anything, she began walking towards where she could hear joyful voices coming from, Bruno’s hand finding hers and squeezing tightly. “Tio,” she said happily, already starting up the mindless chatter she’d found grounded him, “I snuck a peek of what Mama made this morning, and I can spoil that I think she only cooked for you. She’s made all of your favourites, so now you just have to hope that Camilo hasn’t stolen them all, because you’ve made the questionable choice of having the same taste as the bastard.”

Bruno simply chuckled and allowed Mirabel to pull him towards the table.

When they’d first returned to their home—they’d quickly noticed that the wide-open space of their outdoors dining table stressed Bruno out—and at the time, it’d still been full-steam ahead with Mission Do Everything In Our Power To Make Bruno Not Run Away Again, before it was overtaken by Okay, We Don’t Think He’s Going To Bolt But There’s Still A Lot Wrong, so they’d eaten inside.

Today, they were dining inside, not because of Bruno—he’d grown more comfortable with it over the past couple of weeks—but because it was “f*cking cold outside” as Camilo had so eloquently put it.

BOGOTA, Miquel

“Ay, ay,” chuckled Morinaga, “You want the Night Woman, hm?”

“I don’t,” Miquel clarified, “Senor Noche does.”

He had no business ordering expensive assassins from strange men.

Morinaga nodded. “But you came here, searching for her. Walking into the belly of the beast for Senor Noche. Tell him that it’s been too long since I’ve seen him,” he huffed out a chipped laugh, “I don’t know whether he’s been taken over by a puppet leader!”

Miquel didn’t know whether he should laugh or not, but liking his head on his shoulders, he did. Senor Noche had insisted that all his debts would be forgiven if he’d just locate the Night Woman and give her an offer that she couldn’t refuse to do something she’d never done before—to capture something so rare that there was a good chance she wouldn’t believe it existed.

Miquel didn’t know what it was—he’d been given an envelope, and the explicit instructions not to open it, but if he found the Night Woman, he was to let her—and if she didn’t like the amount stated, he could double the price. She wouldn’t shoot the messenger, he’d been promised.

He didn’t know if he trusted that, but he knew that he was about to fold over from the stress of the debt and even the slimmest chance to get rid of it sounded better than a vein of gold.

He’d probably just gamble that away, anyways.

Senor Noche noted how he looked too clean-cut to be a regular, and it’d get him noticed quicker, because clean-cut people only come in with extraordinary offers because they’re in desperate situations.

Morinaga chuckled, nodding, and Miquel tried not to focus on his three chins, or how the light made him glisten more than he assumed was usual. “My friend,” Morinaga said, slapping his hand over Miquel’s shoulder and almost sending him reeling, “You’re out of luck, you and your friend Senor Noche. The Night Woman left two days ago, on a longer campaign. I can leave your details and offer here, safe with me, until she comes back, or you can try your luck with finding her?”

“You found me just fine,” he added, licking his lips. “And of course, I’ll take a simple cut for both options—either keeping Elena’s things safe, or telling you where I know she’s gone to, hm?” he pushed their shoulders together, handing Miquel a lukewarm beer and wrapping his large hands around Miquel’s as he took it.

Miquel was prepared for this. He had hush money in his briefcase for everyone. Even the bartender, if he’d asked. By the amount, he really did believe that Noche would give anything for whatever he’d stated in that envelope. But he didn’t trust the walking lard to keep his hands off it, so he made his choice quickly, mostly because he wanted to be sure he had his money.

He didn’t come into this cesspool to be made a fool of.

“Yes,” he answered, “I have all the money you could like for letting me follow her footsteps. It’s of utmost importance that this offer gets to her as quickly as possible, so I would hate to think of her taking a vacation and only getting back here afterwards.”

Morinaga laughed again, his body shaking against Miquel’s. “Oh, you fool,” he grinned, “The Night Woman doesn’t take any days off. I suppose that’s why you’re here with orders of not giving the contract to anyone else—otherwise, you wouldn’t have waited for me. This place is swarming with people who’d do anything for that little slip of paper, for the code to that briefcase.”

He licked his lips.

“Everyone here’s a bastard who’ll do anything despicable for the right price. But the Night Woman. The Night Woman is different. Everyone wants the Night Woman. Only twenty-one, a bitch, a thief, a liar, a killer for the sport of it and known to be utterly without conscience—and boy, I’ve watched her, I know the legend to be true: she doesn’t flinch, even as a man cries out for his life in front of his children, staring down the barrel of her gun, nor does she avert her eyes when she pulls the trigger.”

His eyes gleamed with pride, and Miquel wondered whether he’d been one of the men to make the Night Woman—because well, Miquel didn’t believe that twenty-one-year-old women became like that, if it was true—and it probably was, the scars on Morinaga’s face and the tattoos he could see winking at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves signalled Morinaga as the real deal.

And the real deal knew what wasn’t.

Not to mention being referred to as a friend by Noche. That wasn’t everyone, not at all. He nodded, wondering whether Morinaga would continue. He did.

“But here’s the thing everyone loves about Elena, she’ll keep any deal you fairly strike with her, no matter the risks, no matter the circ*mstances. If you sign the Night Woman, you should already consider your target dead, tortured or taken. There’s nothing she won’t do for the money and thrill, and you’ll always get the value for your payment.”

He winked, his fingers wiggling towards the briefcase.

“Just make sure to get it in writing.”

That was one hell of a f*cking deal, thought Miquel. And he’d have to walk even further to get it.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Like always, Bruno sat awkwardly at the table, sitting between Abuela and Mirabel, sometimes interspliced with Agustín, Pepa, Julieta or Camilo. It was unspoken; they’d noticed who Bruno ate the most sitting next to, and they assumed that meant that he was more comfortable with it (another part of Mission Do Everything In Our Power To Make Bruno Not Run Away Again that leaked into Okay, We Don’t Think He’s Going To Bolt But There’s Still A Lot Wrong), so they’d eaten inside.

(Mirabel really had to get better at making and using acronyms, huh?)

The rest of the family tried to not to let the hurt slip in, and just tried to build a relationship with Tio Bruno themselves. There was no competition about it: it was completely understandable that he’d gravitate towards the people he remembered as safe.

And then Mirabel.

Mirabel who was the reason he was out in the first place. She shuddered, thinking about what would have happened to Tio Bruno if she hadn’t started “messing around with things she shouldn’t but we’re glad she did”, as Félix said. Across from Bruno, sat Agustín, who was splitting his time between shoving his face and telling Antonio about the time he broke his arm trying to coax a cat down from the roof. It was his second favourite story to tell.

The favourite being about the time he fell into poison ivy when he was young and got to go see Julieta in her kitchen. He was very good at making sure everyone knows how beautiful he found her that day. Mirabel aspired to have a love story as potent as her parents and wished the same for both her sisters and cousins.

Her attention was directed to Pepa, as she clinked her nails against a plate of fruit, shoving it towards her, and gesturing towards Bruno, who was leaning ever so slightly against Abuela’s shoulder and looking thoroughly uninterested in eating. Mirabel shrugged and took the plate.

He’d been placid, willing to be guided around: but not in the way that signalled a bad day. No. It seemed that he was simply tired, perhaps feeling a little sick—which sadly wasn’t unusual for Bruno.

“Tio Bruno,” she said, noticing that Bruno’s eyes were standing solidly at half-mast. “Tia Pepa is asking if you’d like some fruit.”

Bruno’s eyes shot open, and he jerked up, Abuela already shushing him, running her hand through his curls. “I’d like some,” she said calmly, reaching her hand towards Mirabel to take the plate. She set the plate against the table, Camilo already lunging from across the table to get at a papaya, Abuela swatting his hand away as she took two. She handed one to Bruno’s limp hands, wrapping his fingers around it, and took one herself as she guided Bruno’s head back to rest against her.

Mirabel always liked mornings with her family. She loved seeing everyone so unguarded, even before Casita fell—it was always during the morning that you saw people’s rawest, truest selves, sharp edges sanded down by grogginess before being awakened by steaming hot coffee.

Well, she thought, now is as good a time as any. Glancing at Bruno’s eyes, still on her, but looking a little more awake, the papaya untouched in his hand. “Tio,” she spoke, “I have a few errands to run at the market, and I was thinking, since it’s a Sunday and it won’t be as busy—not busy at all—whether you’d like to come with me?”

For added effect, she added: “I’d really like to spend some time with you. We could even go walking around the side streets, I can’t wait to show you them—there’s been so much work done on them the past couple of years, and they’re almost nicer than the main streets.”

By the look in Bruno’s eyes, she knew that she’d won. There was nothing he could do. He’d agree. He always agreed to do things with her, even if it was a little out of his comfort zone. Luckily, Mirabel wasn’t the kind of person who’d abuse that kind of trust. She honestly did think that Bruno would like the market on its calmer day, and love the little side streets and alleyways that’d sprung up as the town had expanded.

But, instead, it wasn’t Bruno that opened his mouth next. It was her Papa, who’d dropped his fork, and was quickly speaking, “Actually, Mirabel, I’m sorry but,” he took a moment to finish chewing, “I really need Bruno to help me with some fishing by the river today—we used to do it all the time years ago, and trust me, Bruno’s the best fisher you’ll find in town—”

“But—”

Before Mirabel could finish her sentence, Julieta kicked her under the table. Mirabel turned to glare at her, only to find her mother giving her a face that very obviously said: No, don’t argue with your father. I’ll explain later.

Mirabel sighed. She’d better. If not for her lack of interest in ruining what’d otherwise been their calmest morning—she’d have said something. But her mother had done well recently, giving over a lot of responsibility and trust to Mirabel which made her think that her Mama had to have a good reason to stop her. She hadn’t stopped her from taking Bruno on a walk through the quieter parts of the neighbourhood. Perhaps, Julieta had noticed something that she hadn’t. Perhaps, Bruno’s chills this morning weren’t just because of the cold.

Perhaps, it was just a tad too cold to go outside, but that wouldn’t have made sense with Papa wanting to go fishing—

Mirabel shot her mother back a gaze that read: you better and smiled at Bruno.

“Oh,” she answered, “Then, I think you two should just go fishing. I might join you, if you want. But yeah, town can wait until next Sunday. Nothing changes that fast, after all!” She ended it with a little laugh, mostly to show Bruno that she wasn’t upset with him.

“And,” she added, “I love a good fish fry, so you two better have a good catch!”

BOGOTA, Miquel

After three days of following the Night Woman’s trail, Miquel found himself at the Green Light Inn, known for its sh*ttiness, revered for its drinks that they never watered down and the fact that you could find any vice you wished between its doors. Its flaking sage green painted exterior and purple doors welcomed him inside, beckoning him into a veritable palace of excess.

Miquel had seen the beautiful women glancing at him, and the grizzled men kissing the barrels of glimmering guns held against their throats, begging for a salvation that wouldn’t come, pinned against the wall. This was the place.

If there was anywhere the Night Woman regularly operated, it was at the Green Light Inn, in the territory of Senor Morales—almost as formidable as Senor Noche himself. Almost. He’d get in with no issue, and if he had to, a quick mention of who’d sent him here would have him ushered in first, for sure.

He walked up to the door and pushed it open, immediately heading for the bar. Flickering neon lights decorated the wall, alongside drinks menus written with spindly handwriting. The tables were greasy, the bartender inattentive to him—too busy adding his input to a lively conversation in a language Miquel didn’t speak.

“Ay!” he yelled, halfway between the door and the bar. The bartender turned around, shot him a dangerous look, and in the language that Miquel did speak, answered: “Ay yourself! Do you want to be shot?!”

ENCANTO, Mirabel

After breakfast, and after they’d waved Bruno and Agustín off, Julieta pulled Mirabel to the side, sitting her down on a stool as the others dispersed. Mirabel tried not to scowl at her mother, but her gaze lingered on Camilo and Isabela, joking by a pot of cactuses outside.

“Yeah, yeah,” her mother playfully noted, rubbing her hands on her apron, “I just wanted to ask something. And yes, before you say anything, you did tell me about your plan to bring Bruno into town today, but listen—we thought, since it’s my, Tia Pepa and Tio Bruno’s birthdays next Friday, that we should try to plan something today because it’s the last day everyone’s here together?”

Her mother grinned devilishly and Mirabel almost fell off the stool. f*ck! With all the excitement and worry about Bruno, she hated to admit it, but she’d completely forgotten that they were that close to her Mama and Tia Pepa’s… and Tio Bruno’s birthdays. The first one he’d spent with his family in ten years, and probably the first one he was going to enjoy in so much longer.

“You know,” continued Julieta, pulling her hair into a bun, “It’s his first one out of—”

“The walls!” finished Mirabel, already jumping off the stool, only stopped by her mother grabbing her arm. “Listen, listen,” she said.

“So,” she breathed out, “Since everyone’s here today, your father agreed to get Bruno out of the house so we could plan, and then we’ll fill him in later, hm? He’s one of the few people that Bruno feels comfortable enough to have a good time with outside of Casita, and he’s more easy-going than either Félix or Pepa.”

Mirabel giggled. “He wouldn’t spoil the surprise.”

Julieta winked. “Exactly.”

“So,” she pulled a hair tie off her wrist with one hand, the other keeping her hair up, “We’ll wait until we can’t see them in the horizon anymore, then run inside and start. First order of business, my speciality: cake!”

Mirabel quirked a brow. “Should you be planning your own birthday, Mama?”

Julieta mock-gasped. “What blasphemy! Why, when else would I get the chance to fatten my brother up with as much cake as the idiot can shove down his face?”

Mirabel crossed her arms. “Fair enough,” she reasoned, and then in an imitation of the priest, who always seemed to take a commanding role whenever something went wrong in the town and Abuela wasn’t around to solve it, said: “You get to remain on the official the greatest birthday ever planning committee, but you’re liable to be asked to leave under certain proceedings.”

To make her impression better, she took a strand of her hair and held it atop her lip, mimicking his recent addition of a moustache that everyone was too polite to say just how awful it was, “And I would like to state that while I was originally angry at you for kicking me under the table and stealing Tio Bruno away from me, all such is also forgiven.”

BOGOTA, Miquel

Miquel learned two things after his first couple of seconds in the Green Light Inn: one, the places he’d previously been, somehow, despite being filled with the filth of society, had kinder patrons. Two, names held a lot of power. Seconds after he’d announced his glorious arrival, he found himself knocked out by the butt of a rifle, coming to an unspecified amount of time later on the floor, the back of his head slick and not a single person gazing down at him with concern.

f*cking Green Light f*cking Inn, f*cking Night Women, f*cking Senor Noche, f*cking gambling debts.

He pushed himself to his feet, and on slightly unsteady legs, made his way to the bar, where the bartender looked him over, raised one brow, and gestured for him to sit down. He obliged, laying his head against the greasy, but cool surface.

“What can I get you?” the bartender questioned, seemingly approving of him since the last time they spoke. Perhaps, getting hit in the head and then not dying of a brain haemorrhage was how you got in with this crowd. Miquel preferred casinos. At least they pretended to have some kind of status, at least they were nice places to stay. He didn’t understand why someone would stay in a place where the smoke was so thick it might as well be counted as a paying customer.

“Alcohol or crime?”

The bartender shrugged. “Both. I do the referrals, too.”

He answered quickly. “The strongest that you have, I can pay for alcohol that isn’t sh*t, and the Night Woman, please. I was told that she frequented this watering hole more than the others. I’m here on an errand for Senor Noche. He has an offer for her. Are you writing this down?”

He gazed up at the bartender, noticing his eyes widening. He seemed to catch that Miquel was looking, and quickly trained his face back into a neutral expression, but it was a second too late. Miquel bit onto it.

“That face,” he said, slackly gesturing in the general vicinity of his face, Miquel’s vision still slightly blurry around the edges, “Why are you doing that face? Do you not believe me? Can you not help me? I did not walk into your establishment, get knocked out and now buying a drink for you to not be able to help me.”

The bartender chuckled and turned his attention back to the counter, grabbing a glass and a bottle of something green with the label smudged. The only thing Miquel could make out was a capital A. “No, no,” the bartender spoke, “It’s just rare to hear Senor Noche and the Night Woman spoken in the same sentence. He must have a very good deal, then. If he’s willing to chance her wrath.”

Miquel could feel the air rushing around him. “I thought that she always kept her end of the deal,” he replied. The bartender nodded, studying the bottle, shaking it, and watching the green liquid swirl, before deciding against it, shoving it underneath him and pulling out something blood red out instead. Miquel didn’t say that he was glad, but secretly, he was. When the previous solution had caught the light, it’d glowed almost fluorescently.

The bartender uncapped the bottle, and spoke, “She does,” he poured it into a dirty glass, “But she doesn’t have the best history with Noche and he’s usually smart enough not to hire people with a reason to f*ck him over. Unless the job and the money are good enough—well, let’s be honest: there’s some jobs that only some people can do. She’s currently out, but tell me, where is this job? I might be able to catch her on the way and tell her of the offer.”

A glass was slid in front of him, and Miquel necked it, because if he didn’t—he’d think about the obvious fingerprints on the side, and the risk of catching TB from a stranger. For a moment, his thoughts lingered on whether to tell. It was top secret. But he supposed that he could tell the location, if it would get him to Noche’s woman quicker.

“Encanto, a small village in the mountains—”

“Ha!” the bartender interrupted, already doubled over, “You can tell Senor Noche that either Encanto’s a mountain village with many priceless deals, or someone’s already beaten him to this one. The Night Woman left for Encanto last night and she’s not making any stops on the way.”

Chapter 2: chocolate fireguard

Chapter Text

ENCANTO, Agustín

Watching his wife shove another mound of food into an already stuffed picnic basket, Agustín wanted to sigh. Or throw the basket out of the kitchen window. Or both, in quick succession. Yes, he’d like that. No, he wouldn’t do it. But there weren’t any mind-readers in the family (yet) who could cuss him out for thinking about doing it in vivid detail.

He glanced over his shoulder, into the living room where he could see Bruno slumped against the couch, Alma presiding over him. Due to the starvation, Bruno didn’t have the easiest time eating and often got sick afterwards. Sometimes violently so. It wrenched Agustín to watch, but he always stayed in the vicinity, because he’d brought this on himself.

It wasn’t that Agustín thought his family was overreacting, per say, he noted as he watched his wife stuff a picnic basket full of healing food and drink: mostly that it was obvious that they were scared of losing their newly (and some might say miraculously, but that made Agustín want to throw something, so he didn’t) returned member. It just happened that fear made you do stupid sh*t, sometimes.

Sure, Bruno had been through the wringer. Sure, it’d be nice to say that he was f*cked up from his isolation. But, placing his hand on his wife’s, stopping her from spiralling into another worried spiel, Agustín reminded himself that somehow—Bruno had survived alone, in the walls of their home. That had to count for something. It had to show that at least—he’d lasted ten years. Ten dark, lonely years that Agustín didn’t like thinking about.

He'd loved Bruno like the little brother he’d never had—genuinely enjoying spending time with him—and he’d been devastated when Bruno vanished. Especially because he was sure he had part of the blame stuck to him. After all, he’d been one of the ones to shoo Bruno away after Mirabel’s ceremony. He’d showed up at the door, and Agustín had been up all night, quieting his own daughter’s cries—he’d been too tired to notice the desperate, harried look in Bruno’s eyes.

And the next morning, he’d wasn’t there anymore.

When his door went dark, there was only one explanation that Agustín could think of. They’d searched everywhere in town, even hacked through jungle and hiked mountains for any little trace that Bruno could have made and survived the trip.

“It’s alright,” he noted, “It’ll be alright. We’re just going to go catch some fish for dinner, let you plan something, and then be back before dark.”

And it would be. It wasn’t like Encanto was a dangerous place. It wasn’t Bogota, or anything even close to it. Julieta shoved another set of arepas, wrapped in a knotted rag, into the basket with a huff. “Just in case,” she added. “You’re an idiot sometimes. Both of you. Reckless.”

Agustín couldn’t argue with that, but he did find it important to defend his choices. “Matthias is probably going to meet us by the water.”

By probably, Agustín meant absolutely. Ever since Bruno… disappeared, let’s say, Matthias had filled the role of Agustín’s fishing buddy and even though Bruno had miraculously returned, Agustín hoped that they’d get along well enough to carry on that tradition.

Julieta’s gaze flared, as if she was considering whether to fight him on it. Agustín had already prepared his arguments, noticing the slightly overprotective streak his family had developed when it came to Bruno—not that he didn’t feel like that, but he understood that biting down his own urges was sometimes the best thing to do for Bruno. If Bruno wasn’t actively hurting and in need of his help, Agustín wasn’t going to do or say anything.

And Matthias was kind. He wasn’t one of the villagers who’d blame Bruno for their fish dying. Hell, when Bruno predicted that his house would be hit by lightning of all things, Matthias had simply tipped his hat and thanked him for the warning. None of Matthias’ family were in the house that day, and just as predicted, lightning did strike.

Agustín hoped that both Julieta and later, Bruno, would remember that incident. If there was anyone who’d be a good introduction to people outside of Casita, it’d be Matthias.

And he was just downright funny. They’d get along, he thought to himself.

“They’ll get along,” he spoke aloud. Julieta still studied him with a wary expression.
Finally, she settled on: “If they don’t, you’re going to deal with Pepa.”

Pepa terrified him on a good day, but she did that to everyone and it seemed like the best deal he’d get, so he simply nodded, wondering if his wife truly knew him well enough to know that when he said probably, he meant absolutely, please don’t fight me on this, sometimes this family is a smothering prison—a very warm, supportive and kind prison, but still strangling me, I survived the streets of f*cking Bogota I will survive fishing.

“Matthias is also strong,” Julieta reasoned to herself, “And a good swimmer.”

Agustín knew better than to do anything other than nodding. He’d let her worry and prove every single one of them completely unfounded. But he appreciated the food: he knew that there was a sneaky beehive somewhere around his favourite fishing spot, like a cruel gift from God to remind him of his place, even with his amazing, healing wife.

“And it’ll be alright because I’ll tell him to bugger off if he’s a tool, because—”
Julieta smirked. “Scared of Pepa?”
Agustín nodded. “Scared of Pepa.”

Julieta squared her hands down his shoulders, frowning at the poncho. “Are you sure that it’s warm enough?” she asked, glancing at the door. Agustín was confident she wasn’t asking about him, but instead the figure slumped on the couch, his head on Alma’s shoulder. Alma as a figure, alongside Pepa, had always terrified Agustín. Seeing her suddenly sanded down, dare he say—softness—unnerved him as much as the first day he’d met her, when he’d almost fallen through the painting of her late husband.

Luckily, he’d managed to catch his footing just in time. Otherwise, Agustín would be the first to tell you that he’d be a carpet right now.

“He’s so small,” Julieta continued, her voice low, a line forming on her brow that only appeared when she fretted. “I don’t know how he kept warm in those walls. You know how cold it can get, even down here, during the winter.” Then, she leaned over to him, whispering, “I don’t think he did. He’s never been good at asking for help, and he’s never even been good at taking it for himself. He’d be afraid that we’d notice something missing.”

Agustín grabbed her hand under the table.

ENCANTO, Matthias

Agustín had asked him to scout out the spot where they usually fished: to make sure that it hadn’t gained any unwanted neighbours. During recent years, their fellow villagers had noticed them fishing, and occasionally would join along for the fun and perhaps maybe even a catch or two. Usually, that was lovely. But today, as Agustín had repeatedly stressed—they should be alone.

Or they’d probably face the wrath of Pepa Madrigal.

Matthias doesn’t understand how Agustín can sleep in the same house as Pepa.

Shoving his head under the brush that isolated the spot from the rest of the village, Matthias peered towards the river, glimmering in the sunlight. He grinned when he realised that not a single person was sitting there, just a strangely cantankerous and stubborn capybara that on more than one occasion had chosen to become a table for fishing tackle instead of moving out of the goddamn way.

Okay, at least he’d have something to talk to Bruno about: a weird f*cking capybara. What a great conversation starter for a man who even Agustín had warned him to be careful around, again threatening both the wrath of Pepa and Alma Madrigal at least.

Agustín didn’t have to convince him to fear that fate.

If he was being completely honest—and it might be a little taboo to say around town—Matthias was excited to get a chance to talk to Bruno again. It’d been ten years, and he’d never managed to properly thank him for his vision. It was obvious that had Matthias not known, his family would have been home—and the unthinkable would have been forced to become very, very thinkable.

He didn’t know if it was the time to mention Bruno’s gift—according to rumours, Bruno either completely refused to use it out of laziness or recoiled in horror every time he even tried. Knowing the awkward, clipped man he’d seen all those years ago, who’d needed Matthias’ hand to steady him after his vision, Matthias knew which version he believed.

He closed the distance between him and the clearing, pushing his way out through the underbrush—it’d always been thick, but somehow, today, it seemed more so. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to see Agustín and Bruno if they’d been following him, only a shoulder-width apart.

The clearing was isolated—which at first, was what encouraged fewer people to make the trek through the half-jungle, and there was always the risk of running into some of the terrifying jungle fauna. Such as stubborn capybaras that didn’t flinch when you rested live bait on their heads.

“Ah,” with the sun beaming down on him, he spoke aloud, “Bruno Madrigal, the sun can’t wait for you.”

Matthias let himself flop against the soft grass, never even noticing the sharp eyes watching him from the bushes, sitting down in a silent, unknown audience.

ENCANTO, Abuela Alma

Stroking Bruno’s hair, she encouraged him to rest his head against her shoulder. “Brunito,” she cooed, “Lay down your head, sweetie, let your stomach settle before you go out.”

It’d been one of the things that the doctor they’d managed to convince Bruno to visit had said. Made almost redundant by Julieta’s gift, he stuck around for the occasional chronic ailment and sickness that Julieta couldn’t heal—and the fact that his home was in Encanto. Juan had managed to build up a successful side venture as a house painter, anyways.

Today seemed to be a good day, so Bruno obliged, even shifting to snuggle in against Alma’s side. His eyes slipped closed, and Alma kept idly scratching at his scalp.

Bruno hadn’t eaten properly for ten years, and he hadn’t been the healthiest man before that, either. The pounds had melted off him and getting them back on wouldn’t be as easy as tossing him an extra portion at dinner and staring him down until he ate it.

Even if she’d really, really like it to be that simple. She couldn’t simply change reality to her will. It’d taken her seventy-five years to realise that, and the urge still lingered against her skin. The power and control of being the matriarch—how she could simply make things happen, make things be forgotten. It hadn’t been healthy, but not a lot of coping mechanisms were.

Juan had his hands on his hips, and Alma was desperately trying to look at him, instead of her son, huddled asleep under three blankets and still shivering, in a stranger’s bed because she’d caused the collapse of their family home, the death of their magic, the destruction of Pedro’s sacrifice—

No, she couldn’t think like that.

She had to be there for her family. For her son, who she’d forsaken, alone in the walls of his own home, for ten years. They’d brought Bruno to him after Mirabel had noticed Bruno acting strangely, and right as Alma had turned around, her son’s head bounced against the tiles.

“The odds are,” said Juan, bringing her back to earth. She focussed her gaze on him and noticed how he groaned when he sat down on the stool facing the adults of her family. “That it’s not as dire as you’d think, given that he passed out on the street.”

Juan bit his lip, as if he was trying to figure out how to phrase things properly to avoid someone—likely Alma or Pepa—blowing up at him. Alma wanted to yell at him to just do it. But she knew that’d just reinforce it. And she might risk waking Bruno, who’d been lucid enough to agree to the examination by the time Juan arrived, but not much else.

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Juan spoke, “Bruno’s lost a lot of weight since we last saw him, and that’s knowing that Bruno’s always been on the skinny side, anyways. He’s probably very undernourished, but the positive is that he’s survived relatively successfully—”

Alma wanted to scream. How could her only son living in the walls be considered relatively successful? If she was just a few days younger, she’d have launched herself at Juan, snarling. She’s sure of it.

“—Which means that he got enough to eat to not starve to death, which saves him from some of the nastier side effects, because his body seems to have adapted to his lack of proper nutrition. Maybe it even helped that he’s never had an easy time keeping weight on, anyways.”

Alma could hear the tone in his voice. It wasn’t accusatory, but it was knowing, all the same. He continued. “And that’s probably why Bruno passed out, too. Malnutrition can cause fatigue and fainting spells, especially when combined with physical activity and stress. I’m sure this is the most that’s happened in his life for a while, and his body just isn’t handling it well.”

Alma glanced over at Bruno, his head bandaged and resting on a mound of pillows. At least he was getting some sleep. He needed sleep as much as he needed food, as much as he needed love, as much as he needed everything and anything, really.

Currently, both Alma and Bruno were staying with the Guzmáns, and she’d noticed how early he’d been up, and throughout the night, she’d pretended not to hear how he’d paced atop her, the lamp shaking from his weak, stumbling steps.

“So,” interjected Pepa, pushing herself up, her nose almost touching Juan’s as Félix lurched up to grab at her wrist (to absolutely no avail), “What can WE do, because yes, we failed him tremendously, we ALL understand that—we want to act!”

Félix quickly shushed her, gesturing to both Bruno, asleep, and the door, where the children were no doubt listening. Dolores smiled knowingly, even if she’d have no way to know for sure anymore. Alma supposed that she simply knew.

Juan sighed, reminding Alma more of a man walking to his execution than a village doctor. “Well,” he reasoned, shaking his wrists, “Usually, we would work with the family in the case of a such patient because Bruno might forget, by sheer instinct, that he can and should properly take care of himself, now. You should regularly check up on him during and after meals, to make sure that he’s not feeling sick.”

Alma winced, but she didn’t refute him. She’d noticed it herself, how Bruno was surprised when he pushed food towards him or offered him affection. He believed he had to earn both. Alma knew exactly who he’d learned it from.

Alma nodded. She could do that. The rest of the family followed suit, before Agustín awkwardly cleared his throat. “I’ve noticed that he’s distressed if too much is happening. Bruno never like crowds, before, but now it’s just if it’s too bright out.”

“Ah.”

Juan’s expression faltered. “That’s probably due to the plain sensory deprivation of his time spent in… isolation.”

Alma didn’t know if she appreciated or despised that Juan didn’t seem able to say it. She couldn’t either. She was disgusted at the thought that her son had been wasting away in the walls of their own family home. If she thought about it too much, she felt the urge to drive glass through her skin and watch how it caught the light.

She hadn’t noticed that Juan hadn’t stopped speaking.

f*ck.

“Above all, the best treatment is prevention. Know what triggers his anxiety and try to lessen those stressors as much as possible. In the event it does happen, try to stay calm. If he sees you calm, it will help quite a bit, I can assure you.”

Juan seemed to catch her gaze, and notice that she’d lost the thread. He kept speaking, and Alma’s eyes drifted back to Bruno—she couldn’t look at her own family, but she didn’t want to take her eyes away from him, she knew she was blamed, she knew it was right, she—

“Because of his extended isolation, he’ll probably find it very difficult to readjust. Much like his diet and weight, it’s best to start slowly and steadily instead of sharply wanting to go back to normal—even if that’d make you feel better.”

Bruno stirred slightly, and Alma held her breath. Juan didn’t notice.

“Try to keep the environment quiet and calm, don’t force him into for example performing visions until he thinks he’s ready.” At that, Juan glared at her, putting emphasis on his words. She couldn’t lash out at him, even if she wanted to. If she wanted to do anything at all, it would walk right across the room after kicking everyone else out, curling around her son and never letting go.

Bruno’s breathing evened out, and Alma tried to signal to Julieta from the arm of the couch that there was no rush, even if Agustín would argue that they should make haste to get a good catch for the evening’s feast. The sun streamed through the windows, dancing across her son’s pale face, curving around her aged hand, which had steadied for the first time that morning.

Before she liked it, Bruno was stirring awake, before he launched himself up with a jerk, his eyes wide.

“I’m late!” he exclaimed, the green glow fading from his gaze.
Alma chuckled behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and pulling him back down to earth.
“You dozed for twenty minutes,” she answered calmly, “Agustín hasn’t even put his shoes on. He’s still trying to liaison with Antonio’s jaguar on where they are and why they’re not chew toys.”

It’d been a very funny, and very one-sided, conversation where Alma had to, on multiple occasions, bite down a laugh as to not wake Bruno, snoring lightly against her. Bruno’s expression seemed to soften minutely as he absorbed her words. “So,” he spoke, “I’m not in trouble?”

“No,” Alma answered simply, “No one’s mad at you. How does your stomach feel? Answer me honestly.”

Bruno shrugged. “It’s not any worse or better than usual.”

Alma didn’t like that answer. She wanted the simple answer. She wanted to know whether or not her son was in pain, and what she could to stop him from being in pain. But Alma was starting to learn that the simple answer had never existed—and she’d forced the illusion of it, before.

“Okay,” she said, “Do you have boots, or do you need to borrow a pair?”

Alma knew the answer—of course, she did, Bruno only had the clothes on his back when Casita fell, when he ran away, they hadn’t had time to buy him new boots—but she didn’t want to take Bruno’s autonomy. He needed help, but he also needed to be able to answer whether he had his own boots.

Bruno shook his head. Then quickly added, “But I can just wear my sandals. They’re comfortable and I did more dangerous stuff than fish in them.”

Noticing how her expression shifted without thinking, Bruno winced and immediately began to utter a string of apologies, his hand rooting through Camilo’s yellow ruana for the salt she knew wasn’t there.

“It’s okay,” she insisted, “You didn’t upset me. Not at all. Say, you and Félix have the same size feet, right? He wouldn’t mind you borrowing a pair. Stay here,” and then, with a wicked smile that’d have felt foreign on her face until a few weeks ago, she said: “I’ll steal you a pair.”

And before Bruno could answer, Alma, with surprising grace for a seventy-five-year-old woman, slid off the couch, tossing the blanket that’d fallen back over Bruno.

“Stay there!” she repeated over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in a second!”

ENCANTO, Bruno

As soon as Mama left, almost as if he’d been waiting, Agustín burst through the door with all the grace of a one-legged donkey, lugging a picnic basket that was better described as a mound. Bruno rushed to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his side, running to Agustín’s side to bear some of the weight. He caught his sister, standing behind them, giggling slightly to herself.

If they’d been younger, he’d have said something. But their dynamic had changed since he’d… left and Bruno didn’t always know what would set his family off. He’d had a better morning than he’d expected—the best one in a long time—and he didn’t want to jinx that.

He just wished Camilo wouldn’t be angry at him for stuffing salt and sugar into the pockets of his clothes, because Bruno wanted to do everything that he could to ward off the bad luck today. He settled for knocking against the wood of the doorframe Agustín was currently leaning against, ignoring the look it earned him.

“Are you ready to leave?” Agustín breathed through the veil of food.
“How are you feeling?” Julieta interjected, mashing her way between them, but gracefully, taking Bruno’s share of the weight. Embarrassingly, even holding half of a picnic basket for a short moment had his muscles smarting at him.

The heaviest thing he’d had to move in the past ten years was dragging a broken chair back into the house, and that hadn’t been graceful. It wasn’t even in the same voting district as graceful. He’d been surprised that Dolores hadn’t told on him right then and there, just out of sheer annoyance at him ruining her night’s sleep.

But Dolores had always been a better person than most, even burdened with a whole town’s dirty secrets. He remembered when Dolores first got her gift, and he told Pepa that she should watch out—maybe introduce her five-year-old daughter to some concepts of the world, before the village strangers beat her to it.

Pepa huffed something unintelligible and the next day, at breakfast, Dolores asked her Abuela what a blowj*b was.

“Bruno?” Julieta questioned, wide, opal eyes staring at him—a murky ocean of worry. Oh. Right. People expect you to answer them when they ask you a question about yourself.

“I’m alright,” he answered, picking off a wrapped bundle of what he assumed to be arepas that’d been aggressively teetering on the edge off the top of the basket before it could fall, “I feel like I usually do.”

“You don’t feel nauseous?”

Bruno shook his head.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his family’s doting—it was his own fault, after all. He’d been the one who chose to run away with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs instead of owning up to vision. He’d left a child in charge of saving the miracle, and he’d even wrecked his own body and mind by doing so. He didn’t say anything about overhearing the townspeople, but that didn’t mean he didn’t.

His family had a right to be worried about him. Sometimes he stared into space for hours if no one stopped him. He was constantly shaking, constantly anxious—he could barely go outside, for crying out loud! Even just now, going fishing at the same spot he’d fished for years prior, he had the fleeting urge to say that he felt sicker than he was. Take advantage of his family’s growing and dangerous protective streak for once, instead of just feeling choked out by it.

Because he knew that at least Julieta would insist on him staying home—within the safety of Casita’s walls, where nothing could surprise him, where nothing could hurt him—and Mama would back her up. If Pepa hadn’t left, so would she. And Agustín was afraid of both Mama and Pepa.

But at the same time, Bruno wanted to fish.

Bruno wanted to spend time with his brother-in-law.

Before running away, Bruno had been close to both Félix and Agustín, but he’d always been closer to the latter—perhaps it came from a shared, innate camaraderie of both being the runts of their litters (that was the only reasoning that Bruno could rationalise), but regardless, Agustín had always seemed to have time for Bruno—an act that he was grateful for.

Agustín surely had better things to do—and yet.

Bruno wanted to fish, and Bruno wanted to wiggle a little out from under the thumb of his family. Not enough to be completely free—because as soon as Mirabel had spoken of going to the market on the calmest day, he’d stiffened right up, and if not for Agustín’s interruption, might have frozen completely at the prospect.

Even though he knows he’d have done it. He didn’t know how to say no to Mirabel. Not after she’d shown him kindness, after she’d brought him back to his family,

This time, it wasn’t his sister that broke him from his thoughts, it was his mother, proudly brandishing a brown pair of lace-up boots, stained with mud, and held by the toe in her hand. For some reason, his mother touching her son-in-law’s disgusting work boots seemed disconcerting, even if she’d wiped vomit from his face just a few nights ago.

Bruno supposed that he was finally in a calm enough mindset to truly appreciate the change and the effort she’d put in. It didn’t heal everything, but Bruno was glad to be able to collapse in his mother’s arms when the world became too much.

Without saying anything, Bruno took the boots from his mother and leaned down to lace them, ignoring how his vision swam at first. Dizziness didn’t mean anything new. Bruno was always dizzy. Bruno hated it, because he never knew when it meant something and when it was just look, another thing Bruno Madrigal did to himself in his own stupidity.

As he with trembling hands tried to do his laces for the second time, instead of tightening, they just fell loose. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t want to admit that he, a fifty-year-old man had, throughout ten years of not lacing up a pair of boots, completely forgotten how to. He didn’t have to, Julieta seemed to have caught his distress, and leaned down to do them without saying anything, her deft fingers moving so quickly that he had no way to learn by watching.

She rose to her feet, as did Bruno.

Julieta smoothed down his loaned ruana and regarded him with a warring expression. Before he could try and figure out its origin—pick apart his mannerisms to find which one had set her off—she answered for him. “Agustín says he’d like for you to meet his new—one of his friends, his name is Matthias, he’s very kind. He won’t be angry with you; we think it would be good for you to meet some people outside of the family. Not that we don’t love you but, yeah.”

She pulled anxiously at one of her curls. “It’s okay if you don’t want to—”

Eager to put his sister at ease, Bruno vigorously agreed, even if the pit in his stomach swelled to a crescendo at the thought of other people than Agustín—than his family.

“Yes,” he said, “Yes, that would be alright. A-Agustín has always had good friends. N-nice friends.”

“Alright,” she said, “Hermano, we eat at six. Please be home before then. Agustín has his watch with him, so I’ll kick his ass if you’re late. So, keep an eye on it for him.”

Bruno nodded again, wiping his eyes.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Watching her father and Tio disappear from view, Mirabel felt downright ecstatic. Her mother had been smart enough to realise that if everyone stayed behind, Bruno would get suspicious. Despite their best efforts, Casita was never heavily occupied on a Sunday with good weather. As soon as Bruno tucked into the underbrush, briefly glancing back at the house as if he still wasn’t sure—he wasn’t, she’d been able to tell just by his walk—Luisa immediately walked through the backdoor.

“If you see a weird donkey standing on its hind legs,” she stated simply, “That’s just Emmanuel. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s a real escape artist and likes sucking on Isabela’s cacti out back. I’ll throw him back when we’re done, I don’t want to miss any of Tio Bruno’s birthday planning.”

Mirabel answered with an exaggerated shiver of horror and a “Did you befriend an eldritch donkey?” that was spoken lowly, but she still knew Luisa caught by the snicker that answered her.

ENCANTO, Bruno

Casting one last ragged glance the protective walls of his home, Bruno felt Agustín, despite carrying the basket, slip his hand into his and gently pull him along. Bruno followed suit, ducking his head into the underbrush.

“It’s thicker,” Agustín commented. “It happened recently. I don’t know exactly why—no one does—but I’m blaming Isabela wanting to test my old knees.”

Bruno chuckled at the thought. He didn’t have anything of substance to add, but he wanted to let Agustín know that he appreciated his efforts at making conversation. Agustín hummed something and continued to guide Bruno through the thick.

“Do you remember the way?” he asked after a few steps. Maybe, if the foliage hadn’t been as thick, and Bruno’s stomach wasn’t swirling with something he didn’t want to think about, he might have answered yes. After all, he’d been coming and going from here for at least thirty years. He should remember. But everything had changed, even the jungle—and Bruno felt like the world was spinning underneath him sometimes, and that he’d never find something secure to grab hold of.

The closest thing was his family, and the rats skittering around his new room. Almost as if on cue, Rosita, one of his finest actresses, tutted her head out of the pocket of Camilo’s ruana. Surprisingly, Camilo hadn’t said anything about the rats, but he’d mentioned the salt.

Well, kids were weird.

Bruno used his free hand to knock against his head.

“Knock a tree,” interrupted Agustín, “I’m not going to tell you not to do it but knock a tree. Don’t knock yourself. Your head already gets enough hits, okay Bruno?”

Bruno shoved his hand into the pocket, nestling it against Rosita’s soft fur.

“I don’t think I remember the way,” Bruno said instead of anything else, “I think everything’s changed just enough in small ways for it not to be so familiar anymore.”

Agustín made a noise of affirmation. “That’s okay,” he said, “I don’t need you to remember it. Just in case you’d like to leave earlier, which is completely okay, by the way, I wanted to know whether you knew the way. So, thanks for being honest. If you want to leave early, you can just tell me, and we will. I don’t mind, I’m going to be seeing this jerk on Tuesday, anyways. Luisa is knocking down a wall in his house and I’m coming because I always hated that wall. It’s the colour of baby sh*t.”

Agustín paused himself. “Do you remember Matthias?” he asked. “I know that Alma told you he was coming, but do you remember anything about him?”

The name rung a bell but swirled together with every other villager who’d been angry at him for something that he couldn’t control, so Bruno shook his head.

“You gave him a vision about his house collapsing,” explained Agustín, still pulling Bruno along.

Bruno stiffened at that.

Agustín noticed.

f*ck.

“No, no!” Agustín answered, almost dropping the picnic basket, “You see, you saved his family. You told him that his house would collapse in a storm, and because he knew, he wasn’t home!”

“He still lost his house,” Bruno interrupted, and then in a small voice that he wasn’t sure he wanted Agustín to hear, he added: “People are angry at me for smaller offenses.”

Agustín tsked. “Well,” he said, “Those people are wrong and can go play on the freeway.”

Bruno chuckled. It was one of the phrases that was uniquely Agustín—and signalled him as someone who hadn’t been born in Encanto. Bruno wasn’t sure that if he asked, that more than half of Encanto’s population even knew what a freeway was.

“Matthias is incredibly grateful to you,” Agustín emphasised, “Always has been, even when Abuela made everyone,” and he dropped his voice, “—even me—afraid of just speaking your name, Matthias was still proclaiming how Bruno Madrigal saved his family’s life.”

“And,” Agustín ducked under a thorny branch, Bruno’s ruana almost getting caught as he followed suit, “It doesn’t hurt that he’s a great fisherman, almost better than me, lucky bastard, and that he’s incredibly nice. He’s not going to hound you, I promise.”

Bruno frowned. He didn’t know Agustín had seen that.

It’d been an afternoon, shortly after the magic had returned—and Bruno was coming out of one of the headaches he absolutely didn’t miss having, deciding to chance his luck with going outside. The sun still stung his eyes, and he preferred not to go outside during the middle of the day if he could help it, but a large parasol had suspiciously appeared overnight, shielding the area by the kitchen back door, and smack-dab in the middle lay a criminally comfortable daybed.

No doubt Luisa’s doing. No doubt for his benefit. Everyone else in the family were goddamned lizards—basking in the sun whenever they got the chance.

But he rationalised, gripping the doorframe, that it already made him feel sh*tty that she’d had to haul furniture around just to tempt him outside to be a normal person, but it’d make him feel even sh*ttier if it hadn’t been used at all.

Yes, if he was the master of anything: it was working around his own delusions. Throwing a handful of salt over his shoulder, walked into the shadowed garden, heading straight for the recliner.

Right as he dropped into it, his eyes slipping blissfully closed, a small voice had interrupted his thoughts.

“Senor Madrigal?”

He cracked one eye open, dragging his knees up to his chest. “Yes?” he questioned, staring down at a small child holding a shaking coffee mug. He’d seen him during the renovations and decided that this child was positively feral. And Bruno wanted to be as far away from his as possible. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell that to an actual child.

“Did you make the house crumble?”

Bruno’s eyes widened. “What?” he managed to croak out, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

Coffee Kid—Bruno’s new unofficial nickname, and not the least flattering one he could think of—blinked slowly, before taking a deep swig of his coffee. “I said,” he clarified, sounding too big for his boots, er, sandals, “Did you make your house break? My Papa says you did. Mirabel says you don’t and that she’ll punt me if I ask you. But she’s not here, I watched her leave. So, I’m asking you.”

Bruno had tried to smile, but there was a reason that he still wasn’t really let into town by his family. “No,” he answered softly, feeling pressure build at the back of his head, “It might seem like it because I returned the same time the house crumpled, and people always like an easy thing to blame stuff like that on, but I quite like my house. I wouldn’t break it.”

If he’d been Pepa, or even just a little more himself, he’d have said something more scathing. Even to a child. If a child could consume coffee and be given access to a hammer, maybe that child needed to be humbled before it decided to violently humble someone else.

“That’s a lie,” stated Coffee Kid simply. “Mirabel said that you weren’t in town because you were too sick. You’re not sick. Sick people don’t lie in the sun. You’re probably lying about the house, too.”

Bruno winced, biting down the whine that he wanted to release from his throat.

Coffee Kid kept going. “See, my Mama says you’re evil. She says that you did it for attention. She says Mirabel says you’re sick for attention, too, because you’re the family weirdoes.”

Bruno hugged his knees tighter against his chest, “Maybe it’s not so bad being the family weirdo,” he chuckled humourlessly, “And no, kiddo, I’m not lying to you about either destroying the house or being sick. I wish I was.”

He’d have preferred to be blamed, he’d prefer to not have to lie in the sun and hug his knees in front of a child with the personality of a rabid chihuahua on meth. It made him feel unsafe. Sue him.

“I didn’t know you saw that,” Bruno answered simply. But then again, he wouldn’t have had much of a chance. He’d passed out shortly thereafter, had a vision and woken up by puking over the side and trying not to hit the pillow. Agustín had jammed a bucket in front of him and said that he’d just come back, rubbing Bruno’s jerking back.

Agustín laughed. “I did,” he continued, “And we all agree that child has issues, right? I had to shoo him off the lawn with a broom. I swear, most of the local kids don’t suck that much.”

Agustín certainly hadn’t said anything about having to chase Coffee Kid off with a broom. Bruno would have given all his worldly possessions to see that. And Bruno had met some of the more… housebroken kids, introduced by chance by, who else, Mirabel.

They were nice enough and interested in both his rats and what advice he had to give. He’d said something half-assed about not changing yourself for other people and hoped that it’d stuck—because even if it’d been sh*ttily stated, it was important.

“I’ve met some of the others.”
“Good. Were they nice?”
“Yes.”

Agustín snapped a branch. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice tender, “I’m also glad that you’re feeling better, Bruno. I’ve missed having you around, having a partner-in-crime who knows I have enough blackmail on him to never forsake me.”

Bruno laughed, the sound rattling unfamiliarly in his throat and Agustín widely at him from over his shoulder, “You know,” he stated with a smirk, “If you ever step out of line, I’m telling Julieta that you were the one who broke her favourite pot.”

Bruno mock-gasped.

His leg ached slightly, and his head felt light, so before he could change his mind, he quickly asked, “How far are we? I might need to sit down if I don’t want to fall over into the thorns.”

Agustín gripped his hand tighter, but he didn’t push him to sit down. Instead, he calmly replied, “We’re around five minutes away. If you need to sit down, we’ll just sit down. But I’m also not going to force you. If you want to keep going, we’ll keep going. We can take a breather at the water. We’re not on a schedule and you don’t even have to fish if you don’t want—”

Bruno interrupted him.

“I want to fish!”

“… And I can walk. To the water. If it’s five minutes.”

Agustín just nodded, and they kept walking.

For a split second, Bruno thought he heard someone sharply gasp in the bushes, as if they’d thrown their hand in front of their lips to cover the sound, but he rationalised that it was probably just either him or Agustín stepping on a twig muffled by leaves.

No one hated themselves enough to just sit around in the jungle.

Before long, the clearing became visible, as did a waving figure. Agustín waved back with the hand holding the picnic basket that he hadn’t even entertained Bruno carrying the one time he’d asked, and Bruno felt his heart quicken in his chest.

“Hey,” whispered Agustín and Bruno didn’t know if it was because he caught his distress or just because he was a better man than Bruno would ever be, “We don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. If you don’t want to fish together, you can stay here, catch your breath and I’ll go over and sort it out. Matthias won’t mind, I promise.”

Agustín squeezed his hand. Bruno mulled it over.

“No,” he stated before his mind could catch up with his lips, catching a brief look of disappointment on Agustín’s face before he continued, “No, no, not like that. I don’t want to go back home. I’ve walked through the jungle; I want to be revered as a prophet.”

Bruno’s voice was uncertain and shaky, but Agustín still chuckled at it, and began walking towards Matthias, who was still sitting cross-legged on a multi-coloured and very bright quilt, chewing on unidentifiable meat on a stick.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Mirabel frowned across the table at both her Tia Pepa and her mother, planning their own birthday party. C’mon, that had to be against the official birthday rules. She was sure of it. Without shifting her gaze, she grabbed a pen and paper from the table, shoving them underneath before anyone spotted her, and scribbling on her knee.

As she ripped off the note and handed it to Camilo, she hoped that it was legible.

She’d asked: Don’t you think we should surprise our mothers, too? Do something we don’t talk about here, today?

Meanwhile, Pepa tutted her argument and tried to get Tio Félix to back her up. “Listen,” she breathed, “I just think that we should invite the townspeople we like and simply ignore the ones we do not—” the words hissed out of her like wind, and Mirabel could see that Félix was trying very, very desperately not to agree with his wife. Mirabel had watched him to punch a carpenter square in the jaw when he’d called Mirabel worthless.

Félix had immediately gotten attention for his slightly busted knuckles, while the carpenter got to marinate in his freshly broken nose.

Mama inhaled. “Yes, Pepa,” she answered, “I see your point, but I raise you this one: while you and I might appreciate a packed celebration, I’m not sure that Bruno would.”

Pepa hunched back in her chair, mulling the thought over before dropping her head to the table. “I know, I know,” she answered, a small cloud forming above her head that Félix dutifully batted away with an asparagus which he’d armed himself with earlier, “It’s just—I want to celebrate him, you know? I want to throw a wild party and glorious feast to celebrate that my baby brother is back. I want to do that.”

A tapping against her foot alerted her that Camilo had responded, and when she tapped back—maybe more of a kick than a tap but no one was looking—Camilo slid the paper across her thigh. She took a moment to glance down, pretending she was picking at the lint of her skirt.

After all, she’d learned a thing or twenty-seven about trickster-y.

He’d answered: Sure. I’m in. I love chaos. This sounds like that. I want to see it crash and burn.

She quickly wrote out her reply.

Spread the word, then. dickhe*d.

No matter how much she rued it, she added a small addendum of: You’re better than me at being sneaky. Make sure no one’s suspicious. It was the truth, and sure, Mirabel believed in giving compliments: but Camilo was due for a humbling soon, so she didn’t want to prop him up even more when he’d grown progressively bolder with his own pranks.

She just had to think up a real whopper—one that’d keep him guessing to how she pulled it off for at least a week.

She turned her attention back to her family, and to her Mama reaching her hand over to rest against Pepa’s, folded atop the table, Félix still swatting maniacally at the clouds, which kept coming back as soon as he’d sufficiently beaten them into submission with his noble blade. At least it wasn’t snowing or raining, so Mirabel assumed he was having some kind of success, even if the rest of the family had to bite back the urge to laugh at a grown man swatting anything with an asparagus.

Isabela chimed in, playing loosely with her hair and stealing mildly fearful glances at Abuela. “Maybe,” she clumsily suggested, “This year, we just do a small thing for us and Tio Bruno, and of course Mama and Tia Pepa, and then next year, maybe at the anniversary of Casita being rebuilt—there we have the big thing?”

Dolores and Luisa hummed their agreement. Isabela, perhaps bolstered by her sister and cousin, continued, “Because,” she narrowed her eyes at Pepa, but Mirabel wasn’t sure the coming remark was completely directed at her, “You have to remember, that to really celebrate someone, they have to actually like the celebration. Just because you like the thought of it, that doesn’t make it a nice gesture. It makes it a nice thought.”

“And sometimes, nice thoughts have to end there.”

Even after all the time that’d passed, Mirabel still found herself floored and proud when Isabela displayed her individuality—especially in front of Abuela and the rest of her extended family.

“Yeah,” echoed Luisa, “I think even if we want to do something nice for Tio Bruno, we have to remember that our version of nice isn’t his. He’d be just as—if not happier to just have a family meal and maybe a game night in the courtyard with all of us and the rats—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Félix, absentmindedly stabbing the asparagus through a cloud, “I really like that idea. Remember on the first night after we rebuilt Casita, when we had a family night and ended up dragging every pillow onto the floor so we could sleep there? That was very cosy.”

Félix gestured for Camilo to open the window, and Camilo, without saying anything, obliged, getting out of his chair, the paper falling to the ground, and crossing the distance. Mirabel swept down to grab it before anyone noticed. “You dropped a button, Cami!” she said.

Camilo grinned as he opened the window, and Félix speared the cloud, pushing it outside. Camilo slammed the window shut and returning to his seat, taking the note back from Mirabel under the table.

ENCANTO, Bruno

Agustín, as usual, was completely right. Matthias was not an intimidating man.

Despite him being slowly guided over by Agustín, who introduced them by hauling the picnic basket off his shoulder and onto the ground with a loud groan, Matthias didn’t get up.

“Look at this!” exclaimed Agustín loudly, stretching his arm up to crack his shoulders, looking a strange sight—since he was still holding onto Bruno and Bruno wasn’t particularly interested in letting go. “Look at this utter insanity the darling wife gives us for a five-hour-at-most fishing trip.” For emphasis, he kicked the basket, a knotted dish towel filled with arepas tumbling off the mountain.

Matthias chuckled to himself as he untied it, grabbing one. “Well,” he said, “At least Adelite will get off cooking dinner tonight,” he said. “If only there was a way to tell her that didn’t involve crawling through those godforsaken jungles, because they’re thick enough that there could be a crazed murderer in it and no one would know.”

Bruno bit down the urge to laugh.

Matthias seemed to notice him, sharp blue eyes framing a kind face focussing on him. Matthias didn’t look dissimilar to Agustín, both with sharp, long faces and wearing glasses, except, if you asked Bruno, Agustín could take some style advice from his friend when it came to glasses—Matthias’ slightly oversized, golden-rimmed round glasses were a much more classic look than Agustín’s.

He slowly extended his hand to Bruno, still sitting on the ground and making no move to change that, “Hi, Bruno, it’s nice of you to join us today. I’m sorry for stealing your spot as Agustín’s idiot who holds and provides the bait bucket. I never managed to thank you for saving my family, all those years ago, so, even if you might not take it, thank you, Bruno.”

Bruno slowly removed his hand from Agustín’s and slotted it with Matthias’, letting him pull him onto the ground with a light tug. “C’mon, man,” he reasoned, “You’ve just hiked through that cesspool, and it seems that someone’s telling us to have a picnic.”

Agustín grumbled. “Whatever we don’t eat,” he said simply, “I’m setting on fire. Or throwing into the water. One of those. I’m certainly not carrying it back.”

Matthias slipped his hand out of Bruno’s and leaned over to start unwrapping some of Julieta’s many, many bundles. “Fair enough,” he answered, as soon as I’ve stolen what I want, you can do whatever the f*ck you want. But maybe you should keep a few things in your pocket, there’s a wasp’s nest over there with your name on it.”

Matthias pointed vaguely behind him.

He turned to Bruno, a dangerous grin on his face. “Did you know how much of an idiot your brother-in-law is?” he asked playfully.

Bruno surprised himself by answering. “Yes. I watched him get bit by a capybara. A capybara!”

Matthias snickered and Agustín dropped a couple filled arepas onto his lap, “I didn’t even know capybaras could bite,” Matthias added. Bruno raised an arepa to his lips, “Me neither,” he replied before he bit down.

“Mine’s not nearly as interesting as yours,” Matthias lamented. Agustín punched him lightly in the shoulder, sitting down to complete the circle, his shoulder almost touching Bruno’s. “All I can tell you is the copious times this idiot either gets bit by a fish, stabs himself on his own rod, or experiences bees.”

“Actually,” Matthias corrected, “We should say that the bees experience Agustín, by now.”

Bruno took another bite of the arepa, marvelling at the fact that it wasn’t completely cold, and reminding himself to thank Agustín for his kind, but still firm insistence that they go today. He hadn’t thought that he’d get along with someone outside of his family who’d known him before he “vanished” but Agustín, like his taste in wives, had amazing taste in friends.

Or at least one friend.

Bruno liked Matthias. He also liked that the nausea that he’d refused to acknowledge throughout their trek seemed to have been caused by hunger—because Julieta’s cooking, which usually didn’t cure sicknesses the way it cured injuries, hit the spot. Bruno could have sighed, but he managed to catch himself just in time. Thankfully.

He also noticed the small salt holder that Agustín had laid out on the quilt and hoped that no one would want to season their food, as he quickly snatched it up, the weight a comforting security in the pocket of ruana, next to Rosita.

“It’s a good thing that you married Julieta of all people, Gús,” Matthias continued, “Imagine if you’d stayed in Bogota. I couldn’t imagine you as anything other than a victim. You’re too nice for a sh*thole like that.”

Before Agustín could protest, Matthias sighed, “Yes,” he growled, “I did see you last week, I just choose to remember the man who apologises to a wasp that’s repeatedly stung him instead of the man who throws down on the street with the yellow giant.”

Agustín, thanks to years of experience in the Madrigal household, knew when an argument was lost, and simply bit into his own arepa, deciding not to comment other than a wink.

“I hate to ask because I’m sure you’ve heard it enough these past couple of weeks,” Matthias changed the subject, and Bruno winced as soon as the words left his mouth—of course, the man who’d thanked Bruno for his vision years ago would want a new one, “But how are you feeling? When you walked over, you looked positively green.”

Oh.

He met Agustín’s eyes, who simply smiled knowingly and went back to eating his food. Bruno read his gaze as an offer for help, but it was Bruno’s choice.

“O-oh,” he started.

He cleared his throat with a sharp jerk of his chest. “I was just a little hungry, and maybe dehydrated. We didn’t stop, walking up here.”

“You masoch*sts,” Matthias simply answered. “But I’m glad you’re good, Bruno. It’d be completely understandable if you were a little winded, especially with everything’s that happened. It must be the weirdest couple of weeks in a while, or at least I’d think so.”

He continued, “And I don’t even know a lot about what happened because that’s not my business and I have better things to do than gossip with the little old ladies at the market, but it sounds like one of those crazy telenovela plots—being vanished for ten years and then suddenly thrown back into life as if nothing happened. That’s got to throw anyone a little off their game.”

After swallowing down their food—Bruno managing the better part of two arepas before he stopped, not wanting to make himself sick from either eating too little or too much—it was a delicate balance these days, and not one he always figured out—and he appreciated the lack of Mama’s stern hand, forcing him to eat more than he wanted.

She meant well, he kept telling himself. She meant well. And he’d get better. And she could find other things to do other than meaning well.

Rosita squeaked from the pocket, sticking her head out to nibble at the leftovers of Bruno’s lunch. It was only a second later that Bruno noticed Matthias staring at her, and remembered that usually, rats aren’t approved lunch guests. Before Bruno could apologise however, Matthias exclaimed: “Okay, you have got to teach me that. My youngest loves rats, but all the ones we try to adopt are evil f*ckers that bite you when you even look at them.”

Agustín was the first to get up, digging out their fishing gear from the bottom of the basket.

“Did you remember to bring bait?” he asked, turning to Matthias.
“Yep.”
“Pity, we could have used some of the leftover food. There’s enough to feed a whole other family in there.”

Agustín offered him his hand, but Bruno shrugged it off, pushing himself to his feet. Matthias followed suit, finally standing at his full height—and Bruno gulped when he realised that his shoulders were twice the width of Bruno, and he stood two heads taller.

But before Bruno could stay intimidated, Matthias burst into a grin, gently smacking his shoulder, “It’s always a surprise, isn’t it?”

“I’m so good at hunching in on myself that no one ever expects to unfold to,” he gestured to himself, “This.”

Then, he asked the big-ticket question: “Do you remember how to fish, Bruno?”

Bruno shook his head and did a so-so gesture, shrugging slightly. “Kind of,” he said, “Bits and pieces, I don’t think I’ll be catching anything but I’m happy to just be here. It’s nice to be out in the sun.”

And he meant it.

A rustling in the corner of his eye drew his attention, and Bruno jerked, slamming against Agustín’s side, who’d come up behind him. Bruno briefly wrenched his eyelids shut, only for them to shoot open again when Agustín wrapped his arm around Bruno’s chest, pulling him close.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your little get-together,” responded a smooth voice, as a black silhouette of a woman pushed herself out into the sunlight.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

“We have to work fast,” continued Luisa, “Papa and Tio Bruno could be back at any moment.”

Mama nodded gravely. “That’s true,” she agreed, “I told Agustín that of course, he should do his best to distract Bruno, but when Bruno wants or needs to go home, there’s no discussion about it. He shouldn’t try to drag it out for the benefit of us. So, we have to act like they could back at any moment. Agustín promised that he would knock on the door before they came in—”

Camilo interrupted her. “So, we’re supposed to pack up all this sh*t—” he gestured to the table, littered with sketches of half-realised decorations, “—whenever some weirdo who doesn’t know how to keep his donkeys contained knocks?”

Mirabel always admired her mother, because Julieta didn’t take Camilo’s obvious bait and instead, completely agreed with him, nodding. “That’s the best plan I could think up on the spot this morning, so that’s what we’re doing, unless you want to void your arepa rights.”

Camilo crossed his arms. “I want to say that you already gave all the arepas to Tio Bruno and Agustín this morning—don’t think I wasn’t watching1—” he jerked from his seat, playfully pointing his finger, “— but you drive a hard bargain, Tia.”

ENCANTO, Bruno

As the woman moved further into the light, Bruno felt a shiver run down his spine when he noticed that her face hadn’t been covered by shadows, but instead by a simple, faceless black mask that clasped behind her tied-up hair, dark locks shimmering in the sunlight.

“Do we know you?” questioned Agustín, his arm still wrapped around Bruno, slowly pulling them both backwards, away from her.

“I’d hope not.”

Bruno took a moment to study her clothes—she didn’t dress like anyone he’d seen in Encanto, not any women, at least—wearing black pants with a leg holster that caught the light, metal glimmering at her hip. She’d tucked a pair of combat boots into her pants, and was wearing a simple, black long-sleeved shirt that covered both her arms and throat completely. Her hands were ensconced in leather gloves.

For how intimidating she looked, crouched there at the opening of the clearing, Bruno at least thought that she had to be sweating buckets in that getup.

Bruno had never been in Bogota, but by the way that Agustín clutched him tighter against his chest and the low growl that slipped from his lips, Bruno wasn’t entirely sure that Agustín didn’t know her, or at least—the type of person she was.

“What do you want from us?” Agustín snarled. She tilted her head, slowly moving to stand at her full height, reminding Bruno of a strange cross between a bored cat and eldritch horror with how smoothly her all-black limbs moved, reminding him of the water sloshing behind them.

She gestured to him.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she murmured, “I want him. Simple as that.”

As soon as she’d spoken those words, Bruno found himself being thrown back, Agustín stepping in front of him, brandishing a fishing rod as a makeshift weapon. “Don’t you dare,” he threatened, “You won’t get away with that, you’ll never leave Encanto.”

She took a single step closer. “Is that a challenge or a promise, Senor?”

“A f*cking promise.”

Bruno had never seen Agustín sharpened to a point, but all of Matthias’ previous joking about his inability to survive in Bogota was thrown out the window as he stood, one hand wielding the fishing rod and the other shoved behind his back, ghosting against Bruno’s.

Instead of answering, she took another step closer.

“He has nothing to give you. Anything you want,” Agustín plead, “We can give you, anything. He’s just a man. And he’s not healthy. He won’t be good for your armies. He’s my brother and I’ve just—I’ve just gotten him back. Please.”

She tsked and again, took a step closer, like she was a ticking clock, counting down to something Bruno didn’t want to think about. He could feel every part of him trembling, his mind begging him to shut down and leave but—

“Oh,” she chuckled, “I like your effort. But I’m sorry. I know who Bruno Madrigal is. I know that Bruno Madrigal can see the future. And that means, Bruno Madrigal is coming with me. Simple as that.”

In the corner of his eye, Bruno saw Matthias brandishing another fishing rod, slowly moving to a fighting stance.

“I won’t attack you if you just step aside and let me speak to him. I have no interest in hurting any of you, let alone Bruno. I just want to talk.”

For emphasis, she raised her arms, her palms facing them.

“You’re not getting closer to him.”

She sighed. “Alright then,” she answered and before Bruno could react, she lunged at Agustín, throwing him to the ground, and wresting for the fishing rod. Agustín pulled it taut against her throat, but she managed to block it with her hands, snapping it and rolling Agustín onto his stomach, crashing into the picnic blanket while they were at it.

Matthias threw himself at her, trying to pull her off Agustín, but with a shift kick, she sent him flying into a jutting boulder with a sickening crack. She turned her attention back to Agustín and ripped the fishing rod from his hands. Without a moment’s hesitation, she slammed the grip into his skull.

A desperate scream erupted from Bruno’s throat as he was caught between flying at her and scrambling backwards into the brush to never be seen again. Her head shot up and met his, the expression-less mask tilting slightly as she studied him.

“I didn’t want it to go like this,” she said.

And then, she threw herself at Bruno, already pulling rope from somewhere on her back. She pushed him to the ground with a cruel grip, his head bouncing off the ground as she began effortlessly tying up his legs and arms and hands and even his throat—leaving a star-shaped knot on his stomach, and his body crumpling into itself, black dots dancing in his vision.

Matthias stumbled to his feet, blood running down his chin from his stained teeth, and yelled, “Bitch! Over here!”

The beast f*cking sighed as she turned, tilting her head in a move that reeked of, “Are you seriously the best that this town could find for me to play with?”

When Matthias answered by squaring his fists in front of his face, one leg kicked out and ready to move, she lunged. Throwing herself in front of him, she landed a solid punch to his abdomen, before sweeping his legs with hers, landing back onto her hands and flipping over, darting forwards, her mask half-undone.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

“I could do these,” Isabela pointed to a sketch of lanterns on a string of vibrant flowers decorating the courtyard. It seemed that Félix had an eye for drawing. Mirabel almost wanted to ask him if she could commission him to paint her door.

“And I think Tio Bruno would like that one, too,” supplied Dolores, her voice low as usual. “He likes things that are simply, but eye-catching. And not too in your face. But we all know that.”

The family nodded in almost perfect unison and Isabela turned her attention back to the sketch. “We could also weave smaller lanterns into the flowers themselves,” she suggested.

Antonio, who’d been too busy conversing with the veritable army of rats growing on the kitchen floor, exclaimed, “Oh, yes, Tio Bruno would love that! Rita assures me!”

“Oh,” interjected Mirabel, “I love that idea.”

ENCANTO, Bruno

Matthias scrambled backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing square on his ass. Bruno couldn’t help but wince. It’d looked like it hurt, and what looked to hurt more was the nimble foot pressing itself against his chest in a second and the gun shoved against the edge of his jaw.

“Will you talk about what happened here?” she snarled, her free hand moving to refasten her mask. “I’ll leave you alive if you promise never to speak of this again. I’m only interested in Senor Madrigal.”

Bruno’s gaze darted to Agustín, still blessedly unconscious. He’d always had a habit of jumping into situations without thinking of the consequences. Such as bees. Bruno was sure their attacker wouldn’t waste a second cutting him down if he got back up. Internally, Bruno pleaded for him not to. He was sure that Julieta could fix Agustín’s eventual injury.

She couldn’t fix him if he had a bullet between the eyes.

Matthias snarled and did the worst possible thing: spitting in his attacker’s face, interspliced with a weak threat: “You’re not taking Bruno, you witch.”

She shrugged, and her gun clicked as she pressed it closer against his skin. “Do you have anyone to leave behind?” she asked frankly, her cool voice chilling Bruno to the bone. Not a single part of the way she held herself told him that she’d hesitate—Bruno didn’t know what Matthias was doing, she wasn’t from Encanto, she wasn’t kind like them, she was cruel, she would—

She was like the people who’d killed his father.

“I don’t like getting my hands dirty when I don’t have to,” she turned back to face Bruno, “And I don’t need to, for this mission. Nobody needs to get hurt.” She extended her hand towards him, her fingers twitching. “Just take my hand, and I’ll leave him alone. Both of them.”

Behind her, Bruno spied someone sneaking up on her, brandishing something metallic that caught the light. He held his breath. Please, please. He wanted to throw something over his shoulder—anything, it didn’t have to be salt, Bad Luck Bruno would most certainly ruin this, Bad Luck Bruno would get someone killed—he wasn’t good enough for people to die trying to save him. Or even get hurt. He thought about Agustín’s bleeding head, and how he’d laughed with Mirabel before they left.

Bruno wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Agustín didn’t recover.

The silhouette came closer, but just as he’d have been within range of striking her, their attacker whipped around, jumping back to crouch on her knees with her feet arched in a stance that reminded Bruno of those he imagined for his action heroines, before she fired through the jungle.

The silhouette wasn’t a silhouette anymore as it collapsed forwards, and Bruno saw a hole going straight through the forehead of the priest who’d blamed him for his baldness. And now, he could blame Bruno for his death, too.

At the sight, and perhaps finally, the realisation that their attacker was serious, Matthias stumbled back, too late—thought Bruno, when his attacker lunged for Matthias, pinning him to the ground with her thighs and forcing his head to the ground with a cruel, firm hand.

She tsked. “You’re going to tell,” she stated, her voice dropping into a low note of fake disappointment. “You’re going to go running back screaming about a bogeywoman in the woods. And then everyone’s going to come with pitchforks and sh*t on fire.”

She fingered the trigger.

“Please!” begged Matthias, “I have a wife and kids, please, please, look in my wallet—”

“I’m not leaving here without my target. You’re going to follow me.”

Mattias’ wide eyes answered her.

In a harsh movement and with the gun still trained underneath his chin, she flipped him onto his stomach, digging her hands into his back pockets. She pulled out the wallet, flipped it open and when photos of smiling children and a wife holding them still for the photograph tumbled out; she made a small sound that reminded him of Dolores, before firing again, snuffing out Matthias.

Bruno wrenched his eyes shut at just the last moment, a whine tearing its way from his throat, his hands flying to cover his ears, the rope digging into his wrists.

“Open your eyes,” she demanded, and a sound of metal being dropped on the ground followed, “I’m not going to shoot you because I’ve been instructed to take you in alive. Which means that I can’t play around with firearms close to your skull to make you do things. Instead, I have to ask nicely. I don’t like doing that. So, please open your eyes and make it easy for both of us.”

Bruno didn’t.

She sighed.

“You know,” he could hear her steps and voice, practically purring, coming closer, “I really don’t like having to be the bad guy. I really don’t. But you’re not giving me a lot of options. Open those big pretty eyes, or I’m going to shoot your friend. The one in the waistcoat. I saw how you laughed while fishing. I know you care for him. And you know how I don’t hesitate, now, don’t you?”

Bruno’s eyes shot open, and he saw her crouched in front of him, her mask-half off, showing a pair of full lips painted red. “There,” she encouraged, “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Bruno noticed her gun lay discarded behind her—which meant the metal he’d heard: it’d been her weapon. She’d dropped her weapon in front of him. That meant that she was either kinder than she let on, or she had another one. Bruno knew that she wasn’t kind, so he assumed that she had another one behind her back, even if he could see both her hands.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Mirabel was leaning over the table, excitedly discussing the menu with her mother—and listening to Luisa argue for a trip to the imported stands at the market, to see if they’d managed to scrounge up any more playing cards. She hadn’t noticed Dolores staring at nothing, and the slight flinch and gasp that followed, before she jerked back to awareness and in the strongest voice that they’d heard from her since she was five, spoke:

“Papa?” Dolores called, “I need you.”

Félix stiffened, relinquished the asparagus, and slowly walked to his daughter’s side of the table, dropping to his knees. Dolores moved to whisper something in his ears, and his mirthful expression turned to that of a man walking to his own execution.

Dolores pulled back, and Félix took a deep breath.

“Alma,” he started carefully, as if he was walking across a minefield and didn’t want to disturb anything buried. “Dolores thinks we may have a minor problem with Bruno.”

He looked like he wanted to throw himself out of the room, and with the storm cloud suddenly forming over Pepa’s head, Mirabel didn’t blame him one bit.

“Pepa,” Félix sighed, and in his stead, Mama picked up the asparagus, half-heartedly smacking the cloud while she still had her attention completely turned to Félix.

“What about Bruno?” snapped Pepa.

“My brother is not a problem. Never. Who says that Bruno is a problem? I’ll find them and on God, I will drown their home in snow for weeks—”

The cloud above her began to thunder.

“Dolores says Bruno and Agustín are in trouble.”

ENCANTO, Bruno

“I’m sorry for tying you up,” she continued, still crouching in front of him, her hand ghosting against his cheek, “I had to make sure you didn’t jeopardise my mission while I incapacitated your friends.”

She exhaled and slid her arms down his back to undo her own knots, “I want you to see that you and I can have a beneficial relationship. This town doesn’t like you; I’ve heard the whispers; I’ve heard the truth. And that’s a pity, for someone with a gift like yours.”

Her voice dropped to a low, soft cadence that reminded Bruno of silk, and he was unnerved to find, that when he looked down, she had the rope resting limply in her hands, even if he hadn’t felt a single one of her touches after the initial ghosts against his spine.

She seemed to notice and chuckled at his expression through her mask. “It’s called being an assassin,” she explained, “My hands can move very quickly, and very lightly, if that’s what I need to do.”

In the light, he caught specks of blood against her black mask. She placed her hand against his chest, pressing him down to the ground, and he couldn’t help but notice how the muscles ebbed and flowed in her body; if he was a worse man, he’d have to admit to her being more than physically attractive, based on the black-clad silhouette of her body alone, and the husky undertones to her voice.

She seemed like the stereotypical femme fatale—the ones that he wasn’t even sure existed outside of the pages of a novel, contained within a cage.

“You could live in the lap of luxury instead of a dingy town,” she spoke, her voice butter smooth. It promised a hard-edged beauty, one most would dare bash their heads against—even if she was specked with blood of someone you’d recently laughed with, someone who’d died trying to save you from her grasp.

“Come with me to Bogota,” she whispered, “Come with me to somewhere that’ll appreciate your gift.”

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Dolores and Félix quickly filled them in, and they’d immediately ran out of the Casita and into the streets. You’d imagine that a seventy-five-year-old woman would faint upon hearing the news that someone was attacking her recently-returned son and son-in-law, but Alma Madrigal was the exception that proved the rule. She pulled herself together quicker than anyone else, got the family together to run into the village and rally the people she’d led to safety those many years ago.

Even standing a fair distance away from Abuela’s bobbing body, Mirabel could hear her piercing voice, steeled into a hard substance, carrying across the wind like a bullet, “My son is being hurt! Find a weapon and go to the river, now!”

“Bring him home!”

Bruno and Papa are missing. They had to find Bruno and Papa. There was no option of failure. She noticed Luisa pushing her way to the front of the crowd, a donkey slung over her shoulder, yelling something about everyone splitting up to take the attackers by surprise and leave them nowhere to run. For someone who’d never organised an offensive before, Luisa seemed to take to it.

Mirabel shuddered at the thought, her ears ringing. Her Papa had never been a good fighter—Hell, the reason he’d even met her mother was because of his proclivity to hurt himself. If Dolores was right—and when is Dolores not—and there was a caravan of thugs? They didn’t have time to stand here and discuss what they were going to do.

They should do it. Right now. They should be running frantically to the forest, cutting through whatever the f*ck they needed because she didn’t even want to think how Bruno would take a fight. Tio Bruno got spooked just walking through the market. They’d hurt him. Badly. Mirabel wouldn’t ever be able to forgive herself. In that order.

Mirabel didn’t know a lot about the world outside of Encanto, but Papa had told her enough stories—and she could see why he’d leave everything behind. Based on those stories, Bruno wouldn’t survive outside of Encanto. He wouldn’t even survive an encounter with someone outside of Encanto if they had bad intentions. Papa was an idiot, he’d get himself hurt trying to protect Bruno, she’d heard how her parents had bickered that morning—

“Okay, split into smaller groups, grab anything to defend yourself with and follow Dolores,” instructed Luisa, her hands on her hips, the curves of her muscles catching the light. By how she squared her jaw, Mirabel didn’t have to be her sister to know that she was thinking about reducing whoever hurt her Tio and Papa to a smooth paste.

ENCANTO, Bruno

“Come with me to Bogota,” she whispered, “Come with me to somewhere that’ll appreciate your gift.”

Bogota. All Bruno knew of Bogota was that it was the capital, Agustín hailed from there and that Agustín didn’t want to go back because it reeked of the kinds of bastards who razed villages for drug smuggling routes, killing fathers, and leaving children to die by the cruel hands of the wilderness.

The thought snapped Bruno from his admiration of his attacker as a novelty, and he slowly slid his hand behind his back, begging for a single chance to get the upper hand. She was just one person, and Bruno was fast. If he managed to get her on the ground, he wouldn’t fight her.

He’d seen how that went for Agustín and Matthias. She was strong, and Bruno thought that one was already dead if you started a hand-to-hand fight with her.

Bruno shoved hand into his pockets, happy to not find Rosita and happier to find the salt, he slowly undid the cap, collecting a bit in his hand as she moved closer. He’d have one chance. Incapacitate her for a second and go running, hoping that she’d follow him instead of enacting revenge on Agustín. Selfishly, he hoped that he was faster than her, too, even if the terrain wasn’t forgiving—and she was definitely in better shape than him.

When she raised his hand to cup his cheek, his took his chance, biting down the bile and panic.

With a sharp, jerking movement, her threw one arm behind her head, finding the clasp and releasing it, pulling it off right as he used his other to throw the fine salt straight into her eyes. However, instead of lurching back like he’d imagined, she threw herself at him, her eyes wrenched shut and a scream clawing its way out of her throat.

f*ck.

Things like this always went better in this head.

People-related things.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

All Mirabel could think about was putting one foot in front of the other, running through the paths created for her—and the mob of villagers, some even holding torches—hacked throughout the jungle. On a different day, she’d mourn the loss of the fauna, but she only had eyes for Papa and Tio Bruno, desperately hoping that they’d make it in time.

Dolores said that their attacker was fast, and brutal—and then, when Tio Félix had pressed her for more, her eyes had glazed over, and he’d shooed everyone from the room. Now, though, she caught him in the corner of her eye, leading a group of villagers, Antonio on his back and his free hand hacking through underbrush with a machete.

He looked terrifying—his enormous frame coupled with the speed of which he moved.

In her distraction and with a yelp, Mirabel tripped over a thick tree root.

ENCANTO, Bruno

She tsked, before looking over her shoulder, where Agustín still lay crumpled. “We both know that if I shoot this idiot dead, I have nothing else to play you into my hand. I’m not stupid. But I can hurt him. I can hurt him really bad, until you’re desperate for everything I can offer you.”

“Or,” she played with a loose lock of her hair, “We can just have a little honest chat, and I’m sure that we’ll come to a mutual understanding that benefits the both of us.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure that you can guess why I know your name. Someone with a lot more money than you told me about you, and asked if I could bring you in. He offered me a lot of money for doing that. A lot of money, you have to understand this. So much money that I was willing to hike to this sh*thole in the first place. I’m not a cheap buy, trust me.”

In a split second, she had the knife against his throat, drawing rivulets of blood that caught the light. He’d managed to knock her mask off and could see that he’d hit her with his salt: her green eyes were red and tear tracks stained her skin. Bruno wanted to pat himself on the back for besting someone much stronger than him, but her tight grip on the knife prevented him.

Her eyes were sharp, and Bruno wished he could recoil from her gaze.

He tried to focus on her face, just in case he managed to break free: he wanted to be able to tell his family what his attacker looked like. He wanted them to protect him from her. Staring into her cold eyes, Bruno felt the urge to freeze up but he couldn’t allow himself. If he drowned, he was dead. Simple as that.

She indeed held a strange kind of hard-won beauty; it was obvious that she’d worked in a dirty, hard profession, and probably fought for her life more than once—an angular face accented by sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes that seemed to notice him studying her, lamenting the loss of her anonymity. He could see why she used a mask. Her features were striking and unique. He could tell that she wasn’t entirely from Colombia, with her cat-like eyes that trapped him in her gaze. He’d never seen someone that looked entirely like her.

If she wasn’t holding a knife to his throat, he’d have spent more time admiring that, and how a few strands had worked their way out of her bun, framing and sanding down the sharpest angles of her face as she exhaled.

She growled. “Tell me,” her voice held a sharp edge to it, one that told him that she wouldn’t hesitate if he stepped out of line, “The world believes that you can see the future. I don’t. Prove it.”

Bruno wasn’t sure that explaining the specifics of his visions—and how even if it meant saving his own skin, he couldn’t have one on command with her knife against his throat. That sounded like something she’d call an excuse or proof of his conmanship, before plunging the knife into him.

“Do I?”

Despite her best efforts, her voice shifted into something hurt: as if it was tethering on the edge of a cliff. Bruno met her eyes, seeing fresh tears brimming, tears that he wasn’t entirely sure were caused by his attack.

Bruno did the only thing he could think about. He lied.

“Yes,” he spoke, trying to push reverence into his voice, hoping that her past was as stereotypical as he imagined, “You get your revenge. And you survive to tell about it.”

For a split second, blink-and-you-miss-it, Bruno catches her freezing. Ah yes, he thought, Bad Luck Bruno hitting the nail on the head. His true gift is certainly acting. And storytelling. Get a less stereotypical backstory, Lady. Seriously—you’re a girl who doesn’t seem to care about femininity and kills people. Someone you love is dead and you want to avenge them.

Dunno what I have to do with that and how kidnapping me will help you with that, though.

“You’re wrong,” she snarls, pushing her knife into his skin, drawing more blood and making him whimper. “You’re wrong.”

“I don’t want revenge,” she continues, her voice slipping back into the ice he’d grown accustomed to, “Now, if you know what’s good for you, get into the f*cking wagon before I have to injure you and drag you in.”

Bruno’s wound is stinging, and he doesn’t know how he’s been able to see past the ringing panic of being away from Casita, alone, in the jungle with a stranger touching him and no one there to help him. Survival instincts, he supposes.

“I don’t want to kill you, only for the fact that I only get paid if I take you alive. Get with the f*cking program and realise that your life is valuable to me right now.”

Before he had the chance to comprehend what she’d done, she replaced the knife with a glimmering gun, held taut against his throat. It clicked and she grinned cruelly, shifting her weight on top of him.

“And,” she continued, playfully turning her head and gazing off into the distance, “Trust me, none of the wilderness shares that belief.”

Bruno knew he was shaking. How could he do anything else? He’d had his brief and failed moment of bravery, and now the fact that a strange woman was touching him and was going to harm him had sunk in, and all Bruno could do was quiver. Some Tio. Some brother. In the corner of his eyes, Agustín was still bleeding. Still unconscious.

“So,” she licked her lips as she tilted her head back to stare at him, reminding him of a predator observing their prey, “Go ahead. Challenge my word, run off. I’ll be back for you when you’re desperate for even piss to drink, and I’ll drag you in. No matter what, I’m getting paid. Your choice whether you’re going to suffer.”

“Hey!” yelled a voice, right as a fat man with thick, bushy hair stumbled out of the brush, rolling until he managed to right himself on his attacker’s right side. For all her iciness, she glanced briefly at him, and rolled her eyes. Bruno couldn’t decide if they knew each other—of if she wasn’t even sparing him the melodrama before she killed him.

As soon as he opened his mouth again, Bruno’s questions were answered. “They’re coming!” he yelled.

She sighed. “Who’s coming?” she asked, her voice taking on a tired note, instead of dripping with danger and a promise of brutal death.

“The townspeople! They have weapons.”

She sighed again, still holding her knife taut against Bruno’s neck. If he moved an inch, she’d know—and she’d no doubt react. “The townspeople from the sh*tty mountain village? Pedro, we’re internationally recognised criminals. We disappear f*cking politicians. And you’re afraid of five farmers?”

“There’s at least forty, and the girl leading them looks f*cking jacked and threw a donkey at me! A donkey! And they have pitchforks! And fire! Fire on the pitchforks! Throwing donkeys! The plants also seem to move on their own! I got stabbed by thorns! A donkey, she threw a donkey!”

Bruno could barely bite down the laugh at the man’s horror, still sitting on the ground and barely able to breathe.

His attacker simply said, “Ah,” and “I see. If I find out you’re tripping balls, I’m going to rip out your tongue and feed it to you.” Her disinterested expression reminded him of a bored market cat. She worked her jaw in consideration, before turning her gaze back to him.

“I guess that means time’s up, Senor.”

And in one swift movement, she punched him. Black spots dancing in front of his vision, she let go of the knife and allowed him to tumble forwards to the ground. The last thing Bruno Madrigal heard before the darkness took hold of him was:

“Oi! You brute! I didn’t say punch him out! Now we have to carry him to the f*cking wagon!”

“Well, you better get your ass into gear, because I see the flickers of torches.”

“Elena! You asshole!”

Chapter 3: fire and powder

Chapter Text

ENCANTO, One Day Ago, Luisa

She’d been the first to break through the brush, and there’d been nothing to salvage. For a split second, her voice got caught in the brambles of her throat, and all she could do was shake as she slowly walked to the bloodied meadow, a breadcrumb trail of brutality.

She slowly stepped over Father del Rosa’s cold body, and made her way to the river, trembling.

ENCANTO; Two Days Ago, Elena

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around,” hissed an elderly woman selling colourful headwraps. If she was a lesser assassin, Elena would have clammed up. Instead, she leaned over the counter, examining a pitch-black silk specimen, “I’m just passing through,” she said, feeling the fabric between her fingers, “Visiting family.”

She tilted her head upwards to meet the woman’s beady, bulbous eyes, “Actually,” she said, her cheeks reddening as she ran a hand through her hair, “I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I think I might be lost—”

“Oh, darling!” she exclaimed, “You should have opened with that! I thought you looked around here like someone on a mission! Who are you visiting?”

Elena smiled widely, “Thank you so much,” she replied, her voice airy, “I’m visiting my big brother, he married into the Madrigals—”

Elena was interrupted. “Oh, darling,” she shushed, “You are very, very unfortunate. There has been a great tragedy in Casa Madrigal?”

Elena pursed her lips. “Oh?”

“May I inquire? I wouldn’t want to be awkward in my unknowing and potentially upset my brother, it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, God, I wish it wasn’t, but you must understand, with the conflict outside of here and the routes closed—”

In the flash of an eye, Elena found her head cupped, the old woman stretched over the counter, her hands clasped tightly around Elena’s skin as she whispered, “It’s just—” she worked her jaw, as if she was considering how to word herself, “You remember Bruno? Bruno is back, and well, you can see all the problems that’d cause.”

Elena simply nodded.

She pulled herself out the embrace, and found the exact same black silk wrap she’d been looking at shoved into her hands, “Look,” said the seller, “Keep that, it’ll look nice with your complexion, you have to look nice if you’re seeing your brother after all this time, no offense, but the black hooded cloak screams foreigner, do you know how to wear a headwrap—”

Elena grinned, pushed her hood down to bare her wild mane and nodded, before shoving it back over her head.

“—Okay, good, good, you’re a very beautiful woman, you should really wear colour, but I can see that the blacks are what you like, well, honey, I hope that you can make the best of your time here despite the unfortunate timing, you just go—” she started pointing frantically and it took all of Elena’s concentration to follow along with her directions, “—up there, and when you’re at the edge of town, you should really be able to see Casa Madrigal, as you remember, it’s going to be the most colourful house, and then you just knock, are you surprising him, dear?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, lovely! I won’t say a thing about seeing, you then, and I’ll—” she gestured to the throng of women her own age behind her, “—make sure none of these lasses say anything either, not even to Alma Madrigal!”

Elena grinned, curling her fingers around the black silk. “Thank you very much,” she said, her voice genuine, “You’ve been a tremendous help.”

“Say hello to Agustín for me!” she yelled as Elena had already walked off.
Kicking her head over her shoulder, Elena smiled and answered, “I absolutely will, Senora.”

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

Someplace between a mountain range and yet another mountain range, Bruno Madrigal woke up, sputtering with blood and completely unaware of where he was. He slowly raised his hand to rest against his throbbing forehead, only to find his hair matted with old blood. He wrinkled his nose, smelling gunpowder, blood, new leather and trying to figure out what the f*ck he’d been doing before he fell asleep.

Sometimes that happened. Mama said it had something to do with his gift—that he’d sometimes just drop on the spot, and just have to rely on someone kind being around to make sure that no harm came to him. It was one of the reasons that Bruno didn’t feel comfortable leaving Casita most of the time, and especially not alone.

But he hadn’t been alone. He’d been—

He’d been—

“Hey,” clucked a garbled voice, syllables getting stuck on an accent Bruno didn’t recognise, “Looks like our little friend is finally awake!”

A different voice sighed in relief. “Finally,” he growled, “Good thing you didn’t kill him, you oaf. Rojas would have us killed: nay, she’d kill us personally, in front of everybody! Slowly!”

The first voice—Accented and Mean—huffed a laugh. “You’re too afraid of that little bitch,” it answered, “All she’s doing is f*cking her way to the top and getting away with being messy for the show of it. Morales just wants a scary woman who looks pretty, and everyone knows that he f*cks. I don’t know why that’s surprising anyone.”

“Blasphemy!” shouted Relieved and Less Mean as someone slammed a glass against something hard.

“Don’t let Rojas hear you, you might not respect her or care about your continued existence, but she’d kill me and my children for fraternising with you, so shut the f*ck up. We’re just going to get this guy back for her, she’s probably already there, glaring at the clock and thinking about if she could get away with torturing us, even if we did the job! You can be a little sh*t when you’re alone, not on a job with me!”

Things began to slip into place for Bruno—it wasn’t dark because he’d hit his head, but probably because someone had put a bag over it, and he hadn’t fallen in the forest and while he didn’t like where his thoughts were going, he was relieved that his kidnappers seemed like they wanted to take him alive. But the ropes digging into his thin wrists and ankles didn’t inspired confidence in their good intentions.

If he’d been writing this story, they wouldn’t have tied him up because they’d have known that he was too weak—both of mind and body—to pose a challenge.

“...’lease,” Bruno fought to make his mouth work. It felt like he was gargling sand. “...wanna go...’ome.”

Relieved and Less Mean chuckled. “Home? Amigo, my friend, we’re on the way there. To Bogota! Where you’ll be a great man!”

Bruno found it hard to think. Bogota? Had he ever been in Bogota? No, no. That’s not where he lives. Bruno lives in Encanto—everyone, everyone thought that Bruno left, but he’d stayed, he’d never even left the house. That was his home. He wanted to go back home. He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he attempted to shake his head, rocking back and forth, a low whine working its way from his throat.

“—stop that—”
“—godawful behaviour—”
“—crazy—”
“—I know, I know—”

“—Don’t hit him again!”

ENCANTO, Mirabel

Tia Pepa’s head is in her hands and Mirabel is tugging at the loose thread in her skirt. Her Mama’s puttering away in the kitchen, trying not to think of the silence pressing down on them. She’s already been asked not to get anyone up for breakfast if they don’t want to, and she’s glad.

Mirabel thinks she’d have to bodily haul a good couple of her family members out.

“How’s Papa?” she instead asked and ignored the storm cloud that materialised in the room. Félix wasn’t there to chase it away with an asparagus, and it felt wrong for her to do it: for her to deny Pepa the validity of her emotion, the massive, unavoidable enormity of it. A drizzle was nothing compared to losing a brother.

Mirabel could barely stomach the thought herself.

Her mother gently set a cup of steaming hot tea in front of Pepa, sighing as she did so, dipping under the dropping hail to sit down. “Your father is feeling very tired and a little sick, but he’s going to be alright. Luckily, they didn’t seem aware of the picnic basket—and why would they be? He’s sleeping now, we’ll bring him breakfast soon enough. I think he’s more upset about being unable to protect Tio Bruno than he is hurt from his injuries.”

Pepa howled, burying her head in her hands, and sobbing on the family table.

They hadn’t let her see what happened.

As soon as Luisa let out a wail, Tio Félix came up behind her, scooped her into his arms and refused to let her go, even as her mother rushed by, something guttural working its way out of her throat, interspliced with Papa’s name.

Mirabel had kicked and even bitten down on Félix’s arm, but he refused to budge.

He’d started dragging her back to the house, halfway—he decided to let go of all formalities and throw her over his shoulder. She knows he didn’t mean for her to see it, but she saw them carrying Father del Rosa and Matthias’ bodies off, both of their heads looking more like stepped-on watermelons than the smiling men she wanted to remember them as.

“Hermana,” cooed her mother, wrapping her arm around Tia Pepa’s shoulders and encouraging her fingers around the steaming cup, “You need to keep a level head, I promise, we’re going to do our best to get Bruno back, okay? He’s not going to be alone, again. I promise.”

“How can you promise that?!” she snapped.
Julieta just sighed deeply. “Félix was talking about trying to buy him back,” she inhaled, “We’re going to wait until Agustín wakes up on his own—don’t you dare barge down the door, he needs to rest, too—because he’s from there, but we talked to Dolores last night and she says that they targeted Bruno, specifically—”

“Bitch!”
“I’m going to tear out her intestines and wrap them around her f*cking throat!”

Mama sent an apologetic glance Mirabel’s way before she returned to smoothing down her sister’s hair, scratching circles against her scalp. “I know,” she spoke, “Last night, I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know if it was because of the grief or the rage. I think it was a little bit of both. I kept thinking about what we could have done differently, if there was a way through the blaze—”

“There wasn’t,” Pepa interrupted, her voice, stronger, “I’m sure of so much, at least. I know forest fires, and no one should have walked through that before I managed to quench it.”

Mama exhaled. “I know,” she continued, “But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, you know? It’s useless, ruminating on the past, because there’s nothing you can do to change it. You can change the future and you can accept the past.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept this.”

Pepa buried her head in Mama’s chest, rain pouring atop them and in the lowest voice Mirabel’s ever heard from her aunt, she said: “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if we don’t get him back. We’ve already lost two people to this; I can’t lose Bruno. Not again. I don’t know what I would do. Not after knowing what he went through, knowing how weak he is.”

BOGOTA; Five Days Ago, Elena

The best way to describe the Green Light Inn was greasy—and brown. The glass she swirled in her hand was brown, and covered in a sheen of grime, and the drink inside was cheap and the colour of a puddle. The floors stuck to her shoes, and she always had to wipe them down before she went to work. Even the air would stick to the lining of your lungs, leaving you with a persistent urge to cough—but nothing ever wanting to come up.

It was a good metaphor for the city, too—it sunk into you, reached it slimy claws deep inside of you, and no matter how much you tried to hack it up—you couldn’t escape its grasp. But after twenty years here, it was boring. There was nothing new for her in Bogota—just violence for violence’s sake, the rule of the beasts slinking down the streets, wearing too nice dresses for her bruised frame.

It was rare that anything other than the notably brutal murder of a notably brutal boss reached her ears. Perhaps, that said more about her than Bogota. Perhaps, that said something about who she was a person. Perhaps, good people lived in Bogota and those good people tried to do good things. But Bogota had sunk its claws into her, and she was one of its favourite playthings.

Elena was sitting cross-legged on a barstool, leaning her arm on the table and ignoring how it embraced her with spilled drinks, batting her eyelashes at men who’d wanted heads to roll before, hoping they had another bad business deal to permanently settle—when she heard.

“Did you hear about the seer?”

It was Senor Morales’ gravelly voice that alerted her, standing behind her with a gaggle of his cronies—men who’d been either desperate or stupid enough to cling to every word he spoke. She felt for the desperate ones. She wanted to cut the stupid ones, take their heads in her hands and yell. Loudly. Sharply. Something about running.

Elena turned around, a very practiced and slightly sly smile already plastered on her lips. Time to perform, she thought, slipping into the easy mask of the Night Woman, with her seductive, full lips and awful f*cking moniker. She brought her glass to her lips, forcing herself to bite down the scowl at the whiff of bad tequila. One day, she’d go to places that served aguardiente instead of sh*tty Mexican tequila. One day.

“Seer?” she asked, a note of disbelief in her voice. “As in the character in old children’s tales?” she quirked her brow, waiting for her target to fall into her hand and excitedly explain why it wasn’t. And then, hire her to hunt down and/or murder this ‘seer’, depending on Senor’s mood towards them. Elena hadn’t been able to tell, only that it edged towards excitement but that could be both murder or hostages.

Or f*cking.

Elena really didn’t want to f*ck.

“Elena Rojas, my darling!” he loudly exclaimed, moving to wrap his arms around her. He smelled like sweat and sh*t. Elena leaned into his embrace, her voice sickly sweet as she replied, “Senor, my favourite has returned for what?”

Everyone who paid her was her favourite—and while she didn’t like anything about Senor Morales as a person, she loved him for what she could use him for. Two of the glimmering daggers sheathed against her hip were gifts from him, and the heavy Luger in her bag had his name engraved on it, only to be scratched out and replaced with a spindly E. Rojas.

Bogota was filled with sons of bitches who the world wouldn’t miss if she gunned them down in the streets—but one, Noche, reigned supreme—and she wouldn’t knock anyone else down before she’d stepped over his twitching corpse, wrapped his teeth around the curb and stomped until something said crunch.

“There is a story of a man who can see the future,” beamed Morales, “From a little village protected by mountains.”

“Hm,” Elena replied, taking a sip of her sh*tty alcohol. She swirled it in her hand, her eyes catching Morales’ and holding them. Sometimes, she wondered how much she gave away. Did he know why she was here? Did he know that she imagined ramming a pike through the curve of his jaw, so the tip of it stuck out at his rapidly fading hairline?

Morales’ hand moved to rest against her waist, right above her hipbone which jutted out more than she might have liked—she wasn’t emaciated, but she was mostly muscle and gristle by now, which didn’t work when half of the men who hired her only did because they also wanted to f*ck her.

Elena supressed the shiver at his greasy grip, the smell of smoke hanging around her face like a halo, a fat cigar looking like a sh*t hanging from his straggly moustache. When she was younger, propped up on her father’s hip, she might have said something about it looking like a street dog eating its own sh*t.

Now, that’d get the cool metal of a gun pressed against her temples, eyes that weren’t green like the grass or fine stones, but instead a stagnant, rotting pond, staring straight at her and asking if she really thought she was funny.

Elena thought she was funny as f*ck. But she also knew how to sell herself. She focussed her gaze.

“A seer? Tell me about it, I seem to have missed out on some of the gossip.”

She shifted to lean against Morales’ side, and some of his cronies whispered to themselves as she leaned her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering. Idiots, she thought. It would be so easy to shoot you all. Bam! Bam! Bam! You’re dead.

“Well,” slurred Morales, “They say that there’s this little village, Encanto, which has been blocked off from everything else by magic.”

Elena raised a brow. She’d heard stories—everyone had—of magic living amongst people, up in the mountains that she came from but had never been in. And that was all she chalked it up to. People regretting existing in Bogota, nostalgic for a fictional history of greatness.

“Magic?”

“Magic!” Morales’ arm flared out, his fingers splayed, while the one around Elena’s waist gripped tighter, digging into her flesh, and making her feel like she was on fire. Elena wondered how it would feel to rip off the nails, one by one, by the bed, and then chop off the digits. She’d clamp her own over his mouth, so he couldn’t scream when she made him unable to touch anyone again.

ENCANTO, Antonio

Antonio flopped down in front of his big brother, his eyes wide saucers and his lip pursed.

“I know what’s happened,” he insisted, “Someone hurt Tio Agustín and they took Tio Bruno away. The rats told me. They’re very sad. I am too.”

Camilo groaned from the couch, cracking open red-rimmed eyes, shifting onto his side and opening his arms, “I know, Tonito, I don’t think it’s fair that they’re keeping it from you, either, c’mon, hop up.”

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

Everything spun around him, and a female voice sighed.

“You’re a waste of perfectly good oxygen,” she snarked, and in his delirium—Bruno found himself thinking that she’d be a good telenovela actress—even without seeing her, he could imagine her shifting her weight on her hip, one leg slightly bent, arms folded over her chest and glaring at the male voice who hiccupped out a string of what Bruno thought were apologies but were muffled by a gruff, guttural accent.

“You’re telling me that he woke up, spoke enough for even you dimwits to understand—” Bruno could hear her audibly exhale, “—And you f*cking whacked him. Something you called me a brute for doing when I had a much better reasoning.”

“You didn’t see what he was doing—”

She shushed him, her tone as sharp as the knife she’d drawn against Bruno’s throat. He could hear the scuffing of shoes, and a strangled yelp.

“You,” she purred, “Will not speak a single word of this to Morales, or I’m killing your brother.” Her shoes slapped against the floors, moving closer. Bruno tried to bite back a whine, but it still worked its way out of his throat. Would she hit him again, would she—

“101 Rondel Place, by the way,” she added, and Bruno could hear a sharp intake of breath.

“You should at least cushion his head,” she instructed, and Bruno heard the sound of shifting, of someone shrugging out of something, before slender hands tapped against the sides of his head, hurriedly lifting it and laying it gently against something bundled.

“I would want to take off the hood,” she continued, “To be able to have a visual on him so he doesn’t aspirate on his own fluids, but that would mean him being able to see us. The little bastard’s already seen my face, but he doesn’t have to see yours or the route we’re taking. He strikes me as a flight risk.”

Her companions cackled. “Him? The beanpole? A flight risk? Elena, Elena,” one tsked, “I fear you’re losing your touch, your edge. Has the comfort of a half-done job gotten to your head, honey?”

One of her hands were still against his head, and Bruno could feel her recoiling.

If she hadn’t been touching, he would never have known when she spoke, her voice flowing like the rocks the ships crash against in the storm: “Well,” she surmised, taking her hand away and sounding like she moved to get up, “When I hand him over, you’re welcome to do whatever the f*ck you want with him, he’s not my problem then and I don’t intend to stick around long enough for you guys to f*ck up, even if it’d be very funny to watch.”

She clicked her tongue.

“But until then, remember, this is my mission, and you follow my directives. You’re getting too co*cky, and I don’t like that. I couldn’t give a f*ck about whether you were Morales’ personal jerk off-ers, I’m the one who makes the f*cking calls. Remember it.”

ENCANTO, Isabela

A good description of Julieta Madrigal’s way of handling grief: Isabela had only barely stuck her head into the kitchen before she shooed out again. Usually, she’d be beckoned onto a chair and food would be shoved in her mouth before she could get a word out.

“Isabela,” breathed Julieta, “I hate to ask you, but I just can’t handle him right now, will you please,” she shoved a tray into her hands, “Bring this up to your father?”

It was a little past lunch and Papa hadn’t been down for breakfast. He wasn’t in any imminent danger, according to Mama, but he could do good with eating more—he still had aches and pains that weren’t healed in the chaos of last night, and now, in the morning, with the rage burning out and solidifying into grief, they wanted to take action. But first: they had to protect those still at home.

It wouldn’t do good with suffocating yourself trying to save someone else. You had to have the stamina for the long run. Slowly, she nodded, wrapping her fingers around the tray.

“Make sure he eats? I’m worried about him,” her mother confessed.
“Me too, Mama,” Isabela answered as she nudged the door open with her foot, even Casita not seeming interested in helping out. That made sense. It’d just lost one of the three people with the deepest connection to it.

Isabela knew her father wasn’t sleeping, even if he’d wrenched his eyes shut. She didn’t comment it on it, instead just pulling out the chair and sitting down with the tray on her lap. Encanto wasn’t a place known for violence—Hell, in her life, Isabela knew of one person who’d died violently, and Emmanuel Guzmán had fallen from a tree and snapped his neck before Mama could do anything, but even that had been instant, as painless as one could go—and Papa had just watched two people die and lost his brother-in-law.

For the second time.

And this time, Isabela wasn’t sure that Tio Bruno was coming back. The last time, she’d been a child who loved when her uncle pushed her on the swings, and she’d thought he’d come back because nothing horrible happened in Encanto.

Pfft.

“Papa,” she tried, “Mama says you have to eat today or they’re not going to let you come to the family meeting.” That was a lie, but Isabela didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t Senora Perfecta, and if she had to lie or downright force an empanada from last night down her father’s throat—well, it was for his own health.

“And they need you. You’re from… there.”

He cracked open one eye.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he croaked, “I don’t want to talk about it because they’ll all know it’s my fault.”

Isabela drew her lips into a thin line, trying not to strangle the room in thorny vines. She steeled herself, digging her nails into her palms until she drew blood. “Oh?” she asked, raising a brow, “Did you kidnap Tio Bruno, Papa?”

He had the right to look enraged at her questioning, but she raised her finger to his lips before he could speak. “Of course, you didn’t,” she answered, “You’d never do that because you’re a good person. And because you didn’t, it’s none of your responsibility or fault. Whose fault is it? The people who took him. They’re the only ones who are responsible.”

It didn’t look like he believed her, but she could feel the anger ebbing away. Good. She might not be Senora Perfecta, but she couldn’t yell at someone after they’d been beaten within an inch of their life and hadn’t gotten out of bed since.

Even if she could feel the thorns twisting in her throat, begging for her to release it—to bite into the apple, to feel everything fully, and watch the world drown under her feet. But she couldn’t. She had to be there. She had to try and put the broken pieces back together without sacrificing herself in the process.

“Isabela,” he breathed, pulling her from her thoughts, “Thank you for being honest with me.”

“What?”

“For saying it as it is. Tio Bruno is kidnapped. This morning, your mother of all people said disappeared, when she knows it’s not the case. He didn’t go willingly.”

Isabela nodded.

“Dolores said he tried to fight. Dolores said he almost won.”

Isabela took a deep, shaking breath. She’d been right there, on the town square. Dolores had screamed—until she had, Isabela wasn’t sure her vocal cords were capable of it—and fallen to her knees, Isabela scrambling to grab her. She continued: “Dolores told me that if it’d been anyone else who tried to take him, he might have managed to run. But she was ready. He threw salt at her—”

And at that, her father grinned. “Of course,” he spoke, “Of course, Bruno would do that. Pity it didn’t work.” He spat, and Isabela lurched back when she noticed a speck of blood staining the white sheets. She bit the worry down but knew that as soon as she left: she was finding her mother.

Papa didn’t need more people fretting over him. He needed someone to speak to. “But she threw herself on top of him, instead of lurching backwards. Dolores said that it wasn’t her first time kidnapping someone.”

Isabela didn’t say the next thing Dolores had told her, when they’d waited outside of Mama and Papa’s room, hoping he’d be okay: I think if Tio Bruno had managed to have a second more, he could have ran away. And you’ve seen him when he doesn’t want to be found. It came down to a second, both when they took him, and when they escaped us.

“God,” her father gasped, “Someone from the cartels probably want him. They’re powerful. They have the money to make someone come all the way up here to take him, and make sure it happens.”

With a groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, swatting Isabela’s hands away when she moved to prop up his pillows. Instead, she settled for placing the tray atop his lap with a knowing expression.

“Motherf*ckers,” Papa mumbled as he picked up the empanada, “Motherf*ckers, I’m going to f*cking kill them, how dare they f*cking come up here and steal Bruno, tell your mother that I’ll be there at the meeting and we’re going to fry a f*cking bitch from Bogota.”

Isabela grinned. Now, she loved the sound of that. And a little good-hearted manipulation went a long f*cking way.

“Isabela!” screamed her mother as she dropped next to her father, already cradling his prone head. Isabela tried not to notice the blood streaming from his lip. “Bring me the basket, now! The picnic basket!”

Isabela didn’t take her eyes off Agustín’s swelled lip, flicking her wrist and having the thorny vines that seemed to be the only things she could conjure up at the moment carry it to her, dropping it next to her mother.

“Isa,” Julieta gasped, “Look at me, Isa. I know you want to stay with your father, but you have to follow Dolores. You’re powerful,” she gestured to the vines swirling around Isabela’s trembling body, “You’re powerful and you have to catch the people who took Tio Bruno, because we’re not getting him back if you don’t. Your father will be alright. Run. Follow Dolores. Find my brother. Please.”

Isabela had the urge to yell at her mother, but looking over her shoulder, she noticed the throngs of villagers filling the small clearing, fires bobbing up and down, the low thrum of voices coming closer. She stole one last glance at her father before forcing herself back into the fray.

“Dolores!” she cried, “Where are they going?!”

ENCANTO; One Day Ago, Elena

Elena narrowed her gaze, her upper lip quirking and her knees burning from crouching in what she was pretty sure was some kind of poisonous plant. The strange thing was that she’d been told that there wasn’t a single poisonous—or even mildly annoying—plant in Encanto. Just one more of the magical things that didn’t exist in a town she was pretty sure didn’t exist until Pedro kicked her off the wagon and told her to go for it. It’d sounded like a threat.

She’d hated him for it because he was too stupid to know sh*t like that about her.

As if he knew that if she failed this mission, not only was she dead—everyone knew that Elena Rojas didn’t really care about her own survival—but her mission, the very blood that pumped in her veins, would die too. And that would be like the moon falling from the sky.

She might have understood the tactical advantage in snatching a single man under the cover of darkness, but it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t fantasise about bursting into the small (perceived, nowhere in Colombia was safe, Elena was sure of this) sanctuary of Encanto instead of crawling through bitchy jungles, alone (without backup) to catch an even greater conman than her employer.

But money was money. And as long as the idiot kept up the act for long enough for her to dodge, she’d have the money. She’d take the money and run. Yes.

With a sigh, Elena slid down on her stomach, pushing through the stubborn underbrush without hissing at the burning pain, army-crawling her way to the mouth of a river with enough jungle cover for her to make it to the shimmering lights of what better be a town under the cover of darkness. Then, all she’d have to do was identify her target and lie in wait—like the cobras she borrowed her monikers off.

Elena Rojas had never seen a cobra in her life. Elena Rojas’ victims usually never saw her coming, and when they did, they didn’t have enough time to scream for help. That’s how she liked it. That’s how it was going to stay.

ENCANTO; Six Hours Ago, Félix

“Thank you,” he said simply, opening and closing his hand just to make sure that he still could—that the searing burns that’d consumed them had vanished into nothing.

Julieta slid another empanada in front of him. “Of course,” she replied, her voice strained. “It should be me thanking you for waiting all this time.”

She couldn’t be serious, could she? Since they’d found Agustín in the clearing, Julieta had been tending to him non-stop. Of course, Félix could wait. A few burns weren’t going to kill him. He slowly brought the empanada to his lips. “Do you have any more injuries to tend to tonight?”

He glanced out the window at the sun peeking through the clouds.

“I have to keep a watch on Agustín, he’s out of the woods but—”

“We both know that it doesn’t end at the physical,” he finished for her, “But Julieta? Make sure to take care of yourself, too. He’d understand. They’d both understand.”

He bit down.

“I’d like to think that you were right, Félix,” she pulled out a large piece of unidentified meat and brought the cleaver to it without so much as a flinch, “But I don’t know. It’s hard, I’m stuck between wanting to scream and break things and just crumble into nothing. And neither of those are very productive.”

“Maybe they are,” he suggested, “Maybe a release is necessary, sometimes.”

She chuckled, flipping the meat and flaying it clean down the side. “I see why Pepa likes you so much, Félix. But my catharsis will only come from breaking bones. And I have to bite that down for at least tonight, because they’re gone. They’re making their way to Bogota. And there’s nothing I can do about that, other than collect myself, collect the family and make a plan of action.”

“I know you all like me because I’m always positive,” he started, and Julieta’s gaze met his as she continued to slice, “But I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to say. Like you, I just want to break things. I just want to go into the yard and smash everything.”

Just as he spoke, an idea flickered to life inside of his mind, making him grin dangerously.

“Julieta?” he asked, “Is Agustín asleep?”

Julieta refocussed on the meat, raising the cleaver over her head again before bearing down with a sickening crunch. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’s going to stay asleep for forty minutes?”

Julieta lurched the knife from the flesh, raised it again. “He could barely keep his eyes open when I woke him last and forced him to take tea, because I cannot heal dehydration.”

“What would you say to smashing all those chipped plates out back? We’re the last people awake, after all.”

ENCANTO; Two Days Ago, Elena

She’d truly intended to take Bruno Madrigal from his own house in the middle of the night, but as she slid up the side, hopping over the back fence with ease—the first thing she noticed was a strange donkey, standing on its hind legs, and sucking the top of a cactus.

Elena almost blew her cover right then and there by letting a full-body shiver run through her body at the display. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Elena’s always known how to make herself unnoticeable, so she flipped onto the side of the house—walking across the seam. And if she felt like she accidentally kicked down a worrying number of tiles for how she’d practically ghost across the roofs of Bogota: well, she’d blame it on the sh*tty structural integrity of villages.

Even if, when she jumped back down to investigate the light flickering in the kitchen, she couldn’t see a single broken tile on the ground—but she’d lost her footing at least thrice.

Odd.

A lot of things were odd about this house, it seemed.

Her back ghosted against the exterior and she nudged open the back door with her foot, darting back into the darkness before any of the occupants would notice her. With the door slightly ajar, their voices came out loud and clear; phrenetic and neurotic, a ticking timebomb of repressed emotion.

Elena didn’t want to stick around for it to blow.

Above her, the sky shone silver—as she’d walked to her target, she’d almost been tempted to sit by the river, under the swirling sky, the water glittering as it lapped in her palm.

If she’d been a different person, she’d come back here with a lover—but for now, the lovely night was wasted on her.

“Of course, I’m worried about him,” chided a male voice. “Amor, how couldn’t I be? I just think you’re overdoing it.”

A female voice sighed. “We’ve had this discussion. We still disagree.” Their voices were too close for Elena to sneak a look, even if she wanted to. She’d be standing right in the path of the light—there’d be no way they couldn’t notice her, and even if she’d heard that this town was naïve—Christ, she’d just walked up to someone, and they’d started talking about everything that didn’t concern them! It’s like that old fruit seller wanted to be stabbed and flayed.

“While we’re on the topic of Bruno—”

Bingo.

“Yes?”

Elena fingered the gun, wondering how many family members Bruno had, and whether it’d be wise to just attack the house.

“I was thinking, maybe we should do something special for his birthday this year—”
“It’s also your birthday,” interrupted the male.
The female sighed. “Yes, but Bruno’s been watching them from the crack in the wall for ten years!”

What the f*ck did that mean?

“Fair enough, Amor.”

The f*ck. I might be doing the poor bastard a favour—by the sounds of it, his family locked him up for ten years. Should be an easy enough target, then. I’ll play nice.

Elena had of course heard of people who’d done the same—locked their undesirable children in the basem*nt or attic, because pretending it didn’t exist was easier than acknowledging that a problem existed in the stead of a child—and that sometimes, you’d caused it.

All your fault.

Elena exhaled through taut lips, her back hot against the sun-warmed exterior.

“Tell you what,” offered the male, sounding breathless, “Tomorrow, I’ll distract Bruno and you can plan something with the rest of the family.”

f*cking jackpot.

ENCANTO, Camilo

Supported by his wife, Tio Agustín hobbled to the table, collapsing against the chair held out for him by Abuela, with a soft, pained expression that no one dared dissect. Mirabel, upon seeing the bruises still littering her father’s face, squeezed Camilo’s hand tighter and he didn’t say anything about it.

He didn’t know if it was because of the amount of severe injuries Agustín had sustained all at once, or because he’d been refusing to eat that Tia Julieta’s food wasn’t the instantaneous cure they’d gotten all too used to it being, but his running theory was a mix of the two.

Tio Agustín had been beaten to a pulp, and he didn’t want to eat because he felt like sh*t. Fair enough. They all felt like sh*t.

His Papa, always the saviour of an awkward situation, swooped in and support Agustín’s back, pulling Agustín’s chair closer towards himself and Pepa. Julieta didn’t mind, frankly, if Camilo dared say it, she seemed relieved at it being lifted from her shoulders.

Sometimes, even the caregivers needed a break. Camilo had always tried to remember that, he’d always noticed how Papa and Tia Julieta ran themselves ragged for others—how himself and Luisa began to slowly mould themselves after it.

“I’m glad to see you up and about,” Papa said, relief evident in his voice, “We were all so worried.”
“I’m not the one you should be worrying about,” grit Agustín, his voice sounding like it’d been rubbed with sandpaper and trembling all most as much as the man himself. Camilo shuddered. It was the hallmark of being choked out. He’d learned that from Tio Bruno’s rat telenovelas.

Tonito stirred against his chest and Camilo softly shushed him, running a hand through his thick mane of curls. He hadn’t known what else to do with the kid fast asleep on his lap—he wasn’t going to wake him, but he wasn’t going to deny Antonio participation, either. Mirabel seemed to approve, and that was enough for Camilo, even if Mama gave him a weird look when he walked into the kitchen with Tonito balanced on his hip—and somehow sleeping through it!

Maybe that’s actually what she was scowling at.

Yeah, fat chance.

But fun to entertain.

As soon as they’d returned to the house, dejected and burned (literally), Abuela had escaped to her own room—and they’d known better than to disturb her, even if Tia Julieta had been worried of her having burns. Someone had probably reasoned that she knew where the kitchen was and allowing Abuela to come out on her own time would avoid your decapitated head ending up on a stick on the lawn.

But now, seemingly with a few hours of sleep to collect herself: she regained charge as the matriarch, coughing lightly to clear her throat and announce that she was about to speak, and your ass better be ready to listen.

“I don’t want to ruminate about what happened yesterday,” she spoke, “Because that’s not going to get Bruno back to us or undo the two tragic deaths our community experienced yesterday. We have had today to grieve, and now we must collect ourselves to form a plan of action. We’re not going to abandon Bruno again. Our Bruno is fragile and will not survive Bogota. I can assure you of that.”

Camilo and Agustín were the only people to hesitate in agreeing. They both had their reasons.

“We know that the people who took him are armed, dangerous and clever. It’s the cleverness that’s a threat, because they—” she gestured to Luisa, Pepa, Dolores, Isabela and (he beamed) himself, “Would be outmatched in a fight. But they were crafty enough to get away—”

Dolores interrupted.

“They have a leader,” she said, “That’s why they got away. They were two bumbling idiots and a woman who wasn’t—I, I didn’t get her name because I was too busy—”

“It’s okay,” assured Abuela, “You did your best.”

Camilo could tell that she was trying her best not to revert back to her old ways, and even if he didn’t respect a lot about the woman—even if he loathed the family for suddenly deciding that what she’d done was okay and had to be swept under the rug because she’s trying to be better, Camilo, you have to allow people the chance to try and improve—he respected that.

If she’d snapped at Dolores, he would have killed her.

Simple as that.

He might joke that he came close to it when he watched her keep Tio Bruno on a glorified chain to the house, but even Camilo found himself walking behind Bruno, just in case he fell, sometimes. Especially when he’d sway on his feet. He’d given people reasons to worry—reasons to want to burn women to the ground, but Dolores had done her f*cking best.

He softened his gaze, resigning himself to not glaring daggers at Abuela, even if he just wanted somewhere to direct his rage. He'd broken a mirror in the bathroom this morning and when Antonio had asked, he’d blamed it on his jaguar coming in for a kiss.

Antonio knew damn well that he’d been lying out of his ass, but when Mama asked, Antonio parroted (ha) the exact same story, and Camilo would both kill and die for Tonito. He even tutted out his little cute lip and said that Parce was very, very sorry.

“Alma,” gasped Agustín, his voice rattling out of his body, “We need to go to Bogota.”

ENCANTO; One Day Ago, Elena

If the man hadn’t spoken aloud, Elena would have missed her hit. For at least a day. She was almost ready to phone it in, slither onto someone else’s rooftop to sleep under the starry sky and try to remember that she couldn’t stay—even if the air tasted of freedom, even if she rolled onto her side, one hand falling over the edge, desperate to touch.

But he’d spoken.

So, as he flopped against the grass with a sigh, his eyelids bottoming out in the summer sun, Elena had mirrored him and briefly pretended that they were in some other life, some other woman, some other man. In that world, Elena thinks they’d have spoken.

Maybe he’d have said something wry, and she’d hide her face to laugh like a proper lady. Instead, she cleaned her gun, disassembling it without even having to look down, to the tune of his whistling.

The birdsong swelled in her ears, and Elena, cloaked by shadows, could only think what a waste of a lovely afternoon.

ENCANTO; One Day Ago, Dolores

She leapt off the horse, squaring her feet solidly against the ground, her hand ghosting against the firearm holstered on her hip.

“Pedro,” she growled, “Hand me your lighter.”

She ripped off a branch and with a flinch, ignited it.

“Get ready to run like bats out of Hell,” she instructed, her eyes narrowing at the approaching voices. She rested her hand against her horse’s flank, took a deep breath and threw her torch, the underbrush going up in flames as she vaulted back onto her horse, already taking off into the darkness.

Dolores’ breath hitched in her throat as she grabbed onto Luisa’s shirt, whose shoulder she’d been slung over when her legs couldn’t keep her at the head of the horde.

“Luisa!” she cried. “Luisa! We need to stop! They’re trying to trap us by burning down the forest! We need to go back!”

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

Agustín!

He jerked upwards, his forehead slamming into someone he couldn’t see. Seconds later, she confirmed her identity by speaking, her voice too composed for someone who’d just been head-butted.

“Agustín?” she asked, and Bruno hadn’t realised he’d spoken aloud. “Is he the one in the stupid waistcoat?”

Bruno didn’t respond. “If he is,” she continued, “I did not kill him. He didn’t see my face, there was no need to. His head injury may cause damage, depending on how long it’s left untreated, but it’ll never be fatal on its own.”

Rosita chirped inside of Camilo's ruana, and he begged her to stay hidden.

BOGOTA; Five Days Ago, Elena

Morales snaked his hand around Elena’s wrist, meeting her gaze and holding it until tears burned in her eyes. “Rojas,” he spoke, and for a moment—she wondered if he imagined her larger, with a softer grin and hands that didn’t drip with blood every Saturday, and knees that didn’t ache Sunday morning, “Bring me Bruno Madrigal alive, and you’ll have your revenge.”

“And I know you won’t fail, because dead women don’t destroy people.”

A shiver ran down Elena’s spine. He had her by the neck and was squeezing. Even if she disagreed with him, she couldn’t say no.

“Yes,” she assured him, already thinking this Bruno Madrigal—regardless of how he managed to trick the world into thinking he could see the future—dead. Morales would figure it out, all he’d have to ask is whether he’d ever find someone to appreciate him for more than his wallet.

But, she supposed with a barely restrained grin, that might take a well for the idiot to realise, so as long as Bruno Madrigal didn’t comment on politics—he might live a long and cushy life as a gangster’s good luck charm. And even if he didn’t, well: that was the risks you undertook when you became a charlatan, when you took to the stage.

Elena nodded.

“Consider it done,” her voice dipping into a sharp edge as she finished, bowing, her feet arched, “Senor.”

I am not a woman, I’m a god.
I am not a martyr, I’m a problem.
I am not a legend, I’m a fraud.

Chapter 4: to stoke a fire

Chapter Text

UNDISCLOSED, Pedro

He watched Elena’s face screwed up in what was either a nightmare or pain—and Elena Rojas didn’t have nightmares, she gave them. Clutched and drying between her slim fingers, he noticed blood on her gun. For a moment, he considered poking her with a stick or something—but decided that he liked his fingers and his ability to shoot, so he did the wisest thing and walked away, stealing a last glance at how Elena’s face didn’t look peaceful, but it was absolutely the most peaceful he’d ever seen her.

UNDISCLOSED, Elena

Elena only ever missed one shot. She was twelve, and her hand shook as she stared down her first victim. He threw his hands in front of his face and plead for his life—if not for himself, for his three daughters. For a moment, Elena saw them—crowded around their father, their hands dripping with blood and clenched tightly in prayer. And when they turned their heads to gaze at her, they all had her face.

She lurched back into her body, staggering back, and sending a shot that didn’t land between his eyes like intended, but instead nicked the sharp of his jaw. Elena turned on her burning heels and ran. Later, she’d learn that he died after three hours in the intensive care, that her shot had still been deadly—her aim still true.

She still knew that she’d failed. She still wrenched herself into the closet—no, threw herself into it. She ran into the house, slamming doors and crashing into furniture until her back slammed against the wall of the closet, and she tried to steady her breathing, tried to focus on a part of her that wasn’t splattered with blood.

There wasn’t any. It still dripped from everything—from her very soul and stained everything she touched. She ended up passing out from her panic, and instead of the beating she’d expected, she was lifted into bed with a gentleness that she hadn’t felt for three years, and it was never spoken about again.

The next time Elena was aiming at a big black spot, she hit it—and she stayed to watch him collapse, watch his wife and children come running out of the mansion, anguished faces screaming for someone, anyone, to call someone, anyone—even if it was obvious that nothing could be done. His head looked like a melon that some kids had kicked their feet through.

And Elena Rojas was the reason why. And one day, Elena Rojas would be the reason that hundreds of other men lost their lives—those hundreds of wives didn’t have a husband returning home to laugh while she stirred a pot, those hundreds of children wouldn’t be able to pick their father out of a line-up as adults—

All because of Elena’s aim—Elena’s aim that’d always stay true.

Elena pressed the knife against his throat, drawing rivulets of blood as she noticed that her face was reflected in the blade—and instead of looking ruthless, she briefly flashed an expression of fear.

She steeled herself. “Tell me,” she growled, “The world believes that you can see the future. I don’t. Prove it.”

For a moment, her voice faltered as she spoke, cracking like the dam, flooding from a swollen river, her sadness echoing: “Do I?”

She thinks about finishing it—about giving him a little more to work with, about asking do I do it instead of do I but his eyes meet hers, and slowly, he moves his hand to rest atop hers, staining it with his own blood as he holds her gaze. “Yes,” he exhales, “You get your revenge. And you survive to tell about it.”

Elena freezes.

“You’re wrong,” she snarls, pushing his hand off and drawing more blood, “You’re wrong.” For a moment, she almost tells him that she doesn’t intend to survive—that she knows she won’t, because she doesn’t want to. That she has so little outside of this that when she’s finished, Elena Rojas’ final bullet won’t be directed at a target, but instead, she’ll press the cool muzzle against the roof of her own mouth, and with closed eyes, pull the trigger—snuffing herself out like she’d done so many others.

She didn’t deserve any other end. She didn’t want any other end.

An eye for an eye.

She doesn’t tell him. Like thousands of times before—Elena Rojas lies, and she doesn’t even feel dirty for it anymore.

“I don’t want revenge,” she breathes, “Now, if you know what’s good for you, get into the f*cking wagon before I have to injure you and drag you in. I don’t want to kill you, only for the fact that I only get paid if I take you alive. Get with the f*cking program and realise that your life is valuable to me right now,” in the blink of an eye and one smooth movement, Elena replaced the knife held taut against his throat with a gleaming Luger. She flicked off the safety, and grinned as she shifted her weight.

She wanted to pat herself on the back for that move. That’d looked f*cking badass. Mostly, she wanted to shake off her lingering horror, the fear that’d run down her spine and settled at the base of it, reminding her of the smell of gasoline and smoke. And how much she hated it.

“And,” she continued, mock-turning her head and glaring off into the distance, easily wearing her confident persona like an old, well-loved leather coat that fit all the contours of your body, “Trust me, none of the wilderness shares that belief.”

She could feel Bruno quivering through her grip on the gun. Pathetic. Of all the men she’d been asked to kill, she found it pathetic that he was the first one she’d been asked to spare. She’d taken so many men who didn’t deserve it, men who had families, people who relied on them, even if they’d damned themselves.

This man? This man was a hermit hated by his own family who’d lost the upper hand when he shouldn’t have. For a moment, he’d had her in his palm, but she’d wriggled out and now she knew she had him caught. He didn’t deserve her mercy. He didn’t deserve her reverence.

“So,” she licked her lips as she refocussed her gaze back on Bruno Madrigal, “Go ahead. Challenge my word, run off. I’ll be back for you when you’re desperate for even piss to drink, and I’ll drag you in. No matter what, I’m getting paid. Your choice whether you’re going to suffer.”

She lurched awake with a guttural scream, throwing herself off the edge of the wagon.

“f*ck,” she gasped, her fingers threading weakly around mud, her back searing as she arched and retched.

Through dry heaves, she repeated herself. “f*ck.”

f*ck. f*ck. f*ck.

It hadn’t been this bad in at least a year. And of course, it had to happen when she was sleeping on the steer of a wagon, with two people who she didn’t want to hold that weight over her. They’d tell Morales, she’s sure of it, trying to make her look crazy to get a bigger cut of what’s hers.

She knows it, she knows it, she knows—

She pushes herself up right as Pedro rests his arm on her back, making her spring back towards the mud, scrambling forwards, flipping over, staining her burning back, too, and Pedro’s raised his hand towards her like she’s an animal that might attack out of fear, lying on the ground, unarmed, her legs akimbo.

The best comparison she can come up with is a puppet whose strings just got cut and is cascading to the hard floor.

“Hey,” he gasped, “Elena, Elena. Are you alright?”

For a moment, Elena had the fatalistic urge to shake her head. But she’s not doing confession, she’s not able to keep herself level long enough for confession, anymore. Elena grabs Pedro’s extended hand and hauls herself up on it, standing over the corpse of her reputation.

She could probably salvage it if she didn’t have any witnesses. Instead, she just nods towards Pedro, their gazes meeting as she turns around, her chin resting on her shoulder, where she spies the flickering lights of the inn they’d eaten at before turning in.

“I’m going to go clean myself up,” she informs him, already walking off, “Thank you for checking on me, but I can assure you, I’m completely fine.”

ENCANTO, Félix

“Alma,” gasped Agustín, his voice rattling out of his body, “We need to go to Bogota.”

When Alma glares at him, her son-in-law barely able to sit straight, Félix doesn’t just want to break the plates they didn’t care about anyways. He wants to grab their nicest dish and smash it over his mother-in-law’s head. He’s sure it’s an experience everyone’s had, and the reason he doesn’t do it is because he knows, although physical release feels good in the moment, it doesn’t make the anger ebb away—only tire you out too much to think about it.

As soon as your head hits the pillow (or the ground), the timer’s already reset and ticking. He’s ashamed to admit that it’s the fact that he knows violence won’t work that keeps him from it, instead of morals. But it’s been a hard time for all of them.

He has things to say—things that aren’t just sunny one-liners meant to placate a woman that doesn’t need it. He just needs to corner Alma in the dark to let them out.

He’s certainly not doing it in front of the children. Alma keeps scowling, and Félix snakes his hand around Agustín’s shoulders, encouraging him to sit back down again, even lean against him before gravity forces him to. The silence that’s grown becomes thick, threatening to choke him. It wraps around his throat, and Félix finds himself biting back the urge to gasp. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder at his beloved.

He's not entirely sure that the feeling is fully psychological. If he glances at her, he wouldn’t be surprised to see a tornado brewing. His voice cuts through the smoke, slicing straight through the thick air: “I agree,” he says, takes a breath and repeats himself, curling his brother against his side, “I agree with Agustín.”

It felt strange to agree with a man who, even with a day’s worth of healing food, was barely conscious against him, but he did. He continued, “I believe that if we don’t take action now, we’re risking Bruno falling into the wrong hands, people who’d do anything to use his gift. People who wouldn’t respect him—” his eyes darted across the table, landing on everyone before settling back on Alma’s, lingering a little longer at Mirabel and Julieta.

“—and second, if we don’t show that you shouldn’t mess with us, who’s going to be their next victim? If they find out that there’s magic in Encanto, I can assure you that they’ll be back.”

UNDISCLOSED, Elena

She gripped the toilet seat as she retched, her knuckles paling. She’d chosen it, she’d chosen it, she’d said yes. But she’d had to rationalise it for herself, sitting on Morales’ lap, his hands on her, and when she’d stood at the gates of Encanto, she’d climbed a tree and just for a moment, she’d breathed in the fresh air, closed her eyes, and let the wind caress her cheeks like she was someone else.

She pushed herself back, leaning against the cool bathroom door and tilting her head upwards. Two stalls down, she could hear a street daisy f*cking her john of the evening. If she’d had anything else to lose, Elena would have thrown herself back towards the toilet. Instead, she just swallowed down the bile with a wince. She folded her legs against her chest, her sharp knees poking at her sharp chin, her arms wrapped around.

The great Elena Rojas bare-assing the sh*tter floor. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

The problem about being a legend is that you’re not allowed to huddle on the cool, tiled floor of a place that doesn’t know your name. You allow yourself a moment to crack, and then you meticulously repair the mask so no one could ever tell—and you return under the blackness of the night sky, the world stretched out between you. She’s born into this; she’s going to die in this.

She’s okay with that. It’s what she wanted. She wanted to get her revenge. All she wanted to do is come out on top in the end and go down in history as a cautionary tale. Look what happened to me! Don’t do it to yourself or someone else because the inferno will rage until it stains you, too!

She exhaled, and on shaky legs, rose, steeling herself, slipping back into the familiar shape of someone who doesn’t exist. Gazing down at herself,

She’s always thought that you can tell quite a lot from bodies. Bodies tell stories, she’s always said. There’s a curved nick on her thumb from an afternoon with her father, her fist lesson in pain and perseverance. Her hands are naturally rough, her arms lean and defined from working them too hard for too long. There’s one lock of hair that’s much straighter than the others from how she used to pull on it when she was scared.

There’s a flat, coin-shaped scar on her abdomen from where she decided to take fate into her own hands. It rests right above her hipbone, that used to be more defined than it is now. She allows her gaze to wander to it, her finger ghosting against the skin.

Her back’s a constellation of curling, gnarled skin, wrapping around defined muscle, an infernal miasma of misused potential. She doesn’t need to be able to see it to know that it’s irritated. She slowly slips her boots on with no socks, gathers her soaked clothes in her arms and shoves them next to the door before she nudges it open with her foot.

She’d be wrong to think that she’s not physically attractive, that it’s not something she too can work to her advantage—she’s not hooker attractive anymore, too much muscle, her features too hard-edged, her skin’s not supple enough to be f*ckable in the light, but her tit* are perky and waist’s much smaller than her hips and when she opens the door and finds a man gaping at her nudity, she thanks God under her breath.

She closes the distance between them, wraps her arm around his shoulders and her body around his, kisses him on the neck and shoots him dead. She drags him into her stall, leaving a trail of red, to the sound of the street daisy’s carnal symphony.

ENCANTO, Félix

Félix hadn’t noticed how ridiculous Alma looked with her arms crossed before—probably because he’d been too busy being sh*t-scared of her and wondering whether she had the power to force Pepa into divorcing him. But now, Félix was biting down the urge to laugh.

He might not hold as much fear for Alma anymore, but that didn’t mean no fear: he’s sure that her old threat of turning them into carpets or mounting their heads on the wall still rung true if he tested her enough. And he’s sure, even at seventy-five, that Alma had the rage to carry it through.

He knew damn well that in a fight? Size was an advantage, but it was the psychotic f*cker that won. The poodle could defeat the rottweiler if it cut its teeth.

Alma took a deep breath, and Félix felt Agustín stiffen against his touch. Thunder crackles overhead, and Félix doesn’t flinch away. He’s never learned how, simple as that. Instead, he steels his gaze on Alma, but to everyone’s surprise: the words that slip from her lips aren’t a declaration of war, but a desperate plea.

“Okay.”

UNDISCLOSED, Alejandro

Alejandro would have liked to say that he woke up to Elena Rojas finally getting on her knees to blow him, but instead, it was Pedro poking with a sharpened stick and in hurried syllables, saying something about Elena Rojas—who should be too busy wrapping her lips around Alejandro’s co*ck—and cleaning up and you better f*cking watch Madrigal, Alejandro, or I will have your f*cking head.

Alejandro sighed, and resigned himself to his post, shoving himself upwards to lean against the wall instead of reclining; asleep, as he should be. He’d have appreciated a little advanced warning if they wanted him to take their shift because they were too busy lining their pockets. He knew Elena: she’d probably f*cked them both over by slinking off to gamble. Or shoot something. Or f*ck her way to the top of another organisation.

You know, lady things.

And Pedro wanted to f*ck her, so he was trying to suck up to her. Ugh. Alejandro firmly believed that any man who didn’t have a bullet in his head wanted to f*ck Elena Rojas, because of mere physical urges. She was attractive, and she flaunted it. She was the worst kind of woman: desirable, and fully aware of the power she held by being so. A frigid hold-out.

He’d accompanied her on more than one of these stupid fetch quests. He deserved his reward, and Pedro thought he could get it before him.

Behind him, Bruno Madrigal groaned and jerked. Tentatively, because he knew if their captor choked to death on the bag he’d tied around his head, Elena Rojas would have his, he crossed the distance between them, dropped to his knees and slowly slid the burlap over Bruno’s head.

Bruno groaned again, eloquent, opening his eyes to slits. Alejandro studied him for a moment, wondering why he thought the man’s eyes were f*cking glowing green when Alejandro was completely sober.

Then, Bruno Madrigal began thrashing and screaming, seemingly trying to claw his own eyes out but barely being stopped by Elena’s restraints.

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

With a hand that wasn’t his, he gripped Elena’s and dipped her.

“Elena, people do fall in love.”

She considered for a second, her eyes darting to the corner of the room and softening. She side-stepped, gently pulling him along with her, but to any outsider—it’d just look like they were dancing, swaying gently to music that didn’t matter, talking about things that they couldn’t, shouldn’t.

She tutted out her lip. “It’s very rude of you to insinuate that I don’t believe that.”

The answer was simple, and in a voice that felt strange coming out of his throat. “You don’t believe in love, Elena.”

“You don’t believe that people fall in love, and want to belong to each other, but they do—because that’s the only real chance anyone has at real happiness. You’re just afraid.”

Elena frowned, freezing, crumpling into blood-red sand at his feet.

ENCANTO, Abuela Alma

For most of her life, Alma grieved. First, Pedro—his was the longest, the grief was surer, more solid, than anything else, when she had nothing to else to lean on, she found her solace in the love remaining in her bones for Pedro. Then, Bruno vanished, and his grief became Pedro’s with a new younger-older face adorning it. She packed them away neatly in a box under her bed, only letting them crawl out at night.

The only thing she’d managed to save from Casita’s collapse was the portrait of Pedro, lying in the middle of the rubble, somehow, magically, without a single scratch. She’d wrapped him in a sheet, and tucked him under her arm, where he’d remain forever, safe from harm.

The thought of allowing any of her family to go back to the world that’d killed Pedro was unthinkable. But the unthinkable had already happened. Their sanctuary had been breached, defiled. And now, she had to make sure no one f*cking tried again.

The mountains might not protect Encanto anymore, but Alma would turn herself into an even fiercer threat, even if it spelled her own end. She’d finally fall into Pedro’s arms, and all she could do was hope that she’d made up for her years of falling in her final act.

She’d keep her family safe. Every single one of them. The grief that’d bubbled in her stomach from the moment Dolores’ face paled as they planned Bruno’s birthday surprise, that’d made her barely able to stand on her own feet and let alone string words from her lips had forced her to slip the mask of the cruel matriarch back on, and she was trying not to sink into the warm comfort of it.

Of detachment.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“I agree. We need to make a stand. There’s no possibility that if Bruno speaks, and I’m not attempting to insult him, but I don’t think he’ll be hard to make talk, that they won’t return here. Think of what an army would do with Julieta’s gift, Pepa’s, Camilo’s, Luisa’s… everyone’s.”

She’d already questioned Dolores to within an inch of her life, last night, after she’d counted everyone—made damn sure that the fires didn’t take anyone else, sitting in the kitchen, soaked by Pepa’s storm clouds. But she had to ask again.

Alma’s hands were folded atop the tablecloth, trying to hide how they shook. “Do you know what she looks like?” she asked, her voice fraying. Dolores just shook her head.

They needed to find her. Alma needed to find her, because alongside the bitch, lay her son—frightened and alone. Alma wasn’t sure she’d ever let Bruno walk out of Casita without fretting again.

“She wasn’t described,” Dolores answered, “I—earlier this morning, I heard someone snooping around in the jungle, but Abuela, it was so quiet—I didn’t think it was a person. It was only when she began—when she attacked, that I realised she was a person. And—I’m sure if he’d thought of it, Tio Bruno would have described her face when he’d managed to get the mask off her—”

“Did they say anything other than going to Bogota, Bogota is enormous—”

“No,” Dolores answered curtly, “Elena didn’t have an accent, but her companions did, different ones, but thick. So, they’re probably born and raised, wherever the accent is from. Does Bogota have multiple accents?”

Alma’s eyes darted to Agustín. She wasn’t the only one. Agustín sighed when he realised they were all looking at him. “People from Bogota sound different than us, but I’d say we have the accents, not them. But they sound very distinct. I suppose,” he considered for a moment, “Pepa, Julieta, Alma, do you remember how I sounded when I first came here?”

“I do,” interjected Félix, “I used to always think that you sounded so stupid.”

Agustín rolled his eyes, a bit of red peeking against his ashen pallor. “Asshole,” he chided.
“Dolores, he sounded like an academic who was high, his speech slurred but somehow clear enough to understand, and pronounce insanely long words. It was almost illegal, I couldn’t decide if I hated it or loved it, because of its—again—stupidity. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Dolores furrowed her brow. “I think two of them had that accent. They sounded smooth, like they were speaking how you’d imagine a textbook would sound, but they also mumbled and spoke quickly, but,” she winked, “That might have been the fear of Luisa.”

“They should be afraid,” Luisa answered simply, “I’m going to rip them apart when I find them.”

Alma just nodded. Before, she’d have lambasted her for such a vulgar display. Now, she found herself silently agreeing and wondering whether Luisa could be convinced to save one for Alma. Preferably, Elena.

“That means,” analysed Félix, “That one of them has a distinctive accent.”

“Pedro’s the one with the accent that isn’t from Bogota,” answered Dolores, ever diligent. “His sounds gruffer, like someone ran it through a woodchipper.”

“Probably backcountry,” noted Agustín, “That’s not entirely common in Bogota, and I think the combination of a man from the mountains and a woman leading them would be enough to make an innkeeper remember their travelling party. There’s no way in Hell that they’re making it to Bogota without stopping anywhere.”

Alma nodded.

“Dolores, how did they escape—”

Luisa answered. “Horses and wagon. I barely missed them. If the bitch hadn’t been shooting at me, I’d have gotten her.”

Even if he was sleeping, Camilo stuck his hands over Antonio’s ears and shot an apologetic glance towards his mother, begging to not be flayed. Pepa glared but didn’t say anything. Since Bruno had been taken, Pepa had been uncharacteristically subdued. Alma assumed that it was either that, or the ground erupting with the force of her emotions.

The storm would come, there was no doubt about it—but Alma had thanked her daughter that morning for her composure, had said that she understood it was hard for her—and after hearing Mirabel’s voice in the back of her mind, added that it wasn’t required of her. She couldn’t allow herself to fall back in the deep end, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find her footing again.

“That means that they’re not the fastest, especially not through the jungle. We could catch them before they made it to Bogota if we left tonight,” insisted Pepa. Alma wasn’t liable to argue with her, she’d never been. Again, she glanced towards Agustín.

She knew she should be apologetic for putting him on the spot like this—anyone could see that he hadn’t recovered from his ordeal, from losing his brother-in-law and best friend on the same day, and even if there was a chance at Bruno returning to them, for every second spent here: it was growing slimmer, slipping out of her grasp like grains of sand.

She couldn’t find it in herself to feel bad.

He was the one who hailed from Bogota. They needed to get Bruno back. Failure wasn’t an option. Simple as that.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “It’s a steep trip and it only gets easier, the further you go. So, they have the advantage, and they might keep it. We should leave as—” he moved to rest his hands against the table, only to wince when it pulled on an injury, “—soon as possible, if we want to catch up with them. If I’d been younger, I might have said—”

His words were broken off by a series of thick, hacking coughs. Félix laid a comforting hand against his back, subtly straightening his posture from where he’d slumped over. Agustín tried to speak again, only for Félix to interrupt him.

“Catch your breath, brother,” he spoke, patting Agustín’s back, “We might have to hurry, but we can take the five seconds, so you don’t hack out a lung. And then you’re going to let your wife heal you, if you want any chance of coming with me to kick Bogota Bitch ass.”

Hm, Alma liked that name more than Elena.

For a moment, it looked as if Agustín would argue—that man could either be completely demure or the stubbornest bastard Alma knew, no in-between—but his brow settled, and he took two deep breaths in before speaking again.

“You’d never leave me behind,” he muttered, “You’d end up in a gutter without me.”

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

A large black horse darted around the corner of a street that led into a cramped market crowded with black market goods and interested thieves. Stretched out into a full, grand gallop, the horse screamed its challenge as it bore down on the street, glorying again at how the shoppers scattered from its warpath, all except for one.

A huge and heavy man wielding a whip, causing the woman perched precariously atop its back to grin, her lips cracking cruelly. She roared an answer to his challenge and raised her guns at the same time the barbed wire adorning the whip glimmered in the sunlight.

Elena swung herself around the horse’s neck, sitting against its chest and above its thundering legs with hers hooked across its back. She blocked his strikes with her blade and as the horse leaped higher, she slashed towards and bisected her victim halfway through, with seemingly no expression on her face—from his groin to his neck, and before he could even start screaming or the horse’s hooves hit the ground again, she was back in her back on its back, unmoved by the excitement.

The horse galloped on.

UNDISCLOSED, Alejandro

Madrigal lurched forwards, his hands gripping Alejandro’s jaw and squeezing so hard that briefly, black dots danced across his vision.

“Please, please, please,” he gasped, electric green fire spilling from his eyes and onto his hollow cheeks, “Help me, get me out of here, bad things are going to happen, knock, knock,” he smacked the side of Alejandro’s face, “Please.”

The flames were fading from his gaze, as was his hold, as he slumped back against the floor. “Please, bad things will happen to you. Everything will go wrong.”

His gaze glanced towards the half-open exit. “Everything,” he muttered.

“Run ‘way.”

UNDISCLOSED, Elena

Elena was back to standing in front of the wagon, her arms crossed and a dead man’s clothes falling off her. “Why are you yelling? Did the elusive donkey girl return?” she asked simply, raising her brow, and challenging them to answer her.

Instead of doing that, Pedro stuck his head out of the wagon and said, “There’s a speck of blood on your cheek, Elena.”

“Right cheek?”
“Right cheek.”

Elena licked her thumb, and nudged it off, her nail scratching against her still-sensitive skin. Halfway through, she asked again: “So,” she winked, “You going to tell me why I could hear you yelling all the way here or should I just think it’s because of how goddamn good I look in my new rags?”

She did a quick shake of her hips, and Pedro grinned. “Nah,” he replied, “Our captive woke up with glowing green eyes, muttering something about everything going wrong.”

He added, “He passed out again, and we made the mutual agreement to put the bag back on.”

“Glowing green?”
“Yep,” Pedro answered, popping the p.
Elena rested her hands against the steer of the wagon, feeling the solid wood of it under her fingers, before mounting it with a huff.
“That sounds f*cked.”

She added: “Are you sure Alejandro didn’t just sneak aguardiente even though I told him I’d cut off his dick if he did?”

Pedro chuckled.

“I think you overuse that threat.”

She tsked. “It works, doesn’t it?”

Pedro nodded.

In the blink of an eye, he scurried out to sit next to her, their shoulders almost touching. Elena tried to bite down the urge to run at the inevitable touch, but Pedro didn’t move any closer. Instead, he uncorked a bottle, and offered it to her.

“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Aguardiente.”
Elena took it by the neck, taking a healthy swig. “Bastard.”

“I didn’t tell Alejandro,” Pedro answered, “It’s not his business to know. And I like you.”
Before Elena could react, he added: “Not like that. You’re—you’re a sh*t, but you have your principles. And I respect that. If you ever want to talk about it, you know, I would listen. And I wouldn’t use it against you.”

Elena didn’t know what to say to that, so she just took another swig before handing it back to Pedro.

Eventually, after playing alcoholic hot potato for long enough, Pedro slowly began humming a tune, his head kicked back, and eyes closed. Without thinking, Elena found her feet slapping out a rhythm, snapping her fingers to follow.

ENCANTO, Julieta

Julieta couldn’t believe that her mother had so readily agreed to something that only a few months ago would have spelled certain death if even breathed.

Leaving Encanto.

Not just leaving Encanto, but going to Bogota of all places, falling head-first into the criminal underworld and just hoping that you came up quick enough to draw another breath.

Julieta had never been outside of Encanto, and she wouldn’t lie: when she’d been younger, the thought had been exhilarating. She’d always like climbing trees, gripping the trunk with one arm and fanning the other one out, pretending to be a bird, pretending to be free.

As she’d aged, the uncrowned golden child of the Miraculous Madrigals, well, her urges didn’t vanish, but instead, they were replaced by the heavy weight of her responsibility for her community. And it turned out: it’s very hard to run away when you can barely stand. Impossible, really.

And along came Agustín, with blood on his teeth from the outside world and a sweet disposition, quite literally falling into her life. And her girls. And the urges had dimmed down into a manageable hum instead of a heart-stopping roar.

She wasn’t excited at the prospect of her brother being gone—being in the hands of someone who didn’t understand, who didn’t care for him, who didn’t understand that he was fragile, barely even himself yet. Someone who’d used him, someone who’d throw him away when they weren’t satisfied.

But just like when she was a girl, peeking above the treetops at the mountains and imagining the worlds that turned outside of them: she couldn’t say that she wasn’t excited at the prospect of taking off and running without caution.

UNDISCLOSED, Pedro

“Rojas!” roared Alejandro. Pedro turned to catch a glimpse of her disgruntled expression as she shook herself from her half-sleep, hauling herself up by the side, looking like she was ready to curse Alejandro for a hundred lifetimes. He wouldn’t blame her. She quickly snatched the empty bottle, gripping it tightly in her hand as Alejandro’s head shot out of the wagon, sweat dripping from his harried, thick brow.

“You look like sh*t,” stated Elena, still clutching her glass sword.

“We have to get out of here! Now! That man is insane!”

Elena rolled her eyes.

“And you called me an idiot for saying he was a flight risk, huh?”

Pedro had to bite down the urge to laugh, and he’s not entirely sure how he even managed it, looking back.

Elena shifted her weight, winking, “You’re driving, then, f*cker, if you want to go before the rest of us, well, you do the heavy f*cking lifting—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Alejandro darted from the wagon to the steer with what almost looked like relief painted on the bastard’s face. Like a bat out of Hell. Elena just huffed and slipped into the pits herself, blanketed in darkness.

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

Involuntary visions were a bitch.

When he’d been younger, he’d been so desperate for a way to end them that he’d considered lobotomy. Of course, in the long run, that’d have been more damaging. He knew that. Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it when his head seared from the effort of forcing back the visions that he knew he couldn’t safely have.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say that anything had changed much since his return to the family, because now: the disgust was replaced with a suffocating concern.

He didn’t thank his captors for a lot, but he thanked them for the fact that the bumbling moustachioed brute that’d wrenched his glorified gag off wasn’t her.

She’d have known.

And he was sure she’d have stopped him from being a nuisance, permanently. Bruno could still hear the crack of bullets breaking through bone, and the listless way Matthias and Father del Rosa had slumped against the ground. He didn’t want to think about them. Not now.

Thinking about them would make his hands shake and eyes blank and he wouldn’t escape. He might be bound and gagged, but he knows his best chance is to get out while they’re still moving, even if his head feels like someone took a mallet to it. No, not just anyone.

Like f*cking Luisa took a mallet to his head and kept going just for the kick of it.

Focus!

Get your sh*t together!

Knock, knock, knock on wood, now—escape!

He evaluated his situations. He was pretty sure that his biggest threat was the woman, with her lopsided grins and blood-splattered face that’d get him killed—she was a wraith, hiding in the dark, pouncing at her prey. A viper.

Good, now she had her name. Viper’s friends included the idiot that’d stared haplessly as Bruno’s eyes swirled with the future—the weakest of the bunch, both physically and mentally. Bruno had spent a lot of his youth wriggling out of the grasp of people who wanted to hurt him. He knew where to spot a weak link. The big one, the one who’d been afraid of Luisa and had a name that he didn’t want to think about—he wasn’t Pedro anymore, he was Bull, and the skittish f*cker was Mosquito.

Simple as that.

Yes.

All he’d have to do was avoid Viper, and Bull would cave easily.

The wagon shook, and Viper yelled something unintelligible, but probably a threat. The jerking movement didn’t help Bruno’s headache, but he wished that he’d just be able to get the bag off his head and see whether he could make a run for it.

Footsteps sounded around the wagon, and Viper sighed. “You’re kidding me,” she said. “Are we f*cking stuck? Here? C’mon, it couldn’t have waited like an hour or two so I could just have tossed the f*cker over my shoulder and done it by foot—”

“We’re not walking to the compound by foot, Elena.”

Viper tsked. “I didn’t say we were. I said that we would have if we’d gotten stuck closer, but you’re both such pissbabies.”

Someone slapped the side, probably Bull. “Elena,” Bull continued, “This entire place is Noche’s territory, and I don’t want to piss him off—”

Elena interrupted him, her voice sharp: “Neither do I. That’s why I want to f*cking grab our sh*t and run because the more time we spend here, f*cking around, the more time that motherf*cker has to line up his snipers and make a real f*cking pretty penny. Do you think I want to be here? What? For a fun little vacation where everyone’s trying to kill you?”

“Sheesh,” stated Mosquito, “Rojas, chill—”

“Shut the f*ck up. Now. Get the wheel out, I’m going to scout and make sure it wasn’t an intentional trap. I’m bringing the rifle.”

He then heard—and felt, God, his head, his head—her vault onto the top of the wagon, jaunt across it and land at the opening, before slipping in. He couldn’t hear her move around once she was inside, but he was sure she was there.

Suddenly, a hand was on his forehead, blanketed by thick burlap. “f*ck,” she exhaled, “f*ck. Double f*ck. All the f*cks.”

Then, as quickly as she was there, her touch was gone, and he could hear Mosquito and Bull moaning and feel them try to drag the wagon out of what he assumed would be mud. Or maybe quicksand, if they were really unlucky. Bruno didn’t know if Colombia had a quicksand problem, Pepa and Isabela had always made sure that Encanto didn’t.

Bruno would get back home.

He had to.

And he knew it fell to him, because even if his family tried to get him back—from his count, he’d been away for at least two days, by now. And no one expect Agustín and technically Mama had ever been outside of Encanto. They’d never catch him.

“This is one of the weirdest things I’ve ever done for money,” Bull said.
“I can’t believe that people desire Elena Rojas. She’s such a bitch,” Mosquito supplied.
“Do you only know how to talk about your dick’s fantastical exploits?”

Mosquito huffed.

“Asshole.” The searing in Bruno’s head had gone from a twack to a stabbing sensation.

Bull sighed. “Just help me move this wheel and you’ll be closer to not seeing me for a while and who knows? Maybe ‘Lena will come back, see the hero of the hour and fall into his arms, hm?”

“You don’t sound like you mean that.”

Bull tsked. White sparks danced in front of his vision as the wagon was jostled again, and he hated himself for thinking that it was a welcome respite from the blackness of the blindfold.

“That’s because I don’t.”

ENCANTO, Mirabel

“Not everyone can go—” her mother tried to say. Luisa interrupted her.

“I’m going.”

Julieta sighed. “Darling,” she worked her jaw, considering for a moment, “Of course, you’re going. Your gift is very useful. I should go too, I could give you food for the trip, but that didn’t work very well last time—”

Papa flared. “Not a chance in f*cking Hell are you going to Bogota and trying to liaison with criminals! If they find out what you can do, there’s no army that can get you back to Encanto!”

“So, I’m supposed to wait for them to take me here, like a good little victim?!”

“I can transform into them, if I just see ‘em. Dolores can follow their voices, and she can tell me who’s who.”
“You’re fifteen!”
“Luisa’s nineteen!”
“Nineteen is a big f*cking difference from fifteen!”

Antonio stirred against Camilo’s chest, causing both him and Pepa to stiffen, and the rest of the family to hold their breaths. For a moment, it looked like they’d woken him, but with a murmur, he snuggled back against Camilo’s chest and didn’t seem to be any keener on awareness than he was before.

“I just don’t see,” whisper-hissed Camilo, “Why not? I’m sensible, I’ve gotten myself out of sh*t before, and I could really be useful. If we end up not being able to rescue Tio Bruno because someone couldn’t sneak in? How would you feel then? Imagine how easy it would be, I could just take Elena’s shape and take Bruno? Who’s going to say anything to me?”

“Everyone!” Pepa whisper-yelled back. “Everyone is going to say something, and you’ll end up in a casket, idiot boy!”

UNDISCLOSED, Bruno

“We need to f*cking go, now!”
“f*ck, where’s the army?”
“—No, no, but someone saw me, someone saw me and they’re coming, and we have to run now or we’re all going to f*cking burn—”

†

As long as there is love, there will be grief.

The grief of time passing, of life moving on half-finished, of empty spaces that were once bursting with the laughter and energy of people we loved.

As long as there is love there will be grief because grief is love's natural continuation.

It shows up in the aisles of stores we once frequented, in the half-finished bottle of wine we pour out, in the whiff of cologne we get two years after they've been gone.

Grief is a giant neon sigh, protruding through everything, pointing everywhere, broadcasting loudly: "Love was here."

In the finer print, quietly: "Love still is."

†

BOGOTA, Bruno

Before he knew it, he was being hauled back to consciousness by sharp nails embedding themselves in the back of his throat.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” snarled Mosquito, pulling the hood off as he, with a huff, hauled Bruno over his shoulder. “Let’s make this f*cking quick because I got stuck with the sh*tty job of actually getting you while those assholes get to do all the schmoozing.”

“And boozing.”

God, Bruno would take another hit to the head if it meant he didn’t have to listen to Mosquito anymore.

For the first time in days, Bruno was thrown into the light, squinting as Mosquito unceremoniously dropped him on the ground. When his gaze could focus again, he found Viper and Bull standing, arms crossed, with a better dressed man in the middle of them, with tousled curly hair, demure glasses and an expression that Bruno couldn’t exactly read.

“Are you sure you got the right man?” he questioned.

Viper shifted her weight. “Pretty,” she answered, “I did do a little stakeout before I nabbed him. Talked to some real intense old ladies who tried to fatten me up like a prized pig for a roast.”

Bull chuckled. “I can just imagine you standing in the middle of the gathering, desperately trying to escape.”

Viper sighed.

“Yeah, funny.”

She moved closer to where Bruno had crumpled, crouching down to examine him, her hand laying flat against his forehead. Before he could think better, Bruno bit at it.

“f*ck!” yelped Viper, lurching back. “Motherf*cker,” she snarled, her voice lower. She coiled her body as if readying for a counterattack, but before she could, Curly placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“Now,” he instructed, glaring down at her, “Elena, is that how we treat guests?”

Viper tilted her head upwards to glare at him, still crouched on the ground, her hand ghosting against her hip. “Perhaps,” she pouted, “If they’re being assholes who I’m not sure want to be your esteemed dinner guests because you paid someone to f*cking kidnap them.”

He tsked.

“I’m sure we can sort things out.”

He pulled Viper up by her shoulder, pushing himself in the middle of her and Bruno as Bull and Mosquito stared on, knowing better than to say anything. Bruno didn’t like where this was going, he didn’t like how this man seemed to be able to command the people around him, but he couldn’t imagine that a kid with messy hair who didn’t look to be older than his mid-twenties could be the leader of this organisation.

He might not have lived in Bogota, but he’d always found Agustín’s stories of surviving there interesting enough to listen, even if he only ended up using most of them for plotlines in his telenovelas.

There had to be worse.

It wasn’t a good idea to attack the first person you met, because then you couldn’t catch the ones that really mattered off guard.

Curly extended his hand towards Bruno with a soft smile, “I’m sorry for Elena’s antics, she’s always a little bit of an asshole to guests. I hope she didn’t give you too much hassle on your trip, trust me, she’s a nice person if you get time to scale all her thorny walls—” he shot a wink towards Viper, who just raised her brow, “—Anyways! My name’s Martinez, or, that’s what everyone calls me, and you’re one of everyone, here. I’m going to show you around, and bring you to Senor Morales, our leader.”

Bruno glanced towards Viper.

Martinez seemed to sense it, adding: “Don’t worry, Elena won’t do anything to you. I’ll make sure of it. Are you good to walk?”

Bruno, half-lying on the ground with his legs akimbo, had enough grace to shake his head.

“Okay,” Martinez instructed, “Pedro, please pick up Senor Madrigal, and do it gently, don’t make me have to lecture someone else.”

ENCANTO, Luisa

“Okay,” Tio Félix sighed, “At least we can all agree that Alma is staying here right?”

Abuela tsked. “Who says that? I’m furious, too.”

“You’re seventy-five years old!”
“Young.”

“No,” Mama sighed, “And that’s final. We have to act like adults, because for every second we spend squabbling at each other is one second more Bruno is in danger and alone.”

With those words, the table drew silent, waiting on Mama.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Bruno hadn’t paid attention during the ‘tour’.

He knew he was shooting himself in the foot, he knew that if he really wanted to escape, he should be looking for every opportunity to, but he could feel Rosita burrowing in the pocket of the ruana that wasn’t his and smelled like home and he had to bite his tongue to not cry.

He knew if he slipped up, he wouldn’t get out.

He had to focus.

Keep himself focussed, at all costs, at the task at hand.

But his vision swam in Bull’s arms, and he was already so tired, pressure building in his temples.

BOGOTA, Elena

A simple fact: Elena Rojas would die if it meant that Martinez would live.
Another simple fact: sometimes, Martinez was so f*cking annoying that she didn’t know why she held such devotion for him. One of Morales’ leading men, an adopted son even, sometimes she couldn’t look at him without wanting to throw up, but he’d also known her longer than anyone else—and didn’t treat her any differently from the moment he’d met her.

For some reason, he always insisted that she could do better than this. Always insisted that she should join him at the university, that he saw a class on cuisine or sketching or architecture or a myriad of other things that didn’t smell of gunpowder and propane.

She always just rolled her eyes and kept walking.

“And here,” he presented, ignoring that Bruno Madrigal’s head was bouncing off Pedro’s shoulder and his half-slitted eyes weren’t seeing sh*t, “Is the cafeteria, where Elena insists on eating the sh*ttiest arepas known to man.”

Elena rolled her eyes, and kept walking, tossing her head over her shoulder to make sure that Pedro noticed her displeasure. He answered her by glancing towards Martinez and raising his brow in an expression that asked her whether he was really serious.

Elena shrugged.

Sometimes she couldn’t tell where desensitisation began, and delusion ended. Most of the time, he wasn’t playing up this flamboyant persona of Morales’ charming and f*ck, even affable, son. It’d been one of her demands for their friendship: if he insisted to have her without her armour, to have just Elena, she’d have him wholly, too. She didn’t need an act.

“Martinez,” she spoke, “I don’t think your guest is listening,” she gestured towards Bruno, and the line of copper drool running down Pedro’s shoulder—f*ck, she’d f*cking kill Alejandro if he’d done any permanent damage, she was f*cking getting paid and getting the f*ck out of here. “And,” she continued, “Anyways, I have something I want to ask you.”

Martinez beat her to the punch.

“Is it about when you lot get paid?”

Elena nodded.

“You’re getting very predictable, Rojas.”

She sped up, bumping her shoulder against his and trying to bite down the urge to melt against him. She couldn’t do that, not here, not in front of people who didn’t know her as anything other than a concept, who couldn’t know that the Night Woman found solace in the arms of someone else, that home smelled of expensive cologne.

“I had to run through Noche territory to get you your seer,” she answered, “So, I want to make sure I’m compensated.”

Martinez made a strange squeak at her words, the sound almost popping out of him—and most certainly, being utterly unintentional. Elena quirked a brow, shifting her weight. He answered her with a desperate expression that plead for her not to bring it up, and she didn’t, but not before glaring at him and making damn sure he knew that she’d be expecting answers later.

“We have to make sure that he’s the real deal before you’re getting paid,” Martinez instead said. Almost in unison, Elena, Pedro, and Alejandro groaned.

“You’re all dicks,” Martinez replied.

“We’re errand-runners,” Elena snarked back, “We’re hired specifically for the ratio of dickness in our bodies. And I’ll have you know,” she swatted at his shoulder, “That I have some of the highest. How the f*ck do you test a seer?”

“I suppose that Morales will want him to demonstrate his abilities somehow. In front of people. The ultimate dick-wagging contest.”

“But we don’t even know how the f*ck he does that!” Pedro protested.

Alejandro poked Bruno.

“How the f*ck do you do your visions?”

When Bruno didn’t answer, Alejandro flipped out a switchblade.

“What the f*ck! Get that down!”
“You wanted answers!”
“f*ck off!”
“f*cking bitch!”

And all Hell broke loose in the hallway.

BOGOTA, Bruno

He was lying on the floor, Viper sporting a dot of blood on her neck and Mosquito holding a hand against a gushing slash on his cheek. Under him, Bull groaned.

“Assholes, the lot o’ ya,” he slurred.
Elena clicked her tongue. “Madrigal,” she ordered, flipping a bloodied switchblade against his throat, “I want to know how you perform your visions for a lot of people. Senor Morales wants to ensure that you’re the real deal.”

There was no inflection in her voice, his head was swimming and something inside of him yelled that the distraction of a vision would be good cover for his escape. He remembered being tipsy with Agustín once, sitting on the steps and talking about the time a village madam had screamed that she’d lock Bruno up in her basem*nt, where he couldn’t do any more harm with his curses.

Agustín had laughed too much for a kidnapping threat and told Bruno that the most important thing about escaping a kidnapper was to always look for that option to escape. Then, he’d shook a bottle with swirling brown liquid, handed it to Bruno who’d necked it.

It was three weeks before his wedding to Julieta, and Agustín couldn’t look Mama in the eyes yet.

Bruno’s eyes teared up.

f*cking head injury.

f*cking Viper.

He didn’t lie to her.

“Sand,” he gasped out, his throat bobbing against the knife, “I need sand.”

Viper raised her brow. “A lot of sand or,” she raised her free hand, mimicking playing with sand grains, “A little?”

Again, he didn’t lie: “A lot,” he answered. She nodded, turning her head to regard Martinez and Mosquito. “Bags.”

She nodded again.

“Alejandro,” she said, “Get the f*ck out of my face before I do something worse to and figure out where the f*ck to get a lot of sand. Like a f*cking beach. Rob a country club, or some sh*t.”

“The country club has a pool, not a f*cking beach.”

Viper shrugged. “Well, do it anyways. f*ck those guys. Don’t golf courses have sand?”

“No. No, they don’t.”

She stuck out her tongue as Mosquito scurried off. “Not my fault that you’re a capitalist and actually go to those things, dude.”

The uncomfortably friendly banter reminded Bruno of his own sisters, his nieces and nephews. He blinked back tears as Viper winked at Martinez, grinning, and Bull wrapped his arm around Bruno’s midsection, pulling them back to their feet.

They’re just playing you, he reminded himself. They’re trying to make you feel comfortable enough to crack. They’re not his family, and he spent ten years in the walls. He survived that. He’s going to survive Bogota. And he might even get to kill one of the f*ckers that brought him here, even if one target was glimmering much brighter than the others, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Agustín’s bludgeoned face smiled up at him, Matthias—Matthias who’d been so kind, who hadn’t hated him, waving from the clearing, ribbons of thick, mottled blood dripping from the crown of his head.

Bruno shook his head, his hand reaching up to knock against it before Bull grabbed it, tucking it against his chest. “Don’t make your injury worse,” his rumbling voice instructed, and Bruno wasn’t sure how he’d have reacted if Bull gave him the option of moving his hands again.

Instead, Bruno tipped his head back against Bull’s chest, who resigned himself to instead of dragging Bruno by the arm wrapped around his chest, picking him up fully, one arm under Bruno’s knees and the other supporting his back.

“Bridal,” quipped Martinez. “Nice.”
“You’re too weak to do it,” answered Bull, “So you shouldn’t be smarting around.”

“Elena would do it for me.”

Viper made a noncommittal sound.

They sauntered past a window, and Bruno noticed that the sun had set, the wind tickling at the long, yellow curtains. He could feel Rosita’s heartbeat against his stomach, and he had no idea how Bull hadn’t noticed her, yet.

He didn’t want to think about what they’d do to Rosita.

He supposed they’d just stomp her out. Perhaps Viper would live up to her namesake and do it. Perhaps Bull would lurch back, terrified of the small animal. No, thought Bruno. It was elephants that were scared of mice and rats. He laughed to himself, and Bull gave him a strange look.

“It’s pretty late,” stated Viper, pointing at the window, “Do you know what we’re supposed to be doing or are we just going to f*ck off with expensive cargo as usual?”

She ran a little in front of them, stopping to cross her arms, shifting her weight from leg to leg, grinning. Bruno didn’t like it.

“Morales said that there’d be sh*t happening in the Ring at nine.”
Viper turned towards Bull.
“Pedro,” she asked, “What’s the time saying on your watch?”

Bull worked the hand he’d supported Bruno’s back with, revealing a watch caked with mud.

He squinted.

“I think it’s fifteen minutes to nine.”

“Oh f*ck,” answered Martinez.

ENCANTO, Mirabel

When—not if, when, never if—they got Tio Bruno back, and they made sure that he was alright, Mirabel was going to hug him so tightly he couldn’t breathe. And then, she was going to punch him for forcing her to listen to Camilo and Pepa whisper-argue, which was honestly worse than their usual screaming matches.

Félix had moved from leaning back with Agustín to trying to shove himself in the middle of their conversation, trying to quiet them down—and Pepa was barely containing a hurricane, by the twitch of her eye.

Abuela was desperately trying to draw up a list of who was going to Bogota.

“Abuela,” Mirabel whispered, gesturing to the list, “I don’t need to go.”

She did, but she knew that she wouldn’t get anywhere. However, despite her best intentions, Camilo ended up hearing her—and incorporating her into his hissing argument.

“Look,” he growled, his arms flailing around the table, “Everyone here is full of bullsh*t, look, they’re telling Mirabel that she can’t go because she doesn’t have a gift.”

Mirabel sighed. “Literally no one is saying that.”

BOGOTA, Elena

The Ring at Senor Morales’ compound was also known as the Arena. The simple explanation of it was that it was a ballroom converted into a fight pit when Morales’ men had taken over the mansion that would become the crown jewel of his sprawling compound, alongside the massive gardens where they buried the bodies of their prisoners.

A lot of those prisoners ended up dying in the Arena, pitted against far more experienced men for the entertainment for everyone else. Elena had fought in it exactly once—she’d been thirteen, forced, and she’d ended it with a man’s dick and balls between her teeth.

Afterwards, no one was very keen on a cage-match against her, and she’d spent months trying to scrub herself clean, almost ripping the skin off her bones, showering with bleach. Every time she stepped inside, it felt like she was stepping into a burning room.

As they walked up, Elena heard the hum of voices chattering from inside, her hands against the heavy handles, almost throwing open the doors. She turned around, catching Martinez’s gaze, her eyes begging.

“What about that demonstration?” asked Elena.
Martinez shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “All I heard is that we’re going to bring Bruno here to show him off.”

Elena gestured to the lolling head.

“Fat chance.”

“Asshole.”

Suddenly, Martinez scurried in front of Elena, pushing her out of the way and ripping open the door, wedging his body in the opening, “I’m going to go and check,” he breathed, “That this is all cool, and then Pedro can come drop Bruno in?”

His demeanour obviously said: I want to talk to you about something and because I’ve always had a silver spoon between my teeth, I don’t know how to make that anything less than so f*cking obvious.

Elena tilted her head like a bored granary cat, but stepped back, her hand resting against the heavy metal door, crusted with rust and blood—with age, becoming indistinguishable from each other, the rot eating the house from the inside.

Martinez stepped into the darkness and Elena pretended that she wasn’t trying to listen in. So what? She was leery. Sue her.

In seconds, Martinez stuck his sweaty face back out. “Pedro,” he spoke, his voice hurried, “You can just stick Bruno in the chair in the middle of the room, then come out here and make sure that no one tries to sneak their way into the show too early?”

Pedro just nodded, spared a glance towards Elena before pushing past her. Briefly, his hand ghosted against her and she imagined that he was asking her if she was okay out here with Martinez. As if she’d be anything else. If it’d be anyone else, she’d have already calculated the exits and decided whether she’d shoot or stab in a clutch, but…

Okay, she couldn’t say that she trusted him, because she didn’t know how that felt anymore, but she knew that she trusted him as much as she’d ever be capable of.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Martinez was standing next to her, their shoulders touching. His hand found hers, and when she confirmed the hallway to be empty, she rested her head against his shoulder, releasing a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“It’s nice to be back,” she confessed, “It’s nice to see you. I missed you. You weren’t here last time.”

“I know,” he answered, “I’m sorry. I got sick on a trip and they decided to give me a course of antibiotics.”

Elena chuckled. “Fancy boy.”

“I was too embarrassed to say that if I had an infection, it’d be from our sparring.”

Elena mock-gasped. “How horrible of you to insinuate that I would ever cut you and cause an infection without intending to.”

He responded with a snicker. “I didn’t say that I thought you did it accidentally.”

Elena squeezed his fingers, a heavy weight taking hold of her. “You know,” she spoke, “If there’s ever any fatal stabbings going down relating to you, it’s because some motherf*cker made the mistake of hurting you and I’m simply settling the score, reminding them of their place in the world.”

Martinez shifted, pressing her into his chest instead of his shoulder, his free hand moving to card through her hair, dropping the hood of her cloak, “I like the new clothes,” he said instead of finishing the can of worms Elena had opened. “It’s very businessman-in-the-bathroom chic.”

“You know me too well. Are you going to tell me why you made me stand out here or are you just going to trick me into thinking that it’s because you missed my greasy post-mission hair?”

Martinez took a shaking breath before speaking, and Elena almost felt bad. But she’d always believed in ripping out the knife quickly, instead of letting it fester. Even if that was against “common medical advice” and “holy f*ck, Elena, you’re a f*cking psychopath”. She didn’t like having sh*t in her that wasn’t supposed to be there. She didn’t like knowing that someone wanted to talk to her and playing hooky instead.

Elena was a woman of action, always would be.

She could feel the sweat pooling in Martinez’s hands. In her kindness, she tore her gaze from his face, looking at her boots, covered in mud and dotted with red. She’d have to go nuts with the toothbrush and boot polish, tonight, when she was a much richer woman.

“I just wanted to say that I think you should sit this one out.”

What?

Elena gaped at him.

She gave him a moment to regret his words, to fly to his own defence and explain what the f*ck he meant, but he didn’t. His hand lay flat against her scalp, and Elena felt like her body was in a vice.

“What do you mean?”

She tilted her head back upwards, and she watched Martinez visibly steel himself. She wondered if he knew that she could tell, if he remembered that she’d known him for pretty much her whole life. That she knew him better than she knew herself.

“I think you should go up, clean your boots, and collapse into your bed. I don’t think you should watch Bruno’s… whatever this is.”

Elena raised her brow.

“You know what’s going to happen and you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“If I tell you,” he replied, his hands moving to loosen his tie, “Then you’re going to insist on staying and that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? Can’t you just take my advice for once? I always do that, with you. If you tell me to leave sh*t alone, I’m not just leaving it alone, I’m standing as far away from it as possible.”

Elena frowned.

“That’s different,” she tried to explain, “You’re you and I’m me. We’re different. Fundamentally so.”

And they were. Martinez hadn’t lived the life she had, and she hoped he never would have to. She loved him because he reminded her that there was a world outside of the seedy watering holes and the barrel of her gun. She liked that. But it also meant that she kept him out of sh*t, because he was too reckless on his own. It meant that she acknowledged the fundamental, simple differences between them.

He was Martinez. She was not.
She was Elena. He was not.

Martinez creased his brow. “That sounds like you don’t believe we’re equals.”

And Elena really didn’t know why she answered, why she didn’t just laugh it off, smack his shoulder and pull them towards the Arena with the smile that she knew could get herself anything from him. She really didn’t know why she, instead of doing any of that, spoke: “Maybe I don’t think we’re equals.”

And if she’d ever had any delusions about Martinez agreeing with her on the fundamental differences that made up their friendships, the glass ceilings that they rested on each side of, they’d have been shattered into shards, getting stuck in the skin of her feet as she tried to dash away from the mess she’d made.

“I think you’re being an asshole, Elena. And I don’t think it’s something I deserve to listen to.”

But he still didn’t take his hand away from her or push her away. Instead, he just sighed. “You know,” he continued, “I thought you’d stopped doing this years ago, this taking out sh*t on other people thing. I understand that you’ve had a sh*tty life, I understand that it’s forced you into making sh*tty choices, but a lot of those choices also happen because you’re afraid.”

When she was younger, she’d have lashed out against him, thrown him to the ground and held her knife against his fragile throat, but she wasn’t sixteen anymore, buoying across the ocean on grief alone. She might want to walk into the river snaking around the compound and never emerge, but she didn’t because she was twenty-one, not eleven.

“I’m sorry,” she said half-heartedly.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said equally half-heartedly. “I guess I’m not going to convince you to stay out of it, am I?” he added.

Elena shrugged. “I don’t think you are. If you don’t have an actual reason why, a reason that you can tell me, I’m going to stick around to figure it out on my own and cause a whole lot of trouble. But I know you have a reason because you don’t do sh*t like this without a reason. Are you going to tell me?”

He shook his head.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He considered, eventually settling on, “Can’t. Maybe won’t. Afraid.”

If she hadn’t woken up screaming, she might have pressed him. But she could still feel the weight that’d settled against her spine in the bathroom, her ass on the ground, and she was already on guard for one threat that didn’t exist.

She wasn’t keen on giving herself a second.

“Okay,” she said, squeezing his hand three times, “Then we’ll get a front-row seat when the doors open.”

BOGOTA, Bruno

He’d been circling in and out of consciousness as he’d been carried but being thrown into a chair and strapped down tended to wake one up. Especially when a half-obscured overfed silhouette emerged, and sat down next to you, the wooden chair creaking under his weight.

Bruno didn’t try to struggle. He wanted his captors to think that he was meek, that he wouldn’t take the chance to escape when they finally slipped up. Even if, his mind supplied, he seemed to have missed a couple. It’d been daylight when he’d been pulled from the wagon, and it was dark now, hushed voices all around him.

“Senor,” the figure spoke, “My name is Morales, and I’m your new best friend. You’re going to make me a very, very rich man. Tell me, can you perform for me and my friend Senor Noche tonight?”

Bruno instinctively shook his head before he could think any better of it, memories of cruel villagers forcing prophecies from his lips only to lash out at him over those very same predictions.

“That’s a pity,” the figure cooed, “Because you’ll have no other option. Men, bring in the sand and open the doors.”

“Let’s get this sh*t started.”

BOGOTA, Martinez

The doors swung open, and it felt like Martinez was walking into his own execution, clutching the hand of the girl he loved with his whole heart and half his mind. He’d fully intended to tell her, but as soon as she’d been there, her skin touching his, he’d been unable to get the words out.

God, what had he done?

What was he walking into?

Elena tugged him by the wrist, and he knew where she was going. He knew that Elena hated the pit, hated the sh*t that happened in it—but he also knew that she wanted to secure her own payment, and that meant being here. It wasn’t the first time, and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

They quickly found their way to the right corner of the ring, Elena leaning against the railing, her eyes glimmering in the shine from the overhead lights—making sure that everyone had a good f*cking view of the bloodbaths that frequently happened here. Whenever Morales thought his men needed a pep, he’d schedule a glorified public execution here.

Martinez felt sick at the thought.

The crowd milled in, and Martinez caught the glare of Noche and his newest concubine—a deadly young woman described as a prettier (and less effective) Night Woman, who he’d managed to sway from killing him—from avenging the parents that Noche had taken away from her.

He quickly ripped his eyes from the sight, trying not to get Elena’s attention. Luckily, when he glanced back down at the ring, the lights flickered on and Pedro was undoing Bruno’s restraints while Alejandro and someone Martinez didn’t recognise hauled bags of sand, dropping them in the middle of the ring.

“Huh,” Elena noted, “Looks like they did rob someone richer than us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martinez laughed, “It’s not all of us who enjoy sleeping at the outskirts of the city in apartments with sh*tty water pressure and stained mattresses with the springs sticking out of them.”

“You wouldn’t know how to survive if you f*cking tried,” Elena replied, her eyes glued to the scene. “You know,” she mused, “The f*cker threw salt in my eyes when I tried to fetch him. I had to bite back the instinct to lurch backwards, and instead had to fall against him, so he couldn’t make a run for it. f*ck, that burned. I wonder if he’s going to do the same with the sand and convince us all that it’s the future. I’m sure as sh*t not volunteering as a test subject.”

She tapped her slender finger against the bed of her eye, dark rings blanketing it, “I’ve had my fill.” When she stood in the right light, Bruno could still see the redness.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Mosquito drops the last bag of sand with a sneer.

“Alright,” he snarks, gesturing to the crowing crowds at the edge of what looks like a boxing ring, but with steel fencing instead of ribbon. “It’s time to show us all what you got.”

Mosquito pointed towards the left corner, and in the ocean of shadows, Bruno sees the same fat silhouette as before. “Smile that way,” Mosquito instructs.

Bruno spits at his feet, still feeling the burn of the ropes, even if he knows that he’s free to move. So, he does, throwing himself from the chair, kicking it backwards behind him, Bruno Madrigal makes a run for the steel door.

“f*ck!” yells Mosquito, and Bruno can hear his feet slapping against the ground before he feels him on him, throwing him to the ground in a cruel tackle. His arm is wrapped around Bruno’s throat in seconds, and Bruno bites down, tasting the irony twang of blood.

“f*cker,” hisses Mosquito, ripping Bruno up by the scruff of his neck like a disgruntled rat mother, before throwing him across the room. The crowd jeers, and Bruno feels pressure build at the back of his head, watching Mosquito very purposefully put himself in front of the door.

Of Bruno’s only escape.

He can’t die here. He refuses to die here.

Mosquito, ever the showman, points at someone behind him before announcing, “Okay,” he speaks, “It seems that our guest, our seer, doesn’t want to cooperate. Bring out the… encouragement.”

Bruno gasps when he sees a massive man dragging a small child, gun against her temple, her curly hair wrapped around the muzzle. He settles on the edge of the stage, his face expressionless.

“Okay,” informs Mosquito, “There’s the stakes.” He doesn’t have to say anything else, Bruno understands but he closes the distance between them and still lands a solid, cruel punch against Bruno’s jaw, grinning, before he steps away. “That’s just for you being a sh*t,” he explains. “The next time, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt her. And then,”

The crowd erupts into applause.

“I’ll hurt you.”

In the corner of his eye, Bruno catches sight of Viper, her knuckles paling against the railing, her face—the face that’s so deadly—unreadable in her horror.

He thinks back to Mirabel’s expectant face as he prepared for his first willing vision in ten years and curses himself for being lucky enough to have a wide and open space in this cesspool.

“You should move,” he informs Mosquito in the last act of kindness that he’ll bless the bastard with. “You’re in the way.”

Mosquito sneers, but when Bruno pushes himself up, spitting a thick glob of spit and blood onto the ground before picking up a handful of sand and meticulously making a circle, he does take a cautious step back.

Bruno sits back down in the middle of the circle, breathes in, and succumbs.

She stands at the edge of the world, her life smouldering in front of her. Slowly, with a cautious glance towards the burning house, she lights a match, and throws it at her feet—burning herself down alongside her past.

The sand swirls around him, and he wills the vision away—forces it into something more concrete, something he can work with. The old instincts still rest within him, and he splays his arms like a showman, spreading the sand, swirling green power around him, spilling from his gaze.

Bruno wasn’t the best at having visions without being directed on what to see, but he was pretty sure that Mosquito didn’t want sacrilegious imagery of a woman that he didn’t seem to like that much. Bruno focussed his gaze on Mosquito and watched the clouds swirl into blood-red brutality.

The scene shifts. In between the grains of sand, he sees a scene that he doesn’t quite believe.

Viper’s lying against the side of the ring, reminding him of a toy that a child threw away in a fit of rage and she’s clutching her abdomen, crumpled in on herself and red running through her slim fingers. In front of her, Bruno is scrambling backwards as Mosquito holds a broken bottle, dripping in blood, advancing steadily towards him.

The tablet drops to the ground, and Mosquito, stunned, waits a split second before darting into the circle, dropping in front of a panting Bruno, and slipping the green glass into his fingers before rushing out of the circle and towards the edge of the scene, where he hands it off with a series of hushed whispers.

Bruno’s head errantly lolls to the side, praying they’re satisfied enough to throw him into a cell.

Instead, he hears flaring voices, and Mosquito is standing in front of him, shoving the tablet into his face. “Tell me,” he growls, “What does it mean? What happened?!”

“She is hurt!” he screamed, “Do you hurt her?!”

Against his better judgement, Bruno hisses: “Why? Are you angry that you don’t beat me to it?”

Mosquito answers with a sharp kick to Bruno’s side.

And then another. Bruno curls up, trying to protect himself, but Mosquito wrenches his legs back, throwing him onto his back and landing a switch punch to Bruno’s ribs, which make a sickening crack as pain sears through him.

BOGOTA, Pedro

After he’d untied Bruno—and damn, Elena really knew how to tie someone up, sh*t, he tried to bite down the urge to make a lewd joke, only because he’d seen how she reacted to them in the past—he’d silently slid up behind Elena, not questioning why Martinez wasn’t sitting next to his father, and their esteemed guest, Senor Noche. Whose territory they’d just romped through.

Or frantically ran through.

Yeah, Pedro didn’t mind the separation, even if he wasn’t as panicky about it as Elena. It’d been strange, he’d never seen her so… uncool about something.

Elena Rojas was always joking, even when people shot at her.

His concerns at their possible murder-by-terrifying-crimelord quickly died down when Bruno Madrigal sat in the middle of a circle of salt, and made it come alive in a brilliant emerald display.

Pedro stood, transfixed, as he watched the future unfold in the ring. So transfixed that he didn’t notice the small, strangled gasp that left Elena’s lips when she noticed who Alejandro handed the glimmering green window to. Or how she fell, only managing to hold herself up by her steel grip on the side, how her breaths seized in her throat.

But he did notice how Alejandro staggered towards Bruno, shoving the tablet in his face and screaming his rage. He felt like his feet sunk into the ground when he watched Alejandro strike Bruno, first on his side, then his chest, even as Bruno crumpled into a ball, whimpering.

During Alejandro’s barrage of kicks, a small rat scurried from Bruno’s prone form. One of the jeering attendees tossed an empty bottle after it, causing it to dart backwards and Alejandro to snatch it.

He held it by the tail, studying it.

“Ew,” he said, “Open the sh*t hatch.”

And when the hidden opening to the garbage disposal opened up with a metallic crack, Alejandro aimed, and tossed the rat—like he was a boy playing at recess. Then, he picked up the bottle, turning to Bruno and beginning to undo his belt.

BOGOTA, Elena

HE’S HERE!

The ground under her feet burned, and the scars across her back stretched out like a map of searing pain as she tried to lean against the cool wall, breathing through her nose and exhaling out her wrenched lips. It felt like her heart was making a valiant attempt at escape up her throat, dripping with molten steel. She knew she wasn’t dying, could see clearly enough to realise how she’d f*ck herself over if she reacted: but the feeling was there, and with every second, it sunk its claws deeper inside of her.

She could smell the gasoline, hear the wood crackling around them, her life culminating to nothing but burnt corners of a letter.

It’s okay, she gritted out, clenching her eyes shut and white-knuckling the banister. It’s okay, you’re not nine, you’re not back there, you’re twenty-one and you’re at the cusp of greatness, you just have to survive tonight, you just have to make it, as always, work through it, force stillness into shaking fingers, Elena Rojas never quivers, Elena Rojas is always ready to hit.

HE’S HERE!

The crowd was too busy watching the spectacle in the ring, as the sand rose again, only to fall back to the ground with a hitch, a sharp intake of breath not quite unlike her own.

Elena, you’re not back there. If you want, you can leave now. You’re only here because it’s important to be seen. It’s important for you to see, to make sure that you’re not f*cked over. So, you can’t really leave. But you can entertain the thought of doing so and going back to your empty house that isn’t just ashes and dust coating your lungs.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Elena’s sh*tty kind-of-apartment, the rooms that Morales kept here for her because she was a regular, a transient who still came and went with a predictable enough pattern that the bed always had fresh sheets when she collapsed into it, bloody and exhausted, swearing she’d just stay here for a night.

HE’S HERE!

Martinez usually convinced her to stay longer. Usually with some dumb thing about there being a function, and about how he’d pay to have protection, since a lot of people wanted his head. Elena was never quite sure, she’d always heard echoes of killing Senor Morales’ favourite son, but the serious offers were as rare as attempts on Senor himself.

It paid to not piss everyone else off.

It’d paid so f*cking well that she’d fallen for it—believed that he couldn’t be anything other than an old fat man with a habit of collecting like-minded idiots to bring to bars to pester assassins who had better things to do.

HE’S HERE!

Her gaze dropped to her wrist, and she slowly undid her cuffs, staring at the finger-shaped scars that snaked across her skin, like a bangle of touches she’d never asked for.

She heard the flicker of a lighter, and her head darted up—eyes immediately meeting Bruno’s in the middle of the ring, bent over, Alejandro in front of him, a green bottle hanging slackly from his grip as he undid the fly of his pants, bending down to cup Bruno’s head in his hand.

Before she could stop herself, she’d thrown herself over the railing, landing sharply against the sandy pit, the soles of her feet burning from the impact as the room quieted around her.

Her vision was swimming, blurring into a thick soup of sharp colours and bright lights, her ears ringing, but Elena Rojas would always, always know the smell of burning flesh.

HE’S HERE—RUN!

“Don’t you dare,” she growled, the voice pulled from her nightmares—still tasting of ash.

BOGOTA, Bruno

“Don’t you dare,” snarled a voice, and a pair of quick footsteps followed.

Mosquito grinned, tossing the bottle behind him. A small hand raised from the darkness to catch it, before sliding into view in front of him, Viper’s muscular thigh breaking up the vein between himself and Mosquito as Bruno tried not to show fear.

If Mosquito was bad, she’d outdo him just for the spectacle.

“No,” Viper hissed, pushing herself further in, almost shadowing him—he tried not to think about Agustín throwing him back, and trying to protect him from her—but the reminder was cruel. “I said, very clearly, that you shouldn’t dare.”

She playfully flipped the bottle, grabbing it by the neck.

“I hear a challenge! Does the great Night Woman want to show us how it’s done?! By all means,” he bowed out, “I will go after you, my lady, my dear friend.”

The Night Woman answered by slamming the bottle into his skull.

“Bruno Madrigal is my investment,” she announced, stepping over the twitching body, “Anyone who lays hands on him, and damages my investment has to answer to me. Make your choice on whether you’d like that.”

She allowed the room to linger on the silence, her glare daring them to choke on it, before she looked over her shoulder, flicking her wrist towards an errant gaggle of goons. “You,” she ordered, “You f*ckers, Fat, Short and Dumb, get the stretcher from wherever the f*ck we keep that sh*t and bring our friend to his cell. Make sure someone looks at him or I’ll cut off your dicks and sell them back to you.”

“This sh*t ends now.”

The crowd rippled,

“Elena, Elena!” a loud, guttural voice exclaimed, sounding like a miasma of squealing pigs headed for slaughter. It didn’t help his throbbing headache. Thanks, bitch. It’d be real f*cking easy to wiggle out of his if everything didn’t blur into swirling blobs when he even slightly moved.

Bruno tried to turn his head, but it was a futile effort. The owner of the voice soon made themselves known. He stepped forward into the light with a confident stride and the best way Bruno could describe him is that he looked like Picasso tried painting the portrait of a donkey’s ass making love to a deformed pig in human sh*t but grew so disgusted by what he had created that he doused it in gasoline and set it on fire.

“Morales,” she gasped, “I didn’t see you there.”

Morales gripped her chin, pulling her close to him. Bruno might be seeing things, but he could have sworn that he saw El—The Night Woman flinch before her gaze melted into liquid fire and her lip curled into a sneer.

“You,” she spat out, “Know damn well that you’re going to sell him, so you’re going to let all your f*cking cronies jump his bones? God, these f*ckers have an entire category of diseases named after them. Ew. That’s a way to provide a quality f*cking product.”

Morales scrunched up his face in thought, his eyes darting to the crowd as he lifted her up by her throat.
She grinned.

He dropped his grip, causing her to harshly stagger back, barely able to catch herself from falling to the ground. With the bottle still held in her hand, she gestured to him, “You’re going to make sure that someone comes and looks at his wounds because I’m sure that the f*cker who ends up paying the big bucks will get real f*cking angry if his seer is dead in two weeks from infection.”

Morales glared at her.

“You have a lot of demands, Elena.”

The Night Woman, because she was braver than he was, glared back, and Bruno had to bite back the sharp intake of breath when he noticed her tightening her grip on the bottle. She wouldn’t—no, she wouldn’t, right? She was his employee. Bruno had watched her kill without consideration, he’d watched her shoot a man who begged for his life with a photo of his kids—

“I wouldn’t have that many if you knew how to be anything other than a f*cking idiot who can’t get his goddamn head out of his ass!”

Elena yelped as soon as the words left her lips, her hands flying in front of her mouth and her eyes going wide in shock, as if she hadn’t realised that she’d spoken aloud. Morales scoffed, and before Elena, still frozen, her feet squared solidly against the ground, could react; gruff hands reached from the darkness and dragged her backwards.

Elena wasn’t stupid enough to resist.

BOGOTA, Elena

She’d expected worse when they grabbed her.

They’d just thrown her outside.

Elena curled against the wall, shaking as she heard every scream, her arms wrapped across her shins, and her head buried in her knees, trying to think of something that wasn’t on fire.

BOGOTA, Bruno

It was only after he’d been thrown in his cell, the tablet still clutched in his hands, that he realised that Elena Rojas had changed the course of fate. Her face stared back at him with wide eyes, a broken bottle held slackly in her hand.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena clutched her knees, tipping her head to rest against the wall and trying to bite down the tears pooling in her eyes. She was Elena Rojas, she was the Night Woman, she knew that men screamed her name in their sleep, paying their penance on her altar of pain, their breath ragged, choked. She didn’t cry. And certainly not about things that she couldn’t change.

She shook her head, wrenched her eyes shut and buried them in her pointy knees.

“Elena?”

Pedro clicked his tongue, and she could hear him slowly moving to sit down in front of her. She’d never noticed how soft his voice sounded, compared to hers. Two years ago, drunk and slouching against her, Morales had said she sounded like she’d come into this world screaming, and never stopped. At the time, she’d giggled and sipped something that’d bubbled on her tongue.

She cracked one eye open, watching him through the gap between her knees, his face bisected by stolen wool trousers. He sighed deeply, taking a breath, his brow knotted in thought.

“Morales says he wants to see you in his personal quarters. He wants to talk about the coming sale.”

Ah.

f*cker.

She’d love to tell Pedro that she was surprised, but she wasn’t. Simple as that. Elena couldn’t change the hands of fate, and Elena wasn’t surprised at Morales wanting to see her.

When she was younger, he’d insist that he always kept tabs on her because he didn’t want her to crumble under the pressure. Bullsh*t.

Bullsh*t. It’d all been bullsh*t.

He’d done it, he’d done it, he’d been there, he’d watched, he’d—

Pedro extended his hand towards her, and Elena slowly slotted her fingers with his, allowing him to pull her to her to her quivering feet. The trembling had died down after the first twenty minutes, but every now and then, the aftershocks would surge through her body when she thought of what she’d said.

Everything had boiled over. She hadn’t thought. She had to save herself, now. She’d wriggled out of worse situations. She just wished someone other than Pedro had come to get her. She was uncomfortable at his kindness towards her. It reminded her of the snake tricking you into thinking its harmless, before delivering a lethal bite.

“Elena,” continued Pedro, slowly tugging her along. She followed him like a marionette with her strings tangled firmly around his wrist. “I just wanted you to know that I left.”

“What?”

Pedro turned, his eyes meeting hers over his shoulder. “I didn’t stay to watch it. I couldn’t. You were right. It was cruel and wrong, and people got carried away. Me, too. It was shameful. I’m sorry.”

Elena frowned.

“You’re not apologising to the right person. I wasn’t the one who almost got ass-f*cked with a bottle.”

Pedro winced, and Elena almost felt bad for her bluntness. Every step felt like stepping on glass, and if she’d had any control over her situation: she likes to think that she’d have told him to go f*ck himself instead of trying to pretend to care about her.

“But you were the one that stood up against them, and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t back you up. I’m not apologising for watching that, you’re right—that’s not you who deserves or needs that. But I’m apologising for not backing you up, because I was afraid.”

“Oh.”

Elena didn’t know what to say to that. Elena squeezed his hand. “Thanks,” she answered, “I don’t know if I’ll have the spine to do it again. It was a foolish decision.”

She couldn’t read the look that darted across Pedro’s face at her words.

It felt like admitting something more dangerous. The Night Woman wasn’t employed by Morales, but she was still trapped here, all the same. The red string that connected them all, dripping red, staining her skin, never washing out even when she drew her own blood—it tied everyone here together. The only difference for her was that Morales liked her. She was a favourite.

Not for anything to do with her personality; she’d chuckled about it a few years ago. If Morales represented a sin, it would be gluttony or greed. He didn’t hold Elena’s lust for vengeance. The smell of gunpowder wasn’t better than sex to him. He wasn’t known for being good with words, but he’d summed it up well when he’d wondered why Martinez was interested in her.

Elena Rojas was an intense bitch who’ll both burn herself out, and you if you get too close. She might be perfection when it comes to first impressions, but she’s corrupted: a master of self-destruction, dancing on the wagon before purposefully falling off it just to see what happens.

“Pedro?”

He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. She knew that Pedro had children, and for a moment, she thought how lucky they were. She’d always looked down on people in this business who were foolish enough to give into the urge for kids, but she sincerely hoped that Pedro would continue coming home to his.

“Can I ask you a question?”

They turned the last corner, and Elena shivered. She hadn’t noticed how far they’d walked. Pedro’s expression shifted, too, into something hard-edged, but still flavoured with warmth. “If you’re quick,” he answered, “We’re almost there.”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

ENCANTO, Abuela Alma

“Everyone!”

“Focus!”

The arguments fizzed into nothing, and Alma slowly pushed herself up.

“Here’s how it’s going to happen, Antonio is going to round up anything that can be ridden through the jungle, safely and fast, tell them that we need help, and then Pepa, Luisa, Félix, Camilo, Isabela and—” she spared an apologetic glance towards Dolores and Agustín, “Agustín and Dolores, are going to follow the trail to Bogota.”

“The rest of us hold down the fort.”

BOGOTA, Elena

“Ellie,” he sneered against her skin, his lips burning as they migrated lower down her chest. “Oh, Ellie, you’ve grown into such a woman, haven’t you?”

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she laid her hand atop his, guiding it to rest against her tit*. “Yes,” she purred, biting down the bile, “I have. Show me what a man looks like.”

Chapter 5: burning confessions

Chapter Text

BOGOTA, Elena

She was staring at the ceiling when he said it, her clothes thrown in a heap on the floor and her legs splayed listlessly against a polished desk. The lingering, nagging scream at the back of her mind from seeing Noche again quieted down into nothing, every touch, every pull and moan muddying together.

“Ellie?”

She keened, shifting as his fat, greasy fingers walked across her ribcage, leaving a trail of goosebumps and stiff muscles in his wake.

“I want to speak to you.”

Elena hummed. “Yes,” she purred, “Tell me.”

Usually, he’d groan about the adopted sons flying by the seat of their pants and not respecting the sacred institution of flooding desperate communities with drugs and shooting schoolchildren, and Elena would nod and hum in agreement as if she wasn’t thinking about smashing his head open with his letter opener and playing around in there.

The only time she’d ever reacted truly was the time he’d said how it was such a pity that she hadn’t ended up as the opposite of what her father would have wanted.

She’d yelled something about him not knowing what Martino Rojas wanted out of his daughter even if Morales had known her father better than her, or how she was glad to not just be someone’s daughter who’s only purpose was to marry rich as a way to climb the ladder.

If she’d been….

Well, she’d have been a girl in a world where her only goal was to marry rich, because her father didn’t have any sons.

He only had her. She only had him.

And now she didn’t.

So, Elena had snapped. And Morales had learned that during their midnight rendezvous, he was to speak to her as a common whor* and she’d be silently resigned to what was happening to her. And she’d never speak a word of why she hated sitting down in his office, even during daylight.

Even when he couldn’t f*ck her because he didn’t want to look at her, and the fact that she was littered with badly healed burns; a constant reminder of brutality, of the consequences of doing business. Elena always wondered if he looked at the grooves of her back, where singed flesh met healthy skin and thought of his own children—and that she hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

That what happened to her could happen to him, too.

Elena’s existence was an unspoken threat—both in that she survived and how she did it.

“You are truly an extraordinary asset, Ellie,” Morales cooed, his head dipping and his lips dragging across her collarbone, “You just made me a very rich man. I don’t think you understand how you changed the tide of battle. I always said that you would refine the status of Colombia, but I didn’t ever trick myself into thinking that you would do it in such a spectacular way, no, not even me.”

Elena bit back down the urge to bite back. How the f*ck was her greatest achievement tied to a man? Elena wasn’t the one who could read the future, Elena was the one who shouldered the burden of shattering age-old crime monopolies, who slipped under the surface without a flinch and cracked cartels from the inside.

Kidnapping a hermit wasn’t f*cking impressive. Even f*cking Alejandro could do that. If someone asked Elena to shoot a president, she could answer with, “Not my first, won’t be my last.”

And he’d never acknowledged her power before.

Instead of saying anything to that, Elena just nodded again.

“You’re changing the landscape, Ellie—”

The nickname made her want to throw up.

“—Imagine the power of knowing the future is on your side, of being able to circumvent the hands of fate. It’s truly a tragedy that you had to miss the full display, but I understand. I always understand for you because you’re my favourite asset. For you, I’ll make an expectation.”

“Thank you,” she forced out, “Senor. It’s deeply appreciated.”

“Because of you, we can auction off usage of Bruno Madrigal to the greatest players, even Senor Noche has travelled to bid. I’m deeply sorry for what happened tonight, I’m sure you could see it as disrespectful. Of course, we’re going to withhold your pay until we have the money from the bid, to make sure that you get an equal cut. Because I love you, Ellie.”

Elena’s back arched with a crack and everything faded to black.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Bruno didn’t remember much after Elena had been dragged out, limp like one of Mirabel’s homemade dolls, hanging in the vice-grip of cruelty, her body slumped.

What he did remember was being ordered to do vision after vision, a gun held against his bobbing throat and a faceless man sitting next to him, having realised that his visions weren’t dangerous, gathering the tablets in his lap. They’d quickly realised that Bruno did best when given a target, so they’d describe it.

And that made it worse.

How will the takeover of the Mariposa Orphanage go?

Sixty-seven dead children, the rest (except for one that you’ll find huddled in a closet and malnourished a week later, she won’t speak for two years) severely injured.

They hadn’t liked that one, because dead and injured children didn’t make good child soldiers and Bruno’s head had bounced off the ground.

The incense and candles and fancy hand-waving was just that—a cog in showmanship’s machine. Getting down to the nitty and gritty of it; all Bruno needed to have a vision was his traitorous mind, and sand if he wanted to imprint it.

He had sand, his gaze swirled, and someone grabbed his wrist. His first—dissatisfactory—vision lying limply in his lap.

“Tell me,” interjected Mosquito, “Tell me of my greatness.”

Bruno thought of Elena folded on the ground, clutching her wound, her eyes glazed over, and he thought that he didn’t think it’d been his doing, in the future that didn’t happen, or would happen. Elena had been angled towards him, as if she’d been fighting to get close to him.

He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew that she didn’t mean him well.

Bruno cracked his wrists, then his knuckles in quick succession, taking pride in how Mosquito flinched as he did so. Mama would have immediately ordered him to stop, Pepa would have yelled for Julieta and Julieta would have stared at him with wide, disappointed eyes until he stopped on his own.

He found it strangely satisfying to see Mosquito’s disgust, to being something unsightly after so many weeks of never being able to pick at even a nail.

“Okay,” he announced, drawing his arms in an arc over him, the sand following like ribbons, “Do you want to see your greatness?”

The sand plumed around them, enveloping them. Bruno raised his head to gaze at the growing ceiling, at the futures spinning in front of them. First, he saw Elena clutching the bottle, throwing it up and grabbing it again, grinning as she commanded the room.

He watched her knock out Mosquito and had to bite back the urge to laugh as the bottle clanged off the side of Mosquito’s head, how he crumpled to the ground like Elena had simply pressed his off switch, a small dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth.

Bruno remembers wondering if she’d killed Mosquito, but he knows how this story ends. It ends with them carrying Elena out, limp, and Mosquito slowly coming to again, only to torment Bruno further. He flicked his wrist, he wasn’t interested in what could have happened, he was interested in what was going to happen—and hopefully, Bad Luck Bruno’s curse would strike against, because Mosquito would hang himself if Bruno gave him rope.

And he would, gladly.

The picture changed, Mosquito was standing at the church altar, Elena walked down the aisle towards him, a long chain of billowing white following her. Bruno tilted his head, and she wasn’t the bride anymore, instead, she was storming down, throwing off her cloak and brandishing that same, bloodstained bottle. Under her cloak, instead of the beautiful white dress that hugged her body, she was wearing a white tank top and wool pants that could have been Agustín’s, held up with a tightened holster belt, bobbing off her hip as she drew her gun.

He came back to himself with the cool pressure of a muzzle against his jaw.

“I don’t understand it,” snarled Mosquito, “First, she was my bride, now she is my killer?”

Bruno shrugged. “The future sometimes has multiple ways to go. It can go both ways, depending on you, I suppose.”

“I don’t like that you suppose. I want it in stone.”

“That’s not how the future works, idiot.”

Bruno’s hands flew to his pockets, only to be reminded of their emptiness.

He could barely focus on Mosquito above him, too busy trying to curl up tightly, trying to bite down the pain, he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing him cry, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t—

He felt Rosita leave, his mind sharpening as he watched her run into Mosquito’s field of view. Before he could cry out, beg her to come back, someone tossed a bottle, and Alejandro managed to use Rosita’s shock to his advantage, grabbing her by the tail and holding her up in the air, a towering, menacing figure above Bruno.

“Ew,” he said, “Open the sh*t hatch.”

And Bruno screamed.

BOGOTA, Elena

If anyone ever had the bravery to ask, Elena Rojas spent the past three hours sitting on the side of her bed, head in her hands, because she wanted to think through a genius business strategy that would guarantee her most of the loot—and minimal new targets on her back. She hadn’t been barely able to keep her composure after listening to people she’d describe as colleagues beat a desperate man beyond unconsciousness (Elena knew what that sounded like, she knew what they did, she did not have to see), and then some, just because they were closer to angry toddlers than grown men.

At least Morales had been angry. f*cking furious was probably the better world. He’d not just scolded his gang for potentially destroying one of their most valuable resources, but also for the simple fact that they’d lost their composure. If they’d done that at any other point, someone else would have taken advantage.

When he said that, he looked at Elena, as if he’d been reading her mind—and without thinking, she ran. She bucked it out of the door, away from the Arena and into the cool embrace of the labyrinthine hallways, her feet not making a single sound as they slammed against tile after tile, her only guide being instincts and the vague memory of where she used to crash after long-haul jobs.

Just for a night, just for enough for her bruises to start aching—and that’d be her sign to push herself out the window and beg penance from wherever her father was, bloodied fingers clutching an increasingly rusty cross, ensconced under her shirt.

But instead of collapsing into bed, sleeping until the world forced her to think again, and then escaping, she’d just hunched over on the side, her hands running through her messy hair, unable to stop replaying the events of the night.

She hadn’t been paid. Morales had announced a surprise auction after proving that Elena had in fact kidnapped a seer. A real f*cking seer. Someone who could see the future. Someone who could see her future.

She’d seen it with her own eyes in the jungle—but even then, it could have been a lucky guess. The luckiest guess in the world, but it could have happened. He could have faked it. He told her what she wanted to hear. Elena knew how to cold read, but—

What happened tonight couldn’t have been trickery.

His power was real. Which meant that his prediction was real. Elena didn’t know how to feel about that. Elena didn’t know how to feel at all.

Stunned might have been the world some would use.
Traumatised would be the world that Martinez—psychology at university, paid for with half of her hit last summer—didn’t do him well. It just made him more annoying.

He’d have said something about her realising the gravity of her actions. She’d have told him to f*ck off. Eventually, she crumpled to the floor, and since she woke up there with no memory of the sun coming up, assumed she slept, too. Even if her head felt like someone had slammed it through a lead plate.

She should be happy, right?

He told her that she did it, and that she managed to even survive. She should be happy about that, shouldn’t she? She should be dancing on f*cking tabletops.

Even if her hands still shook—shook enough that she’d be worried about being inaccurate. Her eye, the same one that Bruno Madrigal had thrown salt into, smarted like hell at the bed of it. She’d have to get that checked out. Would be just as well if the little sh*t managed to give her an infection, even after she’d gone through the effort of flushing it.

She walks straight into the pantry without thinking, finding nothing but a half-drunk bottle of vodka and rice that she already knew was there. It’s in every place she frequently sleeps at. Elena stays nowhere, but she has places that she sleeps when her body’s about to give out.

Elena stands in front of the pantry, looking over tonight’s dinner options. Looks like vodka again. She shrugs. Always a good choice. It’s either that of a bag of rice, stamped with a bold red expiry date of at least two years earlier. Really, she should have thrown it out ages ago. But it gives her the false pretence that she has food, should anyone check on her.

Plus, sometimes, just sometimes, it’s fun to come home from missions achy and starving and get a thrill settling in the pit of her stomach when she sees the food, only to remind herself that it’s unfit for human consumption. Not that Elena deserves it, anyways. But she likes briefly entertaining the thought. She can admit that.

If she admits it, it doesn’t make it as bad.

Something rattles outside the door of Elena’s tiny apartment. She acts quickly, despite the permanent tremor that’s taken up residence in her arms and hands, slamming the pantry door and reaching for the area on her belt line where her gun would be if she wasn’t a f*cking idiot and properly armed. All she comes into contact with this time is a small, rolled-up notebook, but she still pulls it and prepares to weaponize it.

It wouldn’t be the weirdest sh*t she’s killed someone with.

Not even close.

She’s fairly sure that she can launch it with enough accuracy to break the bridge of her adversary’s nose, and the shock of that would already give her the upper hand. And she wasn’t liable to lose that, even if she’s… like this right now. With one or two more well-executed punches or kicks, she could take down her attacker. He’d be dead on the floor, but dead bodies weren’t a pressing issue.

Take him out. Kill him. Whatever. Disposing of the body might need a little more thought. She knows that she doesn’t have the muscle left on her bony body to drag a fully grown man out to the dumpsters behind her apartment complex. But she’ll think of something. A dead body wasn’t a pressing thing.

She’ll think of something. She always thinks of something. She always slithers her way out of things she really shouldn’t.

The doorknob rattles again, and the door to Elena’s apartment opens as much as the chain lock will allow. She’s sliding down the side of the wall, the notebook folded again and raised like a gun, her ear against the sh*tty drywall that has the soundproofing of paper. She can’t just hear her neighbours f*cking: she can hear their pillow talk.

“Hey,” calls a familiar, friendly voice. “Let me in and don’t stab me?”

Elena snorts, rolls to the middle of the room, and launches the notebook, which sails right through the crack in the door and hits him clean in the face. It doesn’t break his nose, but only because he’s made of tougher, better stuff than most of Elena’s opponents.

“Wow,” says Martinez, shaking his head as he slips his arm under the chain in attempt to unlock the door from the outside in. The swish of bags hits against his legs and the peeling paint on the door. “That was a great welcome, even for you, Elena.”

“Hm.” Elena refuses to say ‘sorry’. Instead, she settles on, her fingers already jerking to have her notebook back between them: “I forgot.”

“Not surprised,” Martinez says, clicking his tongue, as he succeeds in unlocking the door and tumbling inside, spilling half a bag of what looks to be powdered coffee across her sh*tty, and absolutely already stained off-white shag rug. He sweeps up the groceries and piles them on the table with the rest of his goods, crossing the threshold into her apartment without even asking her, and she’s sure that he notices how she’s standing: scowling at him with her arms crossed.

Elena eyes his haul. It’s a mix of bachelor essentials and holiday indulgences that Elena never thinks she’ll be comfortable enough to buy on her own.

“It would have been easier if you’d told me what you’d wanted. Or come with.”

“When did you stop paying attention, idiot?” Elena aims to smack him upside the head, but Martinez easily ducks away from the hit. She frowns. “It’s not allowed,” she growls, “We’re supposed to be off the grid. Off the grid doesn’t mean that we go shopping at markets and befriend the little old ladies selling mushy mangoes.”

It was a piss-poor excuse, and she could tell that he was debating whether to argue it.

“Pretty sure the rules dropped off the table and set fire to themselves when you hit ninety pounds,” Martinez easily captures Elena’s skinny wrist and gives her a light yank, so she collapses against his chest. She nearly drops the bottle of vodka as she bounces into him.

“f*ck you.” Elena tries to snarl, but she’s muffled by his thick wool coat. She cradles the bottle like a baby, ignoring the quarter cup or so that slops onto the floor.

“Whoops,” Martinez says anyways, because he’s always been better than her.

“It’s sanitary,” Elena insists, “I clean my wounds with it. I clean my floors with it. Sanitary.”

“Never said it wasn’t. It’s sad, though.” He clicks his tongue, and grins at her.

“Why’re you here anyways?” Elena knows she’s playing a dangerous game, but she doesn’t like how he’s stealing pitying glances at her. She knows she looks like sh*t. She’s not going to be winning any beauty pageants nowadays. That’s how she likes it. That’s how she’s chosen. She’s chosen this. Yes.

“Don’t tell me you really forgot?” Martinez takes a step back, leaving Elena to sway at the loss of him. He looks floored, looks like she just said that Santa Claus exists and is actually one of their co-workers.

“That’s what I just said, right?”

“But I thought you only said that because you remembered…” Martinez shakes his head. “f*ck it, never mind.” He takes a shaking breath that reminds Elena of her gait. “What did you weigh last? And when?”

Elena narrows her gaze. “Why should I tell you?”

She also looks seedily at the pile of easy food on the kitchen table. She doesn’t binge anymore. She doesn’t eat anymore, plain and simple. She just drinks, sometimes smokes if she can afford it. Her brain is fuzzy. She’d kill for a shot of vodka and a cigarette, first for the jolt, then the excuse to drift and not feel anything for a while.

But she can already see Martinez’s sad puppy dog eyes, and somehow, it stops her from chugging straight from the bottle held in her slack grip.

She doesn’t like disappointing people. Martinez, for some reason she can’t explain, still believes in Elena Rojas. She can’t be the one to tell him that she’s a hopeless cause. Please.

“You tell me, I’ll tell you?” Martinez offers. “Sound like a fair trade to you`”

“Fine,” Elena barks. She’s practically already forgotten what she’s agreed to. “Eighty-six, two days ago.”

Martinez grins at her and moves to cup her sharp cheek in his large hands. “Well,” he smiles, “That’s better than the last time, isn’t it?”

“Depends on your perspective,” she answers stiffly. “Now, you.” She lifts her chin up in a prompting motion, and Martinez downright laughs. Maybe she likes this trade, anyways.

He rubs her cheek. “It was me, or forced detox, remember?”

His voice is tiny. He doesn’t like the answer. It gives her a strange sense of gratification. He obviously doesn’t want to be here. Good. Neither does she. He’ll soon realise that she’s a hopeless case.

He tries to put a big hand on her shoulder, probably in a comforting motion—he’s always, he’s always wanted to do that for her, always, even when she doesn’t deserve it, even when she doesn’t even know how to react to it—but to Elena it feels like a combination of repressive and repulsive. Probably because she’s so bony in comparison, and she knows it hasn’t always been like this. The rational part of her mind—half-choked to death—supplies that it could be like that again. If she really wanted it.

“Oh.”

Elena doesn’t remember.

Or, well. She sort of does. She remembers the powwow they’d had in Morales’ office, the stony face she’d held, sucking in her cheeks, and biting her lip so she wouldn’t break down crying that she didn’t have anything other than this job. It’d probably been the wrong choice. It’d probably made her look even thinner and pathetic. It’d probably been the final straw—that contorted face, instead of the picture-perfect readiness he’d always demanded from her.

Not her actual crime: bottoming out at eighty-one on her last physical.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martinez moves, without seeming interested in putting anything away, to pour himself a glass of milk and then, after stealing another glance at her, one more.

Elena almost laughs. Almost. Until she realises that Martinez is sincerely asking, and then she feels a bit like crying again. Like she’s back in the office, and Morales is mentioning how her father would hate to see her fall like this—to suffer from something so mundane for someone so extraordinary. f*ck that.

Elena’s not going to cry like she did back in Morales’ office, and she knows it. She’s not in trouble, and that’s why she wants to cry. Because he’s not forcing her. He’s not taking what he wants, without caring about her. She’s in the opposite of trouble. Funny, though. She doesn’t feel the opposite.

“No.”

Elena breathes. She finds the vodka between her fingers, and without thinking or glancing at Martinez—she takes a deep swig, stuffing her mouth with so much liquid that she can barely swallow. When she does, the burning fluid immediately comes rushing back up. With a strangled gasp, she slaps a hand over her mouth and turns on her heel, throwing herself over the kitchen sink and gagging hard.

“Hey,” Martinez pats her on the back as Elena brings up the vodka and stomach acid and all the nothing that she’s eaten for the past two or three days—since the last time he was here, and desperately begged her to eat.

By the time she’s done, she’s ready to fall over. Martinez eases her to the floor, folding Elena’s tiny frame in his strong arms. Elena hates herself for liking it.

“Yup,” Martinez says, and like a little sh*t, he pops the p, “I will. As soon as you’re okay, Elle—no, ‘Lena.”

“I am okay.”

“I know,” he answered, his warmth settling against her back, “You’re going to be just fine, Elena.”

Elena sighs, her throat burning with the taste of bile. She hates herself and she hates him even more. Because she knows he’s right. She’s Elena f*cking Rojas, and she’s not allowed to die of her own sadness—because dead women don’t destroy people.

Feliz Navi-f*cking-dad.

A rat scurried past her feet, and before she could talk herself out of it: Elena was thinking about Bruno, and how she’d heard him cry over a rat. How someone—God, if she could recall their f*cking face—had thrown it straight into the compost pile. Immediately, the thought went from a fluid concept in her mind to hard steel, held in her hands and there was nothing else she could do about it other than act.

Elena Rojas was going to steal a rat. Or, was she going to rescue a rat? Certainly, Elena Rojas was going to climb into the trash hole, and she was going to come out with a rat.

It was early enough that there was no one around to question why the f*ck Elena Rojas was storming into the main courtyard, her hair up and a carving knife held securely in her hand, nor why her clothes seemed to be the same rumpled, oversized suit that she’d worn last night. It wasn’t unusual—criminals had no incentive to be morning people—but Elena knew that last night would cause everyone to be a little off their game today.

Good.

In too short of a time, she found herself standing in front of the back entrance to the shed that they’d expanded (both on top and below, digging a fierce pit into the ground) to fit the compound’s output of waste. They’d use the soil to fertilise the unmarked graves to cover them up quicker.

It was better known as the sprawling gardens that surrounded the compound, with their European-style hedge mazes just for the sh*t of it. Elena supposed that they were there to make it harder for prisoners or anyone who’d made the horrible mistake of growing a moral code to escape.

Or, you know, rat thieves.

This is the dumbest thing you’ve done, Rojas. The dumbest. No doubt about it. Elena shook her head as she pulled a pin from her hair, another between her teeth, her brow furrowed in concentration. Perhaps that annoying voice in the back of her head—the one that sounded like a stew of everyone who’d ever tried and failed to kill her—had a point.

Elena Rojas, one of the greatest sharpshooters of her time: at the cusp of glory—was risking her life to save a f*cking rat. Elena exterminated the rats in every flat she’d ever stayed in. And she did it with ruthless efficiency coupled with girlish glee. And now she was going to climb into the compost pit and try to find a specific rat.

Oh, how the mighty do fall.

In a breath, Elena had popped the lock. It didn’t surprise her. Most locks were sh*t, and she wasn’t exactly trying to steal the crown jewels. As soon as she pulled the door open, garbage fell onto her. Slowly reaching a hand up to pick a rotting banana peel from her hair, Elena sighed, “Motherf*cking great.”

She tossed the peel back into the pile and called out. “Rosita?”

God, she wanted to slap herself. But she continued, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “Rosita the rat? Pssssspt, psssspt—” rats weren’t cats, but the only thing Elena had ever tried to coax out was terrified people—hostages or slaves—and a stray cat. She’d found it trapped in a sewer drain, and she tried to tempt it out with some shrimp on a string.

The drizzle that she’d set out in when she heard the pathetic meowing quickly became a storm, and Elena, with bated breath, watched the drain fill with more and more water—before she just couldn’t wait for the cat to feel comfortable enough to come to her. Elena ended up tearing off the drain cover, lunging forwards into the drain, getting her ass stuck and clawed to sh*t by a cat. But later that night, she could have sworn that it smiled at her from the neighbour’s fence.

She crouched down, supposing that rats were smaller than angry stray cats. Almost skidding on something she didn’t want to think about, Elena called again: “Rosita? Rosita? Are you here? Bruno misses you. Rosita?”

Quite frankly, Elena didn’t know what she was thinking. How would she find a rat in a sh*t heap? That was like asking her to find a needle in a haystack. And rats wouldn’t come when they were called. Her only chance would be to manually turn everything over, and every f*cking rat looked alike.

“Rosita, Rosita, come out, stop making me risk my life in the dumbest way possible—or, I don’t know if I’d be killed for snooping around in the scraps and calling out a name. But it’s f*cking weird. And actually, I’d probably be killed for it being f*cking weird, Rosita, Rosita, c’mon, I promise you that I won’t hurt you.”

God, what a lie. Did Elena know how to do anything other than hurt? It didn’t feel like it, sometimes. Sometimes, it felt like she’d fallen too deeply into the person she had to become to survive that she didn’t know if she could dig herself out. If she could dig herself out and become the girl she was before the flames took it away.

“Rosita,” she cooed, “Rosita,” reluctantly, she drew her hand across one of the trash piles, just looking for any rat. There was no way that Bruno could distinguish if a rat was Rosita. Elena sure as sh*t didn’t have a chance. She’d just grab the first rat she saw and hope it wasn’t rabid.

A small squeak at her feet interrupted her, and she noticed a rat standing on its haunches. Like many things Elena had found herself doing that morning, despite her best advice, she raised her brow and with her hands on her hips, asked: “Are you the famous Rosita or just a street rat looking for a cushier life?”

To her surprise, the rat squeaked again, running up her leg and into her arm before she could yelp. God, that’d have been embarrassing: the Night Woman falling over in a trash pile because a rat had scurried up her leg. ‘Rosita’ settled in her palm, and that seemed to be it.

“Alright,” Elena chuckled, “Alright, your highness. I’ll get you back to your friend, but don’t go telling anyone on me.”

She booped the rat’s nose with the tip of her finger, “This is an impartial agreement, one which you sign if you squeak again.” Of course, Elena wasn’t expecting the rat to respond to her—but it did, and she hated to admit it, she found it cute as she shoved it down her shirt, tightly tying her blazer around herself and thanking God that she’d always been partial to baggy men’s clothes.

Because now she had a rat in her bra. That was something she’d prefer for anyone to walk past her not to notice. Because that’d make them ask her questions, and she quite honestly wasn’t sure what she’d say.

BOGOTA, Martinez

Elena’s sharp eyes caught the light as he dipped her, dappled with the flickers of moonlight caressing her gown.

“You strike me as a man who’s never been satisfied,” she murmured, the vibrato of her voice making him forget his own damn name, her dark hair spilling down her bare back as her fingers clutch his.

Remembering his role as the son of an esteemed commander, he simply raised her back to her feet, curling her around his body, their arms criss-crossing and whispering back: “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, you forget your place.”

“You’re like me,” she gasped, her breath hot against the prone skin of his throat as she breathed in, “I’ve never been satisfied.”

“Is that right?”
She exhaled. “I’ve never been satisfied.”

Her hands moved to cup his jaw, smiling as her touch ghosted against stubble. “My name is Elena Rojas.”

The stars danced above them, and Elena’s eyes swirled in the brilliant lights as everything ground to a salt around him. It felt like he was underwater, watching the world move in suspension, languidly unfolding next to him as he drowned in her dangerous gaze.

“Where’s your family from?”

“Unimportant,” she flicked her hair behind her ears, still swaying to the music, grinning, “I make my own legacy. I don’t need anyone else’s bogging me down.”

He jerks awake with a cry, his hands fisting the sheets as if he’s desperate to not let her go. As if he doesn’t know that the version of Elena’s he sees in his dreams doesn’t exist and never did. He’s known Elena since they were small, known he’s been in love with her since he’s had the word for it. Knows she’ll never be his. He glances over at the woman curled on her side, still asleep. She’s the one he should be dreaming about; Maria, with her heart-shaped ass and family ties.

But he knows the truth.

When he fantasises at night, it’s always Elena’s eyes. And there’s nothing he can do about that because Elena’s running off—from town to town, chasing ghosts because Elena will never be satisfied. At least, whenever his father asks for someone dealt with, he contacts Elena and so, at least: he keeps her eyes in his life.

Elena Rojas loved control more than she loved him, and she wouldn’t stay unless he gave it up.

He rolled onto his side, trying not to think about what he’d done to her. How he’d watched her shake in fear, how he’d known, how he’d not said a single thing, how she’d turned to him, her pupils blown to sh*t and lower lip trembling before she’d thrown herself into the deep end—because when did Elena miss a chance to self-destruct?

He knew what’d happened to her. She’d stripped her armour in front of him, begging him not to set her alight again. And yet, he’d gone and done just that, ripping open and salting decades-old wounds, deep, lacerating slashes, fusing skin and gristle together.

God, he was a terrible friend, wasn’t he?

He understood why she was afraid of his love.

Bruno Madrigal was crumpled on the ground, listless eyes staring through him as the horde descended, barrages of kicks, punches and screams creating a miserable symphony. His hands itched to react, his feet were anchored to the ground, and his gaze dropped to viewing Bruno from Elena’s empty space.

Suddenly, just as he had with Elena, Morales came through the crowd, parting it like Moses did the Red Sea, crouching down to cup Bruno’s lolling head in his fat palm. Green power bled from Bruno’s wide eyes, and Morales grinned hungrily.

“f*ckers!” Morales screamed. “Animals!”

“This sh*t stops now! You almost ruined our valuable investment!”

And of course, because the world wasn’t fair and Elena Rojas was probably being beaten within an inch of her life—and Martinez knew that wasn’t even the worst punishment she could risk—for doing the same f*cking thing, the crowd quieted and cowered into nothing.

Motherf*ckers.

He had to tell her, he had to tell her about the hands reaching into his own throat and forcing him into sh*t he didn’t want to do—he had to fall on his knees in front of her and beg her to take him away before he became someone he couldn’t be.

He wasn’t sure that Elena Rojas had been wrong about him not being satisfied—even if he always had so much more than her, she had the freedom to leave. She could leave this hole and be someone without it. He’d always be in the shadow of the man who’d taken him in. The only thing that stood between himself and Elena was that the fate had struck in his favour, and not in hers.

Neither of them had parents, neither of them deserved what happened to them—good and bad. Elena was a better person than him. If anyone deserved to go to university and have wives in their beds without the threat of having to throw yourself out of it and run for your life, it was her. She’d worked her way up, she earned her peace and yet, it’d never come to her.

He’d tried to hand her the keys to her own shackles for years, promising her that he could whisk her away from this life when he knew he couldn’t. He’d just be making her a singing canary in a cage, never able to soar.

And now he was thinking of pleading with her for his own salvation. f*ck that. He’d been the one who’d laughed at Noche’s jokes. He’d been the one to do her wrong, he’d been the one to hurt her.

The night does strange things to you, forces you to revisit yourself, to look in the mirror as smoke furls around you, obscuring your intentions and begging you to create new ones.

“Senor Noche,” he managed to grit out, “What brings you here?”

He wanted to scream at him to f*ck off, to tuck his tail between his legs and run and never come back and rightfully cower, but he didn’t—there’s a lot of impulses that get squashed here. Inherent goodness being one of them, righteousness being another, decency sitting next to it in the mass grave.

Instead, he smiled when Senor Noche opened his mouth to speak and tried not to think that from those lips, had come the orders to burn a father and his young daughter alive.

“I’m a long-term friend of your father’s,” Senor Noche clarified, “You’re probably too young to remember, but we used to work a lot together. I think the last time I saw you, you were around nine years,” Noche gestured to his hip, “And you only went me to here.”

Nine.

Martinez could hear, but he couldn’t see as Noche continued to speak, “You were such a fun child, it always brought me such joy to see you and I’m glad to see that you’ve grown into such a handsome young man, I see that your father says you have a fiancée now, she must be very beautiful—”

Maria was pretty, Elena was beautiful—even if Elena traded Maria’s club curves for scarred muscles, Elena was beautiful, Elena would be the only woman he would ever call beautiful—

“She is,” he answered, feeling bile settle against his tongue and wondering what she would think if she walked in on him, if she watched him liaise with—

No, he didn’t want to think about that.

Instead, he said: “Can I ask you a question?”

Senor Noche nodded. “Of course,” he answered, “But I might not dignify it with an answer, if you say, ask about where I keep my cocaine. We’re not that good friends, your father and I.”

Martinez knew he was supposed to laugh at that—so he did. Even if the aftertaste was bitter.

“What was the last time you worked with my father? I find it strange that I can’t remember it if I was nine. I remember a lot from that time,” he pointed at Senor Noche’s face, hoping that his pedigree would save his life when he pointed out the gnarled battle scars adorning the aged face, “And I know I would remember someone as imposing and distinctive as you.”

For some inexplicable reason, Noche’s face softened before he said the unthinkable.

“Oh,” he breathed, “That’s probably because your father wouldn’t have involved you in such brutality at that age. But you’re twenty-one now, aren’t you? So, I’ll tell you. The last time I was here, we were discussing the Rojas assassination.”

BOGOTA, Bruno

Mosquito wasn’t his last visitor.

He didn’t remember much of the pit—he remembered stopping his visions because someone had broken the barricade, and how that someone became a horde, how his bones creaked under the pressure. He remembered the same man that Elena had challenged, he remembered how he walked in the middle, the crowd parting like the red sea, and Bruno remembered yelling.

He remembered how the sand burned against his torn skin as he was dragged by the arms. He remembered crying out, tasting blood in the back of his throat.

He remembered being thrown in the cell, still clutching that first vision.

He remembered the order, and the beating that followed, his consciousness bottoming out on him. He remembered telling a man that he was going to die brutally.

Now, he was lying on his side, a bag thrown over his head and tightened at the throat and wondering how the f*ck he was going to get himself out.

Always think of an exit, always think of an escape, supplied Agustín’s voice, soft and peppered with the sound of a running stream before Bruno tried to imagine Agustín’s face and his kind timbre was drowned out by choked, desperate breaths.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the door creaking open, and then nothing. He knew that the floorboards creaked, because they’d warned him of Mosquito’s last visit, his wrist still smarting when he thought of it.

A sharp intake of breath followed, and he wasn’t sure whether it was his—whether he’d just imagined the door opening, caught in his own head.

“Me paenitet,” spoke a soft female voice, dripping with a stubborn accent—a mother refusing to let go of her beloved daughter, “Melius celare.” Her breath was inches from him as she slotted their hands together, and between them, squeaked Rosita.

Before Bruno could say anything, she pulled her hands back and he didn’t hear a single step, but he heard the door slotting shut.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena hurried away from the scene of the crime, deciding to leave out the window and vault upwards, the sun beaming down on her as she walked across the compound’s highest roof, gazing down at the spiralling hedge mazes. She knew they were intentional.

To prevent escapes. She slowly moved to sit, tucking one hand under her ass as she other clutched one of Martinez’s rejected university textbooks. It was about engineering, a subject that Martinez both hated and didn’t understand. Whenever she’d find herself bunking at the compound, she’d run herself ragged sitting by a candlelight, doing all of his coursework with a voracious appetite and trying to make her notes something he could learn from.

He never would, and she’d promise to come back soon so he could keep being at the top of his class through no effort of his own. He’d always look at her sadly when she spoke about it, and she’d always pretend that she didn’t notice—and that she didn’t know exactly why.

The clouds floated lazily in the sky, and for being the aftermath of something so brutal, the morning was one of the best she’d seen in a while, almost as if heralding a new chapter—if that even existed. Elena had had made herself comfortable on the ever-spinning wheel of cruelty, she’d carved out handles for herself and had gotten decently good at holding on.

And when she stumbled, she stumbled alone.

She had her morality crises in her apartments, and then she stole rats to try and make herself feel like a human being instead of a story told to keep children in the house at night. She pushed herself off, landing on top of the shed and sliding down.

“Were you talking to the ratties?” whispered a small, dirty head, making her jump back. Elena crouched down on her haunches, the book tucked against her chest, tendrils falling loose of her bun.

“Hm,” she answered, tutting, “Who’s askin’?”

“Me!”

“Well, Me,” Elena, said putting her hands on her hips and wiggling them so she almost fell over, “Just because you’re such an esteemed force,” she leaned closer, resting the side of her palm against her lips, her long fingers playing with loose blonde hair as their noses touched, “I’ll confess,” she murmured, “I did talk to the rats.”

“I had some favours to ask for,” she reached over to tickle her belly, “One of them being keeping you out of trouble!”

Adelina captured one of Elena’s loose tendrils, tugging at it. Elena seized her opportunity and fell over in an exaggerated motion, turning onto her back and loudly exclaiming, “Ah, dang! You did it, you defeated me, the great Night Woman—”

Adelina climbed atop her, massive round and oh so deeply brown eyes staring back at her. Slowly, she blinked and tilted her head.

“That’s wrong,” she lectured, “You’re not the Night Woman.”

Elena raised a brow. “Huh,” she answered, “Who am I, then?”

Adelina looked at her like she’d just tried to tell her the moon was made of cheese, or that there was a city where the streets were filled with milk and honey, and not the blood of her kin.

“You’re Elena, of course!”

BOGOTA, Bruno

Sometimes, he’d pass out when an involuntary vision came over him, if he’d forgotten to eat again, if he’d been sitting in the hot sun for too long, if he’d tried to help Luisa with the donkeys, any number of embarrassing reasons that shouldn’t send a fifty-year-old man to the ground and didn’t help his family’s prevailing belief that he’d returned from the walls made of glass.

When he’d come to, he’d usually find his head cradled in someone’s lap, someone else fanning his face and Luisa yelling about getting Julieta, even if her food wouldn’t do anything against chronic malnutrition and everyone knew it.

She wasn’t used to not being able to take immediate action to fix sh*t. A donkey escapes into town and starts eating the produce being sold at market? Luisa can haul it over her shoulder, scold it like she doesn’t harbour a secret love for the beasts and go on with her day—problem solved.

Tio passing out in the courtyard? Not as easily fixable.

But even if his family made him feel like he was both drowning at the bottom of a lake and choking in the middle of a crowded plaza, he loved them. And he liked the immediate feeling of safety that would wash over him, knowing that his family watched over him when he needed it.

This wasn’t one of those times.

He came to when someone’s sharp nails dug into the skin of his neck, and rough hands ripped the bag off. Any relief at seeing the light of day was squashed when he realised that he was tied to a chair (again, God, f*ck—at least he knew his telenovela portrayals of gangsters wasn’t wrong, he was sure these assholes also wash their victims’ feet in cement) and Morales was glaring at him, a stack of vision tablets in front of him on the bloodstained table.

Bruno couldn’t remember if it was his.

The blood, not the visions.

Ha.

“Did you sleep well?” Morales asked as a hand settled against his shoulder, gripping tightly.

Bruno spat at him, grinning when he noticed the speck of clear and red settling against Morales’ bushy moustache. Morales raised a fat hand to swipe at it, scowling. Bruno wondered what he’d do. Maybe he’d permit his men to give Bruno another public beating.

It sounded more inviting than another cold night in his cell.

Bruno knew he’d never been the healthiest man, he knew he shouldn’t be taking his chances with the damp, cold room when there wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache, when one of his eyes hadn’t been able to focus since he first opened them in the bowels of Hell.

But he didn’t want to stand passively by, either. It felt like once he’d re-emerged into the world, his family had tied a tight string around his wrist, barley giving him enough slack to walk into the courtyard alone. It wasn’t that he always wanted to, he’d absolutely picked up a case of agoraphobia, but it was his mother’s hand over his when he cut meat that really got to him.

And sitting in front of Morales, his hands on Bruno’s creations, on things that Bruno didn’t want to have but was forced into, that string snapped, leaving a burning indent against his skin but the wispy sound of freedom drumming against his ears.

“These,” Morales ordered, gesturing to the tablets again, “I want more of them. I want to build a cathedral of them, my greatness glimmering down on everyone lucky enough to walk through. I want you to give me fifty visions by nightfall, and fifty for my friend. One hundred in total. That shouldn’t be a challenge for an artist like you, right?”

Bruno couldn’t do five without falling over. He wasn’t going to do a single vision for Morales.

With a hitched breath, he jerked backwards, slamming his head upwards and feeling blood that he hoped was from his captor’s nose and not a new wound of his own wet his hair. He stumbled to his feet, still tied to the chair but having done weirder manoeuvres for longer during his time patching the walls, and some even with a bucket on his head.

He spun around, catching Morales with a swipe of the chair’s back, which earned him a grunt that probably meant more men were about to barrel in through the door.

Bruno made his run for it—and running would be a generous term, with his legs tied, it was more of a strange hopping—one that landed him right against a wide chest.

Bruno slowly turned to stare up at a set of dead, expressionless eyes.

“…Hi?” he tried.

BOGOTA, Elena

She wants to ask him something else. Everything else.

She sits at her desk, hands still shaking, and writes a note.

Can you change the future?

That’s too vague. That sounds like she’s asking him if he can, instead of just seeing—Elena doesn’t believe in that much magic, still. Nobody can wave their hands and wish the bad things away. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders, an aim twice as good as anyone else’s and she can kill a man twelve ways with a toothpick. She could change the future by acting on it if anyone could.

She scribbled out her original note. Perhaps a little too angrily, as if the writing had personally insulted her.

Are your prophecies set in stone, or can someone react in ways that you didn’t expect, to change them?

There, that wouldn’t be misinterpreted. Of course, she doubts he’d answer. After all, she’d been the one to get him here—and he didn’t seem keen on staying. She couldn’t blame him. She’d thought he was a conman, and that’d have been easier, because that would have just been the consequences of his own actions finally catching up to him.

Elena thinks she wouldn’t have felt bad if that was the case. If he was a prideful ass, he’d just be getting what came to him.

But Bruno Madrigal didn’t seem to take pride in his gift. From the people in the village, she’d stolen him from, those who were all-too-willing to yell about the man who could see the future and refused to use it: she gathered that he downright hated it.

Bruno had barely been able to hold himself up, the last time she’d been with Morales as he demanded more and more of the green vision tablets that he wanted to use to line a grand cathedral to his own achievements. It made Elena think about how his head would look mounted above a mantlepiece that she didn’t even own. Elena Rojas didn’t even own a house, but she wanted to mount his head somewhere in it.

Bruno had reminded her of a jaguar on a chain that she’d seen in captivity as a little girl, back when her father would hoist her up against his hip, giggling as she leaned against the large of his chest, and they’d walk across the various attractions usually reserved for the rich and visiting. It’d been at the zoo that she noticed the jaguar, usually so fierce and in command of their environment—was lying listless at the edge, patchy fur against boiling concrete, barely lifting its head when children bolder than herself yelled at it.

One of them threw a rotten apple, and the cat barely reacted. She didn’t think it had the strength to. Later that day, the man who Elena assumed owned it walked by, dragging it along by the chain, brandishing a whip. It was only then that Elena saw it react: a short, chipped cry, so low in its throat that Elena wouldn’t have heard it if she stood just a few feet further away.

It’d been a casual display of cruelty. The owner had known that there would be no consequences for his actions—because who cared for the feelings of a jaguar when the solution to its pain would be taking it away from you? Everyone wanted to look at a jaguar, because it was a glorious show of man taming the wild. Controlling it.

Everyone wanted to look at the future. Everyone wanted to control the future.

A sharp series of knocks interrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she answered curtly, already pushing herself from her desk, the mask that she hadn’t noticed putting down slipping back over her face as she faced Miquel, one of Morales’ newest runners, a rat-like guy with a sh*tty half-moustache that it looked like she could rub off with an eraser.

“Senor Morales asks for you to meet him outside Bruno Madrigal’s cell.”

Ah. Yay. Joy. Just what she needed. “Senor Morales hasn’t paid me yet,” Elena replied, already walking towards the door, closing the distance between herself and Miquel and leaning down to pick up last night’s discarded satchel, “You’d better hope that’s what he wants of me,”

She lowered her voice as she shrugged the satchel over her shoulder, hip-checking Miquel as she passed, “Or I might have to shoot the messenger to teach him a lesson.”

Miquel made a small yelp. Elena grinned. Miquel was the messenger. Miquel was new. This meant that Miquel was sh*t-scared of Elena before she even threatened him directly. He’d have no sway with Morales, and she wouldn’t strike at him for that, but she liked being able to reinforce her reputation by openly threatening someone who’d done nothing to her.

The thought that she could and would was enough to keep him in line. Along with everything else said about her, she knew that she wouldn’t have to prove herself to Miquel. And she might even be able to use him for something, later. Sway him because otherwise, he’d think that she’d put a bullet between his eyes.

Do you think I could change my the future?

BOGOTA, Bruno

Okay, an all-out physical assault wouldn’t go well for him.

That was fine, he argued. He’d never been best at the physical. His speciality had been psychological torture, and when he meant speciality—he meant that it was what kept people off his back enough that they didn’t try to kill him.

Or, most of them.

That was a story for another day, for a day where he didn’t have to focus on saving himself and could crumple into a corner until someone kind came and pulled him from the vice-grip of his memories.

The door slid open again, and he rolled over, already expecting the cruel hands to grip him again. Every time someone touched him, he had to bite down the urge to cry out at the intrusion. He could cry and knock on wood and hold his breath when he walked through doors when he’d put a knife through these bastards and was on a wagon back home to Encanto.

He hadn’t thought through how he’d get back—only that first, he had to get out of here, and maybe lay low for a couple weeks, wait for the fanfare to die down. That’d be okay.

He didn’t want his family to worry, but if he’d survived unseen in the walls of his own family home, he’d survive unseen in the streets of Bogota, where much more important people could go missing much easier, right?

He didn’t think about the fact that his family had stopped looking for him, had accepted his vanishing and had never spoken his name and how he thought these new jailers wouldn’t be as quick to leave his memory be. They seemed like the kinds of people who wanted a return on their investment, no matter what.

The hands came, hauled him up and tied him back onto the chair and Bruno almost found himself comforted by the growing mundanity of it, the pressure of the ropes against his skin, the inability to knock against the table even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t.

He wasn’t here because of his bad luck and he wasn’t going to solve his issue by knocking against the wood, he was just going to make them more on edge because normal people—and even thin, traumatised hermits—didn’t knock against tables for no reason.

And he knew he had to take his attackers by surprise, or he’d just run into another wall of muscle.

Always look for an escape, always look for an escape. Always look for an escape, always. Break through the ropes with your f*cking teeth if you have to, always look for escape, always try to come back to us.

He missed the comforting weight of Rosita, and he tried not to think about how he’d watched her die, too. And how he felt wrong for being as upset about a rat as he was about the people who’d died in vain, in their misguided attempts to prevent him from meeting his maker.

No, it was the comfort that Rosita represented, the security.

They pulled off the bag, and Bruno was staring at the picture of a commander, a face painted with scars and gruff features bisected by a thick moustache, Was it a legal requirement for assholes to have a sh*tty moustache?

“My friend told me that you caused a scene earlier today,” he started, “That’s of no importance to me, I understand if you don’t want to associate with that hack.”

He reached his hand to stroke Bruno’s hair, and Bruno bit him.

He didn’t remember much of that incident, either.

BOGOTA, Elena

When she sauntered in, she noticed Morales’ hand flying in front of his nose and settling there, as if he was trying to hide something. She snickered to herself, before crossing the distance between the door and the desk, pulling out a chair for herself and deciding not to think about coming undone on that very same mahogany.

It didn’t go very well.

“Thank you for coming,” stated Morales, and Elena noticed how his head was tilted slightly to the side, like someone had landed one good slug on him and the world was spinning in his lying eyes. She didn’t know who would, but she hoped that she was right.

He continued: “I’m sorry to ask so much of you—”

He wasn’t.

Elena didn’t know a lot, but she knew that he wasn’t sorry for anything he’d done.

“Bruno Madrigal has been causing trouble—”

Elena interrupted him. “Why’s that my f*cking problem?”
Morales glared at her. “Women who want to get paid don’t interrupt.”

Elena shrunk back.

“We believe that he’s acting out due to pain, and so, I’ve informed my men that they’re not to visit him anymore today, and you’re going to do it. You’re going to be kind, speak to him and do whatever you need to do to make sure that he doesn’t die from injuries, because he attacked people today and suffered the consequences.”

Elena crossed her arms, thinking about pulling a knife but not doing it, “You seriously think that forcing him to interact with the woman who f*cking kidnapped him would work for that? And you’re telling me that you let the f*ckheads beat him up again just for the sh*t of it?”

Morales raised his hand, waving her off, “You’re trying to convince me that one of the greatest assassins of her generation isn’t capable of changing her voice? Just use your stupid accent or whatever, just get it done. He doesn’t react well to my men and you’re the only woman who I’d trust with it.”

Elena didn’t take it as a compliment.

“I don’t how to be comforting,” she instead answered, thinking about how holding someone else had never felt right, how their skin always burned hers. “I don’t like being comforting, but I sure as sh*t wouldn’t call myself good at it, either.”

“I don’t f*cking know!” exclaimed Morales, his fat arms waving in the air, “Just stimulate his mind or something, don’t jerk him off, I think you’d kill him. Read a book or something.”

Elena was still clutching Martinez’s engineering textbook close against her chest. She didn’t know if Morales knew of their little agreement, or simply didn’t care enough to ask why she was holding a university textbook when she’d never stepped foot inside of one.

Maybe he just thought she was aiming to improve her trajectory, for those complicated missions when she had to snipe a politician in a car with their family and some useless aide that she couldn’t care less about killing but had probably ordered the hit through a connection in the underworld.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, kids.

“What should I expect?” Elena asked, imagining herself as someone who’d say no.
“Got roughed up in the Arena, then the boys defended themselves when he tried to run.”

Okay, thought Elena, so, brutal beating on top of brutal beating on top of the head injury I know I delivered because I’d forgotten that this sh*thole is overrun by bulls that can make anything into porcelain.

Sensing that the conversation was over, Elena relented, pulled herself up and saw herself out, feeling her strings fraying.

BOGOTA, Bruno

He could still taste the blood smarting against his tongue, staining his teeth. From the moment the mountain cracked open, he should have seen this coming. Sure, he’d gotten into a cushier spot with the villagers—his mother chasing priests away when they asked whether their son would finally crack a woman that he pursued like a starving jaguar, almost beating down the door.

She didn’t before, but she now understood how he felt about his gift and wasn’t trying to force him to use it if he wasn’t ready. He loved his family for everything they did for him. They were patient with him, they understood him. They cared for him, even when he didn’t deserve their kindness. Even when he couldn’t be useful in return.

Even if he felt like screaming when they didn’t leave him alone.

Men like Morales and Noche didn’t ask, and even if the priest almost shoulder-checked his mother, forcing his way in, he didn’t — Morales and Noche took. Simple as that. From the moment he stepped foot in Bogota, it’d been a progressing joyride of cruelty—from Elena’s strangled voice, gun co*cked out in front, to Mosquito’s insistent, desperate buzzing and the two card-carrying members of We Give Everyone With Moustaches A Bad Rap.

He didn’t remember what happened, but he’d heard a gunshot and someone whining before being thrown over a thin shoulder that somehow held him until he blacked out. Maybe it wasn’t that long or hard—he’d always been thin himself, and maybe they dropped him after he’d been beyond noticing it. His heard hurt. And they’d kept the blinder affixed to his face, digging into the skin and bone there. He wanted to go home. He wanted his family.

She sighed. He’d heard her shove open the door, audibly exerting against the heavy metal, and padding across the floor. She pulled a chair up next to the glorified slab that they’d tied him to, and said something in a curving, gutted language.

“f*ck,” she gasped, making Bruno think that they were speaking the same language, only for her to squash his hopes to reason with her, “Mukhang mas malala.”

He didn’t trust her, and the fact that he’d been strapped down just made him want to collect all the spit in his mouth and aim for where he thought her face was. She flicked her nails against something hard, and didn’t strike out. She hadn’t asked him for anything yet, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

She hadn’t lunged at him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

As soon as she was ordered, she’d do as the rest of her brethren: string a knife against his throat like a fine set of pearls and press down. It was just a matter of time before he was another notch on her bedpost, before she threw herself at him, cruel hands burning his skin.

But someone in the crowd had brought Rosita back to him, someone had snuck in and slipped her against his skin and not said a single word that he could understand. Someone who’d been in the crowd, who’d known. Who’d seen, and chosen to act.

Bruno knew that they weren’t stupid enough to send that person back, Bruno knew that a shred of goodness here was an invitation to kill and betray.

He could hear her shifting, followed by a sharp inhale of breath. She slipped her hand against his neck, her deft fingers moving to unclasp the blinders, but Bruno struck first.

He didn’t want to talk to her, he didn’t want to think about what he’d say if he allowed the words to spill forth, a swollen river.

He thought about what would happen if he disobeyed. He knew he could expect a beating. Maybe more. Maybe they’d gotten tired of beating him. Maybe Morales would send someone back to strike out against his family when he failed. Maybe she’d know that if she wanted him obedient, that would be so much easier. He’d do anything to ensure that no harm would come to his family.

Anything and everything.

Not speaking wouldn’t allow her to gain information that she could give to Morales, who’d never told him where they were. She might crack easier, might talk about her life, about how she’d come to be here, a way out that didn’t involve running through mounds of muscle. Bruno knew that if he could just slip out, he could run.

If there was anything Bruno Madrigal knew how to do, it was run.

Information was power.And right now, he direly needed even a pinch of it.He just needed enough slack to slip out under the collar’s vice-grip.

When her fingers electrified his skin, he slammed backwards against the hard mattress, causing her to yelp and pull back. The blinders were a hood, in a split second changing tactics, Hernando drawled out, “f*ck off.”

Maybe he’d die here.
Maybe he’d break out.
Maybe he’d broken her finger.

Based on the low hiss coming from the side of the slab, at least one of those was closer to truth than fiction.

He needed the blinders off. He couldn’t think with them on. He wanted to hear the voices of his family and hold them in his arms and love them and be safe back in Encanto. He didn’t want anything more. He wanted to slip into the darkness, to strike out against those who’d hurt him, to slip into the streets and drag his tormentors with him into the next.

It was difficult—balancing such contrasting desires, and sometimes: it resulted breaking the fingers of someone you’d just resolved yourself to being nice to. Ah, well. They could have treated him better, and he wouldn’t have struck out. Simple as that.

He was Bruno, he wanted to retreat into the walls of Casita and never leave again.
He was Hernando, and he was afraid of nothing. Not even Morales’ right hands.
He wasn’t sure those two had ever been all that different.

“That’s a nice f*cking way to greet someone,” she snarled, her voice sounding coated in plastic, a cheap imitation of someone he knew but couldn’t place, “And I can’t even hit you back because I was specifically asked to be nice to you.”

“As a gesture of goodwill,” she added.

She waited a moment, as if she expected him to respond, then sighed, something still not sitting right about how she spoke, as if she was holding a gun to herself, “I have broth with me, apparently, we’re all terribly worried about you dropping weight.”

She clicked her tongue. “Not that you have much to spare,” she noted. Hernando resolved himself to naming her, too. Lemming seemed apt. They weren’t. They weren’t. He shook his head furiously. His stomach hurt when he moved. He didn’t want to eat. She’d win if he ate. She scoffed playfully.

“Fine,” she surrendered, the screech of a chair being pulled out following her, as a plate clinked against a table, “But I’ll have you know that you’re missing out on some of the best…” she chuckled to herself, “I don’t actually know what the f*ck this is supposed to be broth of, it kind of smells like the ghost of a chicken and the breath of a vegetable. But I've eaten worse, from that very same kitchen, that I can assure you.”

There was an awkward pause. Did she expect him to laugh?

She steeled herself, and continued, “My employer told me that I was supposed to do something fun. I told him that I really didn’t know how to have fun and that he should go f*ck himself.”

She sounded like she was pouting.
He wanted to punch her.

She didn’t give him the privilege of seeing her—of reading her emotions, when she’d turn on him—not that he was any good at it anyways, but it hurt to not at least have the chance. His heart hiccupped in his chest.

Cruel people were only excited at the prospect of performing more cruelty. She had to want to do something to him.Did she like spectacle, like Mosquito? Did she want to show off just how powerful she was, just how she could send shivers down his spine, or did she lurk in the dark, like the Viper in the grass, sitting silently in the shadows of the jungle, watching them laugh, waiting for them to strike? Was she a silent observer like Bull, not doing anything exceptionally cruel, but not doing anything to stop her compatriots, either?

Bruno didn’t know which one he preferred.

Lemming huffed, kicking what he assumed to be her feet against his bed, but not hitting his body or any of his wounds, “You could at least humour me with a f*ck off. I’m not the best at making small talk. Especially when my target doesn’t talk back.”

The only thing Bruno wanted to ask her was whether she was the same person who brought Rosita back to him, but he didn’t-- because the consequences of him being wrong was too much to stomach. And she hadn’t sounded like that person either.

Whoever brought him Rosita knew it was wrong, and silently crept away from the scene of their crime. They didn’t come blaring in, so unless Rosita’s valiant rescuer had a double personality, Bruno doubted it was them, even as Rosita squirmed in the folds of his ruana, and he had to clamp his head atop her belly, hoping that Lemming wouldn’t catch on.

“After I told my boss to take a barbed dick,” she spoke, ”He told me that I could either talk about my life, or read something. I don’t think I have a very interesting life so—” she smacked her hand against a book and stated the obvious, “— I brought a book.”

She laughed at herself.

“I personally think that it doesn’t suck, and you can decide whether you think so, too.”

Lemming laughed awkwardly again. Bruno thought that if this was an act to make him comfortable, she was horribly bad at it.

“Okay,” she begun, her voice climbing lower as he heard her open and—gasp—crack the spine of a book, “We lay our tale in the streets of Bogota, wherein the Night Woman trawls the streets, looking for prey.”

Bruno had to bite down his urge to groan.

She had to be kidding him.

She wasn’t seriously going to read a pop-legend about the bitch that’d landed him in this mess, right? And the bitch who’d... then tried to get him out of it? Whatever the f*ck she’d pulled that night, Bruno had been trying not to think about it, or the fear that flashed across her face when Morales gripped her face.

He could hear her body shifting, and for a moment, he didn’t know whether he’d actually managed to supress his groan and wondered whether this was when she struck back, but she didn’t do anything other than slot next to him.

Her body didn’t touch his, but he could feel the thin mattress dip with her weight. “Sorry if I jostle your wounds,” she said, “I just wanted to be closer because I don’t want the f*cker outside of the door to listen in.”

Ah.

At least he confirmed that.

Even if he already knew.

“Relax,” she chided, “I’m not going to attack you. I like my job security.”

She was lying, he would quickly realise. As soon as she began to read, he felt himself wishing that she’d gone straight for the knife. With each clipped sentence, he realised that it didn’t sound like someone who was reading, even if her words were accented by the periodic audible turning of pages; it sounded like someone confessing to a crime.

They don’t know where the Night Woman came from, only that she emerged from the harbour, and that no one thought she’d ever been a child.

She might not have taken him from his home, but he was sure that she was reading the worst book ever written on purpose.

They know what they did, holy motherf*ckers and they had nothing to say against the price that they’re going to pay, and it won’t be enough, it will never be enough.

“Just f*cking get it over with,” Bruno, no Hernando’s voice hissed, as she read, interrupting her.

She saunters through the hallways, because she doesn’t sleep and she doesn’t know what else to do, she doesn’t feel anymore, but every now and again, she stops in front of a window, moonlight streaming through and she wonders if the world is happy with what she’s done.

“Get what over with?”

He pulled her in, whispering promises against her scars, promising that the world would change, that she would change it, that no one would have to suffer as she had.

“Whatever you’re going to do after you’re done with that future toilet paper.”

She doesn’t talk about, unless she makes a joke about it.

BOGOTA, Elena

She didn’t know why she was telling him this, she’d lied, she’d lied, and she could see the outline of the rat, tell that he was more confused than when she’d slipped it in and she kept wondering whether—if cracked—one of those f*cking arsenic green tablets would make a good sharp object to stab through a throat, the blood gushing like a fountain onto her flexing hand.

She tried to get a read on him, settling on that he was positively delirious and probably had a fever. She hoped that the fever was the cause of the delirium, even if he looked like a strong wind could knock him over, it’d be better odds than delirium caused by a head injury.

That didn’t always fix itself.

Most often, it didn’t—because Elena knew where to strike to permanently sever things that didn’t come back. She remembered being ordered not to kill—but to destroy and leave a shell behind. Three months later, she’d found herself sitting on a window’s ledge, listening to a not-quite-widow weep quietly, the kids in the other room.

When she’d gotten the mission, she’d thought it more merciful. When she pushed herself onto the second floor of the house, slipping her under the window and forcing it open enough for her to angle herself through, she didn’t think that it was.

Seeing a withered husk staring through her in the bed, hands folded—Elena closed her eyes and imagined the same gaze, pinned by her knee and looking up at her with flames spilling from his brown eyes, vehement hatred, as if he knew that he’d haunt her.

She wasn’t telling him the true story, she was still telling a story, she was buying into her own myth and trying to rationalise her choice—trying to settle into the familiar comfort of being someone else, trying not to think about Senor Noche’s grinning face in the crowd, how he’d probably made that exact expression when he’d—

No.

She wasn’t ripping the bandages off the burns.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Before he could think, Bruno was rolling over, and onto the ground, on top of her, his hands finding the small of her wrists.

There was a pause in the air, and he wondered if she’d strike him. Instead, with a challenging note in her voice, she asked: “What the f*ck are you doing?”

She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice.He wanted to leave her in a pool of red, a shard of green through her jaw. He could feel her shifting under him, as she exhaled.

“I could yell, you know.”

She flexed her muscles.

“If I couldn’t overpower you, I could yell, and more men than you could take would be storming in here before you f*cking knew what hit you. If I yell fire, people will come running. That’s the difference between us.”

“We’re just telling stories,” Bruno insisted, “I just thought it was my turn.” He tightened his grip on her, considering whether he’d be able to locate anything sharp without his sight, questioning why he hadn’t let her take off his mask.

She shifted, turning towards him from what he could feel, and he imagined her grinning as she spoke—a faceless black mound with shimmering teeth and warm hands, “I feel like people always die in your stories.”

He dipped his voice, wading through the murky waters.

“I just tell the truth.”

At this, she couldn’t help but laugh. He could hear that she’d tried to bite it down, but released it at the last moment, her chest shaking slightly as she snaked her grip around his hand.

“I would love to hear it, then,” she answered, “If it’s really good, I won’t scream, Senor Madrigal.”

Without thinking, he spoke. “Hernando,” he lied, “My name is Hernando.”
Lemming answered.
“My name is Lola.”

He could feel her hips curving against him, her legs pushing upwards. He could feel that she had more muscle than him, and he wondered if she’d rival Elena, with her plastic accent and pinching grip.

“Do you want a vision, Lola?”

She waited a split second.

“Maybe.”

On a gasp and walking across a tight-rope, gears shifting underneath him, Hernando spun her a tale. It wasn’t a vision, but instead a rejected plot for one of his telenovelas, and he could feel her stiffen at all the right spots. It wasn’t his worst; full of danger, love, adventure and tragedy. And it was a future that was still unwritten, with Lemming-Lola-Woman ice-cold underneath him.

“Huh,” she exhaled, moving under him, her skin flush against his. Without giving him a second to react, she mimicked his previous move and, using the momentum of her own weight, threw him onto his back, resting her shoulders and forearms against the hull of his chest, tsking.

“That sounded spectacular,” she exhaled.
“The future sometimes is.”

“How does it end?”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he happily grinned, “It could go both ways. Is it better than your story?”

She huffed. “The future isn’t a story. It’s a statement of fact. That’s why you’re being auctioned as a weapon.”

Auctioned?

What?

He had to get out. Now. Yesterday.

He slammed his knees upwards, against her stomach. He met hard muscle, but he felt her contract and heard the smallest sound of pain, so he jerked his head up, bouncing off hers and causing her grip to falter momentarily.

She spat, and Bruno kicked her again, trying his luck with breaking her grip and sliding out from underneath her. He managed to break one hand free, but she stubbornly held onto the second. Wrenching his body to the side, he rolled them both onto their side, and managed to kick her shin, the bone echoing as she bit down a yelp. Bruno pushed her onto her back, twisted his hand downwards and slipped free.

He could hear her scrambling to her feet, but instead of lunging at him, she did just as she’d promised.

“Fire!” she yelled, and the door slammed open, hitting the wall.

“Bitch,” he gritted out, pushing himself to stand on shaky legs.
“That,” she replied after a beat, ”Is a title I’d gladly take. You’re not the worst company. I’ll be back before you know it, and I would appreciate you being less hostile. Enjoy your audience with my co-workers, and try to think an ending to that story for me.”

With that, she clicked the door shut behind her, and a gruff voice exhaled.

“You know,” he said, “You wouldn’t get tossed around as much if you knew how to act.”

Bruno squared his fists in front of him, blindly fumbling to find the source of the voice. However, his attacker made the mistake of grabbing Bruno’s wrist, and before he could throw him to the ground, Hernando swept his leg and before Bruno could regret it, when the man was down, his head slammed against the cool ground, he stomped hard against his skull.

BOGOTA, Elena

Martinez was waiting for her outside of the door. She instinctively ducked away from his pat aimed at her shoulder, and he stilled into a walking pace next to her, grinning from ear to ear. She wondered how much he’d heard, and how much sh*t she’d get for it.

“Elena, Elena,” he chided before she managed to shush him, “Or should I say Lola? The Night Woman? Really? Have you forgotten you’re the Night Woman? And that the Night Woman’s story is depressing as f*ck and you can’t even tell a good story if it’s not—”

Ah. So, he’d heard more than enough.

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, waving her hand in the air, “I know, I know. Foolish of me, but I thought of it on the spot.” She batted his hand away. “And don’t say her story’s depressing, ‘cause you’re not wrong about her being me. Even if it does omit certain details. And f*ck off, I can always change my voice.”

She could. With Bruno, she’d played up the voice she used to use around Martinez, the voice of a girl who hadn’t died screaming, choking on thick black smoke.

Martinez shrugged. “So,” he asked, “Is the Night Woman’s story just puppies and rainbows or does the Night Woman think she’s so deluded that her story’s actually a happy one?”

Elena rolled her eyes and decided not to answer. Sometimes, it was a virtue to know when to back away from a fight—they weren’t physical yet, but she wouldn’t discount it, especially not yelling. They’d had heated arguments about it in the past.

Martinez didn’t seem to possess the same quality. “You know,” he continued as they walked aimlessly to the cafeteria, “I was sent here to make sure that you weren’t,” he raised his fingers to do his famous air quotes, “Terrorising our most valuable asset by just being yourself. And then I should have told you something about remembering to play nice, because we want him to think that we’re good people, but I didn’t have to do that at all—”

Elena interjected.

“And? What’s the problem with that? I’ve always understood directives better than you. I know when to push my own feelings down, and when to fake goodwill. You’re talking about it like I made a mistake while in reality you’re just here because Morales is a pissbaby who doesn’t like that I’m sticking around.”

She almost skidded on something wet and slick that she wouldn’t examine further, but knowing that it’s very likely that there’s blood against the blue mosaic tiles. It might even be hers. It might be Bruno’s, Hernando’s, whatever the f*ck kind of game he was trying to play with her. Maybe, he’d tried it on someone else—probably someone who sounded less female than her—and had his sh*t kicked for it. She’d done it before, when captives began getting too many smart thoughts and she had to make sure that they knew where they were on the totem pole.

But she’d been ordered to be nice. Specifically ordered. Her pay is still withheld, and she intends to bring it up tonight—when she’s in an audience that’s almost private. She used to take pleasure in them, because she’d know that she wasn’t invited because she was liked: but because she’d done something that earned her a seat at the table.

No matter how stupid it sounded, Elena Rojas earned her moniker. She earned her place amongst the nightmares. She’d been handed nothing except a well-honed brutality and a taste for blood—she’d been the one to recognise her power and carve her own place amongst the stars with callused hands.

No matter how terrible, she’d admit to being proud of what she’d done. Of what she’d earned. And not a single damn thing could take that away from her—short of killing her. But she knew, even dead, the echo of her would live on in the nightmares of those she’d let live instead.

“There’s no issue,” spoke Martinez, bringing her back to earth. She turned to face him, his angular face seeming sharper all of a sudden, intelligent green eyes studying her, a hint of stubble against his plump lips. She’d kissed them once, on a mission. People avert their eyes when someone’s kissing. She’d kissed him, and with half-slitted eyes, aimed her gun on a target who’d barrel into the pool four seconds later.

He hadn’t been a bad kisser.

“There’s no issue,” he repeated, perhaps sensing that she wasn’t entirely here with him, perhaps just wanting to make his point iron-clad, “There’s no issue until you make it an issue and I know you well enough to think that you just might. You sounded a little too yourself in there.”

He tugged at a loose strand of his hair. He’d need a cut soon, the reddish-brown curls were swooshing right above his shoulders. Morales always liked his men clean-cut, and unlike her, Martinez had permanent employment here.

In front of her, a gaggle of glorified concubines turned to look at them, giggling when their eyes landed on Elena’s clothes. When she was younger, she’d have been hurt. Now, she just shoved her hands into the pockets of her oversized slacks—stolen from either a rich target or department store, she couldn’t remember—and puffed out her chest. She could hear them whispering something about the wraith being dressed like a man, and it doing nothing to hide that she had little to nothing to show.

Elena wanted to grit out something cruel, maybe pin one of them to the wall, a knife to her throat, but she didn’t do it. Instead, she answered Martinez, and walked right past them. “Maybe I had fun. It was a good story. You have fun on missions. I’ve watched you gamble when you shouldn’t and dance with people you’re never going to see again.”

“So,” Martinez popped the end, “You’re just having fun?”

He sounded almost disappointed in her, like when she’d refused to eat something before missions, claiming the piss-poor excuse of not wanting to get a stitch in her side when they started running. Elena had never been prone to them, and Elena would never be running within the timeframe. Elena’s missions always went off without a hitch, and when they didn’t—she managed to spin it so nobody would ever know.

That’s the art of keeping yourself employed, without becoming a permanent fixture. Elena liked being able to run to those who paid her the most—because all she wanted was money and proximity.

“Yep,” she replied coolly, spying the doors of the cafeteria and already tasting the lukewarm arepa that everyone else claimed to be awful. She’d never tasted a ‘proper’ arepa, and she didn’t feel a particular need to.

Martinez played with his tie. “Do you wanna go find a spot to sit, and I’ll get your usual? sh*tty arepas and a soda, right?”

Elena nodded. “Grape, please,” she added. Martinez nodded his assent, and she pushed open the doors, holding them for him with a grin.

“You know,” he chided, “You should really let me make you some proper arepas once, like a mother would make.”

Elena was still running high on the thrill of being someone else, of being Lola, who was enthralled with stories of great loves that wouldn’t happen to her, so she clicked her lips together and answered, in a playful tone, “That’s alright. Neither of us have mothers, so why should we miss a mother’s homecooked food?”

Martinez didn’t answer that, and Elena took her cue to slide through the door, bumping her shoulder against his with a giggle as they went their separate ways. She sat down in the far corner of the cafeteria, watching his shoulders move and imagining him making better small talk with the cook than she’d ever be able to.

She understood why Morales thought he could lead.

Because it wasn’t a lie.

She didn’t follow Morales, she didn’t follow any of the men she offered her services to, but she thought, even without her bleeding heart, she’d follow Martinez. She didn’t want him to be a worthy successor, but she wasn’t liable to avoid the truth, either.

She wanted him in her arms, gazing up at the ceiling of a nameless motel somewhere in the jungle. She wanted his heartbeat against her hand, she wanted his breaths in the middle of the night. She didn’t want stolen glances, she didn’t to have to think about anyone seeing him leave her apartment, about whether he’d managed to write a good alibi this time.

She didn’t want to tell herself that she could always stop because she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t want to think about that they’d started and ended in beautiful ballrooms and now were nothing but meetings in the dark.

She wanted him.

Simple as that.

And she’d never have him.

Simple as that.

She’d end up falling into her work and leaving no trace other than the scars in the memories of those who survived her. And she’d been happy about that. She’d been content with it. She’d accepted her place in the world, and that nothing better was out there for her.

And then the future came knocking.

Or she came knocking, hauling the future out with her claws digging into his neck and realising just how much of a godforsaken mess that she’d gotten herself into.

Martinez pulled her from her thought, speaking a language that only they understood, holding a tray of lukewarm, soggy arepas in front of him—as if it was a peace offering.

Elena grabbed one, and he sat down, the tray slamming against the metal table, producing a clang that sounded like a gunshot in the distance.

Elena wanted to ask: would you drive out of the city with me? But instead, she smirked, bit into the arepa and said, “So, got a cheque for me?”

And he laughed and Elena took another bite and neither of them thought about their wildest dreams for the rest of the meal, falling into the familiar tones of their secrets and Elena almost felt her mask slipping off, almost felt safe enough to set it down on her own accord.

But good things aren’t meant to last.

People like her don’t get happy endings; they get fables with a moral lesson at the end—so you don’t end up like her.

“We’re eating tonight, before the auction,” Martinez said as she moved to get up, grabbing her by the wrist, and Elena tricked herself into thinking that he touched her because he wanted to keep her in his orbit for just a moment longer, so she relented, for the first in days, willingly falling.

“Oh,” answered Elena, “And is that your way of begging me to come so you don’t have to listen to the drunk bastard talking about just how much cash he’s going to rake in?”

Martinez winced. “Perhaps,” he replied, an unreadable expression on his face, “But I also want to tell you something that I think you should know. Now.”

She could sense the awkwardness in his voice, as if he’d rehearsed it. Martinez was always a terrible liar and performer, she could always tell—even if Morales claimed the opposite, lauding Martinez as having a slippery, silver tongue that’d graze right over the heads of his victims, ignoring that most of the sh*t he was praising was what Elena would consider some of her most mediocre work.

It wasn’t Martinez who was tricking bodyguards into leaving their posts and then killing them silently, it was Elena. It’d always been Elena.

“Oh,” she repeated, her voice growing a ridge to match his. “You can tell me while we walk, then. I have too much sh*t to do today if I have to show up at a f*cking dinner and everything, f*cking Hell, dude, you can always warn me of these, you know—”

“It was spontaneous.”

Elena huffed, moving, and forcing Martinez to choose between following her or releasing his grip. He chose to hold onto her, and even tightened it. She turned back to leer at him over her shoulder with a smirk, but his face made her falter.

“Elena,” he said, his words halting, as if they were desperately trying to cling to his lips, “Senor Noche is here, and Morales helped kill your father.”

BOGOTA, Martinez

Elena swirled around, an infernal miasma of fire and smoke dancing in her eyes, narrowing at him. He could already tell that her tongue was coiled and sharp as a machete, and she was waiting for someone to take it out on. f*ck.

That someone was him.

He’d never heard silence quite as loud as when Elena’s eyes met his. She took a deep breath, before her lips cracked open, words spilling like the water from a swollen river.

“You f*cking coward,” she growled, “I know you didn’t want to do that. I know you don’t like f*cking beating men within an inch of their lives. And you still did it—”

“Father insisted!” he interrupted, throwing his hand towards her. He didn’t know why he was trying to defend himself, he knew that it was only going to get worse. Elena grabbed his wrist in a cruel grip, jerking it backwards in front of her, making his vision go white.

“Oh,” she cooed cruelly, “f*ck you and f*ck that. You’ve never been able to stand up against that f*cking idiot and now, look at you. A perfect little puppet. I know you. I know that you didn’t want to do it. I have to tell myself that you didn’t, because otherwise I’d want to f*cking kill you. I used to think my—”

Her voice splitting between pain and venom, she twisted the blade, “And now—f*ck, how long did you know? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to look at you. I don’t want anything to do with you. f*ck you. What the f*ck, you’re f*cking lying, right, you’re doing the worst bit of all time, and you’re going to be so f*cking sorry—”

Her eyes met his.

“You’re not lying to me. You knew, and you didn’t tell me, I opened myself up for you, exposed myself to you, and you knew, and you didn’t say anything and—”

Martinez didn’t try to tell her that he’d only known for a day, and that’d already been too long for him. That he’d barely been able to resist the urge to draw a knife across the bastard’s throat himself, that every time he closed his eyes, he saw a bright and bubbly little girl running towards him, only to crumple to ashes and red-rimmed eyes, a strong, weathered body collapsing against his, begging him to change fate.

She shook her head, and Martinez wanted to crumple from the pain, but Elena didn’t let him—holding him up by her tight grasp. He’d never been afraid of her until this moment, but with her next words, the fear morphed to a bone-deep grief.

“I really thought I knew you,” she said as she righted his arm, her fingers still thrumming against his tender skin, “I really thought I did, and I thought I liked you. I thought you were the one person worth anything here. But no. You’re just another sh*tty goon. Martinez—”

Her words got caught in her throat, her gaze softening. He was sure that it was utterly unintentional by the speed of which she caught herself, steeling her expression back into a brutal grimace.

“You have to make your own choices. Is this what you want? … You’re going to have to choose whose side you’re on. Me or Daddy Dearest? You can’t have both of us. Not anymore. You can’t have me, but I’m not going to kill you. See you tonight.”

At that, she dropped his hand, and before he could say anything: she’d turned her back on him, walking fast down the hallway. He didn’t follow her, standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, a bruise already forming against his wrist.

BOGOTA, Elena

She didn’t remember how she’d gotten back to her quarters; she just knew that she slammed the door, locked the deadbolt and slid down to hug her knees for one too many times in recent days, shaking like a leaf on the street.

She didn’t know what was worse: it was a three-ring circus of betrayal, and she knew that she didn’t have a place in this world anymore. Bruno Madrigal’s words echoed in the back of her mind.

You get your revenge.

You get your revenge.

You get your revenge.

You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge. You get your revenge.

BOGOTA, Martinez

He didn’t move, anchored to the ground by his sins, feeling as if he spoke another word, he would both choke and turn to stone. He watched her leave, watched her storm through the hallway until she disappeared down the bend and even if he knew where she was going—knew what she was probably going to do to herself, he couldn’t make himself move.

He didn’t deserve to see her. He didn’t deserve her, he’d known—she hadn’t been wrong about that, and he wasn’t sure whether it mattered if it’d been just one day and a miserable night or twelve years. He’d still known, and he’d laughed with her when he knew that she’d lined the pockets of the man who’d caused her to be like this, to live the life that she’d never wanted.

The life that her father had died to protect her from. Her husky voice and scarred back wasn’t a marketing choice—she didn’t have them because they made her scarier, she had them because she’d survived things no one should. And she’d always been driven by her urge for revenge—she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d rectified it.

He didn’t know how he found himself, hours later, sitting at a table with Elena and Morales. He didn’t remember anything that brought him here, but he had his bag full of his books and Elena had changed her clothes, her eyes were red-rimmed if you caught them in the right light, but it wasn’t from smoke. Long sleeves decorated her arms, and she refused to look at him.

Someone slid gelato across the table, and Martinez wanted to laugh at the cruel joke.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena didn’t know what she was doing. This was foolish. She could stop herself. She could stop thinking about it. She could do nothing about it. She could sit back and eat gelato like a normal person and talk about selling a man who’d been too scared to walk outside (she’d heard the rumours, of course she had, little old ladies in mountain villages didn’t have much else going on).

There was nothing normal about that. Looking down at the pinkish slop in front of her, smelling of chemical strawberry—something she knows was ordered in her honour—only makes her want to throw up. She doesn’t even f*cking like gelato. She never has.

She could stop herself.
But somehow, she knows that she wants.

She spares a brief glance at Martinez, who’s gathering his things to leave. Good. She doesn’t want him involved in any of this. He has too many good things going on. He doesn’t go crazy in the middle of the night. He’s not haunted by green eyes.

“Leaving so soon?” spoke Morales, his expression questioning and challenging Martinez to sit back down again. Please don’t. Martinez had always bragged about his ability to sense danger. Now was the time for him to put it to use.

I hate you more than anyone here. I love you more than anyone here. I want to kill you. I think I would let you kill me, if you just looked at me while you did it.

Please go. Please don’t leave me alone with him. I don’t know what I’d do. Run far away. Take my money and run away. Don’t ever leave me, stay here with me, hold my hand—

“I’m sorry Senor,” answered Martinez in a kind voice that Morales didn’t deserve, “I have to study for my exams, and if you wish for me to be present at the auction—”

Morales interrupted. “I don’t.”

“I don’t want you to be involved with any of the serious business of the underworld yet. But if you wish to study, you’re dismissed. Studying is an honourable pursuit. But remember to take time for yourself, too, you’ve been working very hard, recently.”

Please.

She didn’t want them to end here, she didn’t want their strings to finally untangle and go their separate ways. She wanted to sit on the roof with him, the stars dancing above and she wanted to know the full story, she wanted to sift through the jitteriness and she wanted to prove herself wrong—she wanted to go too far and she wanted love to make her crazy again, she wanted to keep him tucked against her chest, her memories untainted.

Martinez shot her a lingering glance, and she hated the feeling that he was reading her like a book. If he was, she was one sh*tty one. He’d already said that. She hoped that he wouldn’t find it necessary to interrupt the climax of the Night Woman’s story, even if it was depressing.

He pulled his eyes away from her, sighing under his breath. It almost made her chuckle. He’d always do that, and he’d always think he was slick enough to get away with it. She wondered if he knew that half of the reason that Elena stayed for a few days after completing a job for Morales was because she genuinely enjoyed his company, even if she used to find him annoying for having made no real sacrifices for his life of ill-gotten luxury.

Now she sees it differently. He’d just been a child. They’d both been children. She couldn’t have done anything about what happened to her—no matter how many nights she spends awake, obsessing about every single little detail that she still recalls. He couldn’t do anything about being taken in by Morales, either. He just was. He had a father. Elena didn’t.

Maybe, with just one flap of a butterfly’s wings, their positions would have been reversed all those years ago. She wondered if he’d question why she wasn’t here anymore.

Of course, she hadn’t told him. And she wasn’t going to. It wasn’t his burden to shoulder. It wasn’t his revenge to get. She’d always made that abundantly clear, mostly out of a strange sense of deserving it. He hadn’t staked a claim to it—he couldn’t, he hadn’t been hurt like she had.

“You’re right,” Martinez chuckled, his laugh bringing Elena back to earth, “I think I’ve been overdoing it lately, I can barely get through one of our dinners—and I’m sure we all regrettably remember that didn’t always use to be the case.”

This was when she was supposed to laugh at the memory of his drunken antics. She could barely muster a small grin, while Morales was seized by a bodily jerk. She briefly wondered if someone had beat her to her urges and laced his food. But alas, he quickly gathered himself, pat Martinez on the back and whispered something about getting proper rest, then, his gaze darting to Elena.

Frankly, it was a miracle that she hadn’t killed him yet. But he’d always paid well and on time, and sometimes she even wouldn’t mind having dinner with two drunken buffoons, because if she imbibed enough, she could almost trick herself into thinking that she belonged.

She waited until Martinez hadn’t just left, but until she couldn’t hear his footsteps in the hall and then she stood up, squaring her hands against the wood.

I can’t hear you, I don’t fear you.

Last chance, Rojas. Last chance to back out.

Last night, she’d written in her journal, alongside the simple, cold mission report of her trip to Encanto: The more I think, the less I know. All I know is that I have to find a way to drive off this road, even if it means my own destruction.

“I think I may have made a mistake.”

Morales quirked his brow, downright begging her to continue. Elena bit down the shiver that ran across her spine, settling at the base of it, at his gesture. He had to know what’d happened to her. He had to know what the effect of his glare would be.

He was doing it on purpose. He was trying to scare her into shutting up, into curling in on herself and going back on her words. Into blaming it on the alcohol. Maybe even on the stress if he was feeling particularly human this evening.

He was trying to force her to lie about herself. She saw that now, and in front of her, laid across like a tapestry, was every other time he’d done that. Every time he’d poisoned her with his lies, laid her ripe for his taking, vulnerable and dazed.

“I think I have taken the wrong man. I don’t believe the man we have in custody is Bruno Madrigal.”

His glass clinked. “Oh,” he spoke, his voice seeping into the room like smoke, “And why would you think that? We’ve watched him prove himself, we’ve watched his glorious visions. Are you going back on your word, Elena Rojas?”

Her surname sounded clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth, like he didn’t want to speak it aloud. She wondered how much she reminded him of Martino. She wondered if he knew.

Okay Elle, she thought. It’s time to sell this like you’ve never sold anything in your goddamn life, and if it makes it shorter, well, at least you’ll have taken a stand. She caught Martinez’s gaze in the corner of the room, and she could tell that he was begging her to back off, too. She tried to bite down the urge to cry.

“I think he’s lying.”

Morales undid his tie, and Elena noticed how his white dress-shirt was already stained brown. Before she could stop herself, she was drowning in the waters of memory with the sound of the scuff of shoes, the sudden feeling of her head slamming against the table.

She has a history with men like that. Those guys in sloppy, stained suits, leaning over the hotel bar and whispering in the bartender’s ears in voices meant to be overheard that someone’s getting laid tonight. The bartender wags his brow, and he settles down again. She’s usually the layer. Paid forty cents to every man’s dollar, then shoved out, swollen-lipped and on her way with bills shoved against her tit*.

And nobody sees a damn thing wrong with that. She’s just some jug-headed prostitute who did this to herself, headed back to the streets, her hair-curling to a frizz around her skinny shoulders, the blades of which cut out against the slits in her backless black dress. Elena has a knife strapped to her hip. But nobody knows about that. It’s pushed far down enough in the waistline of her lacy panties that nobody but the man who just had his dick her pants had any right to see.

She steels silently down an alleyway, behind a dumpster where she bends at the waist, shaky on her stilettos and releases the still-glimmering champagne bubbling in her stomach. She can still taste the bubbles tickling her nose on the way down, and on the way up—and it’s salted with something she can’t have in her system tonight. Asshole. f*cking asshole.

Elena cringes at the fruitiness of it, all the mistakenly sweet, bright, pale, golden raisin flavour of it. It’s supposed to be a treat for her. He even said so, as he pushed it into her hand and made it very clear that she didn’t have a choice in wrapping her fingers around the thin glass. She could have smashed it over his head, she thought, foolishly, in the moment.

It’s supposed to be something one drinks on their birthday, maybe on New Year’s Eve. Something that’s supposed to be celebratory. Not f*cking or getting f*cked. It’s all gone to the sour-bitterness of bile.

After she throws up the dregs, Elena straightens and moves confidently towards the sidewalk, searching for a taxi to hail at what seems to be dawn’s first light. No one wants to pick her up, bedraggled as she is. Nobody knows that she has the money, that her strung-out, drugged-to-the-limits-and-then-some is actually as fine as fine can be. She’s sober on the inside, even if the outside tells a different story. She tells herself this until the liquid lie becomes solid truth in her hand.

The mascara rings under her eyes may say that she’s been beaten, and badly, but just means that she’s won. That she’s completed her mission and that a very big paycheque will be in her mailbox down at the boarding house she’s stayed in long enough to gain a rapport with the desk clerk. Enough of a rapport to cut him a portion of her cheque if he keeps it for—and sometimes, she’ll even let him dip into her drug stash or the owner of a neighbouring business will suffer a freak accident.

Oh, how tragic. Maybe he shouldn’t have had a massive sign saying that he didn’t harbour criminals. It’s rude to discriminate against the best paying customers in the city.

Elena has the intel she’s been assigned to get, tucked away in a pocket on the inside of her purse—a single key to a single safe, and she’s left a body much more bloodied and broken than her own in an alleyway. She’s ready to pass on the intel as she soon as she’s back home, as soon as she has access to a payphone to inform of a ‘delivery’ well done.

Elena settles for a streetcar, showing herself next to two sweaty dockworkers and feeling like she’s back in her cage. She sits stubbornly on one of the seats, mashed between filth, ignoring the gazes from all around her, ostensibly wondering why such a well-dressed woman is looking so bedraggled on the train at this hour of the morning. She crosses her legs tightly so no one can see what’s up there, or down there, however you want to put it. The knife ought to be protection enough.

But Elena knows it’s not worth it to keep any hungry male’s stare.

When Elena gets off at her assigned quarters, she dodges two catcallers on her way sauntering down the street, her gait slightly unsteady. If they tried to fight her on her willingness, she might be able to take one down, but she doesn’t know what she’d do if they were a package deal.

Elena slams herself into a payphone, ignoring the man banging on the side, sticks coins into the slot and begins yammering off the information she’s been paid for in whatever language she can think of that she knows Morales will understand. German is probably her best bet. Then Russian. Then French. Maybe Italian. It’s an international district of town—chosen intentionally—and she knows that no one will care if she’s not speaking Spanish.

The passer-by’s will care more about her tottering heels than her mismatched, clunky words, so Elena sweeps them off and carries the shoes on the edge of her pinkie finger, hiking barefoot down the sidewalk, head down and focussed on something outside of her.

When she reaches the dilapidated front door of the apartment she’s staying in because she killed its owner and it’s in an advantageous position, Elena’s only stepped on broken glass twice. She considers it a victory, wipes her bleeding feet on the fluffy doormat and heads inside.

Elena has just enough energy to throw her body down on the soft, downy bed and release Morales from her mind—ignoring that she cut him off and started running from the payphone, saying something clipped about calling him back with more later. She shuts her eyes before darkness overtakes her—tries to convince herself that it’s willing, and she’s in some other place of dreams and dark shadows for an unknown amount of hours until it simply stops, and the daylight begins again.

She has a history with places like that. None of it makes her a good person. Sure, she’s skilled. She’s a valuable asset. People look at her and see potential—but never for her, for them. Elena knows what to do in any multitude of situations. The men. The bad places. She knows how to hold captive in her kiss, in her gaze. And yet, despite it all, Elena knows her history is far from being completely written.

She emerges from the waves, cleansed by fire and Elena didn’t know what she was doing, her hands shaking against the table and spitting blood as she pushes herself up. This was foolish. He’d see through her. She’d never missed a single shot in her life. That was the only reason he tolerated her. She was here because she’d never missed. The warm metal against her skin was a token of that.

Chapter 6: burn baby burn

Chapter Text

BOGOTA, Elena

She glared at the gelato, hoping that her gaze would melt it into nothing.

“I think he’s a brilliant conman who knew what to do to play on our emotions and desires because frankly, we’re not all very complex people. I know that he did something to my mind with his words, and it was nothing supernatural. But it’s kept me up for the past days, and it’s rattled me. I don’t believe that he can see the future. I believe that he’s going to make a fool of you in front of everyone who has the power to end you.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Liar, liar, liar, Elena on fire.

Bruno had rattled her because he’d known. He’d made her usually composed nerves into a livewire, ready to spark at any moment—to strike out that those who dared touch her, at those who hurt . It felt like she’d been wearing blinders, and Bruno tore them off.

She saw everything with new eyes, and the first thing that burned itself into her mind was that he’d known. Bruno had known her. Morales had known about her father. And he’d never told her. And now he was going to enslave a man.

Martino would never have allowed this. She was sure of it. If he was here now, he’d have supported her. If he was here, she wouldn’t be. He’d have protected her. But he died in the blaze, and now Elena had to save herself and avenge a man too kind for this world.

She barely gets to widen her eyes before Morales lunges for her again, his signet ring glimmering as it catches the light.

Whoever invented gelato must be the Devil indeed, Elena thinks. Sweet and silky going down and again coming up. No food on the planet is as easy and pleasant to abuse. She spits out a mouthful of milky saliva and reaches for the toilet paper. The dregs of vomit soak the flimsy tissue, and Elena stares down at it with morbid curiosity—like how one would study a gut shot the second before passing out.

Elena’s also done that.

She drops it on top of the mess in the porcelain bowl. One would think that the pink and green of strawberry and pistachio ice cream would come back a soft lavender, but they don’t. They come back up grey and dreary. Even the chemical tang of the cheap moonshine—cut with God knew what—she’d chased it with seems stronger now, infused with a sharp medical bite.

Elena’s sinuses burn and for a split-second, she feels regret. But then she remembers why she chose this one—the cheap sidewalk offering in the most atrocious flavour, and she heaves against without even shoving her fingers down her throat. She thinks about work, and the thought sends her skin crawling and she lurches harder.

If she’d wanted a treat, she’d have gone for the salted caramel. It’s not like they pay her a fortune, but she’s not strapped for cash, either. She could afford nicer things if she wanted them, she tells herself. She knows she’ll never take herself up on the offer. The thought only comes in the seconds of weakness between her masks slipping back into place. She could have a bigger apartment with a toilet that doesn’t wobble when she leans against it.

Her problem isn’t that she couldn’t—it’s that she doesn’t deserve them. The gelato isn’t a reward. The gelato is torture.

Elena retches, but it’s dry. She’s empty and it’s entirely too soon. There’s still so much hurt inside of her, hurt that needs to spill out. She jams four fingers against her tongue and pushes until she tastes acid.

A splash of red appears mixed in with the yellow bile, creating stark red swirls in the cloudy water. “f*ck,” she mutters, spitting thick saliva that tastes of iron. She should’ve known she was pushing too hard, wanting it too bad. She knows she should’ve stopped before she drew blood. She can’t find it in her to regret it, though.

She’s never been much good at restraining herself.

The thought of her last trip to the countryside comes to mind before she can push it away, of the two lonely tombstones she’d found weathered and crumbling in a corner of chain-link fence. They’d stood there for less than twenty years, and they were already falling apart.

It was obvious that it was because no one cared enough to maintain them. They had no family, and no one was paid to give a f*ck. So, they simply didn’t.

What did she think when she started looking? That she’d find a little old woman cooking stew and a man herding donkeys into the yard? Maybe, they’d done what she’d done and gone to Bogota—maybe she’d find an urban apartment housing proud career people, her father a police detective and her mother a nurse? No, that wasn’t likely. Two spies hiding out in a hovel was more likely. Much more likely.

But not entirely. The most likely was addicts, people who’d give their child up to a man they didn’t know as an infant. Addicts, probably. Or a prostitute and an anonymous white collar; her mother a nobody and her father an anybody. Who knows if the man buried beside her mother had anything to do with Elena’s conception?

Who knows if her mother even chose her name? Or knew her name? Elena had never asked, and now, the only person who would have known is dead. Not like it matters anyways. It’s all just grey stone now. She’s never met these people. She shouldn’t feel upset about these people. It’s grey like the sick staring back at her, grey like the miserably clouded sky that makes for a throwaway Sunday.

Elena needs to work in the morning, there’s no illusion of choice about that: but she still wishes she’d cut herself a little deeper with her terrible choices. Downed a tub of corn and a bottle of vodka instead of a half-gallon of ice cream. There’s alcohol in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, so she can imbibe if she still feels like it once she’s done evacuating her stomach lining, her mind supplies.

Elena keeps a couple of bottles stashed alongside the bleach for nights just like this: nights when she’s not sure which concoction she’d rather sip on.

Pain, or death? It’s a toss-up. Elena isn’t sure which one she needs more. For now, she’ll take her chances with both, equally.

“Do you understand the gravity of your words, Elena?” snarled Morales, gesturing to his knuckles, stained with blood. Elena staggered from the table, blood dripping onto her chest. She didn’t because she hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she hadn’t done anything wrong; she hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t done anything wrong. This was the first thing she’d done right.

This was a piss-poor confrontation. She’d always expected it to be more dramatic. More badass. Something befitting a trashy novel that someone would write about her after she was already buried. Her heard swum, the world in front of her spinning into a spiralling staircase of reality, blurring at the edges.

The only thing she could focus on was Morales’ greased grin, slick with sweat.

“Is there anything wrong, Ellie? Did I hit you too hard? After you’ve apologised for your slight, we can take you right down to medical and they’ll have you hooked up to the good drugs in no time.”

Elena’s vision blurred. It was a tempting f*cking offer. He knew how to sell to her. But she’d fought on worse, she’d fought off worse. She bit her tongue until it drew blood, the metallic taste—as it always had—forcing her to evaluate her surroundings. She wasn’t sure that she was able to take Morales in a physical fight.

But that wasn’t her speciality. She’d always relied on her aim. And she could still aim. Her aim was still true. She’d never missed anything. She could see the rise and fall of his chest; she knew where his heart was. She knew that a clean shot would have him crumpled on the floor immediately, dead in a minute. No one would manage to do anything. She wouldn’t manage to run, because he’d scream.

She could probably shoot for his vocal chords and land the deadly blow afterwards.

She slides her hands down her ass, fingering for the set quickly stuffed down her too-large waistband, hidden for most by her loose blazer.

The metal’s cool in her hands, weighted to her precise liking. It’s a fine gift—a recent one, too. A reward for managing to snuff out a too populistic politician in under twenty-four hours. Morales had told her one of his associates didn’t like how he spoke to the people, and without asking questions, Elena had loaded two shots and left. She’d only used one.

When she returned, two new guns lay on the dining table, with her name engraved on them with something other than a shiv. She’d been proud. She’d liked it—she’d liked how the brutality made her feel whole, how she was still buzzing with adrenaline from running across rooftops, and she’d spent the whole night after twirling them so they caught the flickering light of her bedroom lamp and learning how quickly she could flip them out, train on a target and fire.

When she was younger, Elena shot Duos to scare—while in reality, she never shot both guns at the same time. She’d shoot her left first—then in the blink of an eye, refocus her gaze and release the right. You don’t notice that split-second when you’re being shot at. Especially since that Elena’s shots always land exactly where she wants them, so you’re already trying to plug your first gut shot—or watching in horror as someone you love or at least need to finish the mission is bleeding out on the nice ballroom tiles.

But now, Elena shoots at the same time. She fingers the metal, slips slender digits against the triggers and she can already feel the heat of battle against them.

This is the last chance for her to back out. No one knows. No one would know if she didn’t do it. But the part of her mind that sounds like her father is screaming, and suddenly, Elena is inhaling, and she plays her final ace, the gold of her rings clicking against the triggers as she trains them on Morales, whose mouth is opening and closing like a fish, not a single word breaking through.

The gelato is forgotten on the table.

I’m sorry , she breathes. I’m not , she exhales. You entertained the man who killed my father. You ordered the beating of a man who didn’t deserve it. You didn’t pay me. Really, you forced my hand.

He didn’t. Elena chose this. In front of her, she sees her life mapped out, with all the twists and turns and burning forests that lead her here and she sees herself standing in the corner, setting the paper alight, a callused hand sitting securely on her shoulder. She’d been a child. She hadn’t deserved to become the monster that’s standing in front of them.

She steels herself.

“Where’s Bruno?” she snarled.

Morales spits at her. “I thought you said we didn’t have Bruno Madrigal.”
Elena shrugged, not losing her aim for a second. “I lied. You know I did.”
She narrowed her eyes and wondered whether she’d be able to hit Morales and whoever was about to storm in through the door if he yelled fire.

“Don’t scream.”

She’s banking on him trusting that she’ll hit him before they hit her. She’s banking on him knowing her to be reckless. Maybe even insane. He opens his mouth to speak, but she doesn’t let him. She’s going to have to sell this like she’s never sold anything in her life.

“I tried to be diplomatic,” she says, “And I didn’t lie to you. I told you that the man we have here is not Bruno Madrigal. He’s not a seven-foot-tall trickster with rats running down his back and out his sleeves, waiting to feast on your fear. He’s scared, fragile and needs to go back to where he belongs. It’s like keeping a jaguar in captivity.”

She could see Morales’ fingers twitching and she tightened her own grip, her trigger fingers ghosting metal. It’s a stand-off, she knows that. She doesn’t have him where she wants him, but he doesn’t have her at all. They’re both waiting for the other to make a mistake—and Elena isn’t sure she’s strong enough to hold out.

“He’s a grown man,” growls Morales, “He’s a grown man who’s responsible for his own actions. He came here with you, didn’t he?”

Elena sees red, she sees the blaze that took her family—that took her youth, her innocence, the first dot on the map that winds down to here, standing in front of billowing curtains with her expensive gift trained on the only man kind enough to give them without the promise of favours in the future. Morales has always paid her. Morales has always understood that she doesn’t want to stay here.

Morales has kept her on the same chain as everyone else. Morales has lied to her, because he knew that if she’d been able to strike earlier: she’d have left. Morales wanted to be everything she had left.

“I took him!”
“He didn’t come willingly! And you know it! You ordered me to take him at all costs! I—I killed two people to take one!”

Morales quirked his brow. “Two is a low number for you, Elena,” he simply answered, his voice dropping to a soft, low edge that had her moving instinctively to let him cup her jaw. She stayed still, forcing her feet to anchor herself to the marble tiles.

She’d already fallen from her pedestal. She couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t go back. It was cruel and wrong. What happened to her was cruel and wrong. What she’d done to others was cruel and wrong. What happened to Bruno was cruel and wrong. And she had to stop it. Even if it meant dying.

She had to break the wheel.

She’d at least die having tried to right the wrongs she’d spoken into existence. Her blood surged with fire, scorching everything, and leaving her mind completely clear. In the room, there were more than sixty ways to kill Morales. Twenty of those were silent. From where she was standing, there wasn’t anywhere he could move to be truly out of her range.

She had the upper hand, so why didn’t it feel like it? Why did it feel like she was circling a monster, bare-handed, her fists in front of her teeth? Morales was just a man. He was mortal, just like her.

“What’s gotten into you, Elena?” he asked, trying to close the distance between them, “You understand the need to keep our operation running. The country is unstable, and we wish to take control of it. We wish to make it better, don’t we? We wish to cleanse Colombia of its sins and lead our nation into a time of never-before-seen glory. I know you want that.”

He extends his hands towards her, inviting her into his embrace. “I know what happened last night was brutal. It wasn’t supposed to go like that, and you certainly weren’t supposed to see it. I know you, Elena. I’ve known you for your whole life. I know that you want to change the world. Your father did, too.”

The heels of his shoes clanged against the tiles, and with bile pushing its way up her throat, Elena screamed: “I know you wanted to kill him, you bastard!”

And before she could comprehend what she did, Elena Rojas shot centre-mass, Morales stumbling backwards as she tried to gather the scraps that he’d taken away from her, trembling enough to drop the gilded weaponry. She knew she’d missed; she knew she’d left him with the first survivable injury of her life, but she was already running—pushing her way past bewildered guards, shouldering them out of her path before they knew better and started running after her.

Everything spiralled into nothing, voices blurring as Elena struggled to keep her feet slamming against the ground, carrying her off to only God knew.

She’d shot him.
She’d missed him.
She hadn’t gone back.
She hadn’t finished the job.
She’d left her weapons.
Everyone would have known it was her.
Everyone would be hunting her.
She didn’t know where Bruno was.

She didn’t regret a single thing.

BOGOTA, Martinez

Martinez didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know why he was doing it. He had absolutely no reason to do this. Yet, he didn’t stop himself from walking into Bruno Madrigal’s cell, from throwing open the door.

“Senor!” Martinez barked, and immediately regretted it when the man on the bed turned into a quivering leaf. f*ck, he thought. Elena would insist to the moon and back that she was no good at this, but she was certainly much better than Martinez. He was a burnt, rolled-up lump of coal next to her shining star in everything they did—even things that Elena claimed to be bad at.

Elena was an asshole who claimed she sucked at everything that wasn’t shooting.

Martinez inhaled, and forced himself to close the distance, crouching near the bed, his arms raised even if he knew Bruno couldn’t see him. In the softest voice he knew, his best imitation of Elena, he spoke: “Senor, I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’m just going to take that horrible mask of you. Someone should have done that a long time ago. Can you walk, Senor?”

Martinez didn’t know what he would do if the answer was no.

He supposed he could carry him, but he wouldn’t know where to go with him. He wouldn’t know what to do without Elena. Elena’s always the one to work the situation and get them out of a bind.

Slowly, like he feared the repercussions, Bruno shook his head.

He slowly extended his arm towards Bruno, still speaking softly, “That’s okay, we’re going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to get you out of here and safe, back home with your family, okay? Do you think you’d let me take the mask of you so you can see better? Don’t worry, I swear that I’m not going to hurt you, Senor.”

Bruno shakily nodded, a low whine working its way out of his throat but sounding like it got stuck halfway— sh*t, thought Martinez, that sounds like a burn —but before he could lean over and undo the muzzle’s hooks, the door slammed open.

Martinez jerked back, jumping to his feet only to come face-to-face with Miquel, who hurriedly saluted. Martinez didn’t know how much he’d heard—this could turn ugly quickly.

“There’s been an incident and we believe that Rojas has gone rogue and shot at Senor Morales. She’s currently on the run through the compound, do you want to lead or stay here and protect our cargo? They’re taking Senor Morales to the infirmary now, she hit him in the chest and they’re going to assess the damage, there. I can also bring you down if you would like to stay with Senor Morales.”

Elena!

Oh God, Elena—what have you done?

That was worse. Unimaginably worse. f*ck, she’d seemed strange at dinner—he’d noticed and he hadn’t done anything because he couldn’t see straight for his own problems. He was too preoccupied with freeing Bruno while Morales was distracted with Elena. God, he should have told her. Of course, she’d have tried before the auction.

Elena Rojas, even if she’d vehemently deny it, was too principled of a person to let something like this go ahead. For a brief moment, he’d thought that the money had finally blinded her: but he’d seen her when Morales’ men started beating Bruno. He should have known there.

He should have known that she’d have snapped when he told her, that her strings had frayed so much that it just took a couple of well-aimed words.

He’d known her since they were kids.

He should have seen the signs.

He schooled his voice into what Miquel would expect of Morales’ son, icy and unfailingly analytical, “What’s the status of Rojas? Is she armed? Or injured? ”

Please don’t let her be hurt, please, please—I can’t lose my life and Elena on the same day. I chose her. I finally chose her. All those years ago when she’d asked me: I chose her! Don’t take her away from me.

Miquel gulped. “Rojas left two guns at the scene, but we have reason to believe that she’s both armed and injured. Senor Morales attests to have landed at least two hits to her head that caused her to black out, and that she seemed disoriented during the confrontation and when she ran from it. She didn’t deliver a fatal shot.”

That was more telling than anything.

Martinez shot a glance towards Bruno, lying still on the bed. He didn’t know how much Bruno comprehended—he seemed frozen with fear, and frankly, Martinez didn’t blame him. He was injured, kidnapped and he couldn’t see anything in his soundproofed cell.

As much as Martinez wanted to run for Elena, his safety and power lay in that no one expected him to want her. And something inside of him was yelling that Elena would want him to get Bruno out of here. That he should trust Elena Rojas to know what she was doing. She’s survived worse. He’s watched her. She’s gotten him out of impossible situations before.

If anyone could do it, it would be her. And he had to trust her.

He had to have faith in Elena.

“I think I want to stay here,” he answered, pushing out his chest and crossing the distance between them, “If I know anything about Elena Rojas, I know that she’s not leaving without something to barter. Stealing our most valuable asset from us and forcing our hand if we want him back is so much her style that I’m surprised she wasn’t knocking on the door instead of you.”

Martinez spied the small army of men standing behind Miquel. “I want you to rally everyone you can find,” he continued, “And search for Elena, everyone together, in a continuous line around the compound until you find her.”

Miquel stared at him quizzically. “A line? Isn’t it smarter to go off in smaller groups to make the most of the search and cover more ground quicker—”

Martinez tried to channel the man who’d raised him as he interrupted Miquel.

“Are you questioning my authority and expertise? I know E—Rojas. She’s too dangerous to face in a small group. I fully expect her to be armed and waiting for exactly that: a small group to pick off, one by one, until there’s no one left. I’ve watched her do it countless times and know that our best chance to hindering her is to take her together. I’ll stay here and defend Bruno Madrigal; this room is windowless, and her only option is to come through the door—”

He winked at the shotgun leaning against the chair by the bed. “—Where I’ll be waiting for her.”

He added: “If you find her, try and take her in alive. I’m sure that Senor Morales would like to personally enact his revenge on her and won’t take lightly to finding out that a grunt beat him to it.”

Miquel nodded, sweat running down his brow.

Thank f*cking God they sent the new guy down. Not a single person who’s been in this hole longer than six months respects me enough to have that kind of blind faith (and fear).

For good measure, he finished off with, “If that little bastard thinks that she can shoot my father and get away with the most lucrative theft of the century, she’s going to eat buckshot.”

That was another lie. If Elena burst down the door, he would cry with joy. Even if Elena ever tried to kill him, he wasn’t sure that his otherwise well-honed survival instincts would have kicked in. He’d still love her with her hands around his neck. He’d find himself lucky that the last thing he sees in this life is her face.

BOGOTA, Elena

The next time she’s steps foot here, it’s going to be because he’s marrying someone who’s not her, and it’ll be entirely her fault. She reached across the space between them, her hand ghosting against his cheek, a hair away from touch. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell him on her, feel him staining her heart black and blue.

He’d asked her, she rationalised.
And she’d been the one to say no, in front of everyone, their hands locked together, swaying softly to the music that played just for her. She’d been the one to send him away, she’d been the one to refuse to settle.

So, why was she grieving the life that she thought she didn’t want? Knew she didn’t deserve? Like everything, she supposed that it was something about not knowing what you had until you lost it. Or broke it into shatters, and threw the shards in the raging river for good measure.

Her gaze lingered at the stubble kissing his face, and wondered whether it’d be the last time she’d ever see him undone like this, split into two—the memory that she’d hold dear for as long as she drew breath, and the mirage leading armies further into depravity.

She tried not to resent him for it.

She wasn’t a better person than he was, and she never would be. She didn’t have the right to nail herself to a pedestal and scream about his sins—but he’d always been the only person who could look past hers, who made her think that the person she used to be still had a beating heart.

But she didn’t, and he didn’t, and they’re not the same kids who fooled around in the fountains, and this is their last night together.

She inhaled, and set herself to memorising every curve of his sleeping face, because she knew that he’d stay faithful, that he’d have a couple of kids that looked too much like him. She didn’t know if she’d live long enough to see them, she didn’t know if she wanted to.

She didn’t know what she’d do if she stood in front of someone who carried his gentleness like a worn, well-loved coat but didn’t know her, someone who shared the slope of his brow, but had never glared at her across the room, trying not to laugh at her antics.

There’s a girl lying on her side in a bed in Bogota and she has Elena’s name but not her face, she’s staring listlessly at the world changing, staring at the sky and hoping that her father would finally call her so she could stop thinking about losing the love of her life to a little white powder that came in bricks.

She’s no higher power, despite what the legends say. She can’t stop the world from turning around her.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Someone had come in. Someone had said that he would be safe: said that they’d bring him home, that he’d be taken care of. When Bruno had first arrived in Bogota, he really tried to be brave. He tried to find a way to escape, to get back to his family—it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, he’d just gotten them back and now they thought he left again, he wanted to go home—but now, despite his best efforts and they weren’t even much—Bruno had always been weak—his captors had chipped away at the small piece of spine he had, leaving him a quivering mess begging for their mercy.

But someone was here. Someone had wanted to help him. Even if he’d yelled at him, when he first came in. But then the door slammed open and more people started yelling things that Bruno was too afraid to understand, even if he tried. Even if he desperately tried—this is now that he should be trying to escape, the door open, but he can’t see, he can’t see and someone had come to help but they weren’t here anymore and—

“Hey,” said the soft voice, reappearing through the haze, slowly folding stronger fingers across his wrists and guiding them away from his head. Bruno hadn’t even noticed that he was knocking against his own head. “It’s okay,” continued the voice, “I’m sorry, I had to wait for them to leave, because they wouldn’t exactly agree with what I’m about to do.”

The voice—he—chuckled a little, Bruno could hear the awkward tone in his voice. Could hear that he wasn’t entirely sure of what he was even doing. God, Bruno had to convince him that he was worth saving. Bruno would do anything to be free. Anything to be back with his family.

His hands were situated in his lap, and he could hear the man moving closer to him, feel the dip on the bed when he sat down. Before Bruno could plead for mercy, the man spoke again: “Are you still okay with me taking your mask off? I’ll touch you, but I promise it’s just to get this thing off, okay? You can tell me if it hurts. You’re in control, I’ll stop whenever you ask me to.”

“H-help,” Bruno gritted out. His throat felt like it was burning even from breathing. Speaking was worse. So much worse. If he could see, Bruno was sure there’d be black spots in his vision.

The man shifted again. “Yeah,” he answered warmly, “That’s what I’m trying to do, okay? This shouldn’t have happened to you at all, and I’m terribly sorry. I’m going to try and get you out of here, and we’re going to try and find one of my very good friends who’ll be able to help you get home, okay?”

Bruno could have cried. Instead, he just nodded.

“Okay,” the voice spoke, “I’m going to lean across and take off that mask now.”

Bruno nodded again, because it seemed like he was waiting for permission. It seemed strange, even after just a couple of days—Bruno was taken aback when someone asked for his consent to touch him.

“By the way,” said the voice, his hands moving to grasp at Bruno’s ears, before quickly trotting downwards, looking for the mechanism to undo the mask. Bruno wished he could help, but he had no clue himself. “My name’s Martinez, everyone calls me that, and I’m just going to keep talking if you don’t mind, because this is probably very scary for you—and my best friend Elena, the same one we’re going to go find now, usually talks about inane things when I’m scared, and it helps. She calls it grounding. I just call her a nice person. You’ll like Elena.”

Bruno certainly didn’t like Elena, and he didn’t know why Martinez was speaking to him like they didn’t know each other. Like he hadn’t watched Bruno get stabbed.

“Aye-aye! Bingo!”

In a second, the mask clicked off, falling into Bruno’s lap, and for the first time in too long, he could see. The man sitting in front of him, grinning sheepishly, had a much gentler face than the people he’d seen here, with freckles speckled across his tan skin and a wide smile that stretched up to his eyes, crystal green and somehow, even his eyes exuded kindness, crinkling at the edges and spilling onto his flushed cheeks.

He didn’t look like how Bruno remembered Martinez.

“Sorry for yelling,” he said, his hands darting to pick up the mask and throw it across the room, “f*ck that thing,” he added absentmindedly, “It was a bitch to open, I think it was meant to use some kind of weird key, like when you’re constructing box furniture.”

All Bruno could do was stare quizzically at him. He didn’t have any idea what he was talking about and briefly wondered if this is how the townspeople felt when he and Dolores talked about telenovelas in public, but the sight of another person—one who’d at least for now, not done him any harm—was overwhelmingly wonderful that Bruno would be fine with never understanding a word Martinez said.

Martinez seemed to notice Bruno’s confused expression, and quickly laughed to himself, before taking Bruno’s hand and moving to stand up. “Okay,” he said, his voice calm, “I know you said you couldn’t walk, but should we just try? It’s going to be must easier to bust out of this joint if you can walk.”

Bruno just nodded again, and Martinez, with one audible heave, pulled him to his shaking feet.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena barrelled down the hallway, squaring her shoulders as she stared down her first challenger—one of Morales’ nameless cronies, men who’d hang off every word he spoke like the gardens of Babylon.

He thumbed his own firearm—Elena wanted that firearm—and Elena ducked under, wrapping her legs around his and throwing him to the ground. He buckled onto his knees, and without flinching, Elena jerked upwards, shooting her legs up to wrap around his throat and throwing them back down with a satisfying crack, a revolver falling from slack hands.

She rolled onto her side, ripping it from the ground and when she heard approaching footsteps, she jumped to her feet and kept running, a breath caught in her throat as she turned the corner, kicking open a door.

Inside, she found a huddled figure, sitting with his curved, bony back facing her and his head jammed into his knees. “Bruno,” Elena breathed, only to find an elbow wrapped around her throat. She bit down, throwing her assailant backwards and into the side wall. She knew that she was informing everyone in that hallway of her location, but she still drew backwards and, with a quick movement, planted his head in the wall with a kick.

The man on the floor gripped her ankles, his long, yellowed nails digging into her exposed flesh, slackening as she pressed the gun against the crown of his head and pulled the trigger, his mind coming undone on her pant leg.

“Motherf*ckers,” she stated with a shuddering exhale, trying to make the black silhouettes dancing in the corner of her eyes mellow to a slow sentimental sway, instead of the frenetic crescendo of a masoch*stic tango.

She should remember where Bruno is, but she doesn’t. She shouldn’t have shot Morales, but she did. She shouldn’t have survived, but she’s trying. Her head swims, the world blurring at the edges and making her feel the impulse to stretch out her hand to make sure that her surroundings are real.

She has enough self-preservation instinct not to, because it would slow her down and she knows that her only advantage is that she was out the door before anyone understood what’d happened, that she’d kicked the phone off the hook and decided to be gone for good.

If she was making it out with Bruno, she was throwing him over her shoulder and jumping out the window, just hoping that she didn’t break both of her legs on the inevitable fall.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Bruno didn’t mean for it to happen like that.

For a split second, he’d been genuinely relieved, believing that his luck had finally turned, and that Martinez would help him find his way out—but just as quickly, someone slammed into the wall Martinez was using to support himself and Bruno, leaving a head-shaped dent coming from the other side, a gunshot rung out, and instincts took over.

Bruno ducked out from under Martinez’s shoulder, and on shaky legs, stumbled forward to face him, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him into the side of the wall, leaving a matching mark curving the opposite way, inches apart.

BOGOTA, Elena

She found him crumpled on the floor, his lip puffed and blood running down from his nose to the curve of his neck. The slow, even exhales drawn from his chest calmed the red overtaking her vision, and she crouched down next to him, her feet arched and head on a swivel as her hand shot out to rest against the wall in a vain attempt to keep herself upright.

She knew that when she was collapsing, she wasn’t getting up for a while afterwards. She wondered what would happen if she threw her gun on the ground, kicked it away from her and fell against Martinez’s chest, curling against his embrace for one last time, she wondered whether they’d shoot them both, whether they’d drag them away in chains, whether Morales would laugh it off as an episode of female hysteria—she was briefly seized by the cracked, fatalistic desire to return.

She didn’t want to go back to how it was, she didn’t want to be here again, she wanted to die, she wanted to live, she didn’t know how to live as anything other than a bejewelled but still caged canary, the Devil wrapped in silk would still rip you open with her teeth if you came close enough.

She laid the muzzle against Martinez’s slack jaw, fingering the trigger.

She’d shot countless men. This shouldn’t be anything new or different. She’d always been taught to respect her enemies, but to still cripple systems with her kills. But it was, and she pulled back, shoving the still-warm gun against the small of her waist, settling at the base of her spine, hidden in her waistband.

She loved him more than herself, she had to break free of this life and that included, she didn’t know how to fill the empty space he left behind, she didn’t think he’d ever released his hold on her, she doesn’t know how to carry the weight of the choices she’s made without him by her side, she’s feels much lighter with no hands against her waist.

She looked at him, facedown, and she could still remember how his face had been illuminated by moonlight, how her hand had barely kept itself from grasping and never letting go, even freshly shaved, he was the same boy in her bed.

The same boy tucked safely away in her head, the beautiful stranger that she’d held in her arms and almost tricked her into thinking that it was finally safe to fall. She itched to grab his hands, pull him up and run—like when they were younger and would run to the car in the rain, giggling as they stumbled against the slick cobblestones, singing in the streets about everything and nothing, painting the world in a love language all their own.

She can hear the throngs of men—not much older than boys—catching up to her and she rationalises that’s why she gets up.

Like so many times before, she’s forced into action and thinking about them later—she's forced to run, to survive, to leave behind, and she just hopes that she can sift through the ashes later, when she’s able to stare straight ahead, and let the finite trembles run their course through her fingers when she thinks about kissing under the shelter of the balcony, soft yellow light casting undeserved haloes above them.

BOGOTA, Bruno

As he runs, Bruno feels his balance return to him, scurrying down the hallways, Rosita migrating from his pocket to his shoulder, scouting like a captain on a ship all her own. He rounds a corner, hears voices and backtracks, folding himself behind a potted plant that’s seen better days, but has a wide stem and leaves, perfect for tucking behind and not being seen.

Three men come into his view, running at half-mast. “God, the bitch,” he explains. “Leaving a f*cking trail of bodies, what the f*ck, and she f*cking attacked Martinez, don’t those two always want to jump each other’s bones?”

His companion—fatter—scoffed. “Nah,” he argued, “They f*cking hate each other. Did you see how they yelled in the hallways, how they stormed away from each other? I think they’re bitter exes, bitter that Rojas f*cked her way to power with someone other than him. I know I would be.”

Hernando wanted to show off, wanted to leave a set of bodies, bodies that’d be blamed on someone else, anyways. Revenge tasted good against his lips, and he didn’t know how he managed to keep his breathing level, bite back the surge of adrenaline.

The man in the middle piped up. “Is this where the f*cking vent opening is?”

Both of them nodded, and Fat verbally answered, “Yeah, get on my shoulder and pop open the f*cker and let’s see if we’re about to become very rich men.”

Fat leaned down, letting Middle climb onto him, holding onto his thin calves with fat fingers as Middle began to fiddle with a panel in the roof, Fat hooting when it clattered onto the floor and he tentatively moved to stand, hands still resting against his skin.

“There’s nothing I can see,” he said.
“Are you using the flashlight?” asked Fat.
“Yes, you f*cking dipsh*t.”

And because the universe had to throw Bruno a bone eventually, they didn’t close the vent. Middle hopped off Fat’s shoulders, shrugged and they went on with their days, Leader at the helm, turning down a bend decorated with splatters of blood, as if someone had wiped their hands.

When Bruno couldn’t hear their voices anyone, he quickly shot his head up to scout his surroundings, and when he saw no one, he made a run for it. He slid down to grab the vent cover, jumping up to catch the edge of the vent and pulling himself up, holding his breath as he heaved himself into the welcoming blackness.

He fumbled in the darkness, trying to cover his exit, and when he thought he’d made an adequate enough job, he knocked against the sides to get a feel for the space, and begun crawling on his elbows and knees.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

But sh*t happened, and she ended up running into Alejandro—and worse than Alejandro, Alejandro’s gang of losers that didn’t manage to make Morales’ inner circle, but still wanted to boss others around. And worse than that? She hadn’t realised that her legs had carried her right back to the f*cking Arena.

Where this whole sh*tshow had kicked off. Or was that in the jungles surrounding Encanto, when a man had begged for his life and she hadn’t granted it?

She’d have liked to say that she made sure that she was harder to forget than leave, and that she left them in a spiralling sea of red, but one of Alejandro’s larger bodies slammed a bottle against the side of her head, and Alejandro laughed something about her getting what she deserved as she fell to the ground.

She’d like to blame it on the previous two hits Morales gave her, so she chose to do that, as they went in for round two.

Sometimes sh*t doesn’t go your way, and sometimes, you black out at the worst possible f*cking times.

BOGOTA, Bruno

His stomach burned and his head felt like someone had twisted it off, and reattached it slightly wrong, off-course and centre. But he forced himself onwards, tastingfreedom on the tip of his tongue and insisting that this time, he would bite down, never to let go.

Briefly, he considered trying to go back for Martinez—for his only perceived ally in escaping this hole, but rationalised that after being knocked out and left for dead in a panic, Martinez had probably lost the sliver of kindness he’d held.

Tough sh*t, Bad Luck Bruno. As usual, he’d have to make his own way out, and he’d usually survived just fine doing that. At least in the past.

He envisioned his family, their visages crystal-clear and sharp in his memory, and with creaking elbows, pushed onwards. As he’d lamented many a time in the tall end of his time in the walls, he was really getting too old for this sh*t. Someday, when he was safe in Encanto, it’d probably come back to haunt him as early joint stiffness, or so Julieta had always said when he hunched behind things as a kid, and later a young man. And unbeknownst to her, an old man.

He took a brief break to catch his breath, knowing that if anyone thought to come for him up here, or Elena’s ghost, he’d have the advantage. He doubted many of his pursuers would have the hard-won skill of scurrying around in small spaces quite like he did.

He pressed his head against the cool metal, and he didn’t mean to listen in, but he did.

“Ah yes,” exclaimed Mosquito, “Finally, the little bitch is getting what she deserved.” Bruno could hear his heels clacking against the ground as he continued, “Especially after that little stunt you pulled earlier, at the Arena, f*ck Morales, you could have killed him and allowed me to ascend to power without getting my hands bloody, then all I’d have to take care of is your little sh*tty boytoy—”

“I’ll f*cking rip off your face!” garbled Elena, interrupting Mosquito, her voice barely legible, sounding like someone had wrung her vocal cords through a river. He remembered what he’d overheard before Martinez removed his mask—head injury, Morales had beaten her, she was running, too.

He thought of how she’d thrown herself in front of him, knocking Mosquito out with the broken bottle and standing her ground against Morales, shielding him with her own body, how she’d gone completely limp as they dragged her out.

He didn’t want to have any mercy for her. He’d watched her kill, he’d watched her hurt. But he’d also watched her laugh, and he’d watched her defend. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was more to Elena Rojas than she wanted him to think, and none of it came from that awful novelisation of her life. Those usually weren’t accurate, anyways.

He'd already burned his bridges with Martinez, maybe he could manage to find one with Elena just long enough to put himself in a better spot, to get back some of the power that he’d lost. All he needed was to know where he was, and how to get back to Encanto.

And of course, to get out of here.

Maybe Elena was the key to that. After all, she knew the compound better than he did. And it didn’t sound like she would be welcome to stick around, either, for whatever reason—she'd probably just gotten mad at how little she’d been paid for brutally murdering a father, husband and friend, but anger made people usable.

They could find common ground just long enough, and nothing fostered goodwill better than a helping hand—and from the strangled gasp that echoed—it sounded like Elena needed one.

BOGOTA, Elena

They’re dancing in her living room and she’s learning that Martinez has two left feet, following hers, on the tip of her tongue. He’s got sharp hips that hit hers when he misses a step, and she’s giggling, their hands intertwined and held in front of them. He stumbles against her, pressing close to her chest and her fists fly up.

“I’m only playing,” she grins, and she doesn’t tell him that the truth is that, dappled in sunlight on a lazy, throwaway Sunday, he has a mouth that she would kill to kiss.

“Sure,” he laughs back, not making a move to untangle himself from her.

Elena came back to herself with the taste of her own blood between her teeth, her head smarting like a bitch and her heart begging her to lay down and die. Unfortunately, Elena hadn’t learned to die quietly, and when Alejandro spoke Martinez’s name, Elena struck out, snarling a series of guttural syllables that came from the wounded heart at her core.

Martinez might have hurt her deeply, and if she survived, she would spend days screaming to herself about it: but if anyone was going to hurt him for it, it was going to be f*cking Elena. Alejandro wasn’t going to get his power by being a greedy little sh*t.

She resolved, if the aftermath included Alejandro sitting on a throne of bones, she would personally kill him in front of everyone—as a promise of what happened to greasy little sh*ts who overstepped their roles, and got too co*cky.

He might think he was hot sh*t, but Elena would find him most attractive the bottom of the corpse pit, as she shovelled dirt on his face. She’d barely managed to push herself up when Alejandro’s hand seized her throat, shoving her back against the hard, rough ground with a thud, as he carved himself into her hips, straddling her waist.

“Elena,” he cooed, “Finally.”

She tried not to think about it, she tried to rationalise that it wouldn’t be her first time—that on the streets, this kind of sh*t happened, that she wasn’t immune, even if she was the Night Woman, but she wasn’t even sure that moniker fit comfortably in her mouth anymore.

The Night Woman had earned her moniker because of the blackness that overshadowed her own greatness, the promise of her legendary retribution—in reality, she was just a scared little girl who’d been stained by cruelty, leaving black pockmarks against her skin, handprints of darkness, until she did the only thing that made sense: embraced it for herself.

She’d tried to spin what happened to her into power, but now her reputation couldn’t save her—something had emboldened Alejandro, something had rattled him, too. He’d always been desperate to worm his way into power, but he’d never been volatile.

He wouldn’t rape someone in broad daylight. Until now. Until her. He understood how to claim power, and she would just be a collateral. Every nerve in her body was on fire, she couldn’t fight. She didn’t have anyone to fight for—Martinez had forsaken her, she hadn’t managed to find Bruno, she’d thrown her own life into the fire and watched it burn—if she’d had any questions about changing the future, she was pretty sure that she’d changed her own.

She didn’t have a glorious revenge story.Elena would die here, with a silent scream on her lips, and the Night Woman would remain to carry out a new man’s dark work.

Elena closed her eyes, resigning herself to her fate; that even the most powerful woman in the underworld, the most wanted assassin, couldn’t and wouldn’t escape the traps of her past: of being a girl in a man’s world, the canary with the gilded feet, singing for all the king’s men.

A crack sounded outside, and a voice that was unmistakably more valuable than hers sounded out. “f*ck,” announced Bruno Madrigal, “Ouch, my f*cking foot.”

Elena’s eyes shot open, and with an act of defiance that she knew would make her sentence of violation into one of death, she yelled, “Bruno! Run! Trust me! Run—”

She arched her back, jerking her thighs against Alejandro’s with a huff, “— Left, right, left, left, left, right, the first door you see! ”

With a sigh, Alejandro stood up, dusted himself off and Elena scooted backwards, to no avail when one of Alejandro’s henchmen scooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder despite her weak kicks— f*ck, being flipped upside-down was really f*cking not good for that probably concussion she’d gotten courtesy of f*cking Morales and f*cking Alejandro’s f*cking idiots probably making it f*cking worse, God, she could not f*cking think or see straight —

“I guess we better go make ourselves rich,” Alejandro relented, moving to cup Elena’s face. She lunged to bite him, but missed. f*ckin’ vertigo . Alejandro laughed to himself, still crouched on the floor. “Why don’t you throw her in the hole, and we’ll deal with her later. You can’t get out from the inside, anyways.”

Elena tried to scream, she tried to fight back, but they opened the hatch, and threw her in. She just barely managed to grab hold of the ledge, dangling over a sea of corpses.

f*ck.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Bruno didn’t thank his time in the walls for a lot, but he did thank it for making him able to silently slide off the opening, drop his shoe on the ground, and slam it shut, scurrying back where he’d heard the voices, and hopefully, tricking them into believing that he’d made a run for it.

Especially when Elena, almost as if they’d planned it, started yelling out what he assumed to be the directions for escape, based on where she’d heard him from. For a moment, he was tempted to take them and run—left, right, left, left, left, right, the first door you see—but he still wouldn’t have known where to go once he’d stepped out of the compound.

He didn’t remember much of the trip, and he knew that he’d need to get out quickly. Otherwise, he’d just be a sitting duck. If they wanted to get him back, they’d have to f*cking work for it.

“I guess we better go makes ourselves rich,” sighed Mosquito, and a cacophony of agreeing voices followed him. Good , thought Hernando, go running after something that doesn’t exist and let me come running like the prince on the horse, and not the donkey like last time.

He could hear a desperate, wounded scream, the slamming shut of a hatch, then footsteps breaking into a run. He took a breath, and then another, listening for someone, for anything, and when he couldn’t hear it, Hernando’s fingers slowly worked around the panels until he found the one that opened, not realising that he dropped into the pit where he’d been forced into performing until his feet hit the ground, and he felt the large metal doors behind him.

Bruno felt gripped by fear, but he couldn’t give in yet. He had to get out, and he was closer than he’d ever been. He rationalised that if someone burst in, there was more to hide behind here than anywhere else. And, at least, he had an idea of where Elena would be.

On feather-light feet, he cautiously crossed the distance between the door, through the pit, still covered in sand and dried blood—Bruno had to hold down bile when he saw that—and towards the heavy, fortunately unlocked latch.

With a grunt, he wrenched it open, Rosita chirping proudly, as if she knew something he didn’t, peeking out of the hood of his borrowed ruana, that still smelled faintly of Encanto, even though it was tacky with blood. His blood.

He peered down, and saw Elena, barely holding on to the lowest of three ridges, seemingly there for in the off-chance that a living person was thrown into what was rapidly appearing to not just be a garbage chute, but a corpse pit.

Bruno wrinkled his nose, and coughed, making his presence known, even though he didn’t understand how she couldn’t have heard him forcing the door open. That hadn’t been pretty. Bruno wasn’t the strongest man in the world, he could admit that.

But he was pretty damn good at outsmarting those strong men.

Elena’s head cracked back, and her eyes widened when she saw his.

“Bruno,” she gasped, and then, the surprise seemingly wearing off: “What the f*ck? Am I f*cking dead? God’s a bitch, if yes.”

Watching her dangle there, Bruno was hit with the memory of Matthias pleading for his life, and even though he’d risked his own neck—even though he knew it was the smartest play, to try and trick her into being on his side of the court—he wanted to let her fall. He wanted to lean down, and pry her fingers off, one by one, and let her fall into the dark shaft, where she’d either die next to corpses that she’d probably created, or be fished out for the wheel for torment.

No.

If he wanted his revenge on her, he would have to double-cross her later. She was too useful to kill. He’d had a better ally in Martinez, or at least an ally that hadn’t killed the first person outside of his family who hadn’t treated him like a freak, but he’d f*cked that up.

As much as he loathed to admit it, he needed Elena. And Elena probably didn’t like that she needed him too.

Slowly, he reached his hand towards her, still out of reach.

“You yelled what sounded like directions at me,” he breathed, feeling like he was walking across tightrope made of razor wire, “Were they the real way out or did you try to lead me into a trap—”

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. f*ck. Hernando hadn’t expected them back as quickly. Elena’s eyes somehow widened more, and what looked like tears streamed down them. Bruno didn’t notice, but his hand had inched closer, and Elena threw herself upwards, hooking hers in his.

Desperately gripping his hand, Elena begged, “Please, please,” she gasped, the sounds of footsteps slamming against tile growing closer, “You don’t have to forgive me or anything, but please just don’t leave me here. They’re going to kill me. Please, I’ll tell you how to get back to Encanto. Just let me run.”

Bitterness surged through him at her words. Who the f*ck was she to plead for her life after what she’d done? Any thoughts of mercy or sympathy towards her vanished into smoke, before solidifying into bone-deep fear as he heard a key jingling in the lock.

He was anchored to the spot—

But before he could do anything, Elena whisper-yelled, “Grab the side,” and just as the door slammed open, Elena threw him into the hole alongside her, and instinctively, Hernando grabbed onto a higher ledge than Elena, his fingers already screaming.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena didn’t know what to think about Bruno suddenly standing in front of her, and she couldn’t help the words that left her lips, desperate and caught between two rocks. From the expression flittering across Bruno’s features, she knew he wasn’t sure about pulling her up. Footsteps approached, and Elena could feel her blood steeling, becoming molten.

Looking into Bruno’s eyes, she found a shard of stubbornness left inside of her, and when the door opened, Elena did the only thing she could, she pulled Bruno backwards and hoped that he could understand that she was trying to save him, and that he shouldn’t scream.

She watched him clamp onto the highest ledge with bated breath, as her own fingers fumbled off hers, and she realised that they were both holding on only by Bruno Madrigal’s quivering arm. Elena had been surprised by a lot of things about Bruno Madrigal—from thelegitimacy of his powers, and f*ck, she’d have to schedule so many existential crises on just what that meant for her worldview, and down to how he didn’t seem entirely helpless and meek, like she’d been led to believe by those who’d spoken of him.

f*ck, even the first time she’d met him—he'd tried to throw salt in her eyes, and if she hadn’t been an experienced assassin with the hard-won reaction of falling forwards when your eyes seared with pain instead of instinctively scrambling backwards and towards a lake, she wasn’t sure that she’d have managed to grab him.

When she’d first gotten the assignment to kidnap a reclusive, seemingly agoraphobic hermit, she hadn’t believed her luck—and especially not when the price tag had been enough for her to finally move her pieces closer to checkmate, but now? She understood why Morales hadn’t chosen a lesser assassin.

Dangling off the edge of her world, Elena spared a glance between her, and then focussed her hearing on the world above, listening as a single solitary set of footsteps invaded their brief non-combat zone, “There’s not a f*ckin’ thing here,” he drawled, and she recognised the voice as Pedro, “It’s just as you f*ckers left it, stop wasting my time, Rojas is in danger.”

“Rojas is the danger,” corrected Miquel, and Elena tried to bite back the tears forcing their way out of her eyes at the casual display of protection—Pedro had been there long enough to know that he should have investigated the open trash chute, but he didn’t.

She realised that he was on her side.

And like the last time she spoke to Pedro, Elena didn’t even have a single shot at processing what that meant. Instead, she did what she did best and made sure that his risk wouldn’t be wasted. She focussed on Bruno’s shaking arm, and realised that he wouldn’t hold for much longer. And if he fell, so did she.

And they weren’t getting back up out of here.

Time to show why you’re the best at playing this game, Elena.

BOGOTA, Bruno

It didn’t take Bruno long to realise that Elena hadn’t regained her hold after pulling him down with her, and it didn’t take him long to realise why she’d done it, either. He could hear Bull lamenting about time being wasted, and wondered briefly whether Elena and Bull were working together—it had to be an obvious thing to look at, the open hatch.

It hadn’t been open when Bruno walked in, and he didn’t imagine it ever was. Otherwise, the stench of corpses would permeate, and sully the entertainment, of course. Even if the entertainment was blood sport.

Another realisation of Bruno’s was that he wouldn’t be able to hold them for long. He peered down at Elena, who worked her jaw, as if in thought.

Elena’s eyes met his, and Bruno could see why people were afraid of her gaze. Liquid fire spilled from her brown eyes as she spoke, “Bruno,” she ordered, “I need you to fall.”

He yelped, and almost tugged his hand back.

“No, no,” she explained, looking right through him, “You’re not strong enough to hold both of us up. But I am. Fall, and I promise I’ll catch you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Stating the obvious. It’d made the villagers back home hate him—his bluntness—and now, it might get him shanked in a corpse pit in the last defiant act of a disgraced assassin.

“That’s okay,” she answered, “I know how to fall with style. You don’t. If anyone here has a higher chance of survival, it’s me. You don’t have to trust me. But I promise you, if you tell me you’re falling, I’ll catch you.”

He understood what kind of game she was playing—she was trying to make him comfortable. It didn’t work.

Bruno’s hand began to slip.

“Elena?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to fall.”

Bruno’s hand slipped.

With a guttural grunt, Elena pulled a knife from the back of her pants, dug it into the side of the wall, gripped it, and caught Bruno’s wrist, then herself, on the second rung, by her feet.

She looked down at him, smiling, her face backlit by the flickering lights of the arena. “See?” she said, “I promised, I always keep my promises.”

Dangling off a gorge overlooking decomposing corpses, Bruno wasn’t sure this was the place to celebrate. Elena tightened her grip on his arm, her nails digging into his skin and definitely leaving a bruise. He noticed how her muscles swelled and dipped, curling around the skin like tree branches.

He couldn’t say that he wasn’t surprised by her keeping her word, and actually saving his life, seemingly with enough risk to her own. It hadn’t escaped him that she grabbed him before securing herself. He didn’t know how that made him feel. He’d have to think about that later, when his life wasn’t literally hanging in the balance.

“What the f*ck do we do now?” he asked—Bruno Madrigal, always great at breaking the ice and bridging awkward silences.

Elena’s expression softened, “I’m going to climb up, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch, and my head has been bounced off concrete way too many times today, and I don’t want to think about either of those, so can we maybe reintroduce ourselves, while I do it?”

Bruno wouldn’t say that he liked Elena, but he liked that she didn’t let him fall to his death, and he understood her wish for a distraction, so, as he felt her heave them up with a grunt and a noise that sounded suspiciously like someone pulling out the knife that was the one tether to them not falling to their f*cking deaths and then scrambling for purchase as she stabbed it back in, slightly higher up, her feet trying to grab onto something, anything , he wrenched his eyes shut and obliged her.

“Bruno Madrigal,” he mock-introduced, bowing his head slightly, causing it to swim, “Seer of only bad futures.”

She laughed to herself, and then ordered him to, “I know it’s scary, but you have to keep your eyes open, because if I f*ck up, you have to know so you can save yourself, okay?”

Bruno pouted, but he did open his eyes, and he watched Elena repeat the motion. “You didn’t introduce yourself,” he huffed, exaggerating his displeasure for reasons unknown—he wasn’t trying to be friendly with her, so why was he acting like it?

Elena was annoyingly good at making him forget that she’d killed people and kidnapped him.

Elena’s expression softened, blinking away tears as she took his hand, pulling herself to her feet. “Elena Rojas,” she said, a laugh dying on her lips, “Rat rescuer and sh*tty story-teller.”

Rosita popped her head out of Bruno’s hood and squeaked excitedly, and instead of answering any of the thousand questions popping into Bruno’s head, Elena just said, “Hi there, princess. Sorry you’re back down here.”

BOGOTA, Elena

With her strength rapidly fading, coming down off adrenaline high only-God-knows-what-number-by-now, Elena could have screeched in joy when she finally gripped the edge of the door, and with one final heave, she tightened her grip around Bruno’s wrist and flipped them both over it, Elena landing solidly on her side, already smarting and absolutely going to be just one big bruise and Bruno coming in hot seconds later, slamming against her hip.

Elena bit back the cry of pain that followed, drawing blood on her tongue.

“Sorry,” Bruno said apologetically, Rosita peeking out when Elena cracked her eyes open, having involuntarily wrenched them against the searing pain of Bruno’s thin frame aggravating her numerous injuries, Rosita chirped—as if asking Elena if she was okay.

Pushing herself onto her knees, grateful that Bruno had gotten off her without being asked to, Elena tried to talk herself into standing. “I’m alright,” she said as she trained her breath back into a normal rhythm, “That just smarted like a bitch. I knew it’d hurt, but still— ah, f*ck .”

She gripped her side, feeling heat radiating. f*cking f*ck. If she’d f*cked up something internal, well, that’d just be Future Elena’s problem. Now, she had to get them out.

Left, right, left, left, left, right, the first door you see.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

She steeled herself, dragged herself onto her feet and turned towards the half-open door. If she ever saw Pedro again, she was buying him a drink. And hugging him harder than she’d ever hugged anyone before. She ignored the twinge in her chest at the thought of not saying goodbye, or even something less permanent, less revealing such as a simple thanks, but she forced the urge down.

Trying to find Pedro would be suicide. And she just had to hope that he would understand that, and the Pedro who’d just saved her life wasn’t one she’d made up in her head.

“Come on,” she said, walking and willing her knees not to buckle. “We’re out in the open now, and I’m not flexible enough right now to jump behind any of this sh*t,” she gestured to the arena, and the borders around it, trying to ignore the blood and sand crusted together. However, when she saw the green shards of a vision tablet, she bent down, her abdomen screaming in pain, and picked it up.

“Bruno?” she asked. “Do you know how to use a gun? That’s me asking if you’ve ever used a gun in your life.”

Bruno padded up next to her, and after a beat, shook his head. Elena shoved the shard towards him, “Okay,” she answered, “Take this, then, the knife I have is dulled from our miraculous escape but—”

She pricked her finger on the shard, drawing a small bead of blood. “—This will do just fine, if you need to stab someone to death. I’ve thought about using one of these before, and I think they’ll work just fine. Sharp.”

Bruno took it, and replied, “I know, I’ve thought about it, too.”

Elena winked at him. “This team-up sounds more and more promising, you know.”

For a moment, Elena really did believe that. Maybe Bruno didn’t trust her, but he obviously understood that they’d both made enemies of the compound, and their best chance at escape would be hand-in-unlovable-hand.

She didn’t care whether it lasted a second longer after their great escape, and she didn’t expect it to. She’d done too much sh*t to bounce back from, she’d done too much sh*t to get a happy ending. But she’d been promised a glorious revenge, and with renewed fire, Elena intended to see it through.

Her optimism lasted about as long as their walk out of the Arena, wherein she made eye contact with Alejandro, who’d doubled back to finish her off, and she fired a few shots, grinning when she managed to hit six men between the eyes—Elena’s still got it, bitches—before herself and Bruno took off running down the hallways, uncaring of her previous directions, before with a sinking pit in her stomach, Elena knew exactly where they’d ended up, backed up against the windows of the only dead end in the whole f*cking compound.

BOGOTA, Bruno

“I’ll tell you everything,” she promised, slotting her hand with his, squinting as she bore down the approaching army. Behind them, through the pristine window glass, the river underneath raged, and Bruno could feel Elena’s pulse surging, strength burning through her body.

“They’ll kill me first,” she stated simply, “Do you trust me?”

And Bruno didn’t know why, but he found himself nodding, just as the horde turned the corner, ending up the same dead end as them.

With a muffled gasp of pain, Elena threw him onto her shoulder and jumped—feet-first—through the window, shifting to a roll, her arms wrapping around his back as she tucked him into her body, curling and sticking their landing down the hill. Bruno wrenched his eyes shut, and tried not to smell the burnt iron tinge coming off Elena.

He felt water lapping at his skin, and Elena’s legs kicking his, her arm snaking securely around his waist and the water never going past his chest,

Eventually, they stood still, and he cracked open his eyes, to find Elena on top of him, her eyes wide with relief, breathing heavily, blood beading on her cheek. “I think the water washed away most of the glass shards,” she gasped, “But we should probably get running again.”

“I think something’s wrong with my shoulder.”
Elena squinted. “I think it's out of the socket, I’ll fix it when no one’s actively shooting at us.”

Her face split into an unrestrained grin, barely able to keep pace with her own breathing, her eyes crinkling at the edges, wet with tears. His clothes were ringing wet and Elena’s hair dripped onto him, grit and gravel catching the light, glimmering on her shoulders, but Bruno couldn’t help but mimic her, bisecting his own face.

Chapter 7: yell fire

Chapter Text

BOGOTA, Bruno

Everything happened so fast. One moment, they were jumping out the window—the next, Elena was rolling into a coil and jamming his face against her chest, her nails digging into his neck. And then she was on top of him, her shoulder digging into his chest and grinning. And as quickly as he’d reciprocated her relief, she was collapsed on top of him, breathing shallowly.

What the f*ck are you supposed to do with an assassin unconscious on top of you, and with a shoulder that’s f*cked in a way that can’t be fixed with a magical ball of dough?

Bruno supposed that screaming wasn’t the worst course of action, but he’s also capable of admitting that it absolutely wasn’t the f*cking best, either.

“Elena!” Bruno yelled, whacking the side of her face. “Elena! We need to get out of here before the idiots manage to run out and—” Bruno tilted his head up, seeing the broken third story window glaring at them over the rocky incline. He glanced back at Elena and noticed the dripping line of red escaping from her mouth. He laid his hand gently against her back, wrapping his good arm around her, and felt rips through her clothing, decorated by bleeding, grit-covered cuts.

He didn’t know if he was supposed to feel sorry for her, or gratified that she too, felt pain. Bruno settled for rolling her off him and onto her back, with as minimal touching as possible, even if he was sure that landing back on her abused back would already hurt like a bitch.

Well, you couldn’t have everything you wanted, and Bruno had to be able to run if he heard footsteps, regardless of the urge to stay and defend her, to stand in front of her, like she’d done for him. He’d already repaid her. He’d saved her life from Mosquito’s onslaught.

He didn’t owe her.

He refused to owe her.

Pushing himself up and taking a moment to stare down at Elena, her eyes flickering furiously under her lids, Bruno reasserted his mindset. This was merely a business transaction; they were mutually beneficial for each other, and he would kill her as soon as he had the opening and didn’t need her anymore—avenging Father del Rosa, avenging Matthias.

And going back to his family, where he wouldn’t have to deal with assassins who looked scared of their contemporaries, laughed and jokes and saved rats—and not have to think about the swirling mass of emotion she’d encouraged to flourish everywhere in him, everywhere he didn’t want it.

In his thoughts he didn’t have to lie; he knew that what he’d just done wouldn’t have been something he’d been capable of just a few days ago. But he’d done it, and they’d managed to break out—and not just because of Elena.

Elena would have been dead if Bruno hadn’t intervened. And Bruno didn’t know what to think about that.

ENCANTO, Agustín

The moments that lead up to situating his ass in the saddle of one of Encanto’s few trek-ready horses was a blur. Agustín would blame anything—grief, the head injury that still smarted every now and again, even if he insisted to Julieta that he was fine, that he didn’t want to eat (that he somehow deserved it, that he wasn’t the one who got off worst and he had to remember that, he had to, Bruno was gone, Matthias was dead)—but the murderous rage curling at the bottom of his stomach, spreading through his body like the warmth of hard liquor.

He wanted that bitch’s head driven through a pike and planted at the entrance of Encanto as a warning to everyone who dared try to take things they didn’t deserve.

And the thought of that drowned out everything else, even Julieta’s worried frown and Isabela’s hand on his back, steadying his gait as they walked out, Luisa with barrels of supplies over her shoulder, sharing glances with her sister. He even ignored Félix’s very half-assed plan, even if everyone expected him to smart-ass Félix. Next to being Julieta’s house husband, everyone knew that slagging Félix was one of his favourite perks of being a Madrigal.

Instead of focussing on Félix’s rumbling voice, he focussed on the curve of Elena’s spine, how she’d effortlessly disarmed him, how she’d tilted her head like a bored cat—how she’d tilted her head like she was bored of him, of toying with him, of hurting the people he loved in front of him.

She’d die, he assured himself.

And if he played his cards right, she’d die by his hand. He might not have a gift, but even after all these years in Encanto, he knew that the instincts that led to him not only surviving his time in Bogota as a humble tailor’s son but making it out amid the roughest patch the city had in years wouldn’t fail him when it came down to it.

When he stared her down, he knew that he wanted to see the light leaving her eyes. He knew that he would only find peace if his hands were stained with her blood, if he knew that she couldn’t hurt anyone, ever again.

He wanted to end the growing threat of invaders to Encanto permanently, and he wanted to ignore that if they’d treated him like that: he’d never have survived. That he too was an outsider, that he’d found his peace in the village.

She wasn’t like him. She hadn’t fled Bogota. She’d invaded, no, violated his sanctuary and she’d taken. She’d broken through their veil of peace, and she’d touched things she shouldn’t even have looked at. And for that, she was going to sacrifice her life.

Félix’s hand clenched Agustín’s back, and he was forced to focus on his concerned expression, biting his lip as he instinctively leaned against the touch. He knew that he should have eaten, that the world was spinning around him and begging him to sleep—but every time he brought something against his lips, he could barely make himself take a bite, let alone swallow.

How was he supposed to allow himself healing when—

When Bruno and Matthias couldn’t.

“Gus,” questioned Félix, his brow knotted in thought and hand steady against Agustín’s back, “Are you sure that you’re feeling up to this, I know that Alma’s word used to be law, but if you need to stay back, you can. And if that old bitch says anything to you, I’ll simply deal with her.”

Félix winked, and Agustín let out a small breathy laugh, if just to assure Félix that he wasn’t a dead man walking, even if he couldn’t find a more accurate word. He couldn’t remember hugging Julieta or Mirabel goodbye, or hopping onto the huffing horse’s back, he just knew that he was there—and by virtue of that, he must have done both.

“I’m fine,” he promised, and Félix didn’t look impressed. Before Agustín could sluggishly blink, Félix had mounted the horse and was sitting behind him.

“I don’t believe you for a second,” he confirmed, his chest rumbling against the hollow of Agustín’s back, “But I know there’s no talking you out things, you reckless bastard. So, we’re going to ride together, and you’re going to tell me if you feel worse, in any way, and then I’m simply going to force an arepa down your throat, okay?”

Félix briefly glanced towards Pepa, situated on a jaguar, for her approval. She situated a basket between her stomach and the jaguar’s head, ruffling it’s crown playfully and Agustín thought it was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever seen, even when Pepa enthusiastically nodded, saying something about only being worried for their poor bastard of a horse.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena rarely gets in over her head. Occasionally, though, her missions begin to go very wrong. Occasionally, the mission almost completes her.

The target she’s been stalking for multiple days—she hears cha-ching in the back of her mind and doesn’t correct herself as she bats her eyes at a new bar, one with clean tables—fails to pick her up at the hotel bar. He goes for the light-skinned transplant instead, with the soft brown curls falling around her shoulders and a tight red dress that barely falls past her full, round ass. Elena huffs as she watches them retreat up to his room, arms crossed like a child, then orders herself an aguardiente.

She’d been planning to use the silk ties in his blank suitcase to lash him to the bed frame, then interrogate him with her gun under his chin, but now that idea’s a f*cking bust. All Elena really needs to get paid are the manila files in his briefcase. She doesn’t need him to talk. She doesn’t think she wants him to talk. She thinks she wants to interrogate him because he can wear the faces of every man who’s hurt her.

Though, she supposes that her employers would appreciate her collecting the extra intel while he begs for mercy. And maybe to leave a bullet in his head, depending on what he tells. She’s not ordered to kill him, but she’s not ordered to leave him alive, either. That usually means that it’s up to her whether she wants to. More often than not, she does.

Elena gets up from the bar, ignoring the businessman who tries to grab her arm and slips out onto the veranda. It’s chilly, so no one’s taking co*cktails outside tonight. Elena touches the gun tucked away in her thigh holster, then takes a shaky breath and moves on with her new plan. She always has at least five half-conceptualised, just in case. She imagines it like standing in front of a fogged-up bathroom mirror, watching her life through the reflection—her plans materialising on the glass as sh*t hits the fan.

She leaves her feels behind a potted palm tree, then stands on the veranda’s railing, the strap of her handbag clasped between her teeth. Elena bends her knees and jumps, easily taking hold of the bottom bar of the balcony above and swinging herself up, letting go briefly and establishing her grip on the top bar instead. Lithe as a gymnast in a past life, she rolls forward and lands catlike on the balcony proper.

If she was younger, she’d pat herself on the back for proving that she’s still got it. But she’s not, so she slowly runs her fingers across the thigh holster, her black dress awkwardly bunched around it from the exertion. It wasn’t obvious in the bar, but it’s obvious here. She could make a joke about having a literal murder boner, but she doesn’t know anyone who would laugh at it.

Elena repeats the acrobatic manoeuvre six times, five up and one over, until she reaches her destination. The target and his choice from the bar have closed the curtains over their balcony door, but they’ve failed to completely shut the glass of the screen. Rookie mistake. An idiot like that shouldn’t be carrying around a briefcase that Elena Rojas is paid to steal.

Once Elena’s close enough, she can hear the quiet moans that must mean their transaction is still in progress.

After wrapping the strap of her bag around her wrist, pulling out and co*cking her weapon, Elena silently slips two fingers in the gap of the balcony door. She shoves, praying to no one that it’ll move silently. It doesn’t, but the room is a suite, and the couple seems too distracted to notice the errant noise that they’d explain away as the building settling anyways, and then go back to f*cking.

Once inside, Elena glances around. The area she’s entered is something of a living room, with a bathroom off to one side and the occupied bedroom off to the other. If she had any luck, the briefcase would be left out for her to collect, unseen, and it’d be the easiest job she’d had in a while. She could slip out and leave the way she came, and he probably wouldn’t notice it’s absence until she’d already fled the city.

That would be a decent outcome. Not ideal by any means, but a success nonetheless. She’d been tasked with collecting the briefcase and files inside. She’d done that. She’d get paid.

But she’s also fully aware that her brutality is what’s gotten her into the good graces of horrible people, and what’s saved her from many bloody culls. And luck’s not on her side, anyways, the briefcase is nowhere to be seen. It must be in somewhere in the bedroom, still in the target’s line of sight even as he’s getting f*cked and Elena gives him back the point she previously subtracted in regards to his intelligence.

Elena has to give him a little credit where credit is due. Not all her targets are complete idiots, it seems.

Elena takes a breath, then moves towards the bedroom door. It’s halfway open, for those inside can’t possibly be expecting visitors—and not one with a gun already trained where she thinks the bed is, her feet arched. Elena gives herself no time to hesitate. She silently pushes the door the rest of the way open with the tips of her toes, keeping her weapon pointed straight out in front of her.

The couple in the bed is entwined face-to-face, so they both look up in shock when Elena steps out of the shadows, their eyes widening over in horror at the metal glinting in the light.

“Hand it over,” she snarls tonelessly in a language that feels clunky in her mouth, “Or you’re dead.” There’s no need to elaborate. He knows what she’s talking about. He’s snitched to the police. He has to. He’s an informant. He brought this on himself.

“Mm.” The man grunts as the woman shifts beside him, effectively unsheathing him beneath the blankets. “No.”

Elena doesn’t care much for who he’s addressing, so she simply doesn’t parse it. “Okay,” she instead answers, lining up the sight on her weapon with the centre of his forehead. Then, she addresses the woman. “Don’t scream.”

Before anyone can move, Elena releases the shot.

The target falls back against the pillows, eyes blank and open, a bead of red blood above them. The woman jars beside him, looks at Elena, then opens her mouth. “Fire!” she yells. “Fire!”

So, Elena does.

The woman’s hair falls across the pillow, now sticky with a spray of blood. Elena really was intending to let her go, just to keep the collateral damage off her mission report. But what’s done is done, and Elena can’t reverse the sands of time. Now, she just has to wash her hands of it.

She rifles through the briefcase until she finds the manila files two people have died for, then folds them in half and stows it in her handbag. Elena heads to the bathroom, where she leaves a deposit of aguardiente and vomit in the toilet, then examines her reflection in the mirror for any evidence of blood spatter. There’s none, although Elena’s pale and sallow-looking with dark rings flanking her eyes.

So, she borrows the deep mauve lipstick that the woman must have left on the countertop and refreshes her mask. She’s sure that she won’t miss it, anyways. The colour doesn’t do Elena any favours other than looking slightly more f*ckable, but she still jams it down her bra. It’s meant for a woman lighter than her, a woman kissed by the sun instead of loved by it and not with jutting cheekbones.

Then, Elena holsters her weapon, jams her feet into the woman’s slightly-too-small shoes and leaves the room through the front door. It may be throwing caution to the wind, but tonight, she needs the thrill of it. She needs to walk through the hallways as if she’s done nothing, a pep in her step and her hips swinging. She needs people to look at her. Tonight, it’s what she deserves. Tonight, she’ll take the walk of shame. And once she gets outside, she’ll run.

BOGOTA, Bruno

He could hear the rapid approach of footsteps, Elena still lying prone on the ground. With his breath stuck in his throat, he moved to slap her again, resolving that if it didn’t get a reaction: he’d run into the dark and hope he could sneak around better than his pursuers could burn everything around them.

Just before his skin touched hers, Elena’s wrist gripped his, her grip vice-tight. “Bruno,” she slurred, “The f*ck?”

“You passed out,” Bruno stated simply, jerking his head up to make sure that no one was pointing a gun at it yet, “And I think our friends are about to catch up with it.”

Elena blinked, awareness flowing back into her features, before she shot up. “f*ck!” she exclaimed, her hand flying to rest against her hip. “f*ck,” she said a little lower, “But thanks for not looting me and leaving me to die.”

She heaved herself up on her feet, dusted herself off and didn’t even wince as she pulled on the still oozing wounds speckled across her back like stars in the night sky, catching the light as she moved, pulling the gun, and slowly backing up.

“I suppose that Encanto doesn’t teach you how to properly engage with enemies,” Elena opened.
Bruno, feeling fatalistic, snarked back, “Well, was it you who saved your own ass by dropping a shoe?”

Elena snigg*red. “I suppose not,” she answered honestly, her free hand ghosting against his thigh as he followed her lead, slowly walking backwards and trying to pretend like he knew what to look for, short of someone bursting out of the bushes screaming about how he’d drag them both back in chains for being traitorous bastards.

“I think you’re more capable than you want me to believe, Bruno Madrigal,” Elena continued, and Bruno felt ice settle at the base of his spine, “I think that you’re much more capable, not just with your gift. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone move quite like you do. You act like someone who’s lived in the shadows for longer than me.”

She winked at him.

Instead of opening that can of worms, Bruno decided to take the easy way out and accept the branch that Elena had handed him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now,” he confessed. Elena shrugged.

“I don’t either,” she replied, “But I know what you mean.” She took a breath before continuing, removing her wrist from his thigh as if it’d burned her, “All you have to do is follow me, and I’ll engage if someone comes, and you can learn from watching me. You shouldn’t run away, not because I expect you to save me, but because you need to know what happens to me.”

Despite what his family probably believed, Bruno hadn’t asked her because he’d considered himself useless. He’d have made it out, with or without Elena—and he’d been smart enough to realise why he shouldn’t. And Elena’s words and tones of words indicated that she didn’t think he was completely useless, either.

Bruno had asked her in the hopes that Elena still considered him just below her enough to tell him how she’d handle a threat, so he could take her off guard when he needed to end her. He could already see it: he’d kill her right as the mountains surrounding Encanto came into view. He wouldn’t allow her to step back into their sanctuary.

“Stay back a little,” she instructed, pushing them back, her hand returning to his skin with a newfound strength that made him forget the searing pain in his shoulder, “But stay close enough that you can hear what they say, see what they do to me. Even if it’s gruesome. You learn from everything you can observe. Information is power, and right now?”

Elena sighed.

“We need a whole f*cking lot of it.”

A twig snapped.

“Do you have the shard?” Elena asked.

Bruno nodded.

“Good,” she continued, “Go for the throat, and twist it when you stab. You should twist 180 degrees and slice out with the knife sideways. That creates a wound that can’t be healed, and your enemy will die of infection if from his injuries. Show me your knife.”

For a moment, Bruno wondered whether she’d demonstrate her technique on him, but he found his hand working against him and handing Elena the shard. She turned it over in her palm, studying it with an unreadable expression. “Damn,” she finally said, “I’m good at picking sharp objects. That's a knife you stab someone with if you want them to not only die, but die painfully, unable to be treated for it.”

“You usually need two whole teams of surgeons to close one wound from this bad boy, so you even have the chance to not bleed to death.”

Bruno couldn’t help but stare at her quizzically as they slipped into the darkness of the underbrush, still considering whether he should be worried at her apparent excitement at causing what she noted as horrific wounds. She sounded like Camilo discussing his plan to sneak seconds.

Elena raised the brilliant arsenic green shard to the flickers of light, dappling gold across the unblemished blade, “It’s triple-edged,” Elena explained, turning it around so Bruno could see the sharp edges, “And those create triangular that don’t heal themselves normally, which often leads to a horrible infection that kills the ta—victim, if you don’t manage to.”

She stole a breath, seeming not having realised that they’d stopped moving. “In my industry, they’re referred to as insurance policies. In the wider world, they’re made illegal for usage in warfare, because there’s no usage of a blade of this design other than wanting someone to die brutally. And slowly.”

Bruno’s breath caught in his throat, and tentatively, their eyes met. It almost looked as if Elena’s were glowing, in the backdrop of the foliage, catching the light breaking through the loose ends.

Slowly, she allowed him to wrap his fingers around the blade, only releasing it when he tugged.

ENCANTO, Félix

With every step, they came closer.

Félix wasn’t sure if they were coming closer to Bruno—to saving Bruno, bringing him back home—or just avenging him. Félix would live with whatever came, he always had. He’d always gone with the flow, sometimes too well.

With Agustín slumped against his chest, he took a moment to regard his stunning Pepa, leading their haphazard group through the jungles. At first, he’d prodded Agustín awake every six or so minutes to tell them when to turn, but it quickly became apparent that either: the jungle had changed, or Agustín had forgotten the way.

After he’d insisted, with tears glistening in his eyes, that’d he’d never forget, they unanimously decided that the jungle was plotting against them and Dolores took charge, listening for the gentle footfalls of people days away.

Simple as that.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Their brief peace was destroyed when a caravan of—Bruno presumed—Morales’ men burst from the thick, murky darkness. Elena noticed the glint of a gun against green, and she had hers out, shooting from the hip, before Bruno could react. A bleeding head fell forwards into the light, and she swore under her breath.

He could hear the rattle of footsteps, and he knew he had to do something about it.

Without thinking, Bruno turned his back on Elena, and with his shoulder throbbing, ran. All he heard was a choked scream, and he didn’t look back to see whether it was Elena’s. He was too focused on his shaking hands, jerking in front of him, and the wall of muscle standing between him and freedom.

For a split second, he considered whether running had been the best option. He might have rethought it if he’d noticed that not everyone was focused on Elena.

The Wall cracks his neck, then his knuckles and lunges for Bruno, who clenches his eyes shut at the promise of the impending pain.

Except, it doesn’t come.

Slowly, he opens his eyes again, and just manages to catch sight of his attacker stumbling backwards, a dumbfounded expression on his face and a red dot between his eyebrows. Bruno slowly wrenches his body around and sees Elena’s lopsided grin from where she’s crouched on the ground, one leg kicked out and the gun still raised, one eye closed as she aims.

“Duck,” she says, and Bruno throws himself to the ground, ignoring the hiss of pain, because if there’s anything he’s learned about Elena—she’s probably the person to shoot through him if it’d land her a kill. Behind him, he hears another man collapse to the ground with a groan and he focuses on the smoke meandering from Elena’s gun instead of the nonchalance with which she kills, ignoring that he’d done the exact same.

Ignoring that with every second spent in Bogota, he saw more of Elena’s face in his.

She’d killed people, she hurt for the thrill of it, she wasn’t like him. It became sort of a mantra, one he could repeat in his head when his gaze was about to soften, when he was about to speak to her like he didn’t resent her. She’s the reason he’s here, and she’s going to pay for it.

She’s not like me, she’s not like me, she’s not like me, she’s not like me, she’s not like me, she’s not like me, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock on wood.

Elena clicks her tongue, her eyes meeting his and glancing upwards, her brows raised. In a smooth move, like a wave taking the shore, Elena kicks his blade to him and jumps to her feet, pulling a man from the push, her hand wrapped around his throat and her gun pressed against his forehead.

“Hi,” she grins, “Step out of the brush, the rest of you f*ckers, and then we won’t have to devolve to savagery.”

The cadence in her voice sounds too much like how she’d spoken when she took him, when she violated the sanctuary of Encanto, when she slipped in like a snake in the grass and struck out—leaving a trail of carnage behind her.

Bruno swallows, and mirrors Elena, sliding up behind one of the emerging figures, pressing the blade against his throat and trying to forget the pleasure that surged through him at the thought of drawing it tighter. Elena chuckled, as if she’d seen the brief brutality crossing through him, as if she’d recognised herself in him.

“f*ck you!” screamed the bushes and Elena rolled her eyes.

“Kill him,” she ordered, “Bruno.”

And in an act that he’d scream about later, Bruno slashed, blood spilling onto his shirt. A gunshot followed, and nicely put, sh*t hit the fan. Another thug stormed from the underbrush, and Bruno stabbed upwards, embedding the shard in his ribs and having to wrench his body to get it back. The attacker fell to the ground and Bruno briefly turned to regard Elena, who had her legs wrapped around a man’s neck as she shot another dead.

Elena spun around, and her efforts were answered with a satisfying crack. She dropped to her feet, tucked a loose strand behind her hair and shot into the bushes, being answered with a satisfying wet crack. She quirked her brow at the bodies by his feet, and Bruno felt like she was looking straight through him—at the unseemly mass that’d taken up residence in his chest, eating away at his heart.

She didn’t comment on them, only pulled a knife from her belt and threw behind her, a thunk and low groan answering her. Bruno didn’t realise that someone was behind him before Elena’s horrified expression greeted him when she turned around, her hand jerking towards him, flipping a knife into it from what might as well have been thin air—but Elena didn’t strike fast enough.

BOGOTA, Martinez

Martinez woke up in the infirmary, to Morales sitting up, by his bedside, thick bandages wrapping around his middle. Before he could open his mouth and incriminate himself, despite his best advice, Morales spoke: “No one blames you for what she did to you,” he assured him, his hand moving to rest against his shoulder, “But I’m very sorry that she exploited your trust like that, even if I always told you that trusting someone was signing off on your own assassination.”

Morales took a deep breath before continuing, as if he was worried about Martinez’s reaction. “Elena Rojas is as good as dead,” he spoke, his voice calm, “I wish to remember her as she was, not as she became, and years ago, she made me the keeper of her last will and testament—”

Oh God. Martinez had seen this film before, and he didn’t like the ending.

“—She’s changed it throughout the years, but she’s never strayed from the simple fact that when she died, everything material she had in this life would go to you.”

Elena didn’t have a lot. She had a couple of safe houses that no one expect Morales knew about, and then probably a couple more than Morales didn’t have the slightest clue existed. Elena Rojas might have died with unfulfilled contracts, and that’d be his problem to handle. He knows she didn’t. He knows that she never would.

Elena Rojas had money stashed away somewhere. And not a small amount, either. A considerable sum of her ill-gotten gains was never spent, and most of the underworld had no clue why an assassin of her calibre would willingly slum it up in sh*tty apartments with sh*ttier water pressure. Elena Rojas had money that Morales probably wanted.

The only thing of value that Elena Rojas had—if you asked her—was the medallion that’d belonged to her father, now hanging securely against her throat, closer to her skin than Martinez would ever be again. He wasn’t even sure how many people would know to look for it, Elena never showed it off, usually, she’d shove it under her shirt, and you’d only notice that something was there when she’d move in just the right way, allowing you to see gold dancing off her sharp collarbones.

Morales rested his hand against Martinez’s aching thigh, and he wished the pain would burn through his muscle and hurt Morales, leave a crater on his palm. Martinez forced himself to take two shaky inhales.

In the event of her death, Elena had left everything to him. It didn’t surprise him—when he thought about it, but it rattled him, the thought of possessing things she no longer could, when, if she’d had the chance, would have changed it first thing in the morning.

Of appropriating love that didn’t exist.

“I’m tired,” he said, instead of everything else buzzing in his mind, speaking a language that only two people are fluent in.

Morales sighed. He wasn’t done with this conversation, obviously. But his face still softened minutely, not that it made it easier to gauge what he wanted—leaving Martinez to fill in the blanks instead. And that wasn’t helping his recovery from whatever the f*ck Bruno had managed to stick him with.

Martinez didn’t dare ask about Bruno Madrigal. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” Morales repeated, “I shouldn’t have brought this up yet. Get some sleep, son.” He stroked Martinez’s thigh through the thick blanket, and Martinez tried not to throw up, or think about why every time he’d visited someone: the blankets had been scratchy and threadbare. “I’ll be here when you wake up, and I’m sorry this happened to you. To both of you. It’s a tragedy.”

Morales’ face was unreadable—but Martinez knew that his care only extended to the monetary value of Elena’s things. And outside of her legend, Elena had never been very well-to-do. The only thing of value in her will would be the definitive locations of her safehouses, because based on Morales’ tone of voice, Elena wasn’t dead yet.

But Martinez knew that she’d be too smart to show up at somewhere she’d be expected, even if just by one person—and he wanted to hold her memory close, one last time. And maybe, just maybe, it’d slow them down enough that Elena would put enough distance between them, and never be foolish enough to come back.

Even if Martinez didn’t know how he would spend his life without her. Morales was right, she might not be dead in the flesh—but she was dead in spirit, and Martinez knew he followed her into the grave.

He wouldn’t dare to say that he expected her to survive, but if anyone could: it would be her. Even if he knew that Elena’s only way to survive would be to run and never look back, a small, childish part of him—the same one that’d fallen in love with Elena in the courtyard all those years ago—desperately, fervently hoped that she’d come back. To conquer.

UNDISCLOSED, Isabela

They decided not to speak about crossing the threshold of Encanto, or the blood that she noticed splattered on one of the thick trees. Instead of bringing attention to it, she simply raised her hand, and drowned it with a vine.

If only she could do the same to… other problems. Problems that would scream as they died.

The jaguar that she’d situated herself atop—she believed that Antonio called her Maribel, and Mirabel had tried not to mimic a tomato when she’d heard—was surprising soft, and Isabela found herself fascinated by the creature’s strong muscles, how they move underneath the skin.

It felt like she was staring into a tornado and choosing to focus on a shattered, glittering green necklace swirling amongst the debris.

She didn’t know how long it’d been since they’d set out, only that it was dark, but she didn’t know if that was indicative of the time, or the thick foliage boxing them in. She didn’t like either option. She wanted to be in Bogota by now, and she wasn’t entirely unconvinced that they weren’t going in circles. She could feel the rage simmering under her skin, and she knew that if she didn’t get to let it out on someone who deserved it—she would turn it against her family.

The longer she spent thinking about what’d happened, the more she concluded that it’d been inevitable. The mountains had been their only security, and they’d cracked open. Of course, word of the magic would escape. Secrets always did. She’d know.

No matter how desperate you were to bury it, it’d shove itself back into yourself—dirt-stained and angry—and you’d be forced to adapt to its presence.

She gently tugged at the scruff of Maribel’s neck, effectively stopping the whole glorified caravan she was leading. She tilted her head towards the sky, trying to feel the sun’s rays on her, her eyes fluttering closed, even as none came—not even the wash of moonlight, stripping her down to her most wounded, greeted her. Instead, the hum of the forest grew, singing hymns of promised brutality that she squashed in her palm.

“We’ve been on our feet for a long time,” she stated, “We should stop, to sleep.”

BOGOTA, Morales

Elena Rojas was a bitch. Elena Rojas is a bitch, a thief, a liar, a killer for the sport of it and known to be utterly without conscience. Morales wouldn’t believe she was dead until he’d seen her f*cking head on a pike, honey eyes staring back at him, finally empty and not the living reminder of a dead man.

His side smarted, and he leaned over his desk, rifling through papers, through locations. He didn’t know if she intended to return to Bogota, or if she even wanted to run. If anyone was a Bogota street rat, it was Elena Rojas.

The fires that’d shaped so much of her—well, the thing she never realised is that they ran through her very blood, pure, molten rage, ready to be shaped to her will.

He remembered being younger, and not being able to look at Elena without seeing her father’s kind smile, the shoulders that he’d always leaned on when he’d had too much to drink. And there was absolutely a reason for him setting his son up with a nicer, better-bred woman—and not just because of business.

Elena Rojas was haunting, and she knew it. Elena Rojas wore a dead man’s face, and she knew it. He’d never seen Elena’s mother, so he couldn’t say how much of her lived on in Elena—but too much of Martino Rojas had come back to shame him.

There was a reason for why he’d ordered her killed, and her head to be brought back to him, instead of taking her alive so he could do the honours, get his personal revenge after what she’d done to him. He’d managed to bullsh*t it off as Elena being too dangerous. That wasn’t the truth.

He couldn’t kill Martino the first time around.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena watched Bruno hit the ground. Then, in quick succession, the attacker that’d dived on top of him—she didn’t know why, he had to know that she’d be able to hit him anyways—slumped dead, and Elena would have to pull him off to the side and double-tap him in a second. She narrowed her gaze, noticing a black pinprick in the distance. She inhaled, and on the exhale, fired.

She was running out of ammunition, and she didn’t like it. She knew that she always kept enough to kill a small group in her boot, settled against her heel, and she always stuffed some in her bra, too. But she didn’t have a system for that, she just did it when she was in a rush and then she hoped that no one would hit her chest.

The metal was hot against her fingers as she spun the barrel, ducking under a brutal right hook that’d probably have put her on the ground next to Bruno. She answered with a swift sweep, a kick to the knee that she knows broke something and she put her target out of his misery by bringing the butt of the gun down against the slope of his forehead until it mirrored the texture of the gelato she hadn’t eaten.

It was a slow, brutal way to kill someone. Usually, she’d only beat a target to death if her employer wanted to send a message. Perhaps, she did.

Perhaps, she was relishing in the fact that no one would watch her—that Bruno couldn’t judge her, with his wide green eyes that tried to forge camaraderie with her, when she knew that he didn’t trust her. She didn’t expect him to, but the fact that he tried—that he thought he would succeed—to make her trust him without getting anything in return?

Lightly put, it annoyed her.

And it annoyed her even more than she’d caught herself slipping up, caught herself giving into the easy banter, the promise of someone who wouldn’t strike back against her as long as she kept being useful. Elena knew the way back to Encanto. As long as Bruno didn’t, Elena would stay alive.

And Bruno didn’t have to know how Elena revelled in striking back, how—if she’d been alone, she would have considered hiding in the treetops, so she could see the reactions of those who followed.

Martinez had always joked that she had more senses than the rest of them. That it was simply physically impossible for someone to be as in tune with the battlefield, hear the thumping, terrified heartbeats of her targets across the jungle. Once, Morales had called her the greatest huntress and slapped her on the back hard enough for her to double forwards, her vision crinkling around the edges, as her head had almost slammed into the greasy bar table.

Elena shook her head, banishing the memories deeper within herself as she crossed the distance. Without having to take a second look, she rammed her hand into the bush and pulled out a man by his throat, already gasping for breath before she’d even started squeezing.

Boring.

“She-devil,” he hissed, “I have nothing for you.”

Elena tilted her head, licked her lips. “I’m sure you do,” she answered, “You could tell me if you have any other friends or,” she gestured to the path, “Where your caravan is, because I’m not stupid enough to think that you’d come this many, out here, without one.”

He spat at her, instead of accepting her very reasonable offer.

“f*cker.”

His eyes widened, seemingly realising his fate. “Any last words?” she asked.

“I’d say see you in Hell,” he growled, “But there’s a worse place waiting for you.”

She didn’t flinch at his words.

Instead, she sighed, and still lifting him above the ground, quickly released him, her hands on his throat before he could gasp and snapped his neck. She dropped him like a child who’s bored of their doll, and slowly ambled over to Bruno. She didn’t know if he was the last—because she didn’t know anything, but she didn’t hear anything rustling, or the sharp intake of breath that promised someone’s weapon in your face or hands around your throat.

Obviously, Morales hadn’t sent his best. But he hadn’t sent his worst, either.

Maybe, he hadn’t managed to wrangle the best (yet) into doing his bidding (yet), or he’d simply believed her to be more injured. She wouldn’t lie to herself—she was in a sorry state, and she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to stand that many scuffles after this one.

It felt like someone had tried to lobotomise her (she’d watched one, once, only once, she’d seen how Morales grinned dangerously, hungrily and asked questions about it being used as a deterrent, killing everything that makes someone themselves, leaving the body a shell, doesn’t that sound glorious? It hadn’t, it’d sounded haunting, and she’d be proven right) but failed because she was a tricky bitch.

She crouched down in front of Bruno, almost face-planting on top of what would be a growing pile of wrecked bodies before she steadied herself with a hand on the ground. f*cking Morales. f*cking Morales and his f*cking cronies and f*cking Bruno f*cking Madrigal for making her think of her f*cking actions and for having a vice-grip around her throat with his stupid f*cking vision of her not dying.

He could have told her that she would have thrown everything away in matte of days. Somehow, she thought, that would have been less scary than the thought of succeeding. Maybe, she would have left him in Encanto because she’d still have weighed her position over everything else.

Maybe, she could avoid having to push a man much heavier than herself—and that’d always been a challenge when they were limp, but especially now when everything inside her feels like it’s on fire, and no, she absolutely doesn’t enjoy the comparison—and roll him into the bushes before stabbing him through the chest, just to make sure.

She was too tired to check the kill. She’d just make sure.

She scurried back to Bruno’s side, moving on all fours, scared of keeling over when she inevitably found herself forced to stand. So, for a moment, she didn’t move. She just stayed there, one leg splayed out, trying to catch breath that wouldn’t come to her.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

She could feel burning metal against her ribcage, and she grounded herself in it—in the reminder that she’s still herself, even if she’s going to grow older, even if she’s going to talk about her grand conquests. Even if she doesn’t know any of that to be true. She might just get to yell that she did it, before collapsing from a sucking chest wound.

She’d prefer it that way.

There’s only been two times since her father’s murder that Elena Rojas has genuinely wanted to live to an old age, be a little old lady sitting in a lighthouse with her cup of tea, waking up next to a man who wouldn’t rape her in the dark. The first time, she’d been twelve and Martinez managed to make an old jukebox work, and they’d spent the whole afternoon dancing to jazz in front of the fountain, before Morales poured water over it, yelling that she had to f*ck out of his compound and make herself useful.

The second time was the morning of Martinez’s proposal. She’d been lying on his couch, basking in the sunlight, and cracking her back. He’d learned over her, gripping her wrists and peppered kisses down her chest and for the first time, she’d been at the mercy of man, and she hadn’t thought about killing him. He hadn’t gone further, even though she’d probably have let him—if for no other reason than out of habit.

But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled her up and gathered her against his chest, pulling her as close as humanely possible, laying them both down on the couch and whispering that he’d never leave her. Right there, with the sun streaming through the threadbare curtains, sand at the back of her throat, she’d thought that she could stay preserved like this forever.

Drop amber down on them and leave them be, let history gaze upon their interconnected bodies and spin much grander love stories than the one they’d actually gotten. If she’d been someone else, someplace else, all she’d have wanted to do was confess to Martinez.

But she’d been the one to say no.

She’d been the first person he’d proposed to, after all.

She’d had her chances. Many.

One of the reasons that she’d always loved Martinez is that he’d understood her. Usually, when she tried to be herself, she f*cked up and it came out wrong; sounding like a cry for help or a threat, begging someone to come closer so she could rip out their heart with her teeth. But she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t keep acting like she was someone who could be loved, and love.

She’d just tear up his reputation, drag him down with her. Of course, she’d never asked him about this. She’d made the choice for him, because she was terrified that if she asked him whether he loved her: he wouldn’t answer no, and she’d be stuck with the mortifying reality that someone wanted to sit next to her in Hell, just because she was her.

She pulled herself from her memories, biting back tears as she forced herself to study Bruno’s slack face, her hand raised and ghosting against his brow, trying not to think about the one she’d just reduced to mush.

Elena stroked her fingers across Bruno’s cheek, gently raising his head to feel for breaks. Thankfully, she didn’t find one. sh*tty assassins did sh*tty work, there’s a reason that she’s expensive.

“Okay,” she breathed, “Come on, then.” Rationally, she knew that she should have left him behind. He’d just slow her down, and she should be doing her best to make it out of here. But the thought felt worse than burning, so with a groan of pain, she tugged him up, resting his head against her body collarbone, willing herself to walk, and not let go, in her search of the wagon that was hopefully there, because otherwise, she’d just lay down and f*cking die.

The first step felt like knives searing through her feet, the second dulled the pain as her mind steeled, realising her mission.

She couldn’t run back, even if she plead.
She’d always thought that she’d just be another cog in a man’s story, that Martinez, who when he spoke, even the trees bent down to listen, would take her hand and she would run along, allowing him to wreck her plans.

The thought that she was on her own was confronting, and Elena hoped there was something to drink in the wagon belonging to the men she’d slaughtered.

When she’d held her victim by his throat, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against her skin, and he’d told her that there was a worse place than Hell waiting for her, she didn’t contest it. Why would she? He wasn’t lying.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Bruno didn’t wake up on the jungle floor. Instead, he opened his eyes to a curved, wooden ceiling that was glimmering with frying pans. Before he could question, Elena stuck her head in front of him, smiling widely.

“You’re awake,” she gasped, not from surprise but genuinely from being out of breath, “Please don’t get knocked out again. You’re light, but you’re not feathers, either.”

He scrunched his brow. “Where are we?”

“The bandits turned their f*cking tail and ran,” Elena answered simply, still studying his face, “Hopefully, they won’t come back unless they get off on hearing when they’re going to die and getting beaten with frying pans.”

“Oh,” she added, “And we’re in their wagon. Which we’ve kind of maybe stolen. We won’t bring it, don’t worry. And we can’t stay, either.”

Bruno nodded slightly, his eyes on Elena’s shaky fingers as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Watched as she opened his shirt, saw her take deep, steadying breaths, her fingers trailing over the left side of his ribs, her eyes faraway. As if she wasn’t really there. Somehow, his ribs ached but didn’t hurt at her gentle touch.

“They’re not broken,” she confirmed coolly. “I’m going to go grab an apple and see if I can steal any medical supplies from this sh*thole before we blow it.”

Elena’s fingers curled back towards her palm, and she got to her feet with a muffled groan.

Before he knew it, Elena was back and juggling an apple in one hand, propping what looked like a first aid kit on her hip. “Turns out,” she grinned, “That these f*ckers were better prepared than me. Who coulda known?”

She lingered for a moment, before answering her own joke. “Everyone,” she said, “Everyone coulda known. Okay, sorry, I know not’s the time to try to be funny. I don’t have the green light of forgiveness, but,” she crouched down next to him, “Let me look at your wounds, at least.”

Bruno nodded.

“Madrigal, open your mouth,” Elena ordered, lifting the apple clenched tightly in her hand.

“Rojas,” he snapped, “I’m seriously not in the mood to eat a f*cking apple. In fact, if I do try to eat that f*cking apple, I promise will just—”

And then, Elena rolled her eyes and did something that terrified Bruno. Instead of playing nice, she cut him off, before looking at him with pity bleeding from her gaze. He’d never seen the expression on her face, and he didn’t like it. It didn’t look natural on her, like she was wearing her father’s way-too-large Sunday suit.

“I’m going to put this apple in your mouth,” she explained calmly but curtly, “So you don’t bite your tongue off trying not to scream when I fix your shoulder.”

She seemingly knew him well enough to know that he was going to hold back any sound that indicated pain. Or, she just knew fear. He still wasn’t going to give her anything that indicated weakness, or him needing her.

He didn’t. She was going to turn on him, and he was going to be ready for it. But until she did that, he was going to use her for her expertise at milling through the underworld, unseen. A wraith against the rooftops, haunting the dreams of better men.

Bruno opened his mouth and let Elena prop the apple into it, her fingers ghosting against his skin, like he was some prize pig for feast. He sank his teeth into the flesh and closed his eyes, feeling Elena drum her fingers against his skin, and then readjust her grip on his injured arm.

She didn’t warn him that she was going to start. She didn’t preface it with the warning that it would hurt. She didn’t tell him what she was going to do.

As he blacked out from the pain of Elena Rojas putting his shoulder back in the socket, he thought that her lack of warning was probably the nicest thing she had ever done for him.

UNDISCLOSED, Luisa

Luisa had been surprised when Isabela, who’d been seething for days on end, growing thick, thorny vines around the house, was the one to suggest that they call it a night. She’d been even more surprised when Pepa agreed.

Félix backed her up, to no one’s surprise. “We’re of no use if we run ourselves ragged. It’s probably not going to be a simple in-and-out.”

Agustín grumbled, but gave in. Camilo, who hadn’t been his usual… annoyance simply huffed in affirmation, already hopping off his donkey.

When she was younger, Luisa had always wanted to go a family camping trip, and she’d be left waiting. They set up the tents, briefly discussed sharing a meal over the fire, before Agustín insisted that it was a waste of time, and if one was hungry, they could just eat.

They’d sleep for exactly three hours, and then they’d leave again. Camilo looked like he wanted to challenge him but didn’t. Luisa assumed that he was still in the sh*t for being there at all, and it hadn’t escaped her that above Casita, it hadn’t stopped raining since Abuela made her choice.

Luisa knew that she was trying to be better, but it was an unwelcome call-back to when Abuela’s word had been law.

Luisa found herself leaning against the wagon containing their food, unused camping gear, and the weapons that she pretended not to see Abuela loading into it, hiding them at the very bottom. She didn’t know how Abuela had them, and she didn’t want to.

Isabela joined her, their shoulders meeting.

“I thought you’d have gone to bed by now,” Luisa said, turning to regard her sister.

Isabela’s eyes met hers, and Luisa noticed, in the low light of the lantern behind her, that Isabela’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I was going to leave without you,” she confessed, “I was going to wait until everyone had fallen asleep, and then I was going to go forwards on my own.”

The unspoken so I could kill them didn’t need to be said.

Luisa wrapped her arm around her sister, encouraging her to bury her head in her chest. “I get that,” she said, “I… I think we should do that, if we’re not there by tomorrow.”

BOGOTA, Bruno

For the second time, he woke up under a chandelier of frying pans, and Elena was humming next to him, drawing a red cloth through red water.

“Hi,” he introduced.

“Hi back,” Elena answered. “I cleaned your wounds while you were out, with peroxide. Always hurts like a bitch, I always appreciated being out for it.”

He nodded.

“I also found alcohol. I know it’s not the smartest thing, but I think we should stay here for the night, it’ll be dark in an hour, and we won’t make it to better shelter. I think we both need shelter, at least tonight.” She gestured to her head as she shifted, her knees cracking.

“I’ve taken a few too many hits, and I know you have, too. And we won’t have a problem until tomorrow morning, by the earliest. And we won’t be hunted by anyone who’s a challenge. Morales doesn’t do his own dirty work, and whoever managed to whack Martinez did a good f*cking job of it.”

“Did you love him?”

Elena’s face paled. “What?”

“Martinez. Do you love him?”

Elena suddenly seemed very interested in playing with the loose threads of her stolen rag, floating languidly in the water. After a moment’s thought, she settled on, “I would have died without question, if it meant that he would live. But it wasn’t love, and you don’t have to worry about me going back to him. He wasn’t the person I thought he was.”

Bruno thought about telling her that Martinez was the one to break him out, but he didn’t, because then he’d have to explain why Martinez wasn’t there with them: or why Bruno didn’t go back for him. And even if she claimed that she didn’t love him, he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t strike him.

He wasn’t sure she was being entirely truthful.

Feeling emboldened by the alcohol he could smell lingering on Elena’s breath, and the low thrum of his own headache, making the world fuzzy around the edges, he asked, “If you’re willing to die for him, isn’t that love? I’d call that love.”

“I found him in the hallway,” she continued, paying no mind to Bruno’s words, “I think that little sh*t Al—no, what was it you called him? Mosquito? I think that Mosquito knocked him out, and yeah, that name suits him so much better, and I didn’t even get to yell at him—”

“Who? Martinez?”

Elena’s eyes glimmered as she answered. “Yes.”

She added: “I’d have wanted, well, we didn’t… he’s unfinished business. So is Mosquito. He doesn’t get to pull that sh*t without consequences.”

Bruno didn’t think Elena was talking about what Mosquito had tried to do to Elena. “That sounds like love,” he replied, “You sound like you want to protect Martinez, even if you’re in a rough patch. Love is doing that, love is wanting someone’s safety, even if they’re not with you.”

Elena wrung the cloth, red spilling through her fingers.

“Love is a spark, cast into water,” she corrected, her knuckles whitening, “Love is a blaze, it shines through the dark, burns ever hotter, then kills and betrays.”

She wrenched the fabric between her fingers, and for a moment, Bruno wondered if he should stick his out to stop her from ripping it in half. “No matter what, when you give someone your heart, they’re going to use it against you.”

“Sometimes, the ones you love turn out to be monsters hiding behind the trees, sometimes they have the worst sh*t to hide and sometimes, you don’t know why you still want them standing by your side.”

Bruno thinks of the scars making valleys in Elena’s back, how they protested when she moved, how her muscles still flexed and curved underneath them, following Elena’s commands better than Bruno’s ever did, even with the abuse they’d so obviously endured. The storms they’d weathered. He wonders whether they’d been inflicted by the last person Elena had let in, whether she’d ever felt safe enough to fall into someone’s arms.

“Sometimes, the only way forward is to slam the door shut.”

And Bruno thinks of Elena, standing in front of him in the pit, hand pushing him back as she yelled for her people to stay away, to leave him alone. He thinks about how Elena laughed with Martinez, how she’d laughed with him, her head bobbing above his, exploding with relief and adrenaline, freedom tinging at their fingertips.

Elena swept her hands through the water, and before he could talk himself out of it, he followed her, latching onto her pinkie and clearing his throat. Elena stiffened, slowly looking upwards to meet him, and when Bruno realised that their hips had met, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, it felt like he’d been burned.

He tried to lurch backwards, apologies already spilling from his tongue for reasons unknown, but Elena held onto him. “You coughed,” she stated, “Like you were going to say something. So,” she lingered for a moment, as if considering, “Say it.”

Bruno didn’t know why he’d done it, he didn’t know why he was holding her hand, why he was speaking to her about himself, why he wanted to, why she hadn’t killed him yet, but taking another leap didn’t seem like the worst thing to do, so he spoke:

“You make it sound like love’s just pain,” he started, and Elena quirked her brow, but didn’t interrupt him, “But you’re wrong.”

He stumbled over his words, they spilled from his lips, and it was only when he begun to speak when he realised that this was the first time that he’d ever said them aloud.

And instead of telling it to his family, who he’d trust with his life, he was telling it to an assassin who gripped his finger like she’d fall into the water and drown without it.

“I used to think that, too. I used to think that love wasn’t meant for me, that I was okay with being alone. But I wasn’t, and now, don’t get angry, but I don’t think you are, either.”

“My family, Elena, my f*cking family tried to protect me, and you destroyed that,” briefly, he spared a glance towards Elena, who instead of holding his eye contact, suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the floor, her shoulder trembling.

It didn’t make him stop.

“You saw what love looked like, right in front of you. You know what love is. It’s being willing to die to keep someone safe.”

“It’s not about being safe, is it?” she interrupted, her voice taking on a satisfied, sharp edge, swirling the water around her fingers. “It’s about them feeling better about what they did to you. They didn’t take action when they should’ve, and now they’re trying to make up for lost time and not seeing how it’s suffocating you under their gentle caress.”

Bruno winced at her accuracy, at how she’d spun the conversation in seconds.

“I love my family,” he asserted.
She shrugged. “I didn’t say that you don’t.”

Her long fingers ambled through the water. “Love is complicated,” she settled on, “But what’s more complicated is being your own person outside of that love. Let’s just say… I think you and I have some related experiences. And I think, you, just like me, don’t like thinking about that.”

He wanted to ask her why she’d flinched in front of Morales, why she’d run. Instead, he addressed the elephant in the room, “Where’s the alcohol?”

Elena grinned widely, her teeth too white and too sharp in the light. “It’s outside, I made a fire, too. I like being able to see my surroundings. I tried to make food. It didn’t go well. I’m going to steal you some clothes that aren’t yours, drop ‘em in and then we’ll get f*cking sh*tfaced, okay?”

He nodded. Nodding had always been his preferred method for responding when he didn’t know what the f*ck to say.

BOGOTA, Pedro

Martinez isn’t himself. According to Morales, he shouldn’t even be thinking about getting up and walking around, let alone chasing after Elena. Yet, Pedro finds himself challenged, holding Martinez back from the door with a solid hand against his chest.

“Martinez,” he sighed, “You’re not well and you’re just going to make yourself worse.”

There’s nothing that Pedro can realistically do if he insists. Martinez is ranked so much higher that he’d sign his own death warrant—and he wasn’t Elena Rojas. He couldn’t just run; he couldn’t vanish into the shadows like nothing. He wished he could, he wished he could do the right thing; but he couldn’t, and his mission wasn’t to rectify the world, but to make his peace with that he wouldn’t.

He lived to give his daughter a better life, and he prayed every night for those who couldn’t anymore. And if he slipped coins and meat to street kids, who was going to say something?

“Elena,” gasped Martinez, slumping minutely, before collapsing completely and leaving his fate to Pedro’s reflexes. Pedro just managed to catch him before he faceplanted on the ground, lowering him gently against the tiles, cradling Martinez’s head in his callused hands.

“Elena,” he repeated, her name resting in his mouth like the finest scripture, like he was convincing himself that he didn’t want her, even if he did. God, Martinez was so young. Elena, too. They were both just twenty-one, and Elena was being hunted, Martinez watching her from the side-lines.

“It’s weird what happened, right?” Pedro wanted to say that it was wrong, that he had unfinished business with Morales, that this wasn’t what it could be, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if anyone was listening at the door, and again: even if he wanted to, he was chained here.

“It’s not,” grumbled Martinez. “It’s expected.”

“I know,” answered Pedro, “So, do me a favour and stay out of it until you’re able to walk a straight line without passing out? I’ll take care of it, if you promise to be good, I’ll go with the expedition today.”

Martinez’s eyes blinked blearily, and for a moment, Pedro wasn’t sure that he’d been understood. But then, Martinez asked, in a voice so low that Pedro wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it, “Promise?”

Pedro just nodded.

BOGOTA, Bruno

Elena drops the suit and boots into his lap, giggling drunkenly.

“I know you might like the whole village chic thing you have going on, but now we’re not Bruno Madrigal and Elena Rojas anymore. And that includes not dressing exactly like our wanted posters. Get this on, do something with your hair, tie it up, lop it off, I don’t care, I’ll be outside. Please, do join me.”

Her hands are on her hips, and when she turns around with an audible release of breath, Bruno can’t help but notice the red curling out from her white tank top, catching her muscles in a cruel embrace. How come only her back was scarred? How could it be scarred so severely? Why did he find himself caring?

He catches himself before he can ask, only allowing a strangled sound to escape. Elena throws her head back, resting on her shoulder as she shifts her weight. It looks like, for a split second, she’s coiled for a fight—as if she’d forgotten that Bruno wouldn’t attack her.

At least for now, their intentions were aligned.

“The bathroom is down the hall,” Elena instructs, gesturing outside of the wagon, and to a bush, “Was that what you said? I didn’t hear you.”

Bruno just nods, and Elena scurries back, hopping out from the way she came.

Eventually, he ambles out to her, wearing clothes that are too big for him, the dress shirt almost looking like a dress. Elena bites back a laugh and pats the spot next to her in front of her fire, before digging behind her, revealing a glimmering bottle.

“It’s strong,” she assures him as he takes his seat, “So take a swig.” She’s laid down a thick blanket, and it’s so warm that he thinks she’d balled it up in front of the fire before spreading it out. He grabs the bottle by the neck, noticing she’s been kind enough to uncap it for him, before kicking his head back and taking a hearty swig, just as instructed.

He’d always known how to take instructions if they were good.

Beneficial to both parties.

His throat burns as he speaks, “You told me, right before you jumped, that you would tell me everything. I haven’t forgotten that.”

Elena exhaled.

“I’d kind of hoped that you did,” she admits, turning to face him, playing with a loose strand of hair, the fire illuminating the sharpness of her face with every golden spark, “But alright. You can ask me, and I’ll answer. What do you want to know about?”

Why are you the way you are?

Why do I feel sympathy for you?

Why do you say that we’re the same people and why do I think you’re not entirely wrong?

Why did I attack when you told me to?

“Who the f*ck did we just escape from?”

Elena chuckled, kicking her head back. “Okay,” she answers, “I can work with that. I totally forgot that you don’t know the gangs. Farm boy.”

Bruno watches the flames lick the logs, stacked haphazardly on top of each other, looking as if they would fall and collapse into nothing at a moment’s notice. “Traditionally,” Elena continues, her voice a cool burst of air morphing into the waves that drowned sailors, “There’s always been five particularly nasty gangs, known by their leaders more than their actual names, some might call them armies, or militias, even. I just call them gangs; I don’t think they deserve the legitimacy that the other words grant.”

She tosses a stick into the flames, and Bruno watches it be consumed.

“Army or militia makes you think what you’re doing is revolutionary. It’s not. They’re selling kids and drugs. Simple as that.”

Another series of questions die on his throat, interrupted by Elena’s continuation. “Morales used to be the weakest of those five, of course, there’s more gangs, but there’s only five that I’d concern myself with, but he’s grown into his own over the past couple of years—then, there’s Senor Noche, I really don’t like him, Garcia, Jefe… and Rojas.”

“The only ones that concern us are Morales and Noche,” she insists, her voice ice.

Agustín and Félix might have always joked that Bruno didn’t know when to take a hint, but he understood that Elena said the conversation was over, even if he’d been unable to hide how his eyes had widened when she’d mentioned her own surname.

Maybe it was a common one.

That would make sense.

She wouldn’t be working for someone else’s family if she’d had her own, right? And… he hated to give her any kind of applause for her dark work, but he was pretty sure that whatever the f*ck spawned Elena would be considered a threat.

Elena regains control of the bottle, sipping from it. Bruno can already feel the world blurring at the edges—from drunkenness, instead of injury, the pain wafting away, mingling with the smoke of Elena’s fire. The bushes whisper, shifting ever so slightly, but Bruno doesn’t pay attention. Instead, he leant back, fingering blindly for the bottle and nicking Elena’s fingers with his before she wraps his around the neck.

“You told me you had related experiences to me,” he slurs.

“I do,” she answers, her tone a tripwire, “I spent too much of my life trapped by invisible chains, thinking that I couldn’t find the power in myself and had to borrow someone else’s. And I see that side of me in you, and the rage thrumming under your skin, begging to be released.”

“I’ve tortured people,” she continues, “I’ve locked them up, deprived them of everything except their own thoughts, and then they’ve come crawling back to me. There’s a certain kind of helplessness, weakness, that you can breed. And there’s always been people interested in that.”

She curls up on her side, facing Bruno, humming under her breath as he absorbs her words with half-lidded eyes.

BOGOTA, Elena

She woke up on the cold, hard ground, a scream dying on her lips as she pushed herself up, crumpling paper in her hand. Curiously, she moved to sit up, and gagged when she read what it said.

Good morning. Greetings from the East Landing. Just trying to help you out, Golden Traitor.

Rosita was sitting in front of Elena, intelligent eyes watching her, studying her, before jumping onto her shoulder, and Elena didn’t dare do anything other than push herself up on shaky legs.

She didn’t have to search the camp to know that Bruno wasn’t there. Right in front of her laid tracks from at least six men, their feet embedded in the ground, screaming their challenge. Without taking anything from the wagon—also raided, she knew, in the back of her mind, if they could get past her and take Bruno from her arms, they could raid a wagon in the far corner—she broke into a dead sprint, following the tracks, and when the tracks stopped, swallowed by thick grass, her instincts.

She found herself standing at the top of a cliff, staring down on a congregation of too many f*cking men for her to handle, the paper still clenched tightly in one hand, the other wrapped around the tree she’d half-climbed.

Elena narrowed her eyes, taking stock of the situation. As much as she lusted to just open up and snuff out the big, black head helming the wagon, she knew that it wouldn’t slow them down—and therefore, even if she wanted to splatter his brains against the window, it wouldn’t do anything to help her. Or Bruno.

She took a deep breath and aimed. She shifted her gaze slightly downwards, focussing on the curve of the left back wheel, where it connected, and holding her breath, pulled the trigger. She looked up right as the bullet connected with the fragile wooden wheel, blowing it to pieces and sending the men accompanying it diving into the bushes.

Elena wished she had more bullets. Elena wished she could murder every single one of the f*ckers who’d decided to disrespect her by taking what was hers. But the world didn’t work according to what you wanted. The world didn’t change itself for you.

You had to carve your own place amongst the stars, the legends, and the nightmares. And Elena prayed to a God she didn’t believe in that they were ready for the monster they’d left behind to gnaw at her chain, to break through it and come running, their scent still fresh.

But first, she thought as she slung the empty rifle over her burning shoulder, she had to check up on some old friends and call in a couple of debts. Taking one last glance over the valley and into the thick of it, and ignoring how it lingered, how she considered just running into the darkness unarmed, screaming and begging—Elena pushed herself up, and walked the other way.

She’d have her revenge. She always came on top, in the end. All she had to do was bide her time, wait for them to get too comfortable, for them not to check the grass for the snake.

She’d get Bruno back.

Even if it killed her.

Rosita chirped against where Elena had tucked her, halfway between her stolen blazer and her stolen shirt and her bloodstained bra and burnt back, Rosita’s heat radiating through Elena, the thump of her heart against hers making Elena feel like she wanted to squirm out of her skin.

She didn’t want to go back into the belly of the beast as a much more wanted woman—she knew that the price on her head must have gone up, become something that someone would actually dare going head-to-head with a she-devil for, but she’d burned everything to the ground.

She didn’t have a life to go back to. She had the vengeance that she grasped tightly in her palm, tucked securely against her chest, and pushed forwards.

She had the knowledge that she’d saved one person from the fires, and that she wouldn’t remedy everything she’d done by bringing Bruno back to Encanto, but she’d have given enough of a middle finger to Morales and his whole circus of strung-up marionettes to die.

Her feet kicked out a rhythm known to every part of her body—a route so intertwined with her being, and before she could sit back and think, she was gripping the fire escape and throwing herself over it, landing in a brief handstand against the railing, taking a moment to breathe in—remember how she’d been a little girl who wanted to be a circus acrobat, who threw herself out from tree branches, her arms raised and convincing herself that she was free to make her own choices—and she was back to herself, running against the rooftops, a ghost against the backdrop of the churning city.

She dropped herself down in front of a familiar purple door, her muscles begging for release but her mind refusing to grant such a mercy. Rosita bites down on her finger, briefly drawing her ire, before she softened her gaze, and gently tucking her back against Elena’s skin, hiding her from view.

Elena threw the door open, her eyes—redder than the Devil’s, spinning around and never quite focussing—landing on Morinaga’s tired face. She huffed a loose strand of bloodstained hair off her face, raised her empty rifle towards the solitary patron and smirked, her lip curling cruelly as she quirked her brow; and Morinaga waved her towards the back with a knowing look.

When she’d taken Encanto, Elena hadn’t wanted to. She hadn’t felt the flaming need to strike out, the rage sizzling in her gut and begging for release—her vision tunnelling on everything except for her target, sight lines crystal-clear and the scent of gunpowder in the air more arousing than any dick’s ever been.

Now, she wants to. She’d always laughed at the stories about her—because if she didn’t, she’d cry because most of the rumours were terrible and cruel but also very, very true. Now? She wants to lean into it, to bathe in them and come out a different woman, drenched in darkness, in night.

She wants to be cruel. She wants to lay in the grass, she wants to wait for them to f*ck up, she wants to storm their castles, kill their false prophets in front of them. She wants to scream that there’s no salvation that you don’t create yourself, red dripping onto her stolen boots, that peace is bought with fire and blood, the beheading of kings.

Holy water isn’t going to help them, a thousand armies hiding in the greenery couldn’t keep her out. She doesn’t want the money anymore. She doesn’t want the thrill of the kill. She doesn’t want the crowns, the status, the legends built up around her.

She wants to burn their kingdom down. His kingdom. As she closes the distance, Morinaga recognises the brutality simmering in her eyes, and it sets something alight in his, a match against the underbrush.

The King of Crime might be rallying his troops around his fortress, but the Queen’s finally ready to start conquering. And everyone knows how chess usually goes.

And ends.

Chapter 8: hotter than a fantasy

Chapter Text

UNDISCLOSED; Present Day, Pepa

Usually, Julieta would be the first to rise. For obvious reasons.

Although, when they were kids—before they’d been weighed down by their gifts, it’d always been Pepa. Somehow, she would always manage to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, and as kids, they’d somehow always manage to congregate in one bed, so she’d drag her siblings into the morning light, to keep her company, of course.

In the jungles that blanketed Encanto, it wasn’t any different. Even if they’d only given themselves a short window to sleep, Pepa was up a whole hour early, cracking her body and attempting to extract herself from Félix’s strong hold, wiggling out of the sleeping bags that she didn’t even know they owned.

Apparently, Mama had commissioned them back when she still believed in family and had the delusion of them going on a family trip together. If Mama hadn’t said it herself, Pepa would have called bullsh*t.

But she had.

And now Pepa had slept in it, twenty years too late.

Pepa pulled herself to her feet, walking over to their wagon, unsurprised to find Agustín leaning against it, taking a drag of a cigarette.

“I won’t tell Julieta,” she offered, taking the spot next to him, and when he offered it to her, slipping it between her fingers, “If you tell me whether you slept at all, last night.”

“We went to bed at night, we woke up at night,” Agustín answered.

“That’s not an answer,” Pepa scowled, handing the cigarette back to him and trying not to stare at the bags stamped under his eyes.

“Guess I’ll just have to tell Julieta that her sister smoked a cigarette,” Agustín reasoned, following it by blowing smoke directly in her face, on purpose.

BOGOTA; Twelve Hours Ago, Bruno

Elena’s hand was folded on her stomach, and she was using the other to raise their mostly drunk bottle of stolen booze to the sky.

“Elena,” Bruno breathed. Elena quirked her head to the side, facing him with a lopsided grin that reminded him of Agustín, when he knew he’d injured himself stupidly. Not recklessly, stupidly. There was a difference.

“Yeah?”

The world swam around him, blurring into nothing but Elena’s sharp, sharp, sharp green eyes—looking almost electric in the half-darkness. She scrunched her brow, studying his own expression. “Is there anything wrong?” she asked, concern tipping off her lip before she could bite it down.

He didn’t know if she’d wanted him to hear it.

He didn’t know if it was genuine, or just another genius ploy from Elena Rojas, master assassin. Although, it was hard for him to think of her as anything cruel when she shifted to lie on her side, her hand slung over her hip, and after settling the bottle down—no longer toasting to the stars—she pushed back his curls.

He could feel a vision pushing against his temples—a dull throb warning him, begging him to get somewhere safe, and yet, he didn’t get up and run into the bushes. Instead, it’d been why he’d opened his mouth in the first place, but when he’d thought about it—everything else that wasn’t the words ‘involuntary visions’ and ‘happens sometimes’ pushed their way past his teeth, tasting of bile.

“It’s alright,” Elena drawled, “You don’t have to tell me. It’s cool if you thought you wanted to, but you don’t now. You don’t owe me anything.”

She spun a lock of hair around her slender finger, and Bruno could feel her tugging—but it didn’t hurt as it did when Mama would force her aged hands through his hair, battling the literal rat’s nest it’d become. Instead, Elena’s lingering touches, as if she wasn’t entirely sure how much of it was okay, whether he’d strike out at her for it, ached more from the emotion behind them.

“But if you think about it again,” she continued, “And you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

He snorted, purposefully trying to break the moment. “You sound like someone trying to get blackmail.”

And she did.

Elena was too drunk to notice and continued playing with his hair. “Nah,” she answered, “I wouldn’t try to do that when I’m not sure I can get up without face-planting straight on the ground. If I wanted to get anything out of this, I wouldn’t have been reckless enough to drink.”

Bruno raised a brow, feeling an edge he could grab at. “But you still chose to drink when we’re some of the most attractive prizes to take home.”

Elena shrugged. “I just let you off the hook. I could have pressed you on why it looks like you either have a killer headache or are pushing out the world’s gnarliest sh*t, but I didn’t. And I didn’t even say it until you decided to be annoying.”

Bruno grinned, pulling more.

“A secret for a secret, then? You go first. Why did you drink?”

Elena smirked, but Bruno could tell that there wasn’t any malice behind it. Somehow, Elena was capable of smirking multiple ways. One spelled certain doom, and the other… somehow felt homey. She dragged her hand away from his hair, flopping back onto her back.

Bruno decided to mirror her, having not realised that he’d shifted to his side to start with.

“That sounds like a sh*tty deal for me,” she argued, “I could tell you the darkest thing I’ve ever done and you could get running.”

Bruno raised his hands in front of him, watching how he couldn’t seem to focus on them, and it looked like sharp, technicolour was dancing around the digits. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” he stated simply, “I think I’m just as drunk as you, if not more.”

Elena snorted, shocking Bruno.

“That’s supposed to comfort me? Knowing that we’re both f*cking hammered and utterly unprepared for any kind of attack? What are we going to do, dazzle them into submission with how well we stumble around the stage?”

Bruno could feel a burning pit of rage building in his stomach. She’d been the one to start drinking! She’d been the one to hand him the bottle! How was he supposed to know that the rules she lived by didn’t apply to him? How was he supposed to know what she expected from him, if she hadn’t f*cking told him?

He scowled. “Elena,” he threatened, “You were the one to start drinking. I don’t think you can get angry with me for drinking alongside you, when you didn’t say anything that would insinuate you didn’t want me to, and you even handed me the bottle.”

Elena frowned. “You should just think,” she reasoned, “You should just think about what’s happening around you.”

He saw a sliver of his niece Isabela in her, in how she’d stamp her foot and insist that everything was perfect—that she was fine. He could tell that Elena was taking out the anger of her own drinking on Bruno, and he knew that with the influence of alcohol, emotions could be turned on quicker and more reliably than a switch. But Elena wasn’t Isabela.

“There’s no need to be an asshole, Elena, both of us need each other, and you don’t keep anyone’s goodwill by projecting the anger you hold for yourself at them.”

Elena answered him with a huff. Then, for a few minutes, he just stared at the open sky, thinking about how he’d make up stories about the stars for his nieces and nephews when they’d been little—before he’d gone into the walls, before he’d f*cked himself up, before he’d ended up here, next to—

Elena interrupted his thoughts, allowing him to calm the breathing that he hadn’t realised had sped into gear.

“… My father’s dead,” Elena answered, her tone level, but fraying at the edges, a drawbridge over stormy seas, “But you know that already—with your vision. You know that I want revenge. And that I… apparently… get it.”

Bruno’s breath caught in his throat, his mind’s eye flashing back to the split-second lie by the river, when she’d held him by the throat, how she’d almost staggered back, the brief edge he’d had.

“That’s why I drank,” Elena continued, “And you’re right. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at me. Not just for drinking. For… for a lot of bad sh*t. And I decided to drink because I didn’t want to think about the bad decisions. Because the last time I drank, I somehow had fun, even if it’d been a sh*tty night.”

Elena nervously pulled at her own hair, loose curls that Bruno had the fatalistic urge to braid. Even if she’d just bared herself to him, he wasn’t sure how she would take him reaching across the waters between them and starting to f*cking braid her hair. She’d probably attack him.

And he wouldn’t blame her for it.

“You told me that I’d do it, and I didn’t—I knew you were real, as soon as you said that. And it rattled me, because I guess there’s… you always hope that you manage to do what you want but being told it so straight—I guess I didn’t like the implications of it. I guess it rattled me, more than I’d have liked.”

She grinned to herself, pumping her fist into the air, “But it’s kind of cool, now,” she laughed, “Because it means that until I manage to sink that f*cker, I’m basically immortal, right? So, we’re going to Encanto first, and then I’m going to go back and kill them all. Scorched earth policy.”

She flashed him a manic grin, her eyes glistening under the moonlight. It wasn’t true, Elena, I lied, I just wanted to save my own skin—I didn’t have a vision of you, I don’t know—

“Maybe,” she added, “When I’m done, I’ll come back to Encanto. Bring you Mosquito’s head as a souvenir? A token of our mutual hatred, brief truce and something to remember me and our little field trip by?”

Bruno didn’t know if she’d intended to give him an out, but he tugged at it with all his might. “If you even dared to show you face and touch a single stone in Encanto,” he mock-snarled, “I’d cut off your f*cking hands.”

For a moment, he wondered whether he’d been too harsh. Whether, despite the intoxication, Elena would just push herself up, and leave him in the dark. Or maybe she’d attack him, taking it as a threat. Instead, she thumped her hand against the hollow of her chest and giggled.

“Where the f*ck was this fierceness when I was interrogating those weird old ladies at the market?” she questioned, narrowing her gaze when she caught Bruno stealing a glance at her. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Elena, all decked out in black, colluding with the villagers, and somehow—the idiots never realising that a complete stranger asking probing, personal questions might be bad news.

If it’d been anywhere else, he’d say Elena was lying.

But most residents in Encanto had forgotten how to be cautious.

“You seriously talked to them? For how long?”

Elena groaned, running her hand through her hair, the stars above igniting her intelligent eyes as she shot him a wry smile. “Too f*cking long, that’s for sure. Those people are f*cking weird, man.”

Bruno didn’t know if he was supposed to agree with the assassin who’d killed countless people—who’d attacked his own village, but he giggled and nodded, and in the morning: he’d blame it on the alcohol, when he and Elena went back to dancing around each other, ducking from blows they expected at any moment.

“I—” he started, Elena stilling under his voice, her eyes focussed on his, but somehow, she’d sanded down the sharpness that he remembered, from the last time her gaze settled on him, “—I have involuntary visions, sometimes. That’s what I wanted to tell you… originally. I thought I might be having one, and I didn’t want you to—”

Elena finished his sentence for him, her voice soft. “You didn’t want me to react badly, did you?”

He nodded.

Elena took a breath before speaking again. “Okay,” she said, “Can I ask you a question, then? I promise I won’t get angry.”

He wanted to say that she’d just gotten angry on a whim, and that everyone always said they weren’t going to, but they did anyways, and his fist raised to knock against his head but before he could, Elena had gently grabbed his wrist, pulling it back to the ground.

“Don’t do that,” she instructed, “Your head has gotten enough abuse today. Rap against my knuckles if you really need to. It’s around the same sound and feeling.” With a grin, she added: “Don’t ask how I know that.”

Elena’s fingers were still wrapped around Bruno’s wrist, and he could feel her strong pulse thrumming under her skin. She wasn’t forcing him to speak, wasn’t pushing him into action—seemingly, through either alcohol or injury, they’d crossed a threshold and opened a door that was previously closed.

Bruno didn’t like it, but something about her gaze, how her brow was knotted deep in thought, how he was pretty sure, if he wanted to, he could pull his wrist back and Elena would let him, how her slender fingers folded around his bony wrist, healed-over slashes glimmering in the moonlight against her dark skin.

How she somehow always knew when to speak, how she managed to pull him from the murky waters of his mind and he wasn’t entirely sure whether she even knew—she didn’t seem like she was doing it intentionally, it just seemed to be how she was.

“… You can ask.”

Elena’s face was open when she asked, awash with fascination. But not because she wanted to use him—she didn’t carry the same malice that Mosquito does, instead, she reminded him of Mirabel when Agustín would relent and teach her a new sewing technique, which always ended up with them sitting cross-legged on the floor for hours, their backs hunched in a way that Bruno wasn’t even entirely sure Julieta’s cooking could fix.

He'd always looked over their shoulders and tried not to think too badly about what he’d teach his own kids—had he had any. Or whether he regretted that.

That’d make him think of ten years spent locked away, of his own volition.

“Do you know what it looks like to an outsider?”

The question sent him reeling.

He jerked his hand away from Elena’s, cradling it against his chest.

He stammered. “W-what… what do you mean?”

Elena played with a loose strand of her own hair, seemingly uncaring that Bruno had removed his hand, as long as he wasn’t hitting his own head.

“Hm,” she supposed, “I mean for me. I don’t—well, when you gave me my vision in the jungle, I didn’t see any of it. I just knew it to be true. So, I feel it’s kind of rude to ask how it feels—that’d be like asking me how killing someone feels, so, I asked what it looks like. If you know. So, I could be aware of it, and notice it happening to you.”

Elena licked her lips.

“My second question would be if you’d want me to do anything specific during it, if it happens.”

By the tone of Elena’s voice, she wasn’t asking because she was disgusted by the concept. She was asking because she genuinely wanted to help.

When Bruno was sixteen, he’d been beaten to near-death—he would have died, had Pepa not managed to shove an arepa down his throat, and sixty or so more when he’d been carried back home, they’d doused him in gasoline, lugged him to the town square and set him on fire, for crying out loud, Bruno still didn’t like walking past those f*cking cobblestones—for what the villagers thought was him intentionally cursing them all to a horrible, slow death or some sh*t.

He’d wanted to buy some fruit, and he’d been struck down by a flaming headache—the kind that only came when he had seconds to find ground for a vision that would force itself on him—and he’d doubled over on the street, his head bouncing against stone.

Pepa and Bruno never talked about what happened, that day—or how much Pepa had managed to see. Bruno didn’t leave his room for a month, even with Julieta’s badgering. It’d ended up being Félix—of course—who’d managed to force him out, with the promise of alcohol and fish. And maybe by being Félix.

Mostly by being Félix.

Bruno focussed back on Elena’s gaze, wide open and glimmering like the gemstones they peddled at the market. He remembered splattering a villager’s emerald earrings, back when he’d been sixteen and a victim.

Elena let out a breath, blowing away strands of hair that’d settled on her forehead, slightly damp. Bruno wondered when she’d managed to shower, or why. Or where. When they were sober or the words didn’t get stuck at the roof of his mouth, clinging onto the flesh for dear life, Bruno was going to remember to ask her, because he’d almost literally kill for a shower.

And in Elena’s presence, Bruno didn’t think such a declaration should be spoken lightly.

“Maybe we should save that question for some other time, maybe with some better alcohol?” asked Elena, and Bruno furiously nodded.

He didn’t know why, but sometimes he just couldn’t find the words when he needed them. Sometimes, his eyes went glassy and the world felt like was experiencing it through a dirty mirror, like it wasn’t actually happening to him.

Thinking about it, it was amazing that he’d managed to make it to fifty—

Elena’s hand found his in the darkness, regaining her hold and squeezing his fingers just tightly enough to get his attention.

“You asked me about Martinez,” she purred, “About whether I loved him.”

The air was thick between them, and Bruno just squeezed her hand. He didn’t know what else to do, and Elena, because she’d managed to parse the words of a language all their own, continued.

“He asked me to marry him,” she said, crest-fallen, her voice a spike of ice in the desert. “And I said no.”

Like when she spoke of her father, Bruno could hear how the grief ebbed and flowed through her, becoming routine, taking up residence on her shores like the tide.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t love him. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to.”

“When?”

“It happened three times.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or apologise, so he settled on saying nothing. Elena shook her head, chuckling to herself, keeping her head above water.

“It’s very dramatic when you say it like that, but yes. He asked me three times. I assume, it was out of some kind of weird obligation. We were friends, not lovers… and if not for a stroke of luck, he could have ended up in the same situation as me. So, I suppose he wanted to try and save me.”

Bruno didn’t need to question how her voice lingered.

“And you wanted to be lovers?”

“I know I don’t deserve him, Bruno. I know I’m just a beat-up lump of coal next to his brilliance…”

(Bruno wouldn’t describe them as that, but that was neither here or there.)

Elena’s eyes fluttered shut, and Bruno wasn’t sure she’d wanted him to hear what she said, her voice choked, cloaked with tears and old bile. “I wanted us to be equals.”

She turned her head away from him, and Bruno felt like he wanted to whimper—not because of Martinez, he barely knew the man, but because he knew the feeling—how many times had he stood next to his sisters, dappled in gold and praise and just begging to not even be as loved or revered, but just be seen as the same? And with a startling realisation, he thought that he didn’t want Elena to feel that.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Elena turned back towards him, wiping at her eyes with the pad of her hand.

“For what? You didn’t know.”

Bruno steeled himself, feeling like he was threading water in the ocean; the waves ripping him from side to side, throwing him under, and the only thing steadying him was Elena’s calm. “For making you tell me that,” he answered, “Because you tried to steer the conversation away from me not wanting to answer you.”

“Oh.”

Bruno continued. “And I’m sorry for not answering you, too, it—it was nice of you, to ask. I’m just not used to people asking.”

Elena drew closer, their noses almost touching. And then, with a sharp intake of breath, she leaned her head against his shoulder. It would be a lie to say that Elena curled up against him, because she didn’t—her body was ramrod straight, and she didn’t seem relaxed at all. But she exhaled, and Bruno didn’t shove her head away, instead letting her catch her bearings.

“People don’t usually care enough to ask,” he kept on talking, and pointedly decided to ignore how he could feel Elena’s heartbeat racing. He didn’t know exactly what she was thinking about, but he had a few ideas—related experiences—and none of them were good, nor seemed like something he could bring up, even if he knew about her dead dad and lost love.

Ha, rhyming.

Elena interrupted him—or he didn’t know if it’d count as interrupting if he was still thinking of something to say that wouldn’t draw attention. “That seems strange to me,” she said, her voice strained, “I’d gotten the impression that your family was very close knit, at least, and I could have bet on that the whole community was, as well.”

“Is it fair for me to say that it’s complicated and for another day?”

Elena chuckled, and Bruno thought he could live forever in that moment, as her heartbeat stilled against him.

“Sure.”

“But—” he sighed, “It’s not fun. To watch. It’s not—it’s not like in the jungle—”

He cursed himself for being unable to tell her that it was fake.

“—It’s a little like a seizure, I’ve been told. We don’t have a lot of seizures in Encanto, so I can’t tell you a lot, since you know, you don’t really think about things from a bird’s eye perspective when they happen to you and especially not when they’re not all that fun, you know—”

Elena chuckled again, interrupting his rambling.

“You’re rambling,” she stated sweetly, grinning up at him, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. But you’re rambling.”

“What if rambling’s an important part of the story?” asked Bruno with a wry grin. Elena huffed.

“Well,” she reasoned, “Then you tell sh*ttier stories than me. And we know what your opinion is on my storytelling prowess.”

Ever since she’d decided to lean against him, Bruno had made a concerted effort not to touch Elena, even accidentally as he shifted his weight. But now, he slowly, making sure to give her plenty of time to lurch away from him and cuss him out, moved to wrap his arm around her waist.

“You should stick to shooting,” he breathed, his arm snaking around Elena’s waist, making sure not to touch her bare skin where her stolen shirt had hiked up, “You’re terrible at building up tension.”

He adjusted their position to something that wouldn’t strain his back, and Elena shrugged, seemingly relenting, and accepting his half-embrace at the same time.

“I don’t think people ask because of something that happened. I—when I was younger, much younger, younger than you, sixteen, I was in the market, when it happened—”

Elena raised her hand to play with his curls, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she seemed to decide to braid them.

“—And I always, always, always get this specific kind of headache, with this specific kind of pain, so I always know that it’s a vision and not just a normal migraine, and it happens right when I’m buying fruit—”

“Hm,” she hums, her slender fingers racing through his hair, as if she hadn’t stiffened at the mere concept of physical contact before, even if Bruno could barely feel her touch against his scalp.

“—And I collapsed on the ground, and I guess the villagers thought I was cursing them or something, ha,” he laughed self-deprecatingly to himself, noticing how Elena frowned at the display. He yelped, and continued speaking, which didn’t make Elena frown any less.

“And— and I guess because they didn’t want to be cursed, someone carried me into the square, and they, they started—to beat me, and someone stabbed me, and someone else set me on fire, it was only by—”

“I’d have killed them,” Elena stated, her eyes crystal-clear. “I’d have killed them and left one of their heads on a pike on my front lawn, so everyone knew what’d happen if they tried their luck. And when you’d recovered enough, we’d have killed the rest together.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

ENCANTO; Three Weeks Ago, Pepa

Bruno had collapsed in the middle of town. Bruno had collapsed in the middle of town. Bruno had collapsed in the middle of town. Bruno had collapsed in the middle of town.

And Mama was glaring daggers at Pepa and Julieta, like it was somehow their fault. Which of course, it was. They knew better. They knew that they should watch him. They knew that Bruno couldn’t articulate his own needs, and when he needed them.

It was their responsibility as his sisters—and his family at large, even if Julieta and Pepa took on most of it, of course—to keep him safe. A mix of How Bruno Had Always Been and the terrifying realisation that he’d lived in the walls of their house—and God, the damage that’d have had to do, Bruno hadn’t been a strong man to start with—had made it so.

They were at fault, and they had to fix it.

Félix had already managed to herd the kids out of the living room, even if Pepa was sure that the rats were listening in on Antonio’s orders—

A couple of days before Mirabel put the finishing touches on Casita, Pepa had finally come clean to her mother about what happened when they were sixteen, crying in Julieta’s arms about the prospect about it happening again. It hadn’t felt as cathartic as she’d needed it to.

She still felt chained to the past, chained to her responsibility for Bruno.

And now Julieta had left to boil water for tea, and Pepa was sitting fanning her little brother, who Luisa had splayed out on the couch, and Mama had immediately tucked in. And Mama was still glaring at Pepa, while fussing too much over Bruno’s blankets, not even noticing that he’d cracked his eyes open and was blearily studying them.

Pepa couldn’t help herself.

“What happened?” she asked, feeling the air above her swirl into something she hoped wouldn’t be a hurricane, but she made no move to swat it away, either. Bruno deserved to see that she was upset with him—at his lack of self-preservation. She didn’t understand how he, after ten years away, didn’t just get that she wanted to be there for him, that she wanted to help him through this—that they all did.

That they all wanted to protect him.

Ten years was a long time, and it’d snowed in Encanto for months after Bruno’s disappearance, where Pepa was sure that she’d killed her little brother with her cruel, thoughtless actions. She had a right to be upset with him now, when he kids opened the door with, “Tio Bruno’s fallen down in the middle of town and he might have hit his head but none of us can get him to wake up.”

“I—” Bruno tried, only for Mama to follow Pepa’s lead and fall into a frenzy, gathering Bruno’s head in her hands.

“Brunito,” she cooed, “Don’t you ever dare scare me like that again.”

Bruno flinched, but Pepa didn’t tell her mother off.

In a small voice, Bruno answered them, “I had a vision.”

“Of what?” Mama asked, her voice edging on panic. Pepa understood. She couldn’t take another disaster—she couldn’t take another disaster that she’d have to convince the townspeople that Bruno hadn’t caused.

“Mariano’s going to propose to Dolores,” he gestured to Mama, “And you’re going to throw a pan at him.”

Bruno tried to grin, and Pepa couldn’t hold back her rage, the cloud above her head buzzing and whirring as Mama tried to swat at it without Pepa noticing. “Bruno,” Pepa snarled, “You just passed out in the street and you’re going to try and make up something about a vision of Mama beating a man she likes? Why can’t you just tell us the truth?”

Bruno stammered.

“It- it’s the truth. It’s what, it’s what happened—”

“Okay,” Mama interrupted, reaching for the umbrella under the couch, “Bruno,” she said sternly, “If you’re having visions and unable to control them, you have to tell us how we can prevent them. You know that you’re not very good at considering your own interests.”

It was probably the most diplomatic way to say that Bruno didn’t know how to take care of himself, and Pepa admired her mother for it. She’s not sure she’d have been able to phrase it that well—or at all. Bruno frowned, and Pepa briefly wondered if he was seriously going to try and argue but perhaps sensing a losing match, he didn’t.

Pepa still wasn’t done with him.

“I can’t believe you,” she huffed, “I can’t believe that you think it’s okay for you to scare me like that. For a f*cking vision of Mariano.”

BOGOTA; Six Hours Ago, Pedro

“She promised me that she’d be around,” mumbled Martinez from the bed, Pedro had already kicked his feet up on it, leaning back against the uncomfortable chair. At first, he’d tried to cajole Martinez into eating literally anything—and when he’d found that a more hopeless endeavour than trying to capture Elena, he simply didn’t.

He was too tired to force another grown man into eating. Eventually, he assumed that even Martinez’s survival instincts would kick in. Everything had been horribly rushed, from when he and Miquel and returned with Bruno Madrigal under their arms and a story about being unable to bring Elena because they’d been too few and neither of them wanted to deal with a pissed-off Night Woman looking to work of her hangover by crushing some skulls.

It'd been an accepted excuse, and he’d given them the location of Elena—and he hadn’t lied, but hoped that she didn’t sleep as long as Bruno.

Pedro didn’t know if Martinez wanted him to respond, but he did anyways, because Martinez wasn’t in any condition to fight him—Pedro severely doubted that he’d taken anyone’s advice and rested, and that he’d simply worn himself out to the point where he didn’t have a choice.

“Sometimes, we don’t get to keep our promises,” Pedro answered, and tried not to think too much about himself. Martinez sighed, a deep lovesick sound and Pedro almost quipped something, anything.

“She promised that she’d be there,” Martinez took a moment to catch his breath, “She promised me that she’d be there at the wedding, and that it wouldn’t change anything for either of us.”

And that’s when it dawned on Pedro. Maybe he was late to the party, maybe he’d been ignoring the world’s greatest love story happening within the walls of the compound—but he suddenly understood why Elena returned, even when she had a thousand better options.

Martinez wasn’t marrying Maria because he loved her, he was marrying Maria because the rumour of Elena turning down his wedding proposal was terrible and cruel, but probably true. Pedro restrained himself from confirming it, and instead exhaled as Martinez continued.

“I didn’t want her to leave,” Martinez confessed, “I know she wasn’t happy here and I know that she’d have left, but I always imagined it would be much more dramatic. We’d have a last dance in the moonlight, and we’d kiss one last time, and I’d know how to live with that because we’d both be older. I’d have warning. She’d have told me.”

“You don’t own people,” Pedro interrupted, “And when you try, you push them away.”

“I think I made her leave. And I feel—I told her something I should have told her as soon as I knew, but I… is it, does it make me a horrible person to wish I’d kept lying?”

Pedro glanced at Martinez’s face, noticing the unshed tears glimmering in them.

Pedro had always found himself stuck with the rather fatal flaw of feeling for people. A death sentence in a gang, but his expression softened as he knotted his own noose tighter, closing the distance between himself and Martinez, opening his arms to invite him in.

No sooner than he did, Martinez flopped against his chest, and Pedro felt tears stain his shirt, Martinez’s back quivering as Pedro’s hand moved to rub against it.

“After, after—” Martinez hiccupped, “—after the Arena, I didn’t even… usually, I’d always be the one to come get her. If she did something she shouldn’t, I’d always come and get her and I’d talk her out of trouble but I didn’t because I was scared of what she’d say to me.”

Pedro knew.

And Pedro tried not to resent him for it, because Pedro had been there. Instead of Martinez, someone that Elena looked at like he’d hung the sun and planted the stars just for her, Pedro had been the one to piece Elena back together with sh*tty homemade glue, before sending her walking on a tightrope in the dark, where she couldn’t see what happened if she fell off.

Or if she jumped.

Pedro had always argued that he couldn’t fight against the cruelty that he passively enforced, because he’d risk his own family’s life, but feeling Martinez coming undone under him, and thinking about the blood trail that’d eventually lead him to Elena, how he’d entered the clearing alone and found her curled around Bruno like she was much bigger than she was and she had to be gentle—well, he thought about highways and running for the hills.

He thought about the smell of gunpowder lingering against your hands, and instead of Elena’s silhouette, he saw his own daughter’s—and he blinked, and it was Elena, seventeen and her face a little kinder, a cigarette hanging from her lips as she kicked worn-out leather boots onto the table, leaning back with the smug expression of someone who’d just played her ace.

He thought about how she’d handed him the bottle, how they’d leaned back and gazed at the stars, how the worst had seemed better, in that sliver of a second—how he’d been trimming leather of his boots when he’d heard her scream in the middle of the night and he’d expected to find her on the ground, a knife at her throat.

He was sure that if it’d been Alejandro, he’d have exploited it.

And Pedro tried, even if he knew the rope was fraying, to convince himself that he was okay with that. That this business had dazzling benefits, but heart-stopping consequences, but the line kept spinning and Pedro kept following it, his hands burning—and like everything else, it led to the unfinished business of Martino Rojas and why he’d died, with a young daughter and position that’d been much more important than Pedro’s.

He thought aloud.

“I don’t think you should call yourself horrible,” Pedro said, “I think it’s just one of those things that are. Is Elena a bad person for running? Maybe she is. Maybe she’s not. Maybe she just is. Maybe, she didn’t mean to fall. Maybe she swan-dived. Maybe she just sauntered vaguely downwards and only realised when she saw the view from halfway down.”

Maybe I’m horrible for putting a man back in chains, maybe I’m horrible for dooming at least one to die—maybe I should have walked away, maybe I shouldn’t have slipped the note to her, maybe I shouldn’t have looked at her, maybe she knows I did it, maybe she forgives me, maybe she doesn’t.

Maybe I shouldn’t have lied. Maybe I should have taken her with me.

Maybe I could run down to where I know they’re keeping Bruno and maybe I could crack open the lock but I know I won’t because it’s always more comfortable to be passive, actively taking action requires courage that I don’t possess anymore.

Maybe she won’t come back.

Maybe she’s already outside, maybe she’s listening in on my conversation and deciding whether to kill us both.

Maybe I feel guilty. Maybe I don’t.

Maybe I haven’t known what guilt is for the past twenty years and maybe I’m just feeling it now, and I don’t like any of it. Maybe I can’t close my eyes without seeing the terrified last moments of awareness of everyone I’ve snuffed out.

Maybe.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Morinaga

Calling Elena Rojas an unpleasant person would be a kindness. Even after years of working closely with her, Morinaga never managed to shake the uncomfortable chill running down his spine when her eyes met his. Perhaps, it was her uncanny resemblance to her father—a man who Morinaga would gladly risk his life to speak well of—or just how she carried herself, but Elena’s gaze intended to hurt, he was sure of it.

It intended to remind you of how you had hurt. He was sure of this, too.

She sat across from him, at his greasy table, holding one of his greasy glasses and seemingly utterly uninterested in sipping anything, instead downing the liquor in one sharp gulp.

“It’s a dangerous undertaking, Elena,” he pressed, “Even for someone of your skill level.”

Elena accepted the challenge, quirking her brow as she answered, “So, you’re admitting that the only person capable of pulling it off is me?”

Sitting with her legs spread wide, her elbow against her knee, smoking a pipe in a stolen suit, he didn’t understand how anyone could look at Elena and think she wasn’t Martino’s blood. And when she opened her mouth, she sealed the deal, writing her name in quick, spindly letters on his grave. And her own, when it came to it.

She’d waded into his establishment, looking like someone had pulled her from a river of alcohol, black and blue with bruises and limping slightly. By the crazed look in her eyes, Morinaga knew that her greatest concern wasn’t pain. To be completely honest, he wasn’t even sure that Elena was feeling anything. Adrenaline was one Hell of a drug.

He’d know. He sold it.

Morinaga sighed. “I’m trying to say that you might not even be able to do it. And what good are you to Bruno Madrigal if you’re six feet under? A reminder of Bogota’s brutality, that even the embodiment of the city can die?”

He’d never forgotten her saying that. She’d been seventeen, and almost falling off the barstool when she’d drawled that her mother was Bogota. He’d managed to laugh it off as a sign that she should go get some rest before she left, and with a pout, she’d obliged. Morinaga never told her that he’d understood her.

And that he too, considered Bogota his mother.

For many years, he’d held back because he didn’t think that he could be anything she needed. Elena Rojas didn’t need a father figure. She’d raised herself just fine without Martino, and if anything; she just needed that father back. And no one could pull Martino Rojas from the icy grip of Death, and Morinaga didn’t see the point of trying to be a cheap imitation.

She’d already had the best father. She didn’t need him to try and be something he couldn’t.

Elena shrugged, pulling him back to reality, in a way that again, reminded him that Martino might have died in the blaze, but he’d held on with stubborn, clawed hands—sinking them deep into the flesh of his only child. The air between them grew thick, and it was the loudest silence that Morinaga had ever sat through. He knew that she was waiting to see who would crack first.

He knew it would be him, weighed down by experience, he had no chance against Elena, buoyed by the rage thumping through her veins.

“I won’t let him ruin my life,” Elena insisted, clarifying her position by flaring her hands in the air, slamming them against the table, “I want him to know that I’m all bite. He doesn’t get away with stealing my sh*t!”

“Bruno Madrigal is a person, Elena.”

She glared at him, and if looks could kill—Elena Rojas wouldn’t need the ammunition that she seemed desperate for. Giving her another one-over, Morinaga assumed that she was desperate for everything he offered.

Elena wasn’t known for being someone who tapped out. The opposite, in fact, was true. She was one of the fiercest, most ruthless assassins he knew of. He didn’t lie to the people who sought her out: she was a brutal bitch who put profit and status above anything else, because she’d been a desperate kid on the streets.

She’d had the option of adapting to Bogota or dying nameless. While other kids had been racing to finish popsicles before they melted, Elena had been refining her aim, figuring out which angles were best for political hit-jobs, and which worked in a pinch when offing someone’s bitter ex.

He pushed a glass of glimmering aguardiente towards her, and she took it hungrily. “It’s still dangerous,” he repeated, feeling like if he closed his eyes, he could imagine being someplace else, with someone else. It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to find Martino’s righteous stubbornness in his daughter.

Like Martino, Elena wasn’t content to be a grain of sand against the backdrop of Bogota. Like Martino, he could already see that she was vying to go out in a blaze of glory. That she’d been planning on it for years by now.

“You seem very invested,” Morinaga spoke, “It’s a long time since I’ve seen you do something for any other reason than profit—”

“Why do you give a damn?” Elena questioned. “I’ve ladled brains with a spoon for you, you should be f*cking grateful that I’m not decorating the wall behind you with yours.”

He wouldn’t say that the threat didn’t ache, both because she said it with Martino’s face—and because Morinaga remembered her as a little girl who ran between their feet and didn’t think about destroying people. But, looking at the hollows of Elena’s cheeks, the sharp cheekbones that almost cut through her skin, Morinaga wasn’t sure that girl lived anymore.

It’s better to be hated than loved for what you’re not, Morinaga supposed.

“And so,” he relented, “You’re telling me because?”

Elena huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair back, as if she couldn’t believe that he’d ask. With a wry smile that Morinaga had known in a different life, she replied, “You have weapons. And drugs that make my head stop spinning. And other drugs that make me able to laser-focus on my target. And you have bullets. I didn’t have a single bullet in the chamber when I came in here and I was just hoping that you wouldn’t call my bluff.”

That was certainly a first, thought Morinaga.

She licked her lips. “And you might even have men that don’t turn on me.”

Right as he opened his mouth to speak, the door creaked open, and when Elena slung her head back, rage bleeding from her body, coiled and ready to fight, they came in guns blazing.

Elena flipped the table up, ducking behind it as glasses rained upon them. Elena grabbed a wine glass, still sticky, and slammed it against the ground, picking up the shards with dainty fingers as Morinaga counted to six.

Elena seemed to understand his cue.

Maybe they should have sent more than six men to take out two master assassins.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Bruno woke up to a blinding headache and an incessant urge to curse whatever the f*ck controlled the world. He didn’t believe in God, hadn’t for years, but now he might have to give the man upstairs a chance just so he could have someone to cuss out.

With the taste of alcohol lingering the back of his mouth and a crink in his back, he couldn’t tell whether the headache was just a side effect of falling asleep on the ground after one too many drinks, and, after he took a moment to examine his surroundings, somehow ending back up in a grey cell, with the last words of its previous occupants carved on the walls.

Did he even manage to escape? Or was everything just fever-induced delirium?

His shoulder smarted, but wasn’t popped out of the socket, so Bruno assumed that someone had to have put it back in—and if he wanted to continue trusting his mind, he decided to believe that it was Elena. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he still had to make his grand escape.

Rosita wasn’t chirping, and Bruno checked his pockets, wincing at the pain the movement caused, and he wasn’t able to find her.

Maybe, Elena had taken off with his f*cking rat. Maybe she’d decided against helping him to Encanto and had sold him out—maybe they’d offered her a deal that she couldn’t refuse, a return to the grace she’d leapt from.

Maybe she’d just been lying to him, buoyed by alcohol, and maybe she’d just been waiting for her chance to grovel at the feet of her employers, maybe she didn’t mean anything negative by the invisible chains. Maybe she liked how they caught the light.

The headache kept pressing on him, and because he was alone, he gave in.

“Hey,” spoke Elena, her hand lingering against his cheek, “Can you tell me what’s happening? I’m scared.”

When he moved to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Bruno found his arms encased in stone, dripping electric green through the cracks, burning dry rivers in his skin.

Elena’s eyes shifted between the wide, intelligent green that’d watched him in the lowlights of the night, the moonlight draping across her kind face, and red-rimmed, salt burning their beds as she forced him to the ground, his skull bouncing off the forest floor, Agustín twitching next to him, except it wasn’t like he remembered—

In the forest, Agustín and Matthias weren’t on top of him, they weren’t choking him and Agustín wasn’t ice-cold because Bruno didn’t touch him. Elena clicked her fingers, everything burning into nothing, crinkling at the edges of her face, evaporating into smoke on her skin.

“Bruno? You in there?”

She looked like she was tempted to poke him, and barely restraining herself. After he didn’t respond, she flicked her ring finger against his forehead, and he instinctively swatted her away. He groaned something he wasn’t sure she’d understand—he meant to call her a little sh*t—but she grinned, curling up against his chest.

The future swirled around her, and for a moment, Bruno wasn’t sure that it was really her. “… ‘Lena, is that you? Are you here?”

Elena reached her hand up to play with a green butterfly, and it landed on her busted knuckles, languidly moving its wings, but making no move to take off. “Yeah,” Elena answered, her voice cutting through the fog with newfound determination, “It’s just little old me, I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you having a vision?”

He nodded against Elena’s burned back, the heat spilling from her into smoke curling at their feet.

“I’m sorry that you have to see me like this,” he mumbled, “It’s okay for you to be scared. It’s understandable. You shouldn’t have to even be here.”

Elena raised her brow, her lips caught in a lop-sided smirk. “I never said I was scared,” Elena answered, “The version of me that you created in your head said I was scared. And I don’t think you’re sorry, even if I’m not real, because I think you’re just using me as a stand-in for everyone you’re afraid of letting in. I don’t think you’re used to relying on people,” she poked his nose, “And that makes us similar.”

“You’re wrong, I don’t know how to do anything for myself. My family always has to pick up after me, when I don’t know how to live my own life.”

Elena threaded his hair around her finger, “A man who doesn’t know how to live his own life doesn’t fight desperately to save it,” she said, her tongue clicking, “A man who doesn’t know how to live his own life doesn’t throw salt at assassins.”

“You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Bruno confessed, “I don’t know how to feel about you.”

Elena tilted her head, looking up at him, visions bleeding from her green eyes. Were they always that green?

“I don’t think that’s wrong of you.”

She winked.

“But I’m not real, so what do I know?”

He must have flashed a confused expression, but before he could say anything, Elena was speaking again—she always tended to do that, he didn’t know if it was intentional.

“Maybe you’ll change,” he mumbled, instinctively moving towards her heat, “Abandon all your past, maybe you’ll want to start all over. Do you—”

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Elena’s body flickered like a dancing flame, swaying closer to him, her lips parted. Under her scrutinizing gaze, he felt like a little boy sitting confession again, and so, with a voice choked by smoke, he confessed:

“If I could kill you, I would.”

Elena’s face cracked, falling to rest in her clasped hands.

“Why didn’t you, then?” asked the echo.

“I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

“You won’t be,” Elena assured him, wrapping him in her arms and holding him with her full strength, a lighthouse standing stoic against the raging seas, “I’ll always be here.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Morinaga

Elena rolled her eyes, reloaded, and shot the last nameless face dead at point-blank range, his hand extending towards her, a hunting knife catching the light. He collapsed to the ground, a small red dot between his eyebrows and Morinaga ignored how Elena breathed in the smoke left behind.

She laid the gun that didn’t belong to her against the table, still crusted with blood from where she’d used it to beat its owner’s brains into salsa.

“It’s a pity that they’re right about me ending up here,” Elena shrugged, and Morinaga couldn’t tell whether she meant it. He didn’t tell her that no matter what, even if they hadn’t seen her silhouette in the tinted windows, they’d still have broken it down because his allegiance isn’t a secret and he’s only stayed alive because no one else wants to run a bar for f*cking criminals.

“Wait a second,” Elena spoke, ducking down.

With not a single expression on her face, Elena pulled a squawking Miquel—a face that Morinaga expected to see again, but not creeping under the tables like the rat peeking from Elena’s untamed hair—and planted him on the chair in front of her. With a hand on his shoulder, she moved in front of him, crouching.

“Now,” she said, “Please tell me why the f*ck you’ve been spying on us.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

The violin reached its crescendo, and the strings snapped.

Bruno aimed Elena’s gun at her through the smoke, the metal cold against his fingertips, feeling the ghosts of hers slot between, the curve of her body on his back, her laugh echoing in his ear. Elena’s face dropped as she turned to regard him with red eyes, her feet lighter than the fall of feathers, crossing the distance between them without hesitation.

He wanted to say that he was sorry, that he was truly grateful for how she’d fought for him, what she’d sacrificed, but he didn’t. It’d ring hollow, and Elena deserved better than that. There was no place for Elena Rojas in Encanto, he couldn’t forget what she’d done—even if his hands shook when he even thought of pulling the trigger when Elena stood in front of him, the muzzle of the gun pressing against her chest.

Her chest with the solid, beating heart that’d carried him through the jungle—the solid beating heart that without, he wouldn’t have survived.

“Madrigal,” growled Mosquito, “You with me?”

“I want to make sure you’re aware of why you’re being punished.”

…

“I don’t think he’s tracking—”
“I don’t give a damn whether he’s tracking, haul his ass out and beat him—”
“Oh, f*ck you.”

…

“We only have fifteen minutes before Morales wants him, get his ass into a semblance of functionality with whatever the f*ck you have lying—”

“—Around, I don’t care, just do it.”

…

“If—”

“I have my way- no, tonight—”

“I’ll f*cking rule.”

…

“Isn’t adrenaline for assassins who want to make you a sh*t a brick?”
“Yes, but it’s also for when Morales wants good marketing.”

Bruno tips his head back against the wall, knocking lightly on the mattress. There’s not a lot of things that he knows for sure; but there’s three simple truths that he’s as sure of as drawing breath. He loved Elena with every shred of his heart, he’s going to Hell and he’s going to smile when he sees Elena, sitting on the throne, her legs crossed. He just hopes she does, too, before she sends him to torment.

It sinks in there: all he wants is to see her again.

Pushing himself to sit on the side of his bed, Bruno’s eyes catch the framed photo on the table, cast in a soft orange glow from the flickering lamp above her, sanding down her sharpest features. Her smile was awkward—the kind of stilted and forced of someone who’d never known safety and found herself having to improvise.

Bruno would be grateful until the day he died for Camilo grabbing that shot, capturing that moment, carving her amongst the stars, forever ensconced in glass. He’d hold her memory tight, tucked away against his chest, where no more harm could come to her. Where, instead of her standing in front of him, her legs planted firmly on the ground, hand raised in strength; he’d warm her with his embrace.

And when in life, he caught her smile in the corner of his eye, a brief flicker of light, gust of wind; retribution would be an afterthought.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Morinaga

Before Miquel could start to spill his guts, knowing damn well that anything would result in a bullet to something that he couldn’t get patched up, a click of a pineapple bomb clattered into the room, and Elena, after grabbing Miquel by the scruff of his neck like she was a mother dog (bitch, ha), ducked behind the bar.

Morinaga followed her to there, instinctively clawing at the gun he’d taped under the table, right next to the expensive liquors that he always watered down, and he kept following her as she went for the backdoor, uncaring of the flames licking at their feet, the smoke thick in the air.

Miquel coughed and Elena shushed him.

“Don’t signal that you survived,” Elena growled, running through the kitchen, slinging Miquel over her shoulder before he could say anything as she used her free arm to rip a red toolbox off a kitchen shelf, kicking open the backdoor.

Outside, waited Oscar, his hands in his pockets, glaring at her.

Elena tutted.

“I didn’t set fire to it,” she insisted.

“She didn’t,” Morinaga agreed. Oscar kept shooting her wary looks as she pushed past him, and Morinaga supposed that was fair enough. Oscar had been his bartender for years, and the adoptive child that he’d never managed to find in Elena—but after drunkenly confessing a little too much, Morinaga noticed that Oscar’s demeanour towards Elena changed from outright distaste to a very tentative understanding.

The ice was cracking underneath it, but Elena was smart enough not to jump on it.

“But you’re the reason that they set fire to it,” countered Oscar.

“These things spring up on you,” Morinaga defended. Oscar kicked an errant rock but kept following Elena up a winding set of stairs. The inn was blanketed by elevation, both natural and from buildings that almost looked carved into the rock; a view that Morinaga was sure in any other country would become a tourist trap.

You could access the area’s highest rooftop from the stairs that Elena had begun descending, Miquel still thrown over her shoulder, Miquel who’d seemingly given up on protesting. But Morinaga knew that they weren’t on their way to the rooftop, instead, Elena reached the balcony of an abandoned residence, and with a breath, kicked the glass door in, sliding underneath and taking enough care to ensure that Miquel didn’t get cut on the errant shards.

Morinaga and Oscar followed, not finding anything else to say about the situation, and when Morinaga had managed to force himself through the much more Elena-sized hole than Morinaga-sized hole, he saw Elena ripping her shirt and using the fabric to tie Miquel’s hands behind his back.

Even though it was just the cotton of someone else’s undershirt, Morinaga was sure that it’d be a bitch to wiggle out of. Elena dusted small glimmering shards of glass off her shoulders as she crouched in front of Miquel, a scheming face that he’d seen before gracing her features.

Morinaga cased their surroundings, finding them in the middle of a dust-covered living room. It looked like it’d been renovated before the war, art deco glamour still dripping off the walls and furniture, even if they were a little chipped at the edges.

Morinaga assumed that no one had lived here, and that it’d been designed as a vacation home, if the stellar view was anything. He knew that before he’d set up shop, the area had been lauded by developers as the next great big thing to revitalise Colombia.

Idiots.

Elena pushed Miquel onto a golden-edged couch that curved at the sides, seemingly satisfied with her work.

“So,” Elena spoke, “I saved your life. Now you owe me an explanation as to why the f*ck you to from sucking ass at Morales’ compound to,” she gestured to Morinaga, “Not surprising this asshole when I pull your sorry ass out from under his f*cking tables.”

“Well…” started Miquel, “It’s a pretty long story.”

“Make it short.”

Miquel yelped when Elena pressed a shard of Morinaga’s nice drinking glasses against the fragile skin of his throat.

Morinaga, perhaps from the abundance of mercy brought on by nostalgia and the apathy of watching his establishment going up in flames, stepped in. “He sought you out,” he answered, Miquel shooting him a brief, relieved grin.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, “Senor Noche ordered me to find you because you’re the world’s greatest assassin!”

Elena quirked her brow, leaning closer, venom dripping off her mannerisms. “Senor Noche ordered you to find me?” she asked, masking the rage that Morinaga knew was thrumming through her body. He could tell—she had the exact same mannerisms as Martino, and when Morinaga let his gaze drift to her feet, he could tell that they were twitching.

“How am I supposed to believe that, when I don’t even walk through his territory without fearing a brutal execution?”

Miquel’s breath quickened.

If Morinaga hadn’t been able to corroborate his story, Elena would have surely killed him. Truly, Miquel needed to work on developing his poker face.

“It’s true,” he stated, “He came to me, and wanted you to go to Encanto, days after you’d left on Morales’ orders. I don’t think that Noche has realised that the Night Woman, masterclass assassin, is the same person as Elena Rojas, daughter of Martino.”

“How the f*ck wouldn’t he? I took my name from his.”

Morinaga took a cautionary step forward, his arms raised, because he wasn’t entirely sure that Elena, and the unshed tears glimmering in her eyes, wouldn’t slash Miquel’s throat just for the show of it—to prove to herself that she was still strong. And Miquel, even if he was a sh*tty criminal, didn’t deserve to die because of Elena’s spiralling sanity.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to die exactly because he was such a sh*tty criminal.

It was obvious that he had plans that didn’t involve clinking greasy glasses and sealing deals with blood. Morinaga admired the optimism that anyone escaped.

“Men aren’t known for thinking a lot,” Morinaga tried, and Elena snarled, drawing blood from Miquel’s throat, but not enough to kill.

Just enough to bead against the glimmering glass, as she slowly steeled herself—Morinaga could tell that she was training her breath, in, out, in, out.

“I’m not killing you exclusively because I believe Senor Morinaga,” Elena explained, “And because I’m sure that you’re willing to tell me everything you know about where they might have Bruno Madrigal, right? You know that two incredibly powerful people want him, and you know that I don’t like when I don’t get paid for my work.”

“So, bark it out.”

And Miquel might have a sh*tty poker face, but he understood when he was lying on the wire, and the confessions spilled from his lips, drowning the room, Elena’s eyes widening as the realisation sunk in. Which one, Morinaga didn’t know.

BOGOTA; Someplace Else, Martinez

They’re sitting at the edge of the water, Elena’s feet dangling off the edge, her toes swallowed by the inky darkness. Her hair was still wet from when she’d jumped in, allowing herself to fall without caution, while Martinez had lingered on the edge, even as Elena’s head bobbed up from the deep, giggling and promising him that it’d all be okay.

She turned to face him, black water dripping onto her chest, staining her gold-freckled skin, “I know that I’ve done some wrong,” she spoke, her voice sounding like she was speaking through a payphone, and not right next to him—he reached out to touch her, only for his hand to go through her.

“But I’m going to try to make it right,” Elena continued, seemingly uncaring of his hand going through her chest. She pushed herself up, moving to stand on the black water. She gathered his head in her hands, crouching down, their eyes meeting.

“I know that I love you,” she promised, “But I’m still learning to love myself.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Pedro

At some point, Martinez had either fallen asleep or passed out and Pedro wasn’t very interested in trying to worm him back under the covers, so he just stayed there, trying not to think or breathe too much, until Alejandro threw the door open, his eyes red and yelled something about it being time.

And Pedro tried not to want Alejandro dead.

Pedro tried to shush him, jerking his head back so quickly that it cracked and Pedro knew he’d be feeling it in the morning, but Alejandro, who’d never been the best at tact, strolled into the room, pulling a chair next to him with a screech that somehow didn’t wake Martinez—and Pedro didn’t manage to stop himself from clutching Morales’ favourite like his own kids, shifting them ever so slightly so he’d shield Martinez from anything Alejandro might think of doing.

“It’s time for what?” he asked, a brow quirked in challenge, and he wondered for briefly, if he reminded Alejandro of Elena, when she’d challenged him in front of everyone—a challenge that she should have won, she’s an assassin who’s worth much more than Alejandro, a man who’s leeched off the bottom for the better half of twelve years.

But she’d been dragged away, and Pedro had found her curling in on herself.

Alejandro rolled his eyes, looking at Pedro like he was an idiot. Maybe he was. “It’s time for the auction,” he instructed, “Morales wants your ass up on a roof and ready to shoot a certain curly-haired bitch as soon as she’s in your crosshairs, so she doesn’t get to do good on her promise of a roaring rampage of revenge. They’ve hopped Madrigal up on adrenaline, so he’s up and about before you ask. We need this sh*t done, quickly.”

Pedro sighed. “We don’t even know if Elena’s interested in crashing a party that she’s not even invited to or knows of. Morales is being paranoid, and you shouldn’t feed into it, or you’ll be stuck dealing with it for years.”

“Morales sent a unit to the Green Light Inn, and they didn’t come back.”

“Oh,” Pedro answered, trying to feign surprise. After all, he’d been the one to tell Elena that she had business on the East Landing, and of course, it’d make sense for her to go to Morinaga’s and frankly, it surprised him that Morales had played into her hand like that.

He could imagine her sitting across from him, her legs kicked onto the table, grinning widely as she tried to pretend that all the carefully constructed carnage had been a happy accident—and she wasn’t playing men like violins for the fun of it, the challenge of seeing how far she could go, and that she didn’t know exactly where to be at the exact right, opportune moment.

“So, you want me to scout out for someone who’s known for evading snipers, just in case that she, of all the thousand criminals in Bogota who’d have no problem slaughtering a group of uninvited assholes, instead of say—” he gestured to Martinez, “Keeping an eye on cargo that she’s equally interested in?”

Alejandro spat.

“Listen,” he ordered, “I know that you have a thing for Elena. Everyone does. Elena’s a hot piece of ass. And I don’t blame you for it. But Elena’s also standing between me and a promotion—”

(Fat chance. Everyone was standing between Alejandro and a promotion except for Alejandro and the fact that he was a f*cking eel and even if Morales had played into Elena’s hand, he wasn’t dumb enough to give Alejandro even an inch more of power and he never would.)

(And Pedro would never lay a hand on Elena in that matter. Never.)

(Even the thought made him see red. Flaming red.)

“—Regardless of how hot, that’s not acceptable. And if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to do what I tell you instead of arguing and I won’t mention that you had f*cking drinks on the job with someone who, only a few hours later, would become one of the most wanted. I won’t mention how it’s completely likely that you two could have conspired.”

Well, f*ck.

Now Pedro really wanted Alejandro f*cking dead.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Dragged into the courtyard, Bruno flinched at the violent light, exhausted by the throbbing pains of visions he didn’t understand—and Alejandro’s attempts to beat something less cryptic out of him. His leg ached, as if someone had stabbed it, but there wasn’t blood. In the middle of the courtyard, lay a patio raised above two large, glimmering pools, decorated with fine, coloured marble.

He was thrown into a chair, Alejandro’s hand wrapped around his throat as his arms were fastened so tightly Bruno knew they’d leave bruises. He glared at Morales, sitting across from him, thick bandages around his middle, wearing a floral-patterned shirt and shorts that didn’t do him any favours.

“It’s lovely to see you again, my friend,” introduced Morales, trying to hide the wince that speaking caused him. “I’m sorry we had to part on such… hurried terms, last time.”

“f*ck you—”

A hushed voice interrupted him, a young woman who had Elena’s hair but none of her hard-edged beauty rushing up to lean forwards, whispering something to Morales. It didn’t escape Bruno how her shirt dipped down to show her ample chest and left her with no protection against a swift slash.

“Thank you, Maria,” Morales spoke, his gaze never meeting her eyes, “I believe that Elena Rojas is too smart to risk anything.”

Bruno wished he’d managed to bite down the sound of shock.

Morales turned his attention back to Bruno.

“You really didn’t think that Elena would want to secure her investment? I haven’t paid her for her work, and I don’t intend to, because good assassins don’t go rogue at the first opportunity, and they certainly don’t take shots at employers that are the only reason they’re not a f*cking street daisy.”

A small dribble of blood glistened against Morales’ crusted lips.

“She’s going to want to sell you herself,” he croaked, “Did you really think that she didn’t just want a bigger slice of the pie?”

And Bruno might have questioned Elena’s intentions if Morales had played his cards right—but Morales’ claim sealed his opinion, the old man was slipping up and as he thought back to Elena’s vehemence when she talked about the militias he ran, about how they’d sell kids, he knew that Morales was trying to control a forest fire.

Hearing her name spoken as a threat solidified something inside of him, something very similar to when Pepa rescued him from the townsfolk. Not entirely trust, but a shattered, glued-together semblance of it.

“Senor Morales is right,” Alejandro whispered, his hand tight against Bruno’s throat. “You do know why.”

The look in Bruno’s eyes somehow got even darker, grinning with the thoughts of the ensuing bloodbath, he could almost smell the smoke and iron already. “I will leave the exact time and date of death of every person in this godforsaken sh*thole on their doorsteps—”

“Your gift doesn’t work like that, hijo.”

Bruno’s eyes flickered to Morales. “You best believe, motherf*cker, that I would sit there as long as I had to until I saw what I wanted. In defence of my friend, I absolutely could and would do that. I can see whatever I damn well please. I just normally don’t want to.”

That made Alejandro and his small crowd tremble, just a little. He didn't know if that was true or not, but with the tone of Bruno’s voice, they sure as f*ck believed it.

And that was all he needed.

Bruno wanted to chuckle to himself. He knew he was too valuable to kill, because of his gift, and he probably could—write out everyone’s deaths, but knowing Elena; the times would be very soon, and if he added cause: he’d just have to write her name over and over until his fingers and wrist throbbed from the repetition.

Stabbed in the throat with a shard of glass (by Elena Rojas), choked (by Elena Rojas), garrotted (by Elena Rojas), curb-stomped (by Elena Rojas).

Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena Rojas is coming, Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena Rojas broke through the barrier, Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena Rojas left twelve men dead, decapitated one and shot a pike through his head, Elena, Elena, Elena, Elena Rojas is coming, run and hide, Elena, Elena, Elena Rojas is here, Elena, Elena, Elena, devil woman, she-devil.

Elena came back for me.

If it’d been her, I would have come back for her, too.

BOGOTA; Two Hours Ago, Morinaga

The Bogota evening was dark, the air cold enough to be uncomfortable but not warranting a coat, the balcony barren of life and when Morinaga spied over the side, it seemed like the city covered the entire surface of the planet, all the buildings stocky grey mounds. God, he missed rolling hills and cherry blossoms. But he also didn’t like bullets through his skull being considered a merciful way to die.

At least the air up here was fresher, even if it did smell oily. Beneath the overhanging shadow of their monumental failure (still smoking), Morinaga took stock of his accidental crew. “Okay,” he breathed, “Thanks to events that we shall not talk about, we think that Senor Morales’ associates had the easiest cargo we’ve ever had to smuggle as a group.”

“Hey!” Miquel protested. “What are you blaming me for? You’re giving me a look that says you’re blaming me.”

“You were a double agent for the guy who just. Kidnapped. Our. f*cking. Seer.”

“Fine,” Miquel sniffed, “But don’t look at me like that.”

“You WERE a DOUBLE AGENT for THE GUY WHO STOLE OUR f*ckING SEER.”

Miquel rolled his eyes. “Whatever. We’ll get him back. We don’t get him back. We certainly don’t have any debt to consider. And I was actually working for Senor Noche—”

“A triple agent!”

Morinaga sighed, seeing a losing battle in front of him. He held up a stack of lists. “Okay,” he said, “This is pretty sketchy, even for us, and that means that we want to get out here fast—so, we’re splitting up into pairs. Find and do the sh*t on your list and get back here in one piece. Got it?”

Bored grumbling answered him.

“Oscar and Miquel, you’re together. Try not to murder anyone that we don’t need murdered.”

“Alright!” Morinaga announced, “Rojas is with me.” Elena gave him a strange look, like she was about to protest, but he grinned at her, and she folded her arms.

Miquel looked at the list that Morinaga handed him, his lip curling back from his teeth. “Great,” he snarled, “We have the worst sh*t. f*ck you, dude.” He handed the list to Oscar with a muffled groan and padded off without waiting for the rest of them.

A breath after the door slammed, he turned towards Elena. “I don’t need a partner,” she said as she snatched the list out of his hands before he could speak. “I don’t want a partner, either.”

“I know that,” he agreed, because he thought if he protested—he’d lose his manhood, “But take the horse? Think of her as transportation, instead?”

Morinaga’s eyes darted to Bella, and the tally marks engraved on her saddle. She was no one’s horse, and Elena Rojas had been one of the few people to ever successfully ride her.

“You’ll need her.”

Elena spent a moment reading the list, stalling their conversation. “Okay,” she answered.

Elena studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable, as she pocketed the list and then, seemingly satisfied, strode over to Bella.

Looking over her shoulder at Morinaga, she tipped her head upwards in a blink-it-or-you’ll-miss-it move of an approving nod, speaking so lowly that Morinaga could almost think he’d imagined her saying, “Thank you. Take care.”

She vaulted onto her back, and she galloped off with her ears pricked up, Elena keeping her seat on her back as if she’d been riding her whole life.

Elena Rojas might not say goodbye, but Morinaga knew she wasn’t going to come back. On her list, all he’d written was, “Your own destiny”. Waving her off, Kenji knew he was never going to see her again.

When he couldn’t hear hooves slamming against expensive marble, he walked back into the mansion and poured himself something he hoped was alcoholic from the abandoned decanter. If the cops came to the door and had words for him about giving dangerous criminals horses, he at least wanted to be drunk for it.

†

I'm not afraid of standing still,
I'm just afraid of being bored.
I'm not afraid of speaking my mind,
I'm just afraid of being ignored.

I'm not afraid of feeling, and I'm not afraid of trying.
I'm just afraid of losing, and I am afraid of dying.

I'm not afraid of being sick,
I'm more afraid of being well.
I'm not afraid, put the gun in my hand,
I'm just afraid it will hurt like, hurt like hell.

I'm not afraid of screaming, and I'm not afraid of crying.
I'm just afraid of forgetting, and I am afraid of dying.

I'm not afraid of looking ugly
I couldn't care what they say
I'm not afraid of happy endings
I'm just afraid my life won't work that way

I'm not afraid of forgiveness,
I'll absolve you everything.

I'm not afraid of lying, but I am afraid of dying.

†

BOGOTA; Present Day, Pedro

He’s in his perch above the ruins. He can’t see Morales die from here, but he hears the thuck of a dagger embedding itself in a skull and knows what it means. He wasn’t the protection detail, and he didn’t like Morales enough to give a personal f*ck, even if the prospect of finding employment elsewhere is annoying.

He knows there’s nothing worth returning for—and his assignment is merely to be a set of eyes on a vantage point, and he’ll get a promotion if he kills Elena Rojas—who they’ve started to call Golden Traitor because her name’s too painful, too humanising.

As soon as he spots the glimmer from her curved blades littering the floor, he crawls off the roof, humping down and signals the cavalry at the bottom. He’s given her enough of an edge, he’s given her a sliver to get the upper hand and now he’s got to play along with the game. He hears a sizzling, and he has just enough time to take a front-row seat as he watches her blow seven hundred men to ashes.

Elena f*cking Rojas.

He doesn’t think about how he bantered with her a few days ago, how she giggled on the floor, Alejandro’s blood staining her cheek, grinning from ear-to-ear. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to shoot her if it came down to it. Simple as that.

Emotions got you killed.

“Do not lose the cargo to her,” snarls Alejandro, and Pedro jumps two feet back. Alejandro’s tone is neutral, but there’s force behind his words—like he’s getting too big for his boots too soon in the ensuing power vacuum that Pedro doesn’t intend to have any part of.

“If you think you are going to lose it,” Alejandro continues, talking about Bruno like he’s a sack of expensive rice, “You light that f*cker ablaze. I don’t care if you think she’s funny or want to f*ck her instead of your sh*tty wife. You light her up, or you run fast enough that I never catch you.”

Scorched earth might be Alejandro’s usual policy, but it’s not his and he doesn’t think it’d be Morales’ either. He takes it as a warning and assumes that Bruno is too valuable to fall into the hands of Elena and nods as if he believes it—and as if he didn’t leave the gate ajar and a note falling into her hand.

He’s heard of a time that Senor Noche ordered a unit to retreat if they saw Elena’s face.

Sacrifices have to be made, and Pedro keeps telling himself this. None of them signed on to survive this thing—this war that’s lasted longer than their children and their parents and the villages they crawled from—at least, he knows that he didn’t sign up to live through it; he signed up because that’s how he could make sure that his daughters didn’t become the next generations of Elenas.

He doesn’t know if Elena’s still on their side, he doesn’t know if she’s even chosen that—if she didn’t just spring for fate and grabbed onto anything she could.

He doesn’t know if he faults her for that.

He knows that he found her, fast asleep and curled around Bruno Madrigal in a way that looked like she was trying to protect him through her drunken stupor, and that he could barely make himself touch her to worm Bruno out from under her—even if he could tell from the empty bottle that she wasn’t rising any time soon to punish him for it.

He faces Alejandro, who’s considering his escape—Pedro’s a father and Alejandro’s a son and he’s always able to tell—and says, “Okay,” he repeats, “Okay.”

And then, he jumps. He knows where Bruno is, he knows that Morales insisted that he stay close to him, and he knows where Elena probably is and that she might not immediately execute him.

He drops onto the ground in an all-out sprint across cracked streets and rubble, familiar flames licking his fingers as he tightens his grip on his firearm. He pushes himself hard to get there, but he’s only human and he’s not even on anything—he’s sure Elena is, he noticed how she swayed across the battlefield, how she moved with inhuman grace and speed, metal crunching under her boots—it’s not legendary if you know that she’s just a desperate child hopped up on injected adrenaline.

Two blocks away from his target, he hears fire and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. And then a rapid, terrifying lack of fire. “Don’t try to take her out!” screams a choked voice that might be Alejandro, might be what Pedro hopes Alejandro still is, “You won’t get close enough!”

A sickening crack sounds.

Try to take her out?

If Pedro’s lungs weren’t burning, he’d f*cking laugh.

He’s going to be lucky to even get close enough for Elena to recognise him. This isn’t even terrain, and that’s an enemy in and of itself—and he knows that Elena’s stronger than he’ll ever be on unstable terrain anyways. And it’s not just the curved floor of an abandoned mansion that’s starting to sink into the earth, it’s jutting stone sprouting twisted lances of rusted rebar, it’s thirty-foot crevasses into a water-filled-was-once-a-pool-and-a-basem*nt-until-Morales-pissed-off-Elena-f*cking-Rojas that’s so deep that he’ll never make it out alive.

Even without f*cking Elena trawling for another body to catch.

It’s fields of shattered glass and precarious bridges of collapsed pillars.

At least he knows where he’s going. The corner of what used to be residential quarters tower over the target zone, and Pedro fires a warning shot upwards, swinging a grappling hook when no one answers, hooking it around the edge and using the line to make it to the tenth story and when he’s got his eyes on the target—Elena, the target, Elena, the target—again, it’s almost all over.

This is the first time he’s really seen Elena go against an enemy, in the flesh instead of a hurried message he wasn’t supposed to read or the harried memories of a comrade who’d stood too close—Elena always worked alone.

Until she didn’t.

Pedro can still taste the aguardiente on the back of his tongue, and he hates it.

It’s him or her, and he has no choice.

He has kids, and he’s sure that Elena of all people will understand. Everything he knows about her—and now, that’s not enough to decide whether a twenty-one-year-old (barely a) woman should die—tells him that she would.

On the reports, Elena reads like magic. Like the beautifully choreographed fights of stage plays, with pulleys, lines and dancers swirling across the stage woven together to create a visual spectacle. In the testimonies, brief and far-between, she retains some of the same air, if not tinged with eldritch horror.

Which sounds strange to say about someone he’s watched grow up from afar, going from running shaky drills in front of the fountain in the courtyard to decapitating a man screaming for his mother without flinching.

But seeing it with his own eyes? Seeing how she treated her enemies when she didn’t have to play nice to ensure that she’d get another job, that she’d get another chance to see the boy she wouldn’t admit to loving? It’s real and nothing come close.

He sees her through a fading veil of smoke, her hands stained with blood and a slack head in her grip. It’s obvious that the poor bastard pissed her off, almost begging her to humiliate him even in death. Morales’ jaw is flapping open, and it looks like Elena ripped it ajar—that she stuck her hand between his maxilla and mandible and pulled.

It’s obvious that she came up behind him, snapped his neck and that she didn’t hesitate. Pedro can taste the smoke settling at the back of his throat.

It’s not beautiful—Pedro doesn’t care what people say or paint about it. It’s horrifying and it’s wrong. That’s what it is. The inhuman speed and reflexes, the unflinching cruelty mingling with dancer’s grace. All of it horrifies him.

“Painting it,” he says to himself as, through the sight of the gun settling against his shoulder, he watches Elena split a man from crotch to throat with a knife, like he’s made of paper. He’s not, though. Blood and entrails spill through the split. Heat ‘em up, he thinks.

He knows there’s a group of men underneath him, ready to shoot and duck and waiting on his orders. There’s a squad that Elena doesn’t seem to have noticed, waiting on his first shot and Pedro will have killed the Night Woman.

And yet—

—his finger lingers.

Chapter 9: heart and hearth

Chapter Text

BOGOTA; Fourteen Years Ago, Morinaga

“Promise me, Kenji,” gasped Martino, his skin shimmering under the light. Kenji sighed and kept digging out the bullet in his side.

“You ain’t going to die,” he reminded him, taking a moment to glare at Martino, his lover, spread across their kitchen table, bleeding onto the same wood that their daughter ate her eggs on. “Even if you’re one stubborn bastard who doesn’t understand when to take a hint, you’re not going to f*cking die.”

He didn’t back off.

“But if I do,” he continued, wheezing, “Don’t tell her.”

Morinaga raised his brow. “Don’t tell her what?”

“Don’t tell her she’s mine.”

Kenji flared.

Martino had known it to be sore subject ever since Elena came into the picture—the daughter who resembled her father in every both, both in how she frowned and her mannerisms, how she ate her eggs, how she laughed—and yet, Martino would never claim the funny, intelligent young woman Elena was becoming as his own. Even if Kenji knew that he wouldn’t give Elena up for anything.

Even if Kenji knew that if it came down to it: Martino would save Elena instead of Kenji, or himself.

“Wouldn’t you think she had a right to know?”

(Kenji did. In a world without Martino, Kenji wanted to sit Elena on his lap, and tell her about all the great things her father had wanted to do, and how his blood flowed through her veins—how she had to do something good with that, how Martino Rojas would live on in her face, in her unwavering kindness.)

(But he knew he could never say no to Martino. It’d always been one of his greatest faults if you asked the rest of the Council. He’d simply never learned how to say no to Martino, it didn’t seem natural.)

“No, because she’d never stop trying to fight for her birth right. She wouldn’t live the life she deserves. She’d end up like you and me. I know you disagree with me. But please. Promise me. I know her. I know you. Promise me, that when I die, this secret dies with me. If you’ve ever loved me, please.”

Kenji focussed on the bullet, raising it to the light, watching as it glimmered. He narrowed his gaze.

“And what makes you think that she wouldn’t do that without it?”

Martino rolled his eyes. “I don’t know,” he agreed, “I can’t see the future, no one can. But I know that a birth right to a criminal empire would only encourage her to grasp it, and I don’t want that for my daughter. I want her to live a good life. I want her to become a f*cking professional artist or whatever sh*t she wants.”

Kenji raised his brow. “And you think that’s your business to decide?”

Martino tsked. “I said anything she wants. If you and I have to murder a whole damn school board to get her into her dream college, that’s what we do. But we won’t have to because she’s so smart. I know she’s going to do great things, so please, my love, don’t tell her.”

UNDISCLOSED, Isabela

When she was seventeen and the tips of her toes burned with an urge to run into the jungle, never quite stopping to look back—she’d ducked into an alleyway, curled her arms around the curve of another girl’s waist and kissed her like a thirsting man in a desert.

And that’d really been the end of her, hadn’t it?

Before she’d even come up for air, she’d already told herself that she couldn’t have this: that love and connection, that waking up next to her, tasting her on the tip of her tongue—wasn’t something that Isabela could have. Her job is to social climb and reinforce the family’s role in the community.

She can’t marry a penniless woman who smelled of woodsmoke and whose hands were stained with dried clay—she couldn’t marry someone who shaped her into something holy—

It didn’t make Isabela want her any less.

Now, at twenty-one, Isabela tried to lose the memory that still rested against her skin—a solid grip, the same grip that’d ripped her mattress, all those years ago.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but Isabela’s just grew more bitter, and she can feel the vines wrapping around her throat and she just wishes that they’d replace the tender touches that she could still recall against her hips, crawling up to settle against her waist for all eternity.

In her dreams, her hands are under Isabela’s blouse and Isabela pulls her finger through the loop of her jeans. And they’re enough.

They’d have been enough to live off—starving but married to Mariano—the big dumb hunk with the lopsided smile who she knew Dolores wanted since they were six, but Dolores wasn’t Isabela and Isabela was perfect and at least Dolores wasn’t Tio Bruno, and they both knew what was implied—and making the family happy. She might have been haunted by the what-ifs, and the smell of smoke might hang around for the rest of her life as she chased shadows through the alleyways; but she’d have earned her place among the stars, she’d have finally proven herself worthy of the Madrigal name.

She’d have fixed that little slip-up, back when she was seventeen.

Abuela might have seen what she did on the porch, but when she had her fifth magical child with Mariano, Isabela knew that she would forget.

UNDISLOSED, Isabela

Isabela used to be afraid of the dark.

Now, under a sky alight with stars, simmering songs under her fingertips; a despondent, desperate laughter, a fist around her throat—she felt liberated. She felt like she could grasp at everything she asked for, and that her nails wouldn’t draw blood, but instead hold on.

She was lying on her side, the stars glimmering above her, casting everything in a swirling, coloured glow. She’d noticed that they’d begun to taper off, the closer they got to a city she’d never seen. She didn’t want to find herself excited at the prospect: but she’d never left Encanto, and she didn’t think she ever would.

“Tell me about her,” she breathed in the darkness, her voice low, but she knew that Dolores heard her, and the light caught the whites of her eyes as they widened.

“So, I know when to strike,” Isabela added, her voice flowing like the lake that’d been speckled with blood, because she knew that Dolores had always listened in. Dolores’ gaze relaxed, and Isabela exhaled, rolling onto her back, and watching the Milky Way come undone as Dolores cleared her throat.

“She doesn’t have an accent like the others,” Dolores started, “She doesn’t sound like someone from Encanto, but she sounds like she’s able to be anyone, anywhere. But it sounds like her real voice has been wrung through old ashes, it cracks and raps and falls too deeply for a woman, like she’s breathed in smoke. Do you remember Mrs. Rami after the housefire? She sounds like that.”

Isabela did remember Mrs. Rami—one of the few disasters that the Madrigals never managed to prevent—even if Isabela knew better—left four children and a husband dead and a woman croaking as if she wanted to be.

She didn’t need to answer. Secretly, she knew that Encanto resented Dolores—that Dolores knew everything about everyone and was horrible at keeping a secret. Abuela had managed to spin it into something good; like always, because there couldn’t be anything but.

No one should have anything to hide in Encanto, so why did it matter that Dolores knew? Encanto was the greatest refuge known to human eyes, and it hinged on trust.

Isabela didn’t trust.

She knew that Dolores didn’t trust her intentions, either.

“I heard you and Luisa talking about leaving,” she stated, no emotion in her voice and barely audible. Isabela wasn’t even sure that she was meant to hear it—that Dolores hadn’t regretted it mid-sentence, and dulled herself even more.

Isabela tilted her head, feeling the ground croon underneath her fingertips, little hearts singing for war, “You answered my question so I would answer yours, didn’t you?”

Dolores didn’t respond, but Isabela knew. She’d known Dolores since they were kids. Dolores had always been a terrible, terrible liar.

“I don’t need you to answer,” countered Dolores, “I know. I always know.”

Isabela nodded.

“And because of that, everyone trusts me.”

Isabela nodded again, realising where Dolores was going as the cicadas chirped, the butterflies gathering against her hair and flowers blooming under her hip. “You want to know what I’m willing to barter for you to keep quiet.”

It was Dolores’ turn to nod eagerly.

“You wouldn’t try to stop me?”

Dolores shrugged. “I don’t think I would be capable and,” she grinned, “I’d like to avoid the poisoning, or thousands of thorns.”

Isabela giggled. “I’m not very good at keeping secrets, am I?”

“Neither am I.”

Isabela clicked her tongue. She supposed that was the truth. She returned her gaze to the little flowers that’d sprung where her hand laid and watched as they gave her something new to believe in. “I know you won’t lie for me,” Isabela continued, and she was right—certain family members might think that everything is fixed with a song and a dance, but Isabela knows better.

Isabela’s always known about sacrificing yourself for the family, and she’s always pretended that Dolores didn’t set herself on fire to keep others warm, too.

“—But would you at least give me a little time?”

Dolores raised her brow. “Time for what? To get away?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, Isabela could see the cogs turning in Dolores’ head. She didn’t interrupt her. “I haven’t told anyone about your conversation,” she relented, “Even if I wanted to, because I think you’re being stupid—I didn’t. And—”

She sighed. Isabela had always been the oldest, but in that moment—it felt like Dolores was her older sister, and she’d caught her sneaking in after a party—and even if Dolores caught her because she’d been sneaking out herself, Isabela felt ashamed. Caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

“—I won’t.”

Dolores stretched out her hand, gripping Isabela’s, and Isabela caught sight of a glimmering golden band on her ring finger, felt the burning heat of it against her skin. Isabela’s had been ice-cold, she remembers that much of her proposal.

For the past twenty years, Dolores and Isabela had walked on parallel tightropes strung up between colourful tiles. If one of them fell, what she left behind might knock the other off course—but now, lying on their sides in an unknown land, Isabela found that the strings had been tightened, then spun together, and now they were desperately gripping onto each other, plummeting to the ground.

And yet, she felt solace.

It felt nice to fall together.

ENCANTO, Abuela Alma

Alma didn’t want to speak about what happened. Alma didn’t want to think about what happened. Alma wanted to stand on top of the roof and scream about what had happened until her throat or legs gave out. Alma wanted to drown in the memories and never resurface.

Instead of doing any of that, she was helping Julieta cut onions and thinking about why she hadn’t been more insistent on joining the search party. Perhaps in a rebellion against her past self, against refusing to ask questions, Alma asked, “Julieta,” she opened, watching as Julieta’s spine became a sharp ridge, how she suddenly righted herself, as if she’d forgotten that Alma was there, “I thought you would argue with me about who went. You didn’t.”

Julieta sighed, reminding Alma of Pedro when he’d try to get out of doing the dishes. She’d heard Senora Guzmán mention how she’d forgotten her husband’s face a couple of years after he died, and at the time, she’d thought herself superior, her grief better, stronger, more damaging: in reality, Senora Guzmán hadn’t remarried, but she’d tried to move on. She didn’t force Mariano to become a shrine to his father, and she even spoke to men their age without thinking about the fact that she never knew what old age looked like on her love.

Alma didn’t know if Pedro would rare old age like a red coat, if he’d slip it on in the morning and forget everything about it, slinging it over a chair as they drank in the kitchen, the sunrise greeting them—Alma spends a lot of time thinking about the moments that she never got to spend with Pedro, her children a shrine of his mannerisms, even if none of them remember his face outside of his gentle portrait and a couple of faded, cracking black and white photos that only the three of them knew of.

For Alma, they were in screaming colour and she’d never been able to share them because of it. He was supposed to bury her, that’d always been what she swore, what she told herself.

“You’re wondering why I didn’t insist I should go, aren’t you?” asked Julieta, sounding like Alma was holding a knife against her throat but effortlessly cutting through the static of Alma’s mind. She wondered if Julieta had done it on purpose if she’d known. They’d always been a family choking on greatness and each other’s secrets, hadn’t they? Even when Pedro still drew breath.

Alma nodded.

She didn’t know what else to do. Julieta had cut to the bone. Julieta slowly moved to Alma’s right side, grabbing a pot and scooping up the onions that she’d abandoned without saying anything about them being cut too finely. “I can heal through my food,” Julieta stated simply, “Which means that this town has learned to rely on me. They’re stupid, no self-preservation, because they’re not used to dealing with the consequences of their actions. Someone would die if I left. Don’t you dare argue with me, you know it’s true.”

Alma didn’t. Both because yes, Julieta was right, and because of the sharp edge that her voice had taken.

Julieta continued.

“And again, my food heals. Not me. A basket is as useful as I am. Maybe even more so. I don’t want to hear anything about that it’s not true, that it’s not what you taught me. You did, and you’re not undoing that in a couple of months and hugs. Save me your prayers for a day when I can go sit with my little brother and husband when you eventually piss me off too much.”

Julieta had always been the good child.

The golden girl who her siblings could look up at, could emulate. So, of course, she’d rebel eventually. And really, Alma knew that she should be grateful that Julieta’s rebellion didn’t manifest like Pepa or Bruno’s—she didn’t try to marry a dullard drug-runner, she didn’t neglect her duties—but she did try to marry a foreigner who’d stumbled through the jungles and somehow survived the trek through the mountains, begging for sanctuary.

Encanto wasn’t the sanctuary of all. If they opened their doors, they’d be drowning in blood before she could gasp.

Still, Julieta’s rebellion was a gentle one, and even Alma could see that—without Senora Guzmán reminding her that it could be worse, Senor Guzmán grinning next to her, recalling his own brother’s escapades.

He hadn’t seen his brother for years, Alma never asked about him. Anyone who left Encanto wasn’t spoken of again, and it’d never been an official rule, but it was one that the town had quickly learned, and gravitated to. The name you could get away with speaking aloud was Pedro’s—because Pedro didn’t depart willingly, Pedro founded Encanto with his blood.

Everyone else who left? They didn’t understand the gravity of that sacrifice. They didn’t understand that leaving would mean death, and even if somehow, they survived—they would never be welcomed back inside. Alma didn’t know what the outside world did, but she knew it corrupted, it killed, and it betrayed. It stuck the knife in, and it twisted for good measure.

Agustín was sweet and kind, demure and stumbling over his words around her—usually right into a wasp’s nest. Initially, Alma thought he was doing it in some strange show. She’d come to the conclusion that he wasn’t, and there was most likely something severely wrong with that boy’s perception of pain.

But that wasn’t her problem. Because Agustín wasn’t staying. She appreciated that he was searching for sanctuary for his family, but he wasn’t going to find it here because she didn’t want him to bring their problems sauntering into Encanto.

If they’d been convinced enough to flee into the jungle, Alma was sure that their pursuers would make the trek, too. They’d gotten themselves into this hole, she reasoned. They’d have to get themselves out of it, again.

She stared down the twenty-one-year-old, shaking from head-to-toe, and she was sure he knew what she was about to say. He reminded her of Pedro, when he’d first met her father.

“You can’t stay here,” she ordered, “We can’t risk you bringing danger and disease into our village.”

ENCANTO, Julieta

Outwardly expressing rage was frowned upon, especially for a young girl belonging to a family that could do no wrong. And not just that, Julieta knew that even if she kicked and screamed and broke everything in her room, she’d fall into a heap and cry herself to sleep—and when she woke up with everything fixed and in their right places, she wouldn’t feel better in the morning.

Maybe it was the magic.

Maybe it was the fact that the only permanent wound of her childhood was the loss of her father—and how she always knew that every second she wasted, she was taking his sacrifice for granted. Her power was forged from blood, and she had to pay back her debt in full, with interest.

Maybe that was why, when Félix, on the night she lost her brother for the second time and couldn’t tell herself that he left for a kinder life; said yes. When Félix, mischief setting his face alight with every spark from the stove, asked her if she wanted to destroy—maybe that’s why she said yes without a second thought. Maybe she understood what Pepa saw in him now more than ever, under the stars with bats, goggles that they’d fished out of a suspiciously Bruno-sized crevice.

He was so delightfully un-Madrigal-like, imperfect and brimming with promise, potential and past—underneath the moon, she felt it too, a shiver up her spine, a plea for her. She was the one to strike first. It seemed like Félix had been waiting for her, and with a wail, she bore down with all her strength, shattering a pink plate into shards that’d cut Antonio when he played in the grass.

She swung the bat over her shoulder and destroyed a hand-painted vase—she didn’t know which of them had gotten it, but she knew that everyone hated it and cursed that it somehow survived the collapse of Casita, because of course, the perfect Madrigals didn’t throw away their offerings.

Of course, the golden Madrigals got offerings—Casita the altar of their greatness, of their social worship. In the morning, Julieta would dye the grass with her blood as she picked up the shards with bare feet, and she wouldn’t heal her own stinging feet when she stood at the stove, flipping batter.

But now, she took a step back and watched as Félix made chairs bounce and sing and shatter into splinters and she always respectfully wondered how he’d managed to maintain all that muscle.

Her mother shrunk into herself, and all Julieta could think was, “Good.”

She hadn’t been the first to forgive, but she knew she wasn’t the last either. But forgiveness was complicated, and Julieta wasn’t always sure that she’d been honest about hers. She’d said what she knew Mirabel wanted to hear, and she’d done it because she loved her daughter more than she resented her mother. But her daughter wasn’t here now.

“We should finish cooking,” Julieta ordered, and ignored the feeling of power surging through her when she saw her mother flinch. She shouldn’t find pleasure in it, she knows. She should be doing everything she could to carry her family through the waves of grief, but the waters had reached her own waist and she wasn’t sure she knew how to thread water anymore.

She wasn’t sure that if she tried to catch someone else, that they wouldn’t hold her head underwater until she wasn’t anything other than her grief. Agustín had always been a lighthouse in the dark, stormy sea, and she didn’t know why she’d let him leave her.

Duty, she supposed.

Obligation, she assumed.

Julieta hated both of those words since she was five.

It tasted of blood in her mouth, calluses since she was six, popping them at night because no boy likes a girl with rough hands, it felt like the nicks and cuts she’d get before she could swing knives around with a blindfold—the wounds she never bothered to heal, they were small, and the same amount of food could heal a concussion or broken leg—usually from the same idiotic activity.

Once, when they were drunk and dripping with melancholy, Agustín confessed that he wasn’t entirely sure Encanto was real.

He’d been lying on his side, and at first: she’d thought he was speaking about the safety and coming from a man who’d never known what that felt like, it wouldn’t be a bad guess. A year or so later, she realised what he meant. It was the people. The townspeople didn’t feel real, they didn’t act like other people did. In a world with no problems, they had to create petty gripes to entertain themselves. And they did.

In Bogota, Bruno wouldn’t have been attacked for how he acted. He’d have been attacked for what he could do, Agustín stated. And even then, Julieta knew the difference. Bruno could have been as glorious as her, even more so—the patriarch of the Madrigals, he could have had kids, glimmering with the same promise—but he didn’t, because he was too blunt, too strange, too isolated and a bored town needed a villain to make them feel something other than the cardboard life they’d constructed.

There always needs to be a villain in the story.

Julieta swung down with the cleaver, cracking the meat in two with the crunch of bone. She didn’t know if her mother had realised just how good she’d gotten with a knife over the years, she didn’t know if anyone knew that it wasn’t just now that Bruno had been taken that Julieta thought about turning it against someone.

Her rage simmered like a pot, and eventually, even she knew that it would boil over.

UNDISCLOSED, Pepa

She could still taste the cigarette on her lips when the rest of her family began to stir, Félix included. She was sure, when he kissed her, that he could taste it too—and for a moment, she thought he drunk it in. He’d never encouraged her vices, but he’d never denied her them, either.

He’d understood that sometimes, you had to fall into something.

He’d always understood too much. They unwrapped some of Julieta’s cooking, and Agustín tried to protest that they should save it in case of injuries. Camilo shushed him with a glare.

“Dipsh*t,” he commented, “We have baskets full of it. And we don’t have any canned food. So, it’s magical food for the saddle burn if that makes your ass less tight about it.”

Usually, Pepa would scold him. Now, she fought to bite back her snicker and desperately signalled to Dolores or Félix to do the reprimanding for her, sunshine gleaming above them.

They didn’t.

Traitors.

Camilo took a bite of an arepa, a sh*t-eating grin dancing across his face, dappled with sunlight.

Félix switched the topic. “We’re covering good ground,” he stated. Agustín glared. “We could still be in Encanto,” Félix reasoned.

“Professionals move quicker than a glorified family camping trip,” responded Agustín. They’d all tried to cut him slack—he’d been there, at the water, and he’d been unable to do anything to stop the waves from taking three lives. But Pepa was starting to feel like someone had to snap at him, had to remind him that it wasn’t okay to be a passive aggressive little bastard just because you were hurting.

That was what made Bruno leave the first time.

And they weren’t saving her brother just to have him return to a home where he felt guilty for existing; for the sacrifices that others chose to make for him. Pepa had known Matthias, too, and she’d known him to be a kind man who would have done anything for those he loved.

She knew that he’d chosen to protect Bruno, and that he wouldn’t regret going to the grave for it. She knew that wherever Papa had kept watch over them all, Matthias had joined, and he’d be kindly looking down on them, waiting for them to make everything right again.

As long as they did, Pepa would grieve, but she wouldn’t feel that his life was wasted. She would know that he tried, just like they were trying now; and Pepa had been working on teaching herself that even if you failed, the fact that you even stuck your toe in the water made your contribution just as valuable.

Mirabel was a better influence than a fifteen-year-old should be. Sue her. Mirabel was a better influence than Pepa’s fifteen-year-old. Sue her.

“Agustín,” she sighed, “Everyone’s doing their best. I understand that you need to get this over and done with for your own sanity, but don’t be a little sh*t to the rest of us just because of your raging martyr complex.”

Okay, Pepa wasn’t Mirabel. And as soon as the words left her lips, she decided that she shouldn’t try to be anymore. She hadn’t intended to come off as abrasive, she’d just intended to be honest—but she heard herself, and she saw the glare Agustín sent her way and she desperately wished that Mirabel or Julieta were there to excuse her actions—even if they shouldn’t.

The sunlight dimmed as Agustín pushed himself up with a grimace, Félix already jerking towards him, his hand raised, “Listen, I’m sure—”

“We should get going,” Agustín instructed, “We’re wasting time. You can eat while we move.”

And everyone listened, for the simple fact that they wouldn’t be able to find Bogota without Agustín’s experienced guidance—even if Pepa wondered how he could possibly remember the way after all these years. She wasn’t entirely sure he did—but the stars dimmed above them, and she would hear the groan of deep-seated industry under her feet, feeling the natural world ebbing away in cracks and chunks.

They were certainly getting closer—whether it was the fastest way, Pepa didn’t know. She didn’t need to know. She wanted to feel the world move underneath her, feel the wrath of nature at her fingertips and she wanted to have her brother back.

Simple as that.

She wanted the family that she’d just started feeling comfortable in back, and she wanted to pretend that none of this had ever happened. Agustín’s gaze met hers, and for a brief moment, she wondered if he could read her eyes—and if the glare she earned was for her words, or her thoughts.

She’d heard him talk to Félix; she’d heard him cry about what’d happened, about how he could never go back to what’d been before. And maybe, in the darkness, she would believe him, maybe, in the darkness, she would sink into the deep and never resurface—but the sun was pressing down on her, and she had to keep it that way; because her emotions weren’t something she could ever fully live.

Fully living the wrath begging for release would mean something worse than a hurricane, she was sure.

Sacrifices had to be made.

Pepa rose to her feet, dusting off her skirt and agreed with Agustín. “Camilo. Don’t steal any extra,” she added. Camilo huffed.

ENCANTO, Mariano

Mariano had a complicated relationship with the Madrigals. As both a concept and people with thoughts and feelings and opinions on him.

On one hand, he had genuinely loved Isabela—and it hurt to be rejected. And have his nose broken. But looking back, he’d thought that himself and Isabela were on the rocks for a while: they’d more so been on the f*cking edge of a cliff, the wind almost blowing him into the water.

Isabela’s anger was explosive, and she’d taken a lot of it out on him through passive aggression on their dates—and he’d drink and end up stumbling into a lamppost and running to Isabela’s mother of all people, so he didn’t wake up with a black eye.

The Madrigals had a strange position in town, that was for sure. And a strange position in Mariano’s life, he noted as he spun his notebook

Maybe it was because Dolores was well… herself, but it felt like she saw him for the first time—like he emerged from the water a different man in her eyes, and he liked it. She made him feel appreciated, they went on dates, and she leaned against his chest as he read aloud, and she didn’t roll her eyes when he slipped some of his own poems in.

He didn’t realise it was something he was missing until he had it again. He didn’t realise that it was glaringly obvious that his relationship with Isabela was one of convenience for her, because she had always been enchanting to him.

And that hadn’t changed.

But Dolores’ patience had carved its way into his heart, countering all of Isabela’s quick remarks and he knew, standing on solid ground, that he wanted to feel like this for the rest of his life.

However, he wasn’t standing in front of the locked door of Casa Madrigal to ask for Dolores’ hand in marriage; he would ask her, not her family, something razor-sharp inside of him solidified going against that tradition; he was here because his mother had insisted that he go and offer his condolences. And give a pie. To the family with the magical food.

Even if she knew that he’d been purposefully avoiding the Madrigals that remained—because he was sure, they weren’t the minority that enjoyed his presence, and he didn’t want to salt a wound. But Encanto never understood personal boundaries, and Mariano raised his fist to gently knock against the door, hoping that no one would hear him, and that it would be enough for his mother—glaring at him from the fence.

He knew that Dolores had left, because she’d snapped off his window lock and stumbled through in the middle of the night, demanding that he get on his knees—and well, Mariano had. When he’d woken up the next morning, he could still feel the heat from where she laid in his arms, but she’d vanished, and he’d caught enough from between her harried breaths to understand where she’d be.

He could still feel her hands in his hair, and her clothes were still in his room, shoved under his bed, not because he didn’t love the memory of her presence—but in fear of his mother deciding to do his laundry. It hadn’t happened in years, but it’d be just his luck, wouldn’t it?

He exhaled and was just about to turn on his heels and run back when he heard light feet padding towards the door, and despite their muffled sound, Mariano could hear that there was intent in the steps. Well, f*ck.

He reflexively touched his nose when Julieta slung the door open, her gaze softening. “Oh,” she said, “Mariano, Dolores isn’t here, I’m sorry.”

“Oh!” he blushed, “I know, I’m sorry, I’m here to—”

He didn’t notice he was still rubbing his nose, until Julieta brought it up, gesturing to it, “Oh, dear, is your nose still smarting you? Come inside, let’s see what we can do for it.”

(It was true. Due to the lack of magic in the months of rebuilding Casita, Mariano’s nose had healed wrong, and even when Julieta rebroke and healed it, and that’d hurt, it still looked slightly different and ached a little from time to time.

It was nothing he couldn’t live with, but it was something Julieta was painfully aware of, and for some reason: blamed herself for, even if she hadn’t caused it. He was kidding himself with the “for some reason” and he’d caught himself growing less fond of Alma Madrigal throughout his relationship with Dolores, who didn’t mind baring the wounds of her past, of her family’s past.)

He pushed the pie towards Julieta.

“I’m not here for my nose,” he answered, even if, thinking of it always made it ache more, “I’m here to offer condolences from my family to yours.”

Julieta smiled softly, as if she was forcing herself—and Mariano knew that he’d stumbled over his words, but before he could correct himself, she interjected:

“Don’t let Mama hear you say it like that,” she shushed gently, “And come inside, we could use some visitors, and I think Antonio would love to see you. He misses his cousins and Tio, you see—”

Call Mariano a sucker for Antonio’s cute little face, but he knew he couldn’t say no as soon as Julieta mentioned him. He spared a moment to turn back and glare at his mother, who’d vanished—and allowed Julieta to grip his hand and lead him into the kitchen, where Mirabel was doing the dishes, Tonito hoisted on her hip.

He quickly crossed the distance on silent feet, settling himself behind Mirabel before he spoke. “Hiya,” he said, “I dropp—”

“Mariano!”

Antonio lunged off Mirabel, barreling into his side and Mariano caught the relieved expression Mirabel offered him as she turned back to do the dishes—now with two hands, and a lot more freedom of movement than seconds before, when Antonio had been doing his best impression of a koala.

“Mariano dropped by with a pie,” Julieta stated for him as he picked up Antonio, settling him against his own hip, “And because his nose is still giving him trouble.”

“Hi there,” Mariano answered awkwardly as Antonio burrowed his head in his shoulder, “My nose isn’t really that bad, Mami just made a pie and thought you could use it—”

“Thank you very much, Mariano,” said Julieta, finally taking the pie from his hands, “It’s very kind of you to think of us, would you mind taking Tonito for a moment?”

And because Mariano was such a sucker, he shook his head, already moving back towards the living room with Antonio in his hold, Julieta seemingly having forgotten all about the importance of getting him something (to shove down his throat while everyone looked at him and expected him to suddenly proclaim that he felt so much better, which he never did) for his nose at the relief of, he assumed, having another adult around.

At least he’d garner up a little goodwill for when he did want to marry Dolores, even if he still felt like he was walking on eggshells around the Madrigals, and that they were cutting into his feet like glass shards every time he was observed.

He settled himself on the couch, Antonio scrambling for purchase on his chest, until he was sitting on his knees, staring up at Mariano. “Tia Julieta forgot to give you something to eat,” he said and Mariano reflexively shook his head.

“I actually didn’t come for that,” he replied.

“Did you come to say that you wanted to marry Dolores?”

Mariano sputtered and found himself intensely grateful that he wasn’t eating something because he’d have choked. What a way to die, huh?

Before he could answer, Alma Madrigal, Matriarch of the Madrigals, Terrifying, Starring Role in At Least One Of Mariano’s Recent Nightmares, appeared, scowling.

“Mariano should have a better concept of tact,” she stated, venom dripping from her lips, “If that’s the case.”

Mariano was backpedalling before he’d realised that he could have just refuted the five-year-old in his lap.

UNDISCLOSED, Isabela

Isabela didn’t like travelling through the jungle on the back of something that Antonio had insisted wouldn’t eat her. She didn’t care if the jaguar had a name and thought roses were pretty; she cared that it was a f*cking jaguar. She turned to Dolores, sitting behind her, resting her head on Isabela’s shoulder. Dolores had hopped up behind her, and no one had questioned it when Isabela had seemed fine with it.

“You’re acting like someone who wants to ask me a question, Isa,” grinned Dolores, her voice slurring from tiredness and the old nickname falling out like it was nothing—like it hadn’t been at least a decade since Isabela had heard it spoken by Dolores.

But she wasn’t wrong.

“Maybe,” answered Isabela, “Maybe I’m just thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Isabela raised her brow. “Wouldn’t you know already? You could guess your way to it. You know everything about everyone.”

She could feel Dolores shrug against her back, and Isabela leaned up to watch how the light flitted through the thick blanket of trees. “You have a lot of intrapersonal drama,” Dolores reasoned, “I probably wouldn’t get it right by just guessing. There’s too much.”

When they were little girls, they’d sit in the garden, do each other’s hair and they’d talk about the boys they liked, the flowers that Isabela could grow and the latest villager to drunkenly embarrass themselves on a Friday night—when neither of them were supposed to be up, but Dolores knew that Isabela would be leaning out of her window, looking past the mountains and Dolores would be listening to the town let out a breath of hair—release after the work week, falling into the vices of the weekend.

“I guess I’m thinking about boys.”

Dolores clicked her tongue and righted herself. “Do you remember when we were little girls?”

Isabela nodded.

“Can I ask you a question, then, if I braid your hair?”

“If you never wanted Mariano,” Dolores took a moment to slide her fingers through Isabela’s hair, beginning to braid, “Then who do you want?”

Isabela’s reply was quick and harsh. “I don’t want anyone from Encanto.”

Dolores snorted. “I didn’t ask you for a name. I asked you for a person. What kind of person do you want? At least you now know who you don’t want, so you should know a little about what you do want. And no,” she giggled, “Don’t say everything Mariano’s not, that’s not an answer.”

Isabela worked her jaw.

“I guess,” she reasoned, “I would want someone who’s strong… someone who has their own life outside of me, I know that my dad’s happy and all, but I could never live his life, he gave up on everything he knew to marry Mom, you know? I wouldn’t want to do that to someone else, and I’d want them to choose me, not because I’m Isabela Madrigal, but because I’m just… well, because they like me, and not the—”

She tried to bite back the bitterness in her voice, she knew that Mariano and Dolores seemed to be in love, more than she’d ever been, “—status boost I’d gain them.”

“I think that’s asking too much, here,” Isabela continued, “I think there are too many people who think I don’t have my own problems and even if,” she played with a loose strand of her technicolour hair, “I don’t look like her—”

(Senora Perfecta, Golden Child, Isabela Madrigal)

“—I still feel like they’re expecting me to be her. To be someone who never really existed. I tried to date… a few weeks ago, before Bruno was taken. I didn’t tell anyone and—”

Dolores squeaked.

“Yeah,” Isabela chuckled, “I guess I told you. There wasn’t anything wrong with Oscar but there wasn’t anything right about him either. I didn’t feel something for him and I only went out with him because I thought he had the potential to be someone like Tio Félix, someone who sees the gilded cage for what it is, but chooses to stay anyways.”

Dolores tilted her head.

“And,” Isabela answered her unspoken question, watching as the sun and the moon danced above them, “He was just f*cking boring. I almost fell asleep in the middle of him talking about himself.”

Dolores tied off her braid.

“You’re right,” she said as she pulled, “He sucks and I would have told you that if I thought you’d have listened to me.”

Isabela laughed.

“We all listen to you. That’s your whole thing.”

“You know that’s wrong.”

And Isabela did. So, she didn’t say anything to defend herself, or her family. She didn’t see why she was supposed to. It was the truth, after all. They’d all killed parts of themselves to fit the mould, hadn’t they?

UNDISCLOSED, Luisa

Luisa awoke, after another day’s worth of trekking and at the edge of the city—a few hours more, and they’d be there, and Tio Félix insisted that they rest before so they could grab Bruno and go—and with no sleep in her, to Isabela poking her forearm.

“Luisa,” she whispered, “I’m going to leave now.”

Luisa cracked her eyes open to see Isabela crouching in front of her, colourful dyed hair tied up in a simple braid, and wearing a suit that it looked like she’d stolen from their father. Luisa would have liked to say that she immediately knew what the f*ck was going on, and understood Isabela’s words, but instead she squinted in confusion, and Isabela sighed, rolling her eyes.

“You asked me to tell you,” she stated simply, “So, I’m telling you. That I’m leaving, and if you want to come, you can.”

Isabela looked awkward for a moment. “Actually,” she corrected, playing with her hair, “I would like you to come. That’s what I came in to tell you. That you’re both welcome to come, and that I would like to see you come with me.”

Instead of unpacking that, Luisa asked the obvious question: “Why?”

Isabela shrugged.

“Like I told you before,” she answered, her voice low, “I don’t think that we’ll be as swift and quick as we want to be, and even if we do, an all-out assault during the day is stupid when you can do it at night or early in the morning. And maybe I don’t want my father—who’s already buckled under what he’s seen—and fifteen-year-old nephew to deal with a f*cking gang. You and I could go in, grab Bruno and quickly…”

Isabela licked her lips.

“… Remove the threat.”

ENCANTO, Mariano

At least Julieta had the grace to apologise for her mother almost doming him with a frying pan that Mariano hadn’t realised that she even possessed.

At least.

Antonio snuggled against his chest, gripping a stuffed leopard, and in a low voice, said, “I miss Tio Bruno. He would always play with me when I was lonely. I miss Cami, too.”

Mariano couldn’t say that he knew Bruno Madrigal very well outside of a couple very early memories of Casa Madrigal—and the man had been a hermit before Mariano was even born—and he considered Camilo to be a ball of chaos, thorn in his side and menace to society—but he still softened his voice and said, “Me too, Tonito. But sometimes, you can’t control what happens, and it’s just about how you adapt to them that defines you.”

“Like how you adapted to Isa not wanting to date you anymore and moved to Dolores?”

f*cking child! Camilo’s brother!

UNDISCLOSED, Agustín

When they were younger, it wasn’t uncommon for Luisa to sneak into Isabela’s room, so when Camilo said he didn’t find Luisa in her tent—no doubt a failed prank there—Agustín wasn’t worried. And he wasn’t worried when they weren’t the first people up and about, either.

However, he did grow a little suspicious when it was past ten, Pepa had lit the fire at Félix’s orders and requests and Isabela’s tent was still closed tightly, with no movement to scurry out and beat Camilo to the rationed spoils.

He ambled over to the tent, called out once, before throwing open a completely empty tent.

†

"[W]hat does the sentence "If you eat this fruit you will die" mean for Eve who is in a place where there is no death?"

- Hélène Cixous, Readings: The Poetics of Blanchot, Joyce, Kafka, Lispector, and Tsvetaeva

†

BOGOTA, Bruno

The sharp sun burned his eyes and Alejandro pinched his cheeks and Bruno was sure they’d bruise. “You know,” he cooed, “I’ve known Elena for much longer than you. I know what she’s like. She’ll string you along, make you think you have a chance and then bam!”

Alejandro jerked his face towards Bruno’s, their noses slamming together and Bruno’s eyes watering from the impact. “Yes,” snarled Alejandro, “Cry for her, cry for the bitch who makes you feel like you’re someone, like you could be something. She’s got a monster inside of her that eats you for breakfast.”

Alejandro grinned. “And she’s such a graceful figure, a dancing flame fallen lower than a common whor*. And yet,” Alejandro licked his lips, “You still desire her.”

When Alejandro had first decided to speak of Elena, Bruno wasn’t sure why or what he was talking about. When Alejandro made his intentions abundantly clear, Bruno couldn’t stop nor apologise for the scream of sick that evicted itself from him, spraying across Alejandro’s shoes.

He wasn’t quite ready to admit that the thought of bottles and blood-streaked tiles caused him to throw up, but he grinned at Alejandro with vomit-crusted teeth, and said, “If you punch me again, I’m going to hit your expensive silk shirt.”

“You know,” said Alejandro, mirroring his grin and showing off a mouth of pearly white teeth that caught the light and looked too many and long, “I’m sure she never even told you about her scars.”

Bruno thought back to the red curling up her shoulders, down the back of her biceps, wrapping around her waist under the thin fabric. She hadn’t told him, but he’d watched as they ebbed and flowed down her back, time slowing to a halt—in a way, they’d been beautiful in their strangeness. In Encanto, very few things scarred.

Elena’s looked like she’d had hers for a very long time. Elena hadn’t been ashamed when she caught Bruno staring, she hadn’t reacted at all. She’d shrugged her coat back on and gone about her day.

“Her back is burned like that because when she was eight, she burned a family to death and didn’t manage to escape in time. It was her first kill, and it’s what made her notorious.”

“How do you know that?”

Alejandro shrugged. “Because it was my family who died in the blaze.” He counted off his hand, raising crooked fingers. “Mother,” he said, “Father,” he continued, “Even my little baby sister. All dead. Because of her lack of control. I barely managed to make it out.”

BOGOTA, Elena

The mission had been simple enough and she’d completed it like any other.

Five hearts were no longer beating, and her client would be smile on her work. He might even be satisfied enough to let her stay in town for a few days before putting another bounty on her head. She felt neither good nor bad when she thought about the murder.

They’d made enemies with the wrong powerful people, and they should have thread more carefully. Now, they were buried in graves that would never be found and due to the location of her targets, Elena didn’t have a getaway car. Her assignment had required her to trek deep into the jungles, and she’d come back out again, on her own.

It was nothing she couldn’t handle, she’d said.

Away from base for over two weeks, it would be her longest solo assignment thus far. The way back was quiet, her mind clear now that the job was done—the cool and cleansing breath of a good high. Her only company was the sound of her boots crunching against the underbrush, and the chirping birds, tricking her into thinking that she too, was a creature of beauty.

She’d couldn’t remember when she’d last had so much time to herself, to choose how to spend. Without having to think eight steps ahead of her enemies, she simply plotted her course and let her mind wander alongside her boots. It wasn’t a conscious choice, and she wasn’t immediately aware that she was experiencing something new.

Camping in the shadows by day and moving by night was how she ensured that her very existence remained a rumour, a shadow, a ghost story for soldiers and little kids to whisper under their breaths. One moonlit night, she discovered that she hadn’t thought about her “home” or her excitement at the prospect of returning to it, for hours.

Her mind had strayed, wandered, come up empty and had soaked in the land and the stars.

She couldn’t name it at the time, but right there; standing on the glittering ground beneath the moon, was the first time that she felt at ease since she could remember, since the blazing fire that cut off her memory, sharpened it to a point. A new and strange feeling, one of pleasure, for sure—but not the kind she acquired from fulfilling her duties or the satiation from a hot meal, nor the rest after a gruelling training.

No, it was simpler. Simple and gentle and Elena found that she liked it.

In the perfect silence of a world left behind, standing atop forgotten temples, hearing undiscovered birds croon, Elena had experienced peace for the first time in her life and she wouldn’t have the words to name it for many years. She couldn’t have told herself, but she knew instinctively that it would escape her grasp if she returned home.

Into smoke and mirror and ashes and nothing more than another burning memory.

All of a sudden, in the span of a breath, she realised that it wasn’t something she was willing to turn over.

It was at that moment that she knew she had to leave. She didn’t think eight steps ahead. She acted on something as dangerous as a feeling and Elena disappeared into the night. There was time before her expected check-in, and she might not have anything other than what she carried but she could put extreme distance between her and her life.

They would kill her, but they would have to catch her first.

That’s not how the story ended.

It could have happened, but in her life: she’d chosen the gun smoke, and she’d returned in chains to a kingdom of ash and bone, and she would continue choking herself for nine more years. She didn’t run, even if she thought about it—even if, for a moment, it felt so real that she could taste it. Even if, for a moment, the ghostly grip on her shoulder finally ceased.

Elena leaned against the tree, winced, and before she could think any better, undid her belt and pulled down her pants, exposing her seizing thigh muscle. “f*ck,” she grimaced, watching it sputter under her hands. “Even Jesus needed a three-day f*cking weekend to figure out his treason.”

She dropped Morinaga’s red tackle box onto her lap, Bella whinnying above her—somehow, the horse sounded disapproving, as if it had a concept of shooting up. Rosita nibbled on her ear, and Elena wondered if she was just going crazy or if two different species of animals were trying to hold an intervention.

Elena hadn’t been addicted since she was fourteen, but she’d used since she was ten and she’d never stopped. They always said that adrenaline was one of hell of a drug and stealing it from hospitals wasn’t hard. Especially not at the prospect of a dizzying high of being unable to feel pain, of her muscles singing her commands even as they should have buckled.

Really, Elena reasoned, it was a miracle that she wasn’t more of a junkie. Even if drugs made her an asshole, they made her fast and her aim better than God’s—and that? That made her rich and feared. And being rich and feared—well, if you’d asked her a few days ago, she’d have said it was the pinnacle of what she could accomplish. Rich enough to have her revenge, feared enough to carry it out.

She fingered the syringe, fumbled through prepping the vials with the shaky fingers of anticipation and not addiction or mind-numbing pain. Because she was the Night Woman, she ate men like air, and she didn’t quiver at the base of a tree that’d outlast her memory.

Elena doesn’t know if he was aware that she’d taken the box. She assumed he knew that she was aware of its contents. He’d never been one to insult her intelligence, her perceptiveness.

With a jerky hand, she plunged the filled needle into her throbbing thigh, feeling her focus sharpen. She prepared three more syringes, laying them capped, and shut the box. She’d appreciate her foresight, later, when she reduced a certain group of people to dust.

She hadn’t been lying to Bruno when she said that she wanted to keep her nose out of Bogota until they found Encanto—where she’d return him and ride off into her destiny: knocking back one final toast to glorious revenge. But sometimes your plans changed.

Elle Rojas dances in the ballet and draws on people’s skins, the Night Woman kills men, Elena Rojas saves them. She is three girls, and she is one, she lives three lifetimes, and she lives one, she lives them with her father and without him and she’s reconciling that.

She could never be a martyr, but she could be a saint if they killed her quickly.

†

(A response: The fruit was said to give those who ate it true knowledge of good & evil. Up to that point Eve knew only of purity & good, almost blissful ignorance. Eating the fruit meant exposure to great temptation & evil, which, being human, she could not resist. Thus, the knowledge led to her being cast out from Eden, losing immortality, and essentially death; both of the physical body & her perfect purity. “To eat is to die” was true for her because she lost the life & place where she could live forever.)

(A response to a response: Actually, if you read the bible, Eve wasn't cast out of Eden. Adam was. Eve was never even told not to eat the fruit, Adam was. And he was there when the serpent was manipulating her, but he didn't stop it.)

†

Chapter 10: kiss the flame

Chapter Text

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Bella raced around the corner of a street that let into a cramped market crowded with black market goods and interested thieves. Stretched out in a full gallop, she screamed her challenge as she bore down on the market, glorying again at how the shoppers scattered out of her warpath, except for one. A huge and heavy man wielding a whip, Elena grinned to herself. He must be The Guy of this sh*thole. Elena roared an answer to his challenge and raised her guns at the same moment she realised that the whip was decorated with barbed wire.

Elena swung herself around Bella’s neck, sitting against her chest and above her thundering legs with hers hooked together across Bella’s back. She blocked his strikes with her blade and as Bella leaped high, her hooves tucked to her belly, Elena slashed towards and bisected her victim halfway through, from his groin to his neck—before he could even start screaming or Bella’s hooves hit the ground again, she was in her place on her back again, unmoved by the excitement.

Bella galloped on.

BOGOTA; Five Years Ago, Martinez

It was bad.

Elle lay on her bed in only her shirt and what he assumed were boxers she stole from someone, breathing shallowly. She tried to lift the pistol clutched between trembling hands and aim it where Martinez was peeking through the door, but she dropped it clumsily. Martinez decided to ignore the cry he might have heard because Elena Rojas didn’t cry.

“It’s me!” he instead yelled, “Martinez!” he quickly held out his hands. “Remember! You told me I could come in, right?!”

“Right.”

Elena fell into a spasm of painful coughing. When she was finally able to breathe again, she croaked: “Already sick,” as she weakly pointed towards him. She was propped up slightly on a pillow, and when she leaned sideways to cough, pushing herself up on one elbow, she shook visibly as if she was almost too weak to hold herself up.

No, thought Martinez, this is Elena. She isn’t too weak to do anything. She’s phenomenal. I’ve watched her kill a man with a broken bottle while bleeding out from a throat wound that she later cauterised herself. She’s not weak. She’s never weak.

“That’s right,” Martinez continued, not wanting to fall down that train of thought, not wanting to think about what would make Elena study him so pathetically, like she had no way out. He let his eyes roam around the sh*tty attic abode. The few times he’d been here before, he’d noticed that Elena kept it unsettlingly neat—like no one actually lived there, except he’d seen her limp up the stairs enough to know that she at least slept here.

But right now? The chair was at a skewed angle from the desk and the bedclothes lay in a pile on the floor, along with most of Elena’s clothing and an overturned cup that looked like it’d been launched on purpose. There was a small puddle of water on the floor next to it. He bit his lip. What did you do to take care of a sick person besides feed them soup and tea? Mop their brow with a wet towel?

Jesus, this was f*cking Elena. She’d kill him if he even tried. He inched closer. “Someone’s getting you soup,” he stated. “I asked them to make sure that it doesn’t taste like asshole.”

“Don’t let them in here,” Elena snarled, her voice getting caught on the brambles of her throat, “They’ll catch this sh*t.”

Martinez didn’t do anything other than agree with her. “Okay,” he answered, “I won’t let them in here if you let me stay, because I’m already sick, right? This sh*t’s been making the rounds, so I’m sure we have the same bug.”

He sat down in Elena’s chair, ignoring how wrong that felt, toeing a starched shirt aside for lack of anything better to do. He was pretty sure that delicately mopping Elena’s brow like a doting young maiden wouldn’t go well. He was pretty sure that if he tried, he’d be lucky to walk away with only one sucking chest wound. Even shaky and weak, he didn’t doubt that Elena could and would end him if she saw him as a threat.

Any other thought was too terrifying to even entertain.

The impulse to make a flirtatious comment wouldn’t go over well, either. But damnit, Elena looked good in sweat-soaked, nearly translucent underwear—even if Martinez feels a little guilty for noticing at a moment like this when she obviously can’t bite back with the expected amount of vitriol.

He decides to go with everyone’s favourite: small-talk.

“So, you think we’ll have rain tomorrow?”

“Alley will flood again,” Elena murmured, “We’ll have to move. Again.”

Martinez tilted his head. The alley? Flooding? That was a weird thing to say. It was true that the alleys in the more decrepit areas of Bogota, especially near the docks, the favelas, were prone to flooding—but this part of town was better maintained than many. Elena herself paid some of the street kids to keep the drains from getting blocked with waste.

“This is the story, Elena,” he answered, deciding not to argue with the alley thing—who knew, maybe she was right. “We’ll be just fine.”

“You always say that,” Elena breathed, “It’s a lie. It won’t be fine. We won’t be fine. But it’s what you say every time. ‘Missed you. ‘Missed that.”

She definitely sounded a little bit delirious. Martinez decided that he’d risk death by consequences of the wet washcloth, because the way her head lolled to the side as she slurred more incomprehensible words wasn’t something he wanted to keep looking at. He rummaged around the clothes press next to the bed for something he could dip into the water basin abandoned on Elena’s side table—she’d obviously had the idea herself—and not wanting to actually provoke Elena to lash out while he was within grabbing (and stabbing) distance, he chose to drop the wet handkerchief on her face from above.

Elena spent nearly a minute sputtering and trying to blow it off before groaning and saying, “Mars, Mars,” and f*ck, if he didn’t melt at the nickname.

Roman god of war. And still, he loved it spilling from Elena’s plump lips.

“Yeah?” he had sat down in Elena’s chair again, his feet propped up on the desk.

“Mars, there’s something on my face.”

“I know,” he grinned, “It’s supposed to be there. It… it helps your fever, I think? People do it all the time—put wet things on sick people’s faces. It’s supposed to help. So, you can get back to shooting straight sooner. Helps.”

Elena shook her head beneath the fabric, her breathing getting louder and shallower. “Won’t come off,” she mumbled, her voice muffled, “Get it off.” Had Elena forgotten that she could just use her hands?

“Just take it off, then,” he chided, “It’s fine—”

“Mars, get it off!”

She’d crossed over into full-blown panic now, and Martinez couldn’t do anything but clamber to his feet and pull the handkerchief away to see Elena wide-eyed in a way that didn’t come naturally to her, her flushed and very, very fevered face contorted with terror.

“Whoa, hey, hey, Boss. You’re okay. You’re safe. Breathe.”

He reached over to pat Elena’s shoulder, then thought better of it. Elena avoided much touch religiously in her best moods; touching her now, when she was this frantic and Martinez wasn’t exactly sure that she wasn’t someplace else, with someone else, might actually get him stabbed. He wouldn’t put it past Elena to have a knife or two under her pillow.

Frankly, he expected it.

He’d be disappointed if she didn’t.

Elena was shaking, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. This quickly triggered another coughing fit, which didn’t surprise Martinez, but seemed to surprise Elena, because her eyes somehow widened even more. Martinez sighed and backed off. Clearly, he was sh*t at this.

“Don’ leave,” Elena managed to force out as he neared the door. He stopped in his tracks.

“Don’t… leave?” he repeated, unsure if he’d misheard her.

“Please,” Elena added. This was the first time he’d ever heard that word without a trace of sarcasm from her lips since they were kids—since before—and wide-eyed, Martinez slowly went back to the chair and pulled it over to where Elena could have him in her sightline.

“This better?” he asked.

Elena nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, dipping her head into the flat pillow.

“You’ll be alright, Boss, everyone’s been catching this sh*t. It’s none of the dangerous ones, I promise you—look at me, I felt like I was coughing out a lung a few days ago, and now I’m sitting up and talking to you, hm? It only turns into a fever if you don’t get enough rest—or you know, don’t f*cking eat. Really,” he chuckled, “You brought this on yourself, you fool.”

“Nothing to eat,” Elena answered simply, saying it not as a complaint but instead a brutal statement of fact.

Martinez’s brow furrowed. “There’s plenty downstairs,” he said, “And someone’s even gone out to get you soup, and they’ll be back pretty soon. Although, I’m sure they’ll want you to pay them back for it once you can think straight and tell me the combination to your safe. I’ll even be nice and won’t skim a single thing.”

He winked.

Elena just shook her head. “No money,” she gritted out.

Martinez glanced at the safe in the corner, then shrugged. It could be empty for all he knew. Just another one of Elena Rojas’ many bluffs. Elena was always making investments. Perhaps, she’d spent it on some complicated scheme that’d end up f*cking over a rich drug baron and it hadn’t paid off yet. He knew from other members that’d been around at the time that Elena had lived on bread and beans for weeks during the final stages of renovating the street.

Morales had provided some of the funds, but not nearly enough, and Elena had thrown her own money at it in the end, with a not-so-thinly veiled threat that anyone who f*cked around would be strung up with barbed wire. Two weeks later, the street was renovated and now it housed the finest pleasure houses the city had to offer—everything a man could want, wine, women, wonderful vices.

“Steal someone else’s, then. You’re too f*cking good at that. Or just kill another politician. Those pay.”

They did. Elena always liked killing politicians. First, there was the money from the actual hit. And then, she could turn around and collect double from the widower and kill the client. Elena didn’t have any loyalty—she just went to whoever paid her the most to keep the target off their forehead.

Elena then said something so quietly that Martinez wasn’t sure he’d heard right—he couldn’t possibly. Elena Rojas wouldn’t in a million years have said: “Dad wouldn’t have wanted us to steal.” Would she?

Martinez, of course, knew the bare-bones details about Elena’s father. Presumably, she’d had a dad. Presumably, Martino Rojas had been a man who existed, and not just a bogeyman. Presumably, he could have told his daughter not to steal.

They referred to her as the bastard, for crying out loud. Considering both how utterly desensitised Elena was to violence and degradation, the calmly disinterested way she spoke to prostitutes when the job required it and how she tried to pretend that she didn’t harbour a soft spot for them compared to everyone else doing illegal activities out of desperation in Bogota alongside her open contempt for pimps (it was commonly known that if Elena was dealing, and knew you as a pimp, you’d be losing your fortune if you stayed and earning a shot to the back of the skull if you left), many wondered whether her mother was what was euphemistically referred to as a street daisy.

It wasn’t something he’d ever brought up, of course. “Oh, by the way, was your mother a prostitute?” wasn’t the sort of question that tended to go over well, especially not with people like Elena Rojas. He sequestered it away, alongside his other theories about Elena Rojas’ sordid past.

He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of what was clearly delirium, but he wouldn’t resist asking: “Tell me about you dad.”

Elena shifted slightly in the bed with a pained breath. After working her jaw for a moment, she settled on: “Dead.”

Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised. That was one of the few iron-clad rumours about Elena. Dead dad and is willing to take out brutal revenge on anyone who had anything at all to do with that. But Martinez still felt like a heel for asking.

“Soup should be coming soon,” he repeated for lack of anything else to say, resolving not to ask any more questions. That should be easy. He’d spent years looking at Elena Rojas, and wanting to know everything about her, but never asking a thing.

When the soup finally arrived, brought by one of the younger members—a new recruit who’d obviously been forced into it—a gangly teen who stared from the doorway with shameless, unhidden morbid curiosity, Martinez took it and sat on the side of the bed. He attempted to spoon some into Elena’s mouth, feeling a bit awkward about feeding another adult like that, but Elena refused to accept more than a few spoons worth before she pushed it back towards him.

“Don’t give me all the water,” she groaned, “You did that. You gave me all the water and I lived and you… you need to drink some, too.”

Elena was looking in Martinez’s general direction, but her eyes didn’t seem to be focused right. It was more like Elena was staring through him at someone else.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Martinez tried, telling her frankly, “I haven’t been giving you water. This, here? This sh*t? This is soup. It’s what stubborn idiots eat when they’ve made themselves too sick to think and need to get better so their handsome and talented sidekicks can go play cards.”

“No,” Elena snarled, “You. Drink.” She insisted, and Martinez gave in and ate a few mouthfuls of the now lukewarm soup.

“There, see? I ate. Now, you eat. Uphold your end of the promise, Elena.”

“There’s no food.”

Elena was shivering again. She burrowed under the sheet and turned her back to Martinez, who growled under his breath in frustration, staring down at the soup before she picked up the discarded blankets and covered Elena, because he wasn’t a monster.

“You are very bad at being sick, Miss Rojas.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

She couldn’t remember exactly how she’d gotten in. She supposed that she’d followed the route burned into her memory from years of penance at the altar, and her feet had simply carried her through it again. She’d never been willing, or so she told herself.

She remembered that she looped the reins around a tree, and that she instructed Bella not to stray, or she’d have to steal a car. Bella whinnied, and Rosita hid in Elena’s hair, as if she knew what was coming and didn’t approve. Elena could feel the tiny paws against her skin, could feel the heat of Rosita’s body against her neck.

She thought she’d hate it. She thought it would remind her of being strangled, choked out in the street like how she’d always known she deserved. But it didn’t. Instead, the weight felt almost comforting—Elena’s muscles were still stiff, she was on edge and if she’d been younger: she’d have thrown Rosita into a gutter, but she’d tolerate the contact.

She had a sinking feeling that Rosita was one of the reasons that she didn’t have a bullet through her own head by now.

She focussed her attention back to the man in front of her, co*cky, dripping with sweat and she still remembered how she promised herself to stay far away from him after he grabbed her ass at thirteen and let his fingers climb inside of her.

“Ellie, darling, what’s gotten into your pretty little—”

“Shut up!”

Before she had a moment to think it through, or breathe, Elena kicked back the chair, lunging for the table and squaring her palms flat against it, feeling the ripples in the wood under her skin and noticing how her nose was almost touching his, how his brows briefly flew up in shock before he forced them down. She’d done it, she thought with gratification. She’d finally made him flinch.

She liked it.

She wanted more of it.

The words spilled from her lips, like red-red-red blood from an artery as she pulled the knife from it, right before the target collapsed to the ground, sputtering and not understanding what the f*ck had just happened to them.

“Get over yourself you sick f*ck!”

“Man, I’m not your doll,” “And I’m not your honey!”
“If you open your mouth, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“I used to be scared but now I’ve become your greatest nightmare. I’m your fatal outcome.”

He pushed himself up against her, his chest bumping off her in a move that usually would have made her cower, or at least hurry to apologise—saying something about getting too caught up in the thrill of things, spending too much time with the boys and doing things that his prized possession shouldn’t even think about. But she didn’t. She just narrowed her gaze, pushed out her lip and answered him in the same level voice she’d always put on in front of her victims, but for the first time in her life, it was all Elena Rojas.

“Quit acting tough and just shut up.”

He jerked his hand outwards, gripping her throat. She could feel his heartbeat against her skin, and she wondered if he could feel hers, she wondered if he was unnerved that she didn’t show fear.

“I won’t let you ruin my life,” she gasped, her hand locked around his, the bones of his wrist cracking, his curled around her neck, but her mind was still as clear as the windows she’d splatter his brains against, “I want you to find out that I’m all bite.”

“Once I’m on your scent, I’ll f*cking have your head.”
“I can’t wait to put it on the wall above my bed.”

She cracked his wrist with a grunt, forcing him to release her, falling into her orbit. Elena didn’t hesitate, pushing him to the ground and slamming her boot against the bridge of his nose.

“Your Father wouldn’t consider this honour,” he sputtered, blood spilling from his busted lip and onto his chin. Elena quirked her brow, crouching down and leaning closer, their noses almost touching as she rasped an answer.

“My Father is vengeance,” she spoke, drawing the gun and spinning it in her hand before placing it against his ear, “And I honour him daily.”

“Now,” she grinned, “Why don’t you do me a favour and sing a little about what’s happening downstairs in the courtyard, so I know where to plant the bombs. I’ll even avoid your kids if you’re nice and friendly.”

BOGOTA; Five Years Ago, Martinez

Every time he tried to leave: Elena panicked. Martinez had managed to get a little bit of water into her, and a few more mouthfuls of the now fully cold soup. Was it a fever you were supposed to feed, or a cold? What if Elena had both at the same time? She seemed pretty f*cked up, after all. She was also coughing and sneezing. That was a cold, too, right?

Martinez was so incredibly not qualified for this.

He managed to find someone who could make a run to the apothecary and get medicine by simply poking his head out of Elena’s attic room and f*cking shouting until someone sighed, came up and asked what he wanted. They brought back a foul-smelling syrup in a tinted glass bottle.

It took him nearly a whole hour to get any of it into Elena—God, she was the worst sick person ever—who was still stubbornly insisting that Martinez needed to drink the water. It was somewhere between frustrating and heart-wrenching, he decided when she said it for the third time, her voice ragged from coughing and her eyes wide. He finally managed to get her to drink by holding Elena’s nose shut and pouring it into her mouth when she opened it to breathe, praying that it went down her throat and not into her lungs.

It seemed to help the coughing, at least. And Elena seemed to have enough survival instructs to let it go down the right tube. Elena grew less adamant and panicky, but the drawback was that she started talking again. Avidly. About things that didn’t make any sense. Only Elena Rojas would rant about boiler room investment scams and how they—the dynamic duo of Elena and Martinez—could exploit it, alongside the rising sugar prices. Assassinations had been down recently, she argued. They should diversify their income, like the proper crime families.

“Brick by brick,” she kept repeating until Martinez started mouthing it alongside her.

She was also unfairly attractive, her skin slick with sweat, her breathing still laboured, cheeks flushed from the fever and her curly hair mussed every which way. Martinez had to keep himself from wondering what it would take to make Elena Rojas look like that when she wasn’t ill and too out of her mind to care.

But that wasn’t the kind of thought that he should be having about anyone who was sick and vulnerable, let alone his boss who could kill him with a toothpick if she wanted. He mercilessly shot those thoughts down every time they resurfaced for air.

“Too hot,” Elena complained, although her teeth had been chattering not even an hour before, even after Martinez had covered her with every blanket in the room. The blankets were now kicked to the floor once more, and Martinez just sighed.

“I can try the wet rag again,” he offered “But you don’t like it, Elena.”

“Don’t put that sh*t on my face,” she snarled in response, which was the most coherent response that he’d gotten from her in quite a while.

“Right.” He clicked his tongue. “Want me to just dump the whole f*cking basin on you?” he offered. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she actually said yes. He supposed that he’d do it. It’d give him a reason to hold her, when she inevitably needed help moving around so he could strip the bed.

“Wet.”

“Well yes,” he tsked, “That’s the point. The water would cool you off, Elena.”

“The water.” Elena pressed her face into the pillow and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly. Her voice sounded strangely young and frightened when she spoke again. “I have to get out. I have to hold on. I can’t hold on anymore. I have to survive. I can’t let go yet. I don’t want this. I want to go home. Stuck in the water—”

“You’re not in the water, Boss. You’re in your bed in your apartment.” Martinez tried to make his voice reassuring. “It’s safe here. Well, kind of safe. Relatively safe. Probably safer than anywhere else in Bogota, for you to be sick. You’ve got me.”

He didn’t wink this time.

“Nowhere is safe. The world is made of knives and teeth. And they’re waiting for me to fall. I had to become a monster to survive. I have to destroy him.”

“Let’s start with eating some soup so you can sit up without falling over,” he suggested tentatively with an awkward chuckle, “Then, when you’re feeling a little better, you can destroy people, okay?”

Elena considered this and reluctantly nodded. Martinez took it as his cue to pick up the soup from the table, sitting back on the edge of the bed.

“Good, that’s good. No, no, Elle, swallow it, don’t let it run back out of your mouth. That’s gross, Elena. Now it’s on your pillow.”

Elena flopped back over onto her back with a sigh. “I died in that house,” she coolly stated in a small voice, and what the f*ck did that mean? Martinez felt very sure that whatever explanation his mind could come up with, the truth would be so much f*cking worse. He didn’t ask, instead sitting beside her wordlessly and Elena’s eyes dropped shut and she let out a shattered breath, then slipped into a light, restless sleep.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

First, there was a hiss.

Then, a bang followed by a plume of smoke.

And Elena emerging from the ashes, her face streaked with dirt and blood, grey specks of ash dotting her skin like stars amongst a dark night, the stark red a trail of Northern lights guiding him to focus on her shaky gaze.

He’d never seen himself leave reality, but he thought it would look very much like Elena’s vacant expression as she crossed the distance between them, uncaring of Alejandro coiled behind Bruno like a snake, her eyes only on Morales, who almost knocked himself off balance trying to get up and away from her.

Elena grabbed him by the throat, smoke billowing from behind her.

She tilted her head, studying him like a bored cat. “I see I missed,” she stated, licking her lips and fingering the gun holstered on her hip. She spun it in her hand, gripping the barrel and Bruno could tell that she was contemplating whether to hit Morales with it.

“You don’t miss,” Morales croaked. Elena shrugged.

“That’s right,” she said, purring, “You know me so very well.”

She shoved him back on the chair, moving to straddle him, her arm around her waist and head dipped against his, their lips almost touching. Elena’s eyes fluttered shut, and she bit at his lip. Morales winced from the pressure against his wound, and Elena moaned.

“It sucks, doesn’t it?” she asked, her voice sweet, dipping into false, poisonous sympathy and Bruno felt like this was a display he shouldn’t be watching, “It sucks to be at someone else’s complete mercy. It sucks being spread across something, and it f*cking sucks to know that someone else is taking pleasure in your pain.”

She deepened what’d absolutely become a kiss, and Bruno felt bile rise in his throat. Elena came up for air, Morales’ bleary eyes studying her. She grinned again, her teeth sharp and catching the light, decorated with jewels of blood.

“You’re here,” Morales gasped, blood spilling from his lips, “You are so beautiful. You look just like the day we lost you.”

Bruno wondered if he’d have noticed a few days ago—if he’d missed thousands of Elena’s little tells—but she stiffened minutely, before she jerked against Morales, her body arching with practiced easy, bobbing and weaving against him as Elena dove back in, cheek-to-cheek in Hell, her fingers pulling at Morales’ hair.

It was what made Bruno finally turn away, noticing how Alejandro had slinked into the darkness—bastard, he thought, but he found that he couldn’t blame him—even if he’d thought Alejandro would be the kind of disgusting freak who’d get off on watching what was unfolding in front of Bruno.

“Your pupils are blown,” Morales noticed, his voice surprised, and Bruno opened his eyes to see Morales raising a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Elena’s ear, his touch lingering against her skin. “I didn’t think you used.”

“Good to know that you forgot shooting me up when you f*cked my brains into mush,” Elena snarled, “I’m quoting you directly. Because if it was my opinion, I’d be lying to make you feel better.” She tsked. “And I have no interest in placating you anymore.”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Still sitting in his lap, Elena nodded. “Yes,” she affirmed, “I came here to get even. You could have told me what you did years ago. Do you have any last words for your last meal on death row?”

“I’m sorry.”

Elena snapped.

“You’re not!” she yelled, lunging at Morales’ throat, throwing them to the ground with a sickening thud, and what followed was a sound that Bruno was never going to forget. Right as the click of a rifle sounded, Elena pushed her hand through muscle and bone, her lips locked in a wet kiss, teeth pulling limp lips until they disconnected, hyped up on adrenaline, and came away with a free head.

She faced the cavalry, and Bruno blinked, and she was standing in front of her first victim. He blinked again, and she’d sliced down to the hip, and he blinked, and Elena drew her gun, not focussing on her target, the click of a trigger, the thud of a body dropping to the ground and Elena’s breath falling from her throat, getting lost on the way down.

He opened his eyes, watching Elena standing surrounded by gore, quivering, smoke spilling from the barrel of her gun, bullet embedded in her shoulder. She staggered backwards, looked shocked at the mansion’s rooftop, at the figure stumbling to the ground, pitching forwards, and falling into the water. Bruno could hear the patter of feet against tile, running the opposite way, running away from them.

Elena’s gun fell to the ground with a resounding clack, even if Bruno could see that she had another one hooked around her back. Still veering backwards, Bruno could recognise the walls of dissociation climbing higher and higher and maybe he was selfish, but she couldn’t slip into whatever she’d done, so he did the only thing he could.

He spoke.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Bruno confessed.

Elena’s posture stiffened. Her limbs cracked, and she slowly turned to study him.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he repeated, “I thought you’d do the smart thing. I thought you’d run for the hills.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Elena closed the distance between him, and Elena gripped his hand, her strength bleeding into him, burning hot.

“I’ll always come back for you,” she insisted, blood dripping from her bottom lip and one eye blown to sh*t, blood peppering the iris. Bruno could feel the fine tremors running from her hand, and he didn’t know if it was from her wounds, or her words.

“Always,” Elena repeated, tears streaming down her soot-stained cheeks, carving paths through her skin, “I promised you. We’re partners. We look out for each other.”

And Bruno couldn’t do anything other than nod, as a knife plunged into his back and he felt himself stumble backwards, Elena’s fingers slipping from his and her lips twisted in a desperate scream that he didn’t manage to hear over the air rushing in his ears.

“Elena!” he screamed.

“I forgive you!”

And he hoped she understood what he meant.

BOGOTA; Five Years Ago, Martinez

Elena slept for a few hours. Martinez was f*cking exhausted himself, but he couldn’t in good conscience leave Elena alone like this. So, instead, he made himself as comfortable as possible on the floor in a pile of discarded blankets and a wool sweater that smelled of Elena and took a nap himself.

He woke up to Elena muttering about the stench and clammy skin of corpses, which, if he could say so, was a really terrible thing to wake up to.

“Hey, Elena, hey Boss, look at me,” he moved to crouch at Elena’s head, and Elena stared right through him with glassy, bloodshot eyes. “No, Elle, look at me. Elena, it’s me. It’s Martinez. Mars. We’re here in your room. You have a fever.”

“Fever,” Elena parroted, blinking a few times to hopefully clear her vision.

“Yeah,” he grinned when her gaze sharpened, “You’re pretty sick. It would really help if you drank something, you know. Could I get you to drink some water if I brought it for you?”

“Don’t let them take me,” Elena hissed, her eyes focussed on his for a moment as she grabbed his sleeve in a vicelike grip that Martinez wasn’t sure he could break out of if he tried, despite Elena barely being able to hold herself up, “Not while I’m alive. f*cking make sure I’m dead when they put me on that f*cking wagon. Make sure I’m dead when they throw me in the water.”

“Um, wow, okay,” he stammered, “Yeah, I am definitely not letting that happen. Also, you’re not actually dying, Elena. You do realise that, right? Please tell me you realise that.” He could feel Elena’s hand through his sleeve, and while he could definitely still feel a fever working its way through her, it had gone down a little. Whether it was the medicine or just the sickness running its course, Elena seemed to be slightly better.

It’s a shame that Elena didn’t seem to realise that. A damn shame that ‘slightly better’ in Elena’s world meant begging your friend to make sure you’re dead before the nightmen take you.

“Don’t let them take me,” Elena insisted, her grip not wavering, “Make sure I’m dead.”

“I promise, Boss,” he reassured her, trying very hard not to imagine why Elena would have such a terror of that and not quite succeeding.

“Make sure.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Playtime’s over.

Elena was in control. Complete, glorious control.

She quickly advanced on the man; the man who’d stabbed her cargo in the back and pushed him over the edge of the pool, the man who Elena hadn’t planned to kill because she already had enough blood on her conscience but the man that she’d gladly disembowel now.

Elena might have let him kill Bruno because she tried to convince herself that a grovelling slave would be innocent. f*ck that. She’s ripping out his spine and mounting it. Elena moved towards the killer with fluid speed, her hands drawing the knives sheathed against her back. She would kill this man, cut him apart; that was all. There was nothing afterwards.

She’d burned all her bridges, and she wasn’t going to rebuild them with tighter ropes. Maybe, she’d bring Bruno’s body back to Encanto and think about what’d happened if she hadn’t said yes to that offer, back at the Green Light Inn. She’d still have had Martinez, that’d be for sure.

Maybe she’d come back to this place, afterwards. Maybe she’d join Pedro, maybe she’d even shoot herself with the same gun. She’d shed a tear for him before, dropping on her knees in front of the memory of someone who’d shared alcohol and kind words with her just because he could—the man who’d stepped away from the bomb, the father who wouldn’t come home to his kids.

The enemy turned towards her, teeth bared in a mouth without lips, a map of messy burns that she wouldn’t let scar. He brought up the bloodied shiv, drawing another with his free hand. They were crude things, jagged pieces of metal with the end grasped in his shaking fingers held in some kind of cloth, the metal dark with either corrosion or filth. Who knew?

Elena had dipped her knives in human sh*t before to add the extra kick of a promised infection when she’d been outmatched. All she had to do was survive in hiding for a few days, waiting for sepsis to set in.

But they were strong enough to meet the ceramic edge of hers with a sickening clang as she lashed in a downward arc with her left hand. Her target blocked it and jumped back as Elena’s right knife swept under to gut him. He almost ended their battle right there by going backwards into the pool himself, but he lurched sideways to safety in time, hissing through his teeth.

There was sweat beading his red skin and he reeked of sweat amid the acrid stench of chlorine.

Elena lunged again, noticing how her opponent blocked her and concluding that he had experience with knives, brute force and cruelty if not outright training—not close to as refined in technique as Elena, but tough enough to take a hit, fast enough to avoid needing to, ruthless enough to press any advantage he saw. Elena saw herself in his strikes.

There were screams and yelling from around, splashes and the roar of a vehicle escaping the scene. Elena didn’t listen to them, or to the voices surrounding her. There was only the fight, the beating of her heart, the stinging of her muscles, how her vision still swam when she moved too quickly: f*cking Morales.

They circled each other, the fight moving along the patio, midway between the curving and the drop into the deeper end of the pool. Elena ducked down, slashed a backhand move towards her target’s belly that he just barely avoided and flipped the knife in mid-air, catching it reversed in the other direction so she could bring the new grip across her target’s chest.

She grinned at the thin line of blood she drew, but it was a light tag. It wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t be lethal.

“Fool,” her target hissed, “You couldn’t stand a chance against me. I’m the face of brutality!”

Elena shrugged, looking him over, and when she didn’t recognise him (of course, she did, but he looked like sh*t, not like a king and she wanted to pretend that he wasn’t yet another monster that she’d created), she simply smiled and replied, sweetly as she blocked his downward slash with her own knife, “I’m the fist. And people are actually scared of me. You clean piss out of captive water. You try to f*ck women who’d rip your f*cking eyes out for looking at them.”

For a moment, they held the standstill, both of their knives connecting and struggling to get past the other, but Elena snapped it forward, shrugging the blow off as she punched her target straight in the nose. He howled, staggering back, one shiv broken in Elena’s arm and abandoned as he reached for his nose, blood already pooling on his upper lip.

There’s a lot that can be argued about Elena Rojas: but everyone agrees that she has one killer (ha) punch.

Elena didn’t waste a second, attacking with her right arm expended and with a war, her target dropped both shivs—the functional one and the remains—grabbing Elena’s wrist, turning, dropping her weight and throwing her along the length of the walkway towards the edge. Elena spun on the floor, losing her knives, and dug her injured hand down to stop her momentum.

Agony flared through her, but she knew she couldn’t afford to use her good one. She stopped and rolled back onto her feet.

sh*t was happening all around her, she could hear screaming, and she had to dart away from a hand grabbing at her ankle. None of them mattered. None of them were combatants in this fight. None of them were her targets. None of them had been any use in keeping Bruno alive or in keeping her position. Only the enemy mattered, standing in battle position a few meters away, his shivs recovered and ready.

She gave herself a moment to sigh, muttering to herself. “Motherf*cker.”

f*ck him and f*ck his shivs. There was no honour in battle requiring Elena to meet him on equal footing. In a shift movement, Elena pulled the machine pistol holstered across her back and pointed it at the suddenly wide-eyed target. Someone swore and dove off the walkway, Elena didn’t care.

Elena opened fire. Machine pistols fired a great many bullets at high speed. They were good for providing cover, hard to aim with any great reliability, even for her, quick to overheat and empty. Even a few second holding the trigger was enough to bring the muzzle up and waste ammo firing too high. Elena was strong, however, strong enough to keep the muzzle down, and her opponent was only a few bodies away.

Her target saw the same outcome to their fight that Elena planned and dove to his right, across the floor and straight for the edge of the walkway. Elena followed him with the arc of her weapon, firing bullets into the floor just shy of him. But the f*cker was fast—faster than anyone she’d pursued, other than Bruno: he went over the edge, below the angle that Elena could aim at.

Even in her rage, she knew her trajectories.

She’d already proved that.

She would prove it again.

She bolted forward in pursuit.

BOGOTA; Five Years Ago, Martinez

Two hours later, Martinez was done being reassuring. He’d tried to help Elena use the chamber pot and the ungrateful bastard had responded to Martinez’ supporting arm by punching him in the jaw. Unfortunately, her ability to aim didn’t extend to other parts of her anatomy—or women simply had drawn the short biological stick in yet another area—which was why Martinez now had wet shoes.

f*cker.

This was a nightmare. Martinez had not signed up for any of this.

Yet, Elena wouldn’t let him leave.

“Someone else can take care of you! Morales! Ramone! Madrigal! Anyone but f*cking me!”

“Don’t let any of them in here! They’ll get sick!”

Elena’s voice dripped with a threat.

“I will not let any of them in,” he conceded.
“I’ll shoot you if you do.”
“Ungrateful ass.”

Elena rolled onto her side. “Make sure that I’m dead before they take me.”

The first time she’d said it—the first time she’d asked him to well, kill her—it’d been horrifying and broken his heart—but that was the first time. At this point, Martinez had heard it about thirty times and the horror and sympathy had simply worn off.

“If you’re not dead,” he answered, playing with a loose curl tickling his chin, “I’ll promise you that I’ll strangle you myself.”

“Thanks,” Elena slurred, “You’re a good friend.”

“I must be, to be putting up with your ungrateful ass.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena threw herself down under the walkway, wrapping her legs around a stray support beam as she flipped up to smile at her target, the butt of her gun sitting solidly against his jawbone.

“Hello,” she laughed, “Goodbye.”

She pulled the trigger on her inhale, uncaring of the spray of red that hit her cheek as she exhaled.

“Uh?” a familiar voice questioned, pulling her from the comfortable buzz of a good kill—it reminded her of the slim period between an overdose and a damn good high—a tongue clicked, and Elena’s head shot to the side, gun already aimed, her finger ghosting the trigger, to see Bruno Madrigal’s lopsided grin from where he had supported himself on a beam, his feet hooked under a slight raise, and his arms dangling uselessly from the side.

“Oh.”

She blinked. Slowly lowered the gun, shoving it down against her waistband and the small of her back, uncaring of the burn against her scarred skin.

“Hi.”

Gently, she climbed towards him, until their shoulders were touching. “I thought you’d fallen off.”

Bruno shrugged. “More like a slow stumble that allowed me to grab onto the side. It’s more comfortable than climbing around the walls of a house. Other than the stab wound, of course. That hurts like a bitch.”

Elena laid her hand atop his, taking some of his admittedly low weight. “I bet,” she answered, disbelief still evident in her voice—it’d sink in later, she knew, both the fact that he was okay and the bone-deep fear she’d felt when she thought he wasn’t. When she thought she’d lost the one thing she managed to save from the fires.

Elena slowly boosted herself up, turning back to catch Bruno’s gaze, “Well,” she finally settled on, “I think I managed to either kill or scare everyone away, so do you want to blow this joint and find a hotel to hang out at with some of our stolen blood money?”

“I didn’t know you stole money. I thought you only stole people and guns.”

Elena winked.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Bruno nodded.

Elena flipped back onto the walkway, quickly pulling Bruno to his feet next to her. “Don’t fall off again,” she ordered playfully, “I don’t have anything else to slaughter.” Briefly, Bruno glanced down at the raging waters, littered with bodies.

Elena dragged him away from it, her grip still against his wrist, reminding her of a snake coiling around its prey. Neither Elena nor the snake had any intention of letting go.

“I have a horse now,” she said, because she didn’t have anything better, and she wanted to talk. Walking in silence would just allow her thoughts to ruminate and she’d prefer to do that alone, in her own hotel room, where she could break a mirror when she couldn’t look at herself, where she could come undone at night and stitch herself back into the legend that soldiers told children about before the morning sun burned her skin.

“I didn’t know you rode.”

Elena chuckled. “That’s half of why people think I’m terrifying. I come riding into the village on a black horse, an omen of death, and then they suddenly don’t care whether I’m a woman. Maybe that makes it scarier, to think that a woman could do that.”

“You should have told me that sh*tty story was about you. Then, I’d have paid attention.”

Elena stepped over a corpse who’d lost their face, and most of their cerebral matter. “You wouldn’t,” she admonished, “And if you did, you’d only do it so you could find a way to weaken me and escape.”

“Perhaps.”

Elena couldn’t say I’m glad you’re okay because that seemed to much like admitting I love you and I would miss you, but she hoped that the periodic squeezes of his hand could speak for her, until she managed to keep the words in her mouth long enough without becoming too sick to say them aloud. To speak to the finality of love, of the inevitable grief.

Bruno squeezed back, clutching her like she was falling sand.

“But,” she teased as she pulled him along, focusing on the heat in his hand—how it wasn’t cold, it wasn’t cold, the fires hadn’t taken him from her—and how he enthusiastically pressed theirs back together every time she thought she’d lingered for too long, made it too obvious, and tried to pull hers away. She appreciated that he was allowing her to think that she did it for him, that he wanted the simple touch as much as she did.

Perhaps he did.

“What exactly did you hear about the Night Woman?”

She raised her brow playfully, waiting for his answer but also wanting to subconsciously tell him that he could change his opinion of her. That she wouldn’t be angry if he couldn’t forgive her. He’d always known that she was brutal: Hell, their first meeting involved her killing two people and taking him hostage. But for some reason, he’d forgiven her for that. He’d even told her that it wasn’t her fault when he’d watched her pull the trigger.

Bruno shrugged. “Only that she’s Elena Rojas, the Night Woman and a brutal bitch who they only thought they could reason with if they had something she wanted—”

“I don’t want you,” Elena interrupted. Her hands flew to her pockets as she awkwardly turned to face Bruno. “Okay, that came out wrong.”

She took a deep breath.

“These people?” she gestured around her, to the carnage she’d caused, to the grand mansions, “These people only want to own others. I’ve been a victim of them—and, f*ck, it’s just: I don’t ever want you to think that I want you like that. Never. I want you to be happy, and I want to fix the mess I’ve thrown us both into.”

She folded her hands against her hips, glaring determinedly at the mountains framed behind Bruno’s thin face. “And I can practically f*cking taste it. C’mon!”

Without giving herself a moment to doubt it, she grabbed his hands and started running. To her surprise, Bruno followed her. She giggled, allowing the emotions of the day to wash over her—leaving her cleansed by fire.

“Let’s scam a hotel!”

She didn’t say anything about how she knew he’d lied, how she’d already memorised the slight quake of his lips when he told something that wasn’t entirely true—not out of malice, but because knowing when someone was bullsh*tting her had saved her a couple of gut shots before.

BOGOTA; Five Years Ago, Martinez

He read the almost illegibly written cough medicine label, for lack of anything better to do that wasn’t shooting Elena, and hey, this thing had poppy in it. Nice. He forced another dose into Elena before taking a healthy swig of it himself. It was for Elena’s own good, really. It would keep Martinez from murdering her. Besides, he was still sick, too. Okay… so, he was pretty much over his bout and entirely recovered, but he was still coughing every now and then, and that was enough of an excuse for him.

He felt it in his bloodstream and sighed contentedly, leaning against Elena’s sh*tty, rickety bed, and realising, now that the pain was easing; that he’d had a tension headache between his eyes for the past hour or so. Wonder how he’d gotten that.

“This is some good sh*t, Boss. Shame you’re too sick to enjoy it.”

“If I die—”

“You’re not dying, Elena. Your fever is almost gone. You’re just still convinced that you’re dying because you’re never sick and don’t know how it feels. Don’t get me started on that sh*t.”

Martinez didn’t have any guns to twirl like he usually would to reinforce a point or threat, but he’d found the knife under Elena’s pillow, so he was playing with that.

“If I die,” Elena insisted, because she was a bastard and made of stronger stuff than he’d ever be, “Sell my stocks. My stuff. Whatever. And order a hit on Noche. A good one. Don’t do it yourself. It’s dangerous. If there’s enough, pay off your indenture and take Anna with you. I don’t want her trapped here. Don’t want you trapped here.”

“You’re secretly sweet, aren’t you? You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?” Martinez felt a twinge of jealousy, and he forced himself to bite it down.

Elena let out this long, tragically lovesick sigh that made Martinez want to throw up all that sh*tty soup he’d swallowed due to Elena’s stubborn insistence. “Anna,” Elena continued wistfully, and Martinez had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from f*cking laughing aloud and drawing both Elena’s attention and ire.

“Oh, God, this is priceless. You think Anna’s pret-ty, don’t you?” he said in a sing-song voice, aware that he sounded more eleven than sixteen.

“Pretty,” Elena agreed, then in the same reverent, lustful tone of voice most men would use to talk about a generous set of tit*—the voice he’d used to talk about Elena many a time after one too many drinks said: “Dangerous.”

“That’s really what does it for you, huh? Dangerous?” Martinez raised an eyebrow. “You know,” he smirked, “I’m pretty and dangerous, too.”

Elena looked at him with unfocused, bewildered eyes, like a deer caught on the road before answering: “I guess?”

“Ugh,” Martinez kicked his head back, running a hand through his hair and down his cheek in a dramatic fashion he knew Elena would usually give him sh*t for, “These cheekbones are wasted on you, you tragically, disgusting, romantically inept fool. Why do I do this sh*t to myself?”

“Mars,” Elena murmured again, sounding sad. He couldn’t have that, now could he? Even if she was a tragically, idiotically, disgustingly, romantically inept and other things that ended with -ly, fool.

“I don’t suppose you’ve done something as human as letting her know how you feel?” Martinez asked, even if he was already sure of the answer.

“Don’t deserve her,” Elena bit out, “She’s too good. She does good things just for the kick of it.”

What he didn’t say: you do that, too, Elena. I’ve been in love with you for as long as I remember knowing what love is. You do so much good, and you just pretend you don’t because you don’t truly know how to love yourself as a person and not a concept. You’re the greatest love of my life, and I know I’ll never be able to let you go.

What he said instead, snorting: “Damn straight that she’s too f*cking good for you. At least you can acknowledge it.”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I didn’t have a thing for you,” Martinez said frankly, because there was no way Elena was going to remember this, and even if she did: he suspected that she knew anyways. “You’re kind of an awful person, you know.”

“I’m a monster.” Elena’s mouth was set in a hard line.

No, you’re not. I remember you.

He sighed. “Stop being a dramatic little bitch. I’m trying to complain about you.”

“Sorry.”

†

Give her a face
Give her a name
That isn't hers
Then make her yours
Say she's adored
Call her a whor*
Then pick her up
Throw her on the floor

I'm getting to know her
And all of her anger
You won't recognize her
If you encountered
I'm getting to know her
And all of her anger
Picked herself up
Put her back together

†

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

He’d very quickly become conscious of the stab wound when they’d begun to walk.

He’d wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife, and he’d very quickly become conscious of how quickly Elena could move, how she could pull his hand off, trapping it in her grasp, her expression utterly exasperated in the seconds between when she arrived onto the scene and when she remembered that they hadn’t lived the same life.

“You can’t pull it out,” she instructed, “That makes it bleed more, and if it bleeds more, it means that you f*cking die.”

“Don’t question me on that,” Elena stated, glaring at him, and how he’d already opened his mouth to contest leaving the f*cking knife inside of him, “When you have a bed to lie down in, I’ll remove it and I’ll cauterise the wound, which will hurt like a bitch, but it’ll heal up. Trust me, I know stab wounds and burns like I know my own mind.”

He could have said something about him not being very sure that she knew her own mind, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept walking, and tried to make his gait as straight as possible, tried not to think about the metal jutting from his insides.

The wind whipped Elena’s hair into a halo around her head, and she tugged at a loose strand. A swirling nebula of bruises grew from her neck, and he knew from experience that they’d only look worse in the morning. She seemed to catch him staring, and she tugged the collar of her coat tighter around them. She winced. He wondered if she’d pulled anything when she lunged for Alejandro. He wondered if she’d get angry at him if he asked her.

“I’m just thinking about stuff,” he defended. Elena quirked her brow.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Danger.”

Elena sighed. “It’s as good a segue as anything, I guess,” she spoke, her hands jammed in the pockets of her pants, “I meant to tell you that before I killed Morales, he said he knew there was more magic in Encanto. Is that true?”

Bruno wasn’t sure he should nod, but he did anyways.

“He says he wants to take it, even if he’s dead. He says Alejandro knows.”

The birds overhead squawked and descended on something left behind. Probably a corpse. The air smelled salty, and Bruno wondered if they were near the sea. The only body of water he’d ever seen was the river, and he wasn’t keen to return there for a dip.

“Didn’t you kill Alejandro?”

Elena inhaled.

“I don’t know,” she answered, “I didn’t make sure. I think he’s the kind of stubborn bastard where you need to make sure. I don’t know why I didn’t make sure. I always do. It’s called a double tap, and I even did to your… friends. Back in Encanto.”

Elena tilted her head to regard the sky. “I don’t want to think about killing anyone,” she plead, “But I don’t want to think about anything else, either. It’s been a weird couple of weeks, and I don’t even know if I have a right to feel like this.”

He saw Rosita break from Elena’s hair, crawling across her narrow shoulders and burrowing under her blazer, pawing at her neck like she did when Bruno was anxious.

If he’d been a different man, and Elena had been a different woman, Bruno might have reached out. He might have put his hand on her shoulder, he might have tried to reassure her. But she wasn’t his—and he didn’t know why he was hung up on that, he didn’t know if he wanted her to be, he hadn’t thought about having kids because he didn’t believe it was something that would happen to him.

He remembered talking about it once, with Julieta, because she’d already had two and it was natural to ask her brother if he was jealous, at least for Julieta. She’d always feared the family breaking apart. He’d never thought to ask her about the ten years where they had. He hadn’t thought to ask a lot of things, but the fresh air of Bogota was making him reconsider.

Or maybe, he thought, stealing another glance at Elena, who was busy building her walls up, shoring up the foundations, placing thicker bricks—maybe it wasn’t the city. Maybe it was the people. Julieta had confessed that she hadn’t planned on having kids—she had so much on her shoulders already, she was too young, she had too much she hadn’t done yet (didn’t they all?) but she’d fallen into it.

“If Alejandro is alive,” asked Bruno, “What are we—you—going to do about that?”

Elena stiffened. “I like how you first thought it was our thing to solve, and then remembered that he’d be my problem.”

Bruno shrugged. “I’d be an idiot if I said I couldn’t sense a history between you two.”

It was Elena’s turn to nod. “You’re right,” she agreed, “There’s a history between us and it’s not a pleasant one, so I’m going to talk about it when I’m on my way to a hotel because I’ve bared enough of myself to you. If you’re going to resent me for that choice, you can take half of the supplies off Bella and I won’t say anything about you.”

Bruno could hear the threat in her voice. He didn’t have to know her—but he sensed that he did—to know that she was implying that he wouldn’t make it far, and that she wouldn’t be the one that got to him. “There’s a but there,” he stated simply.

Elena nodded again. “There is,” she answered, “There’s a but there because Morales told me that Alejandro knows because he knows how I feel about Alejandro. It’s the same reason that Alejandro was there to kidnap you, Morales knows that my… discomfort, yes, that’s the word, with Alejandro, keeps me decently in line because I want to do everything I can to spend less time with him and I wasn’t ready to accept the social consequences of killing him.”

Bruno quirked his brow.

“You’re waiting for me to continue.”

Bruno didn’t demean her with answering the obvious.

“I don’t feel that way about Alejandro anymore. And I don’t feel that way about any of this, before I saw it as a valuable asset that I was willing to sacrifice for to keep. I wanted to stay in the good books. Now, for better or worse and I haven’t decided on that yet, I don’t have that option and I never will. So, I might as well make the best of it. I think that we shouldn’t immediately run for Encanto, because we’ve just proven that we’d be followed.”

She swallowed.

“I think that you should help me get revenge. I think that you should have some of your own, too.”

She turned to him, grinning lightly. “I think that you and I make a good team, and I think we should take our act on the road.”

They continued in silence, until Bruno noticed Elena biting her lip, and he mirrored her previous words. “What are you thinking about? You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

Unlike him, Elena didn’t try to spare him. She didn’t say that she was thinking about stuff. She went straight for the jugular. He supposed it made sense, with all the differences ebbing into the similarities that’d made themselves glaringly apparent—out in the light of day, waiting for him to decide what the f*ck he wanted to think of them.

“About the three times I nearly wrecked my own life, and then the one time I did.”

Oh.

Bruno smirked, because Elena was an asshole and he was learning that he liked to be one, too (and because he knew, Elena didn’t need his pity as much as he didn’t need hers). “Do those three times correlate to your three proposals?”

Elena kicked a pebble. “No,” she answered, “That only really got me sh*t once, when I did it the third time, because everyone expected it but hoped for a different ending. Like idiots. They never cared to ask me why I didn’t want to marry. They just kept on and on, because of course, I’d have to accept at some point, right?”

She exhaled.

“It was just about wearing me down.”

She ran her bloodstained fingers through her matted hair, stopping to catch her breath. “They always just wanted me to be the perfect f*cking girl, the one who’s competent even as a child, attractive enough to be worth something, and who doesn’t speak up. The one that everyone likes. They never asked me if I wanted to be that person. They just wanted their golden f*cking child, but I couldn’t outshine any of the boys, either.”

She tapered off, and didn’t speak again until a few minutes after, when Bruno had started to slow down, and Elena had noticed. She started to tell a story that Bruno thought was about a raid, a couple of people he knew by name, maybe even Elena’s elusive and very, very dead father that Bruno hated having choice words for.

He thought she mentioned the word ‘scar’, and if he’d been more in tune with his body and connecting his mind to it, he’d have listened because she might have told the story of the map of hurt curling across her back.

“So, I told him that if I don’t get answers on how a group of bratty kids could steal thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs, he’d need two hands to count to five—”

Elena sighed.

“Bruno, are you paying attention? I don’t want you to pass out. I’m not reciting my cry-baby backstory for fun. I’m doing it to keep you engaged with my pain, and therefore, stop you from face-planting straight into the dirt. That’s what makes me so nice.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re such a bitch?”

Elena crossed her arms, playfully sticking out her tongue.

“Don’t call me a bitch,” she ordered. Then, she grinned and added, “I know you can do better than that. You know what my father used to always tell me when I called someone a bitch?”

Bruno didn’t know if he was supposed to nod or not, Elena’s edges were still blurry, and his body pulsed with pain. Elena seemed to sense it, seemed to grow desperate to speak, to forget what they were walking towards, what would happen if they stopped.

“You're smart, Honey, he’d say. You can think of better ways to intimidate this toothless maggot.”

“God,” she exclaimed, “God, I f*cking miss him. God, I’ve really f*cking missed him recently, I don’t know why. Don’t they say that it’s supposed to get f*cking easier as time goes on? It’s been over a decade, by now. I was f*cking nine. I’m twenty-one now. I should be over it. I should be able to move on.”

In a tiny voice that Bruno knew wasn’t directed to him, she added: “I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I can survive not moving on.”

“I spent so long being angry at him, not realising that I was the one who didn’t know how to form healthy attachments. Not even realising that I was angry, just allowing it to fester, to make me into a person that I don’t like anything about.”

“Bruno, I,” she inhaled, and Bruno felt the flames licking his skin, “I don’t like anything about myself.”

Bruno veered to the side at her words, and Elena crossed the distance between them, hooking their arms together, dipping down to smack her shoulder against his armpit before hoisting him back up. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he could feel tiny tremors dancing across Elena’s body.

“From the moment I was born, expectations were set of me. Of whom I could be, of who I absolutely couldn’t be. I could be phenomenal, I had to—or I wouldn’t be worth having around, but I couldn’t outshine any of the boys, either.”

Elena’s hip knocked against his as she moved to take a step, and she shot him an apologetic glance as he failed to bite back a hiss of pain. He had a knife in his back, he was going to bitch about it.

“Men in my life would use me as a mirror of themselves, and they’d imprint what they wanted for themselves on me, what they wanted of women, sometimes. It depended. I don’t like that. When someone looks at me and instead of seeing me, sees themselves. That’s selfish. I deserve to be my own person, and not the vessel for someone else’s f*cking sh*t.”

“I’d excel in everything he asked of me, yet he never chose me.”

He was sure that Elena was practically carrying him by now, following a route that only she knew. She could be leading him into where no one would hear her blow out his brains, but he knew she wouldn’t. He could probably pull the knife out of his back and stab it into hers as she crouched, dragging him along, but she knew that he wouldn’t.

Rosita slid off Elena and onto Bruno’s shoulder, running down his limp arm, huffing when she didn’t like the look of the pocket of his pants, before scurrying back up his chest, and settling on his shoulder and Bruno didn’t know why it felt like she was handing him the greatest responsibility of his life, but it did.

“I convinced myself that I’d been chosen for the damned, that someone had to come around and save me and that I hadn’t made myself fall.”

“I’ve had so many people in my corner… and yet, I never thought to look up and notice it.”

“I’m the one who f*cked up my own life.”

†

Give her a taste
Take it away
Under your thumb
Tell her to stay
Don't say a word
Don't disobey
When she woke up
She ran away

Run your mouth to keep her scared
You expected her to care
But when her mind made up
You were illfully prepared

†

BOGOTA; Someplace Else, Elena

When she was eighteen, Elena went to a funeral for the first time.

Elena thought it was pointless. Why are they crying? There is no reason to cry. Someone is dead. Someone is going to be born. There is nothing to be sad about. There is nothing to mourn. It’s just life. It’s always been life. And death.

Martinez made her go. He said it was out of respect. “Someone is dead,” he had explained, “Someone we know. We’re going to the funeral whether you like it or not.”

“There is no point,” Elena had answered. “It’s just death. I don’t understand why we’re going to a funeral and crying for show when there’s nothing to cry about. Someone’s dead. Life moves on.”

Martinez rubbed his forehead and sighed deeply, and Elena watched him closely, studied him. His eyes were red and sunken in and he looked ten years older than he was.

“Because, because—” he tried, “—someone is not going to go home to their family, they won’t be there at dinner, won’t be there to kiss their spouse goodnight. Won’t be there to tuck in their kids or save your reckless ass on a job—”

Before Elena could sputter that she wasn’t reckless, he continued, hair falling in his face and when Elena moved to tuck it behind his ear, his hand—cold and shaking—gripped her wrist, stopping her.

“Someone is dead, and yes, life goes on. But something is changed. Someone is gone and they’re not ever coming back.”

Elena was quiet. She had nothing to say. So, she remained frozen, his hand still wrapped around her skin.

“Funerals are the worst, trust me, they are. But when someone you know dies: you go to the funeral wearing black and you say sorry for your loss to the family and you send your love and flowers and that doesn’t do sh*t because it doesn’t bring them back but it’s the right goddamn thing to do,” Martinez continued, “Now, get dressed in black and help me tie my tie. We have to stop to buy flowers on the way.”

Elena would wear a black dress with black heels. Martinez said that the dress was almost too form-fitting to be funeral-appropriate and she answered that she didn’t own another one. He told her that she should buy one, so she had one for the next time.

Elena was sure there wouldn’t be a next time. Even if she knew.

She keeps her arm looped around Martinez’s for most of the service because she wouldn’t know what else to do with it—she doesn’t remember her father ever having this, she doesn’t remember people who barely knew him telling her that they were sorry in a church. She remembers telling them, drunkenly swaying, that her father was a bastard, the greatest man they’d ever met, not that important and that she wasn’t even his spawn.

I can’t believe it, so many people say. I can’t believe it.

Elena doesn’t know how. They all deal death like card tricks at the club. She supposes that they just can’t believe it when it happens to one of their own, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth—something between bile and the aftertaste of corner store dark chocolate—cheap and acidic.

His child’s there, a fifteen or sixteen year old girl with stony eyes that don’t cry and everyone comes up to her and her mother, saying sorry for your loss, saying we’re here for you, saying (again) we just can’t believe this happened (to you, to us, now we have to mourn, now we have to hurt like we have hurt), saying he was such a good man (he wasn’t), saying you’re so strong (she’s not).

Saying pointless sh*t that they might mean but Elena knows they won’t act on, and it won’t mean anything anyways because someone’s dead. She thinks she’s starting to understand funerals, but she doesn’t think it’s in the way that Martinez does.

Elena can tell that the girl hates every goddamn moment of it. Elena doesn’t blame her. Elena’s sure that the version of herself that got this would have hated it too, maybe she would have even hated it more than what’d actually happened to her—at least, there, she’d had the anger to fester and infect her. After the eulogy and after most of the guests have filtered out, the girl sits on the staircase behind the church.

It’s too cold for that and she only has a long-sleeve dress on. Elena grabs the girl’s coat and sits down next to her.

“Here,” Elena offers, handing the teenager her coat and thinking about what she’d been doing when she was fifteen or sixteen—it’s only a handful of years ago, and she knows she wasn’t accepting her coat from strangers. She wasn’t attending her father’s funeral, either.

The coat is powder blue and embroidered with rich country scenes on the back and it clashes with her black outfit and such an ugly day.

“It’s cold,” Elena adds.

She takes the coat and stuff her arms through the sleeves, folding in on herself. Elena bites back the voice that sounds like Morales in the back of her mind, the one that’s correcting a girl who’s just lost her father, correcting her posture, telling Elena to make sure that she doesn’t slouch.

“Who are you?” she asks and Elena shrugs. She doesn’t like getting that question, but she’s not going to rip out her eyes, not today.

“Elle,” she answers, looking out at the flower field behind the church, “I worked with him. I didn’t know him.”

“Then why are you?” she questions. Her voice isn’t angry or annoyed. It’s just tired. Worn out. Elena has the fatalistic urge to open up her arms, and tap against her bony chest, beckoning the girl to rest against her.

“My friend made me go. This is the first funeral I’ve gone to.”

“This is the first funeral I’ve hosted,” she answers with a dry chuckle, “So, you’re not the only newbie here. But you’re a little too old for this to be your first funeral, aren’t you?”

Elena looks at the side of her heels, heels that she stole for this ‘event’ and this only and heels that are already patterned with dots of mud. “Well,” she relents, “It is. Whether you believe it or not. Where I grew up, there weren’t funerals for the dead. They just died.”

She doesn’t mention that they grew up the same place. Elena knows that there’s a difference between the daughter of someone higher up the pecking order than her, and she’s spent a little too long thinking about how different her life would have been if she still had a father.

She’d have learned an instrument, that’s for sure, her father always said she had a beautiful voice, maybe she’d even be in university, maybe she’d be studying something wonderfully frivolous, like architecture or fine art or cultural anthropology and she’d clink wine glasses with her classmates and not mention that the diamonds glimmering around her neck are dripping with blood.

Maybe she’d even be dancing.

Elena liked to think that she would be dancing. That she’d be dancing for people who appreciated her for her art and not her body and that when the curtain fell, she’d slink into the darkness and she’d drink expensive aguardiente as familiar laughs rung around her, louder and brasher and fuller than she’d ever remember them in life.

The girl squints her eyes at Elena as she rests her elbows on her knees. “Were you in a cult or some sh*t?”

Elena barks out a laugh. “You could say that. But I don’t really know what it was.”

Is.

A few beats of quiet. The girl speaks again. “Are you going to say that you’re sorry for my loss?” she tutted, “That’s what everyone’s been saying. That’s what you’re supposed to say, if you’re sitting out here.”

Elena looks at her and shakes her head.

“No.”

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Sorry,” she pushes, “Are you sorry? For my loss?”

“No,” Elena answers, “I’m not. I do wish you a flood of love and support because that’s what you need. You don’t need my empty apology for something neither of us can change. Your father’s gone and you won’t ever be the same, but I’m not sorry. I didn’t kill him. You don’t need my pity in order to know that he’s gone, to feel the finality of that loss. To be valid in your hurt.”

“And if you ever want to get even on the people who killed him, I think you can figure out where to find me.”

The girl tips her head and wells up with tears. “I don’t know if I’m angry or happy that you said that. I don’t know if I want to hug you or scream for a guard to come and jam a gun against your temple.”

Elena smiles. She knows that as soon as the guard saw her face, he’d be the one backing away. Best not come to that. She liked her little moment of anonymity, of being able to bare herself without worrying about someone turning around and figuring out where all the cracks in her armour lie.

It felt like she could be Elena Rojas, girl who’d lost her father at a much younger age but still carried the loss, still carried the hurt, girl who’d been there—and nothing more—even if just for a sliver of a second.

“Maybe you’re both. Maybe it’s okay to be both.”

Elena doesn’t even know the girl’s name and she never will. Elena hardly knew her father, and most of what she did know came from the contract killing that she’d turned down, the price on his head that a rival gang had set too low. Elena’s only here because Martinez told her to come. Elena doesn’t know this girl. But Elena knows death like an old dance partner, and she’s willing to teach someone the steps.

†

Have you observed?
And what have you learned?
The girl that you knew
Will never be yours

†

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

With a playful grin, Elena gestured to herself, her slim fingers resting against her chest, “I’m Lola,” she spoke, moving her hand to point towards Bruno, “And this is my brother, Hernando.”

“There’s not much of a family resemblance,” noted the concierge. Elena simply shrugged. “He’s adopted,” she stated, her gaze begging him to challenge her word. The concierge, whose name tag Bruno read as saying Adam, wasn’t stupid enough to try. Instead, he dropped the key into Elena’s palm.

“We only have single rooms, because you’re booking so late.”
Elena nodded. “As long as there’s two beds, or a bed and a couch, we’ll be fine. We only want to stay for the night, so comfort is secondary to an open room.”

He nodded, to show he agreed with her. After all, she was supposed to be his adopted sister.

“A surname?”

Elena shrugged. “Martinez,” she settled on, a weight in her voice, “Lola and Hernando Bull-Martinez.”

Chapter 11: sleep now in the fire

Chapter Text

†

I tried. You tried. It didn’t work. We went our separate ways. No one died. We’re supposed to be okay with that. In my dreams, you’re sitting in my living room, dressed in the jacket you left in, and I look the same, I’m twenty-one, a small fire, and I still have my Northern accent.

†

UNDISCLOSED; Six Hours Ago, Félix

“They’re gone!” screamed Agustín, and Félix would have been clutching something had he not already heard it. Had it not been the twelfth time Agustín had informed them of Isabela and Luisa’s escape that Dolores stubbornly pretended to know nothing about, even if they’d taken the donkeys.

Of course, Félix knew where they’d gone. And even if he grabbed Agustín by the shoulders and agreed that it was unacceptable, he didn’t fault Isabela, Luisa or even Dolores.

After all, Félix had murdered someone before.

BOGOTA; Six Hours Ago, Pedro

Elena’s gaze met his, and he didn’t mean to—her eyes swirled with intelligence, she was studying him, her mind going a million miles an hour and he could probably have waved, and she wouldn’t have shot—but he fingered the trigger, and he didn’t think, and he fired.

The problem with bullets is that you can’t take them back, and it sailed straight into Elena’s shoulder and Elena staggered back. It wasn’t a bad shot, but the battalion under him would only engage with her when he signalled them, and he could already feel the blood staining his chest.

Elena’s eyes were wide, and he was sure that she’d only recognised him when she’d already shot—and at least, there’d be two of them. She’d given him her speciality, a sucking chest wound—her aim perfect, always ringing true—he’d known her to miss twice, and he didn’t think Morales counted.

Most men don’t have their last fleeting moments consumed by their murderer—and he knew that Elena didn’t deserve that honour, but he couldn’t help but keep staring at her, even when he felt his legs give away from under him—he kept looking.

He kept staring at her, at how her body shook at the realisation of what she’d done—taking a moment to chuckle at how he’d always imagined himself going out in a grander way.

He’d leap into the flames to save someone he loved, get maimed during a job—have a nice funeral, something gaudy, something that his wife would hate but his kids love because they don’t understand the concept of death yet. Something the travellers down South would envy.

He didn’t expect to barely have enough time to realise that he’d been shot. He didn’t expect his final thoughts to be settled on tear tracks running through smoke, and wondering whether she regretted it, her own blood gleaming in the sunlight, falling sluggishly.

It’d been a good shot, from far away, where he’d had the high ground. The shot was a testament to her skill. But he should have had enough time for a dead man’s switch, to send a second, final, deadlier strike towards her. To hit her somewhere more vital than her shoulder. But he didn’t.

He thought about the little folded note in the clearing, left where he knew she would find it. He hadn’t thought about the moniker he’d used on it—it felt wrong to call her the Night Woman, it always did, she was a cacophony of hurt and he knew why she’d earned that title in the first place, so, he gave her a new name.

The Golden Traitor—the ace of spades, the queen of hearts, a loaded gun that finally struck back against the system that’d created her, dripping with divinity. And now, she was truly earning this new moniker, too. Bitch.

He tried to tell Elena that he would see her in Hell, and he doesn’t know how—but she seemed to understand, even through the tunnels of silence and the distance and the wind rushing through his wound, her chest rattling. He’d see her in Hell for a game of cards where she didn’t cheat.

The bird settled on the roof above Elena, squawked at the scene below and the sun bathed everything in a golden glow, dripping salvation atop a throne of ash and bone.

“You’re Martino’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Elena’s head shot up. He hadn’t asked because he was unsure—everyone would be able to tell, even if not from the physical resemblance or how, even if she’d been nine when he died, she’d somehow taken on every one of his adult mannerisms—down to how he dressed, the crisp white shirt tucked into a slightly-too-large-suit, and when he wanted to be fancy, decked out with a waistcoat.

Looking at Elena as someone who knew Martino felt like pouring salt on an open wound, and he didn’t know how Kenji managed to work with Elena. So, he didn’t ask her because he wanted to know, or confirm a suspicion that others weren’t brave enough to voice.

No, he just wanted to make conversation with her.

Elena nodded, and turned back to her sandwich, sitting cross-legged in the cafeteria. She was going to be a hard nut to crack, Pedro realised. Good thing they had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena didn’t know how they managed to stumble up to the room that matched the number dangling on the sh*tty plastic keychain. She’d ended up bodily hauling Bruno up the stairs, because of course—the kinds of hotels that an assassin chose didn’t have elevators. Well, f*ck.

She dropped him on the bed, and with a sharp glare, instructed him to, “Stay the f*ck awake.” She didn’t have the world’s best bedside manner—somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten how to. Sue her. It wasn’t exactly on her job description.

She ambled to the ensuite bathroom, stripped her coat, pulled out the lighter that she’d used to set the f*ckers alight—she could feel the drug thumbing through her body, making her recollections muddied even if it’d been mere hours ago—and a knife.

She drew the flame across the blade in the sink, sterilising it. She grabbed a handful of toilet paper, stuffed the sink, and set it on fire. She angled the knife so the hilt and tip rested on the edge of the sink, and most of the blade could grow red-hot under the rising flames. Porcelain didn’t burn well, and when she was done with the fire, she’d just turn on the sink, even if the faucet was red-hot, too.

With a wince, she shrugged off her formerly white tank. At least she wasn’t wearing a bra. She preferred them for the obvious, but she’d dipped under a punch once and the underwire had broken out and stabbed through her tit. She still had the scar from that, but it just looked like a discoloured mole by now.

Her gaze caught the weird, circular, coin-shaped scar on her lower abdomen, and she thought back to cleaning herself up in the bathroom after her nightmare. When she’d been covered in mud, washed herself off the sound of someone f*cking as a transaction and emerged to Pedro who wanted to drink and talk.

She stifled a cry.

The wound that Pedro had given her was still weeping sluggishly, but it wasn’t anything that would kill her in this bathroom. She could see the bullet sticking out from her skin. She took a deep, shuddering breath and dug in.

ENCANTO; Twenty-Five Years Ago, Félix

Pepa was crying in the bathroom.

Félix, like always, sprung into action.

He’d already long since decided that he wasn’t going to look at Alma Madrigal with a modicum of respect and he sunk to the ground, leaning against the bathroom door, humming softly. He could hear Pepa steeling herself, and the pitter-patter of rain against the tiles.

“Mi vida,” he cooed, “Can I help you?”

A beat of silence.

“They tried to hurt Bruno, so I hurt them.”

Well, that was an interesting way for him to start his week, that was for sure.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Everything was fuzzy.

He remembered Elena at the desk, and the strange look that the concierge gave them, but Elena had a pair of keys that she played with, and she hauled him up, hissing as she did, and they walked on stairs. He tried to support his own weight, because he’d watched Elena get shot too, and it wasn’t the first beating that she’d taken recently. He wasn’t very good at it, and he hoped Elena could forgive him for being deadweight again.

Elena placed him on a bed and walked away. He thought she said something about not falling asleep, but the world was getting soft on the edges, and he could feel his eyes slipping closed. He tried to focus on what he could hear and see—in front of him was a simple brown dresser that probably contained a Bible in one of it’s four minimalistic drawers. He was sitting on the only bed, but there was a spacious armchair that he’d probably fight with Elena over who took.

She’d been shot in the shoulder, taken one too many hits to the head during the past couple of days he could tell by the hairlines quivers that worked through her as she shoved him over her shoulder that she was running on more than empty. His back protested the thought of sleeping upright in a chair, but—

He wasn’t going to examine why he thought Elena should take the bed. He wasn’t going to think about why it sounded like something his sisters would have said about their own kids. Elena was a fully grown assassin, and she wasn’t a good person.

But was he?

A good person, that is?

He heard Elena gasp, and the sound of fire. A knife drew across porcelain, and she hitched her breath. For a moment, it was completely silent. Then, hurried, harsh breathing and the sound of metal clinking against the tiled floor.

A beat of silence. A knife being picked up.

Then, Elena screamed.

ENCANTO; Twenty-Five Years Ago, Félix

He didn’t want to think about what’d happened.

All he knew is that someone had tried something they shouldn’t, and he was sitting in the kitchen, thinking about what he was going to do about that.

He didn’t want to think about how he’d held Pepa until she’d screamed herself unconscious, or the blood streaking the tiled floor, how it led to Bruno’s room. He didn’t want to think about any of it—Félix might have been born in Encanto, but he’d dipped his foot into the murky waters of the outside world and he’d… well, you couldn’t do that without developing the lust and means for revenge.

“Sometimes, the people we love the most... have the worst things to hide,” reasoned Alma, wringing her hands as if she had to convince Félix. She didn’t. She had to convince him to do a lot of things, but this wasn’t one of them.

Not at all.

Félix loved Pepa more than he loved himself, if she wanted it: he’d steal her the sun and stars. If it’d make her smile in the way where her eyes crinkled at the edges, he’d throw the moon in as a surprise. Murder really wasn’t such a tall order, for the love of his life.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Elena emerged from the bathroom, pale and on shaky feet.

“Bruno,” she said, her voice not quite there, “I need you to take off your shirt and lie on your back. Can you do that for me?”

He noticed how her blazer hung loosely from her frame, and how muscle and bone battled for prominence over what was most visible, her collarbones looked like they were about to snap under the pressure. He could have sworn that she wasn’t that… unsettling-looking when he’d first met her.

But he hadn’t seen her undone, stabbed and asking him to take off his shirt.

She folded her arms, shifted her weight, slipping back into the Elena that he knew. Maybe she’d noticed his gaze; although he hated the thought of her choking down whatever she was feeling to make him feel better. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snarled, “We’re not going to f*ck. I’m going to take a look at that knife, so you don’t f*cking die.”

Ah.

Yes.

The knife that was still in him.

He didn’t know what to be more horrified by: Elena’s words, or the reminder they carried. Of both the knife, and seemingly what’d previously happened to Elena in hotel rooms.

He wasn’t sure, but he’d noticed how she only seemed capable of seeking out touch when she was out of her mind—either from drugs or exhaustion or desperation or a little of all three. He remembered how, when he’d first re-entered his family, how even the faintest touch felt like it burned.

He hoped that was the only reason why Elena shied away.

Elena turned back towards the bathroom. “I’ll give you privacy,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist and tightening her blazer around herself in the process, “You can call me when you’re done. Be quick.”

ENCANTO; Fifteen Years Ago, Félix

When he was a boy, Félix had heard a story about a house rotting from the inside due to the family’s sins. Something-something about this place is rotting from the weight of the blood spilled here. Félix had remembered thinking it was morbid, and that the part about the vengeful ghost of the murdered wife was cool.

He hadn’t understood the metaphor. Now, standing in the ashes of his actions, in front of a grave that he had created, and seeing how it’d festered like a wound on the inside of him, how he’d never told anyone and that was eating him alive—well, Félix understood.

He could feel not just his own foundations, but the very foundations of the house crumbling—and not just because of his actions. Félix would never be able to stare Alma in the eyes again, without thinking about them being blanketed by candlelight and begging him.

She’d never directly said what she wanted him to do. She hadn’t needed to. He’d understood, and he’d hated it from the moment she spoke aloud. Félix wasn’t from Bogota like Agustín, but she hadn’t asked Agustín. She’d asked him.

And he’d spent the past ten years wondering why the f*ck she had. Begging for an answer every time he met her gaze, an answer that he knew would never come.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

“Elena,” he called, his head muffled by the mattress, “It was kind of difficult to get the shirt off with the knife in it. But I unbuttoned it.”

Elena hummed, and he could hear her padding out on light feet that still hadn’t kicked off her boots. It was one of the first things that Bruno did. He was ready to argue until he died with Agustín about the merits of boots versus sandals. The answer was that boots were foot prisons.

“f*ck,” she said, looking down on him. He imagined she still had her arms crossed and was glaring with that unimpressed expression that he hated having memorised.

“You’re inspiring a lot of confidence in your medical skills,” Bruno snarked. Elena grumbled.

“You know,” she said, and he felt the bed dip from her weight, “I failed my entrance exam to medical school and that’s why I became an assassin.”

Her hands rested against his back.

“I’m going to rip out the knife now,” she stated, “You’re going to stay still, and I’m going to take your shirt with it.”

She handed him a knife. “Bite down on the handle if you want,” she stated. Don’t hold it on the sharp side.”

He slowly wrapped his fingers around the dull side of the blade, tentatively taking it from Elena.

“This is going to hurt,” she stated again, and she took a breath—and pulled, without a shred of warning. Bruno lurched, the handle flying to his lips, where he bit down. He could feel the wood and leather cracking under his teeth.

“JESUS! ELENA! f*ck!”

“Not done.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Adam

Like any decent man, he didn’t know what the f*ck to do when six burly, black-clad men showed up at his front desk and asked him questions that sounded a lot like if he didn’t answer it, he’d find himself rolled up in a ditch with an unidentifiable face.

They shoved a poster into his hands and asked him if he’d seen her.

And Adam didn’t think she’d been either slick or well-paying enough to earn his mercy. After all, she’d bled all over his carpet.

So, he extended a long finger towards the suites, and said, “She’s in there. She has the man, too. Said it was her brother.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Bruno woke with a gasp, jerking upwards, only to realise that was a very bad f*cking choice when his back screamed in agony.

Ah yes, Elena had done something to it.

She’d pulled out the knife and she’d done something that made everything explode in white-hot agony. He tried shifting onto his side, almost crying out as he did, barely managing to stifle it when he noticed what was in front of him.

Elena had pulled the armchair to the side of the bed, had curled up in it, hugging her legs tight against her chest, and had fallen asleep like that—her head resting on her knees. The moonlight draped over her, sharpening her cheekbones and chin—and Bruno noticed how she was shivering.

She’d seemingly covered him in both a thick comforter and quilt, dragged the chair over and collapsed straight into it. He hoped so, he hoped she hadn’t sat there in the cold, watching him.

He noticed how her shoulder was bare, the blazer having fallen. Instead of oozing blood, it was a dull pale indentation, crinkled around the edges with angry red.

Elena snored softly, and Bruno felt as if he moved any closer, she might disappear.

Gingerly, Bruno moved to slip off the quilt, and slowly, pushing myself up, internally swearing every time he moved a muscle, he sat up, pulling the quilt into his lap. Slowly, as if he was approaching a guarding jaguar or a viper taking swipes, he draped it over Elena, tucking it in at her shoulders.

As soon as their skin met, Elena stirred. Bruno froze, and Elena settled back into sleep.

“Phew,” thought Bruno, “I’d like to not get another stab wound. I’m sure that she has better aim than Alejandro.”

UNDISCLOSED; Present Day, Isabela

Isabela tied the donkey to a tree on the outskirts of a collection of a couple houses, a few businesses—she didn’t know if they’d call it a town, or just an escaped part of Bogota, and ordered Luisa to stay there. Luisa might be strong, but she was also incredibly recognisable.

Isabela was attractive, which meant that she could probably convince some idiot to tell her where to find some f*cking criminals.

She sauntered into the town, got directions to go South to get into the city safely, and returned to Luisa with a smirk, repeated her information and hopped back up on the jaguar, Luisa on her suffering donkey.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

When he came to again, Elena was blinking blearily in front of him, and she’d burrowed under the quilt so all that was showing were her eyes, and her thin hands, clutching the fabric.

“You’re awake,” she said, her own voice dripping with tiredness as she slowly shifted. She reached her hand out from her cocoon to gesture to the bed, “That one,” and Rosita, knowing she was being addressed, stuck her head up from where she’d laid by Bruno’s head, “Wouldn’t stop fretting.”

Elena spat.

“I didn’t even know rats could f*cking fret.” She glared accusingly at Rosita. “But this rat can and boy, can she also judge me. I thought she’d attack me.”

“She’s not going to attack you,” Bruno slurred, not keen on moving, so he stayed there, reclining in front of Elena Rojas, and hoping that he didn’t annoy her too much, “I think she liked you before I did.”

Not wanting to annoy her too much didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to annoy her a little bit. Of course, he was going to annoy her. She’d pulled a knife out of his back and cleaned out her own bullet wound, and that hadn’t seemed fun for her, based on how she was still a little pale, and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know if she was still shaking.

He barely remembered covering her up with the quilt, and he remembered how he thought it was the cold that was making her quiver. He wanted to keep thinking that.

Elena clicked her tongue.

“Did you hear me?” she asked, a brow raised.

Bruno shook his head, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

“I told you that I was sorry for taking your revenge away from you. I killed Morales. I should have at least let you have at him.”

Bruno… didn’t know what to say to that.

And because Elena was the biggest asshole in the room, she kept talking: “I know how necessary revenge is, so I’m sorry for taking that closure away from you. I shouldn’t have done it, and I did it because I was selfish. Sorry.”

And Bruno stayed silent, because he couldn’t remember when his family had ever apologised for laying their hand above his and taking over. And yet, here, Elena—someone he’d known for less than a week, was apologising to him.

She might be saying sorry for murdering someone that she thought he might have wanted to kill (he did, he hated to admit that he did, God, what was he doing to do when he got back to Encanto) but she was still sorry.

And it still mattered.

Rosita chirped on his chest, glaring at him with an expression that reminded him of Elena a minute ago. She slapped her paws against his chest and Bruno, with the sides of his vision whitening, moved to pull Elena’s hand from where it was playing with a loose thread on the armchair. Rosita, seemingly satisfied, skittered across his arm with the grace of a tightrope walker, and dropped into Elena’s lap.

If she’d been a different person, it looked like Elena would have yelped.

Instead, she raised her brow and sucked in a breath, her eyes slightly wider than before.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” she chided, regaining her cool in seconds. Bruno didn’t know why he was disappointed.

“She won’t attack you,” he repeated, “She likes being held. Try to pet her.”

Rosita didn’t wait for Elena to approve her, settling against her lap as Elena’s hand awkwardly hovered above her.

“You know,” Elena said, “I think most people who know me would be surprised that I didn’t snap her neck. I’d always exterminate the rats in the apartments I stayed in as an extra favour. And because I don’t like the idea of sleeping with a small army in the floorboards.”

Bruno tsked.

“You’re not going to hurt her,” he stated, “You’re not talking yourself out of rat cuddles by bringing up how badass you are. Because you’re nice, too—”

And Bruno didn’t know where that came from, didn’t know if that was him stating that he’d like her in his life when they were done with whatever the f*ck bonded them together like the bricks Agustín would topple onto himself, but maybe it was. Bruno didn’t have kids, never did—but he’d always felt paternally towards his nieces and nephews.

He hated that he recognised the feeling when his eyes met Elena’s.

She didn’t need him to either project his unfulfilled dreams of parenthood on her, or his insecurities. She wasn’t a representative of everything he could have been and didn’t because of the iron hand of his mother—she was just a young woman. A young woman who had suffered, who was soft around the edges in the morning, and whose hand had slowly resigned itself to running through a very satisfied Rosita’s fur.

His sisters always insisted that rats couldn’t show emotion.

Bruno always called them f*cking liars.

And Rosita looked so satisfied, a sh*t-eating grin stretching across her face, as if she’d orchestrated this whole sh*tshow to make the ice-cold assassin pet her and try to bite back a smile.

“She’s soft, isn’t she? It’s relaxing to hold her, I think. She’s a solid, warm weight.”

Elena made a non-committal sound, right when the door burst open and screaming followed.

Elena dropped Rosita to the floor and ran.

BOGOTA; Twelve Hours Ago, Bruno

“I don’t know what she’s tricked you into thinking,” Alejandro said simply, “But Elena Rojas isn’t a kind person. Or even a good person.”

Bruno rolled his eyes. He knew that. He wasn’t a f*cking idiot. “I watched her kill my friend,” he snarled, “I wouldn’t call that kind. But I don’t think she was entirely willing, either. There’s a difference.”

Alejandro sighed.

“But you’re still associating with her?”

Bruno spat at him.

“There’s a difference between rough around the edges and a glimmering turd.”

He wasn’t surprised when Alejandro slugged him, but he didn’t regret it either.

“Elena always manages to garner sympathy from sick f*cks like you, she’s young and she’s fatherless, she’s been a wife twice before just to survive, she’s a used-up woman but she manages to sell herself like she’s new, like she’s something worth pursuing. She’s not, and you have the choice to step back, I’ll give you a better life than Morales would, and we could nail the bitch together.”

Alejandro grinned, all teeth, “Don’t you want to avenge your friends? I know that she killed them because she told me. Because she was bragging about how easy it was.”

Bruno… couldn’t say it wasn’t true, what Alejandro was saying. Alejandro was a motherf*cker, but—

Well, so was Elena.

They were just different breeds, and Bruno had decided that right now, he preferred Elena—and right now, Elena would come for him because he’d saved her life and she had a f*cking debt to him because that made him able to concentrate on finding his own escape, the thought that he was wanted, that someone was coming for him—even if it wasn’t his family.

Bruno didn’t want to think about his family.

Or what he might come back to.

Would they be happy that he was gone? Would they realise that he’d been a burden all along, and would they be grateful to be rid of him only for him to fall right back into their orbit? A voice that sounded suspiciously like Elena’s scoff told him that it was their own problem, if they did.

They’d made him like this—

Useless.

They’d stripped him of his agency and his control, and he could take it back without feeling like he’d be unrecognisable. He’d have saved his own life, Mind-Elena said, and if they weren’t proud or at least understanding of the choices he’d made to come back to them—

They don’t deserve you.

Alejandro was still speaking, his mouth flapping open and shut like a fish on dry land.

“You know,” he ambled, “She’s going to play you with that story of her father, right? It didn’t happen. Elena wasn’t a victim. She was the killer. She murdered her father in cold blood because he didn’t agree with her ambition. So, he had to die, like everything in Elena’s world always does. That woman doesn’t respect anything other than profit and bloodshed for the thrill of it.”

“She didn’t have to be convinced to go to Encanto. She even came up with the idea, herself. She’s a f*cking liar.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

He sees her first, kneeling in a pile of corpses, blood gushing from her forearm—it looks like she’s been nicked by a knife. He hates that he still expects her to run and leave him for dead.

“Oh,” says Moustache.

Elena clicks her tongue, moving in a less than a blink, sweeping Moustache’s legs without bothering to rise to her feet, throwing him onto his back and sinking a hunting knife through his skull. Bruno doesn’t know where she got it. He’s not asking. She pushes herself upright, shaking slightly in a way that only Bruno would notice—not because it’s not obvious, but because he’s not frozen in fear like the man above him.

“Hey soldier,” Elena purrs, her lips stretching into a smile and her teeth are a little bloody like Alejandro’s but she’s real and solid and Bruno could fall into her arms anyways. She flips the gun in her hand, grabs it by its… handle and shoots the man above Bruno dead.

He falls on top of Bruno, a thin trail of blood running down the bridge of his nose and Elena closes the distance, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and throwing him off the bed with disdain.

“Time to go!” Elena yells, and suddenly she’s shot two men dead in the hallway and there’s more coming.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

At first, they talked about revenge.

They’d managed to escape someone’s—because Elena was sure that Morales was dead, she knew you didn’t survive those injuries, she knew that she’d done, she’d felt him become pliant under her hands and not like he used to, she’d snapped and she’d bear the consequences against her skin—clutches again, and they were sitting in the forest, and it almost felt like something that’d happened before.

Elena wondered if running in circles had any deeper meanings.

The conversations about revenge had been simple. Always had been, regardless of who Elena was with. If she closed her eyes, it could be Morinaga, Morales, Martinez, Pedro. All interchangeable, f*ck, even Alejandro. But she opened them again, and Bruno was still staring at her like what she said mattered.

“I’m thinking that we go against their expectations—they’re going to want us to run, they’re going to expect us to run, f*ck, they might even be banking on us to lead them right back to Encanto because the only person who entirely knew the route is Pedro and he’s….”

She didn’t have to finish her sentence. Bruno just nodded. Elena appreciated it.

“I know enough of it that I could probably figure out the rest with your help—you know what the surroundings of the village look like, even if you’ve never left it, you know?”

He nodded again, but this time, it held a weight to it—one that Elena didn’t like.

“So, why don’t we…”

She licked her lips.

“Kill all the bastards that matter and then hoof it to Encanto?”

Bruno grinned. “I know I shouldn’t be agreeing with you.”

Elena shrugged.

“Revenge feels good.”
Bruno agreed. “It does,” he stated simply, “I’m sure my mother will have my head for what I’ve done, but yes. It feels… it doesn’t make what happened okay, but it gives…”

He fiddled with his hands.

“Catharsis?” Elena tried, even if she wasn’t entirely sure that she agreed with her words. Bruno nodded slowly.

And then, seemingly, he’d been content leaving the planning of the hit to her and she didn’t know if she liked either option—she’d have been a pissy bitch if he’d insisted on having influence because Elena’s a stone-cold killer and Bruno doesn’t know how to shoot a gun (she’d have to fix that, she reasoned) but she didn’t like having the full responsibility either, because she f*cked up a lot.

And then, the conversation had shifted.

“If you settled down and had a child, would you name it after your father?”

Elena co*cked her brow, smiling slyly as she stirred the makeshift soup that she’d managed to work out by stabbing the right merchants, and blackmailing the rest. She sat cross-legged in front of the fire, and found herself more often than she’d like, staring back at Bruno, bundled up at the edge of camp, leaning against her wagon, with a grin that edged on fond.

Elena wasn’t a very good cook. Indeed, she’d describe her skill as sh*tty and the ‘food’ she produced as barely edible.

It’d been easier than she imagined, to make it out of the hotel without getting thrown into a ditch. She’d just boosted herself out of the window and tried to teach Bruno to do the same, as quickly as possible. And he wasn’t even bleeding out next to her stolen wagon.

“Wouldn’t you just be able to look into the future and tell me if I do?”

Bruno shrugged. “Sure,” he answered, “But it’s tiring and it’s more interesting to hear people talk about what they think will happen, because you can hear the conviction in their words—you can hear exactly why they want that to happen.”

Elena didn’t know what to say to that.

So, she did something that she just a week ago would have kicked herself for—or, in a more her fashion, threatened brutal bodily mutilation: Elena Rojas answered.

“Gregory,” she said, and it hadn’t been something that she’d given a lot of thought, but saying it, having the words slip from her lips, made it suddenly make complete sense, “I’d name him Gregory. My father is dead, as is his name. I’m not placing that burden onto a new soul. I know my father barely wanted to do it with me. He wouldn’t be Rojas either. I don’t want to be Rojas, really. Maybe, someday, I’ll feel different. But that’s what I feel now.”

“And I don’t want to… sully anyone else’s memory, either. I want my memories of—”

Bruno met her wandering gaze with sympathy.

“—To always hurt. Because it was cruel and wrong.”

“If you weren’t Elena Rojas, who would you like to be?”

Elena blushed because she saw herself in a wedding dress and curled her legs under her ass as she leaned over to throw a few more onions into the pot. She’d be able to get more tomorrow if they needed. It was a strange thought, but she could. Even if she didn’t strictly need them, she could get more onions just because she wanted. She had a good portion of Morales’ money at her disposal, stacks of cash shoved under her shirt, bobbing when she walked.

She could overhaul this sh*thole. Somehow, that was her dream. Somehow, it was just a new gilded cage.

Elena remembered being a little girl—being afraid and in danger and changing to become the danger. She’d run through the forest, looking over her shoulder for the wolves who she couldn’t case at without stumbling, to becoming the wolf, to feeling the forest floor under her feet, to smelling the blood in the air and delighting at it.

Every time she walked out into the night, she could feel herself transforming, feel herself becoming more monstrous. A decision was made to no longer be the person that gets hurt, but rather the person who inflicts hurt. However, it doesn’t sit right. The weapons are ready, but still, she feels unsteady.

She doesn’t want to be hurt but this still isn’t right.

When Elena was twelve, she managed to tame a horse that Morales had referred to as No One’s Horse. Years later, she was standing perched on a balcony railing, her feet arched, and wondering whether she’d done it because she was no one’s woman. She had nothing tethering her to this world. If she dropped backwards, no one would mourn her except her unfinished clients and they wouldn’t mourn Elena Rojas, they’d mourn the Mujer De Noche. But not Elle. Not Ellie. Not Elena.

She turned towards Bruno, her fingers caught between the produce and the knife. “Bruno?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Would you mourn me?”

Bruno’s eyes widened, and Elena was already back-tracking. She threw her arms out in front of her, shaking her hands in a dismissive gesture, as if she was simply shoving away the bad thoughts. It’d be nice if the world worked like that. If she could just sweep away everything bad, wash away the past, the blood.

“No, no,” she clarified, “Not that I think anything bad would happen… or that I intend to throw it. I made a promise to you, and I’m known for keeping promises. I’m just curious. I think we’re friends. I don’t have a lot of those, and I guess—”

She picked up the rag, wrung it out, her hands mimicking strangling to an uncomfortable extent. She caught Bruno staring at them.

“I was just wondering because I guess that’s all there’s to friendships here. The eventual mourning. Missing someone and never getting them back, even if you weren’t lovers or brothers. I miss some of my co-workers. The thought that they’ll never be there to chastise me for cleaning my gun like a weird person is agonising. Or just being an asshole. So, I asked you without remembering that we’re from completely different li—”

“I would miss you,” Bruno interrupted, “I would miss you a lot, Elena. I would mourn you.”

Bruno’s gaze steeled and he looked directly at her. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, if you died, Elena. You’re my friend. You’re—you have no reason to help me, but you didn’t just help me, you risked your life to help me! And your dream! That whole revenge thing! I know you’re going to try and shoot him tonight, but what if you fail? Then you threw it all away. For me. I don’t deserve that. But I would miss you so much.”

It was her way of saying that she wanted him in her life—that maybe she hadn’t just been f*cking around when she said she had his back. But Elena Rojas was a damn coward, and she couldn’t say that.

Like with Martinez, she’d loved him in every single way, and she wished that she could have stayed with him—keeping the life she’d always wanted, but with her hands dripping red, she stayed alive. Maybe she’d have been able to have the future where Martinez was her husband, and Pedro was a steadying hand on her shoulder—but that wasn’t an option anymore.

And she just had to live with that because she’d always made her choices to survive.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

God, Bruno missed Julieta.

Elena’s soup could strip paint—and she seemed so proud of having produced something without “mysterious inconsistencies in thickness” so Bruno couldn’t say that it was barely edible. Elena, to her credit, also ate—but she more swallowed it than actually savouring it, and she did it with such speed and efficiency that Bruno didn’t think she’d had a lot of good food in her life.

So, she’d gotten good at getting calories without paying mind to the quality—but Bruno’s stomach was weak at the best of times, and this wasn’t that. He’d been stabbed, and he could barely keep himself conscious and Elena’s soup tasted of sh*t.

Elena quirked her brow.

“Is everything alright? You’re not eating.”

And Bruno was sure that it wasn’t just Elena’s soup—but it didn’t help—he’d blame the stab wound, and how he’d gotten up and ran pretty much immediately after… whatever the f*ck Elena had done to it (he still hadn’t found the strength to ask if the wound stretching across her shoulder, the one that’d made her scream matched his own souvenir, then they’d have to talk about what happened and he didn’t like that one bit) but the world was getting softer at the edges.

He didn’t know how she managed to run and fight better than him with worse injuries than him.

He didn’t think Elena was born a hard-ass, as Agustín would have called it.

God, Bruno missed Agustín and Julieta.

And Pepa and Félix and Dolores and Isabela and Luisa and Mirabel and Camilo and Antonio and Mama and—

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

“Bring him inside,” the woman said.

Something else pierced Elena then.

“What?” she asked, not quite daring to believe it just yet. She knew no one would blame her for her hesitation, she was from the city—and the city was nipping on her heels, and it was by pure luck that she’d outrun it, for now.

“Your father,” the woman said, her voice hard, “Bring him inside.”

Elena froze for a moment at the woman’s assumption, but she was Elena Rojas, and ultimately, she let it go. She knew that “friend” always received less urgency than “husband” or “father”, especially when you could play a wide-eyed young woman as well as she could. She could seem like someone who would keel over and die without a man in her life, or she could be a witch who ate men like air, swallowing them down without hiccupping.

She could be anything and anyone that the situation demanded of her, and now, it demanded that she was docile. She much preferred when she got to sling knives and guns in elegant arcs around her, smelling gunpowder in the air, blood on her tongue.

Adrenaline still thrummed under her skin—a dangerous hit that she’d indulged in, even when she knew she shouldn’t have. It’s not her first time, and she knows it won’t be her last. The woman tried to aid Elena in pulling Bruno up, but Elena shook her head.

“He’s from the villages,” she said, “In the villages… only wives and daughters may touch their men.”

She could use that lie to wrap the entire world, with how big and stretched it was. But Elena would hate to be manhandled by someone she didn’t know, and she would extend the same courtesy to Bruno. She’d even consider her own touch to be stretching it, even if she vaguely remembered drunkenly leaning her head against his shoulder.

Elena’s high and teetering off the edge, but she’s not drunk and there’s a difference. Frowning, the woman let Elena help Bruno on her own, only stepping in to shut the door behind them as they crossed the threshold into the orange balminess of her house.

A little girl awaited them inside, clothed warmly in clothes that had less bloodstains than Elena and Bruno’s—but especially Elena’s—but they were still grubby in a way only kids managed to. A homemade and slightly lumpy stuffed jaguar hung limply from her hand, but it was clear that she wouldn’t ever let it drop. The little thing had faced much love in its life, as made evident by its worn fur and torn back.

“Who are you?” the girl asked, her accent sweet and high in that childish way.

“Maria,” the woman snapped, “Don’t bother them.” Ah, thought Elena. Joy. A small innocent child with the same name of a bitch that I don’t like for entirely self-serving reasons. Her hatred for Maria existed so she could feel better for running away. That was bullsh*t, she’d come to learn. She’d come to learn a lot of things were bullsh*t, in a very short time.

She pushed down the thought, and grinned. The girl, Maria, tilted her head and stepped back as the woman led Elena and Bruno—well, if Elena was being honest, she was the one doing all the work, because Bruno had all but passed out at this point—into the small house.

The farther inside they went, the warmer it got, and Elena wasn’t entirely unsure that she wouldn’t just collapse in a heap and cry until her tears evaporated. They ended up in a sitting room, small but spaciously designed, where a small fire blazed in its fireplace.

“Wait here,” the woman instructed. Elena nodded, and then she left them to their own devices. If Elena had been younger, she would think about what was worth stealing—and whether she could stomach killing a mother and child for it, if it came down to that.

She’d found diamonds in houses. She knew what those sold for. She knew what was at stake. She’d always earn a very favourable cut when she brought them in. Back in the living room and not the stale prison of her memories, Elena felt her body beginning to fail on her.

Finally, the adrenaline was bottoming out, and even if she’d shoved that magical little red toolbox into her pack, she didn’t want to take any. She wanted to keep her wits about her—and not be a stumbling, jittering mess of lean woman desperate to get into a fight with anyone who’d take her. Bruno’s head dropped against her shoulder, his near deadweight bearing down heavily on her.

She could feel the beginning of a fever burning through him, and she allowed herself to audibly sigh. “f*ck,” she lamented, “f*cking f*ck.”

Thankfully, the woman returned soon enough, dragging a thin mattress and a handful of blankets. Maria, who’d followed her, cried out at her mother.

“That’s my bed!” she whined, distraught.

The mattress did seem to fit the needs of a child, better than an adult—luckily, Bruno was small, he’d likely fit on it, and Elena had slept on floors before. She wouldn’t mind doing it again. She would, because she wasn’t drunk enough to share a bed without stiffening up at best, lashing out at worst.

Hushing her child, the woman laid out the mattress. She threw one blanket down on it, and then looked up at Elena.

“Lay him down,” she ordered.

“Aye-aye,” Elena replied, smiling softly as she manoeuvred Bruno onto it. In a different life, she’d feel ashamed of how she grunted, and how—even if her host held back—she could see that she was inching to help, to take some of the weight that Elena obviously couldn’t bear.

Finally, Elena managed to drop Bruno onto the mattress, shoving a pillow haphazardly under his head and throwing another blanket on top of him. “That has to do,” she exclaimed, crouched over him, her hands on her hips in a mock display.

Maria giggled behind her, and Elena turned to her, smirking softly. “Do you want to hear a secret?”

Maria nodded furiously and her mother’s eyes were wide. Elena didn’t blame her—it would be the perfect set-up for Elena to jerk a gun out of her loose coat and shoot them both dead, but instead, she shifted to rest on her knees and shins, leaning her head down and beckoning Maria to come real close, so she could whisper.

“You will leave them alone,” the woman ordered. She looked up to Elena again. “I apologise.”

“No need,” Elena said, catching herself on the brambles of honesty. And then, because she felt that kindness should beget understanding, at the very least, she said, “I’m Elena.”

It was the first time in over a decade that she hadn’t lied about her name to a stranger, and she didn’t know how she felt about it—heavy, she supposed, taking stock of herself. But that might just be Pedro’s bullet wound talking, the little kiss he’d left against her shoulder from their last dance. She didn’t want to think about that.

“Catalina,” the woman said, nodding. “And your father?”

Now, Elena was a common name. But Bruno… well. There weren’t many Brunos with stab wounds, or a lack of a Bogota accent. And far fewer Brunos that walked around with women named Elena. While Catalina was kind now, perhaps that kindness would dissipate if she learned that the city’s most wanted criminals were in her care.

For most people, they’d say that a lie was exhilarating. Elena had been lying for her whole life—first to her father, then to everyone around her and finally, herself. Lying came more naturally than breathing. Sometimes, she didn’t even think about a lie. It just slipped out. Pedro told her that she’d be a masterful storyteller. Martinez said that she’d probably developed into a pathological liar along the way.

Pedro was dead. Martinez was a little sh*t. Truth, truth.

The honesty of just saying her own name aloud had set her skin alight, and it begged for her to say more. But she didn’t. Instead, she lied again; slipping it on like a comfortable, well-worn leather coat that’s settled into the grooves of your body.

It was likely that she wouldn’t know who they were, or at least, that she’d only think about it when someone knocked on her door asking for them. But it was better to be safe than sorry, after all. Truth, truth.

“Tulio,” Elena said, because it was close enough, “Elena and Tulio Martinez.”

Tulio sounded like some weird sh*t that some mountain people would name their kid.

She didn’t say Hernando and Lola because those were the names they’d used at the hotel. Those were the names that’d be connected to the body in the bathroom, the blood all over the bed and the thousands worth of stolen jewellery from safety deposit boxes (hey, it wasn’t Elena’s fault that they had sh*tty locks, they should know better). And Elena was her real name.

And it felt good to have someone call her by her name, help her by her name.

Their names were close enough—and it was the best kind of lie. Lies were best when they were small and unexplained. Morinaga had taught her that, and Pedro had elaborated on it. Less holes to dig that way. Less graves, too. And the more elaborate the lie, the less believable. Nobody expounded upon themselves while giving the truth.

Unless they were Martinez or Bruno, Elena had noticed. But they were the exception. Martinez and Bruno were so outside the realms of what people considered normal in the first place that this was obvious. She knew, rationally, that she shouldn’t have said her own name. And that she shouldn’t have taken Martinez’s surname.

After all, they were meant to wed.

And that wasn’t an entirely unknown fact, sadly.

And the less ties they had to Elena Rojas and her life of crime, the better. The less dangerous this would be. Elena Rojas had to die, had to become someone else, so she could bob and weave through the city and get even.

After a tense moment, Catalina nodded. “I will leave you to clothe him if you wish. I’ll bring you water and food when you’re done.”

Elena knew what she was implying, and she winced. She didn’t know why—it was obvious from Elena’s face alone that they’d been in some kind of fight. And you didn’t keel over due to exposure—and well, Elena mused, if you did: there wasn’t another person next to you, completely fine.

Unless of course, that second person was an internationally known assassin. Then, maybe. Certainly, Elena had hiked more than Bruno had.

“Thank you,” Elena repeated, “Truly. Thank you.”

Catalina nodded again, and Elena could see that she too, had been understood—that Catalina had picked up on what she’d written between the lines.

“If there’s anything else you need…”

After a few moments, Elena recognised the invitation and shivered at the implications. “No,” she answered, “But thank you, again. I might take you up on it later.”

Catalina’s lips quirked upwards, and her gaze wandered to Elena’s hip, and her badly concealed gun.

Catalina turned to Maria. “Go,” she told her, “Leave us alone.”

Elena returned her attention to Bruno, by the fire. He was deeply unconscious, still, and still warm to the touch. She hoped the fire would have him sweat out the rest of it, or she might have to make a midnight visit to the pharmacy they’d passed on their escape from the suburbs.

At least she’d get to shoot the jerk that glared at her.

Elena listened to Catalina and Maria padding around the house, shifting onto her hip. She could feel her own wound pulling at her, and she knew that she ought to go under the fire and dig out the bullet, then cauterise it. But she couldn’t make herself.

She couldn’t make herself examine Bruno’s either. It’d been messy and quick, and she’d never been a big fan of burns, anyways. She always strayed away from using burning as a method of torture in the same way that she’d stepped in front of Alejandro when he’d held the bottle.

At the time, she’d accepted that brutality would happen. But she hadn’t agreed to depravity, to abandoning every ounce of morality that’d stayed inside of her—regardless of how shrivelled it had to be by now.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Isabela

“So, you’re just going to stroll in and ask if anyone’s seen Tio Bruno?”

Isabela quirked her brow.

“I can hear that you’re not impressed with my idea, but pretty much. If anyone tries anything, I can kill them before they stab me. We’re surrounded by jungle. You’re staying here.”

Isabela was the oldest, it was her responsibility to ensure that her siblings were okay—she’d ignored it for years, and she didn’t intend to, anymore. Mira was safe at home, and while Isabela had asked Luisa to come because she liked her sister, she’d also wanted to make sure that she could watch out for her. Sue her.

Luisa opened her mouth to protest, but Isabela didn’t let her, and Luisa had always been one of the more passive members of the family, so she didn’t fight her on it. Isabela didn’t know what to think about that, didn’t like the reminder of Abuela resting against her stern voice, but she forced herself to keep moving.

She shoved some of Mama’s food into a bag and that was that. That was decided. Luisa leaned against a tree, scowling at her but not saying anything. Isabela would have preferred if she had.

She snuck through the green, before her eyes settled on a bar blanketed by shady alleyways, the exact place where she’d imagine someone inquiring about buying a seer.

She quickly slipped inside, noticing a woman’s form hunched in on herself at the bar. Isabela scurried past, paying her no mind, and flagging down the bartender.

“Do you sell anything other than alcohol?” she tried, batting her eyelashes and resting a hand on her hip. It’d have worked better if she wasn’t wearing a suit she stole from her father, but she made it work. She was still hot. She would still f*ck her, and she had higher standards than every man she’d met.

The bartender wagged his brow but answered cryptically.

“For the right price.”

Isabela couldn’t work with that.

Isabela didn’t have money. Encanto didn’t need money. Everyone had what they needed. f*ck.

“Bruno Madrigal.”

The bartender spat into a glass before wiping it. “Never heard of the name.”

Motherf*cker.

“I’d like a stiff drink.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena listened to Maria and Catalina living their lives, she listened to Catalina cleaning up after dinner—and debated whether she should offer to do the dishes of the food that she didn’t eat but threw into the fire to make Catalina… well, Elena didn’t know why.

She shouldn’t have, she’d wasted another woman’s food, and she’d never had a mother—so she couldn’t say that it was because Catalina looked at Elena’s muscle-and-not-much-else physique and Elena felt shamed into eating.

That wasn’t the truth. Elena didn’t know what the truth was. Elena’s head hurt and she really wanted to curl up on the mattress in her little sh*tty sanctuary back in the compound where she’d thrown incendiary grenades.

But she couldn’t do that.

It’d been consumed by fire. Like so many other things in Elena’s life.

“Elena,” asked Pedro. She could tell there was a question pushing its way past his lips, and so, she rolled her eyes and answered, “Go on, then.”

For a moment, she wondered if he’d seriously try to defend himself—if he’d try to ask her how she knew. But he relented, and said: “I don’t think you’ve ever stopped running, have you?”

“You’re always running from a fire that doesn’t exist.”

But it had.

It had existed.

It still did.

She was the fire.

She was the fire and the forest cracking under its might and she was the witness watching it. She was everything, and she was nothing and she was wholly responsible for her own survival now. She’d become what she always believed herself to be—she’d called herself a loner when she’d had people in her life, people who would have fought with her, maybe even for her, but now—she’d burned those bridges.

She was truly alone.

She slowly rose to her feet and reasoned with herself. If she was truly alone, she was the master of her own destiny. And that meant that she decided, with one glance at Bruno—still not able to look at the wound no doubt festering on his back, white in the way that reminded her of glazed-over, waxy eyes and skin cracked like sausages on the grill—that Bruno Madrigal would not die from the knife wound Alejandro Moreno gave him.

Elena quickly undressed, uncaring of propriety, even if there was no one to witness her, and slipped into the clothes left for Bruno—a pair of wool olive-green pants, a button-up shirt that looked like it’d been white before being washed with a grey sock, a green cardigan a slight shade off from the pants which buttoned and had such a low neckline that had she not been wearing anything under, Elena would have flashed herself.

The pants hung too loosely around her waist, settling on her hips, and Elena shoved her feet into the slightly-too-large-but-still-wearable brown boots, laced them, and shrugged on the dark brown overcoat, stroking the fur collar as she did.

She’d always been a sucker for fur.

She tied the coat’s belt tightly around her waist, and with one last tilt of her head towards Bruno, still lying fast asleep, she snapped off the window lock and descended into the night, her sights already set on the neon glow of a pharmacist working overtime.

ENCANTO; Present Day, Mariano

His mother was glaring at him from across the kitchen.

“You should drop off his pie to Matthias’ family. We all know they’re in the need of community support right now.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

She’d rob the place, and she’d try not to kill anyone.

She reasoned that was a price she was willing to pay for Bruno’s life. She wanted to steal antibiotics, but not everywhere carried them in the summer—they were expensive, and usually thanks to her less skilled colleagues, flying off the shelves. She’d settle for painkillers if she had to, because they’d allow her to get down and dirty with the wound.

She knew how to clear out an infection. She’d done it on herself before.

Doing it on yourself, she’d realised, was very f*cking different from doing it on someone else. When she’d cauterised her own wound, she hadn’t used painkillers and she’d been able to stay conscious for the whole ‘procedure’. Before she’d even brought the heated knife against Bruno’s flesh, she could feel her consciousness bottoming out.

She thought it’d get better when he passed out. It didn’t.

She’s not entirely sure how she managed to complete the cauterisation—and complete is the only adequate word for the sh*tty job she produced—or bandage it, or drag the armchair across the room, before she collapsed face-first and ate the hotel carpet.

She slid down an alleyway, before coming face-to-face with herself.

On a wanted poster.

And they’d f*cked up her nose, and the position of her moles. They’d softened her chin, and the cheekbones that’d defined her for a decade were nowhere to be found. She looked younger—or maybe, she just looked older than twenty-one in life.

Her nose looked like no one had ever broken it (a f*cking lie) and while they’d included the mole dotting her left cheek, they’d forgotten its friends right above her lip and chin. She supposed that her wanted poster looked more f*ckable.

She supposed that could be an advantage. Maybe she’d be passed over by a bright-eyed bounty hunter who couldn’t believe that the great and sensual Night Woman would be stalking the streets wearing clothes that didn’t fit and weren’t appropriate for the weather, so she didn’t have to remind herself of the beatings she’d received recently.

The Night Woman should be strolling around in a floor length black gown with an open back and tapered waist, if she was to fit her femme fatale stereotype.

WANTED: The Night Woman/Golden Traitor
Alias: Elena Rojas, Lola Martinez.

FOR: betrayal of the cartel.

DEAD OR ALIVE.

Elena frowned at the new alias. She hadn’t been allowed to choose her first one, and she hadn’t been able to choose this one, either. An uncomfortable feeling crawled from her throat, and settled in her abdomen, right above her guts—a perfect strike for a slow, miserable death.

She might have earned her alias, but she didn’t choose it. Not when she was ten, not when she was twenty-one.

And that mattered.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Agustín

Agustín didn’t need to stop for directions.

He’d fled Bogota, and he still knew the city like the back of his palm. Hated it, too.

As soon as he realised what kind of sh*t Isabela and Luisa—his daughters—had pulled, he was already speeding off, instructing the rest of his family to keep pace with him if they could. He stalked through the small settlements that blanketed the city, and when he didn’t find obvious sign of his daughters, continued.

On the way, he might have picked up a gun.

It might be a dead man’s gun, and he might also have shoved a hunting knife down to rest against his back, holstered but not clipped. He didn’t notice any of the faces dotting the wanted posters, and he’d blame it on old habits, later.

He continued South, right towards the epicentre.

f*ck.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

WANTED: Bruno Madrigal
Alias: Hernando Martinez

FOR: escaping the cartel.

ALIVE OR NO REWARD.

Elena sighed as she ripped down the last poster, crumpling them up and shoving them into an open gutter, disturbing a rat much nastier than Rosita as she did so. It lunged for her with its yellow teeth and Elena grabbed it by the throat and snapped.

She dropped the slack creature on the ground, and she supposed it would pose as a decent deterrence. No one was going to poke around in a gutter if there was a dead rat atop it. She picked up the rat, and planted it right above her wanted posters, promising great fortune to the John Doe who managed to shoot her dead.

It wasn’t the first time.

She remembered sitting on the fire escape with Martinez, their feet dangling in the air, and she’d joked that she was better than him because she was both a wanted child and a very wanted woman. He’d giggled and Elena had thought if she could stay in this moment forever, watching the sun set over the world, dripping with gold, she’d be happy to die.

She’d f*cked up more things than she could count—but her greatest hurt was how she’d treated the people she loved. Even if… Martinez managed to survive, he would never want her back after what she’d done because Elena Rojas doesn’t shoot people she doesn’t mean to.

Elena Rojas doesn’t shoot without spotting first, and she doesn’t shoot her friends dead. Her—

No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

She strolled through the damp, disgusting alleyway, pulling her hood around her untamed hair and thinking about how she’d done the same in Encanto, how no one had batted their eyes at a woman dripping with darkness sauntering through their streets, death and the maiden coming to claim her prize.

She shimmied her way past a couple of large, gruff guards, entering the orange fuzz of a stuffed speakeasy. No one looked as she made her way to the bar, or when she sat her ass down and ordered the strongest thing the f*cker could legally give her.

She’d always said that she would be different.

She remembered promising herself that her life would be different. She remembered her father promising her that, too. And it never was.

She was a ten amongst threes, but she’d failed regardless.

Elena was twenty-one and she was dripping with mottled, old blood—an iron-y tinge falling off her in waves—she’d sinned in thousands of ways, ill-advised, delicious ways—she’d imbibed, she’d f*cked, she’d slaughtered, and selfishly, she’d only managed to find morality when it hit her own bones.

Elena Rojas wasn’t a good person.

Elena Rojas wasn’t sure she’d even been born a good person.

She didn’t even belong to Martino Rojas—he’d always insisted that, even though the world said her face haunted them, Elena wasn’t Martino’s. He’d told the story, and Morinaga had agreed—he’d confronted her parents about their debt and taken her because he couldn’t make himself kill a child.

Morinaga had looked at her, pride bleeding from his eyes and said, about her: any debt previously owed, paid in full as soon as he laid eyes on you. Elena might not have been wanted by her mother—Elena might have been sold to the cartel for a line of co*ke, but Elena had been wanted.

She didn’t know if her father saw an innate ruthlessness, a cruelty that he could shape into hardened steel, in her. Or maybe she’d just been a child who deserved better, and maybe he’d seen that, too. Maybe she’d been both. Maybe she’d been nothing, maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe she cried out when the gun rested against her head, and he couldn’t bargain with her death anymore.

She’d been infant. She didn’t remember what happened. She didn’t remember her parents.

She had real parents, parents who had f*cked up and were in debt. And she’d tried to find them. And they’d been killed for it. And she didn’t even know if she’d found her real father. And Elena was taken, with only a sh*ttily scribbled note to tell her anything about her history.

Maybe she could have been someone.

Maybe it could have been different.

The bartender clicked his fingers in front of her. “Money?” he rasped.

Elena rolled her eyes, and dropped bloodstained, crumpled bills into his hand.

Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive. Dead or alive.

His eyes sparkled in recognition, but when he counted the bills, they died down. Elena might have a big price on her head, but she also had a legend. She folded her arms on the table and dropped her head onto them, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

He nodded and slid a glass of amber towards her.

It could be poisoned. He’d be a damn smart man. Usually, Elena would pull out her gun and force him to drink half of it. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around it and brought it to her lips, sniffing it briefly but already resigned to necking it and dealing with the consequences.

At least, a death by poisoning would be better than whatever her ‘old friends’ had planned for her.

She thought about Pedro’s smile, how he’d gone to find her instead of dragging her back in chains and as soon as she thought about that she thought about the note and how he’d tried to catch her a second time and she’d shot him dead.

Elena didn’t know if she believed in God because she was terrified at the reckoning—that a big man in the sky with all the powers of the world at his fingertips could sit idly by and watch everything happen, let alone her own judgement—but f*ck, she hoped that Pedro was somewhere, and that he could see how f*cking sorry she was.

Her feeling sh*tty didn’t bring him back, it didn’t erase that she’d taken someone’s husband, someone’s father, her friend—that he might have been more to her, that he might have tried to save her. He was a good man, and he was killed for it.

She swallowed the alcohol—a melange of tequila and vodka. She wondered what Bruno would think about her drinking mixed liquor instead of getting painkillers. She tapped her nails against the bar table and gestured to the brandy on the top shelf with a raised eyebrow.

Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward. Alive or no reward.

The alcohol didn’t taste poisoned, so the bartender didn’t know what was best for him. But Bruno was smart, and he’d—

He could afford to betray her.

If she was caught, she had no doubt about that whoever had risen to power wouldn’t want to take chances with leaving her alive. Bruno was chronically underestimated, she’d learned. And he’d just need to wait long enough to slip his sword between the cracks.

Even if Elena was willing to risk her life for Bruno, she didn’t expect the same of him. He had all the life to live, he had a family who cared for him, who would miss him. Elena had revenge, and when she was done with that, she’d intended to die.

Now, she hated that her chest sparked for life, that in her dreams, her heart drew a life of busy village markets, electric colours and running across cobblestones like she didn’t drown in the harbour.

As if she deserved any of that.

As if Bruno wouldn’t cut through her armour, too. Their truce was tentative, because they both benefitted—and she might have been the first one to violate it, but she hated herself for wanting to reinforce it with tighter ropes, wanting to cut it, to burn it all to the ground, to create something entirely new, something good, something people like her don’t get.

If killing her got him back to his family and life, Elena was sure that he would. So, she would just steal the moments she could—of this strange, camaraderie, friendship, a warmth, and connection she doesn’t remember feeling since she was alive, a thumping feeling in her chest that he dared set alight without asking her for permission, she’d have been content staying a kingdom of ash and bone, she would have been—and when the time came, she’d gotten more than she ever deserved.

If he wished to kill her, she wouldn’t fight against it.

But she thought she’d have said the same about Pedro.

She didn’t think she could make herself kill him.

But she had.

She had.

Elena Rojas felt like she was threading water, teetering off the edge of a tightrope. She wasn’t safe in this part of the story, and like Elena always did when she felt uncomfortable—she drank.

She stumbled into the bottle, falling deeper down, begging for it to seize her.

If she was caught, she would be killed. But first, they would have to catch her.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Isabela

She knew that she’d drunk too much.

She noticed how the bar had emptied out, but she kept going—because well, she’d never really been allowed to go on a bender. She didn’t think about Luisa, waiting for her on the outskirts of the city, because she’d always held too much responsibility and well, when the chance to let it down came, she found herself falling into it.

f*ck.

She’d regret it in the morning.

But it wasn’t the morning yet.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena staggered out from the bar’s comforting embrace while it was still dark out. She might have a new name, she might have lost the power she held, but Elena still moved at night—she slid into the very same alleyway that had sent her reeling and spinning right into a bottle, huffing when she noticed that they’d already plastered new posters of her against the wet bricks.

Asshole.

Either she’d been there for much longer than she’d intended, or she should start running. Both options sounded boring, so she kept walking at a leisurely.

The world blurred at the edges, becoming soft and beckoning her to lay down in the street—lay down and die—and she kept going, like a moth to a flame, stumbling to the neon sanctuary of the pharmacy she should have visited hours ago.

She had her finger on the trigger when she shoved the door open, a terrified and pock-marked young face staring back at her—fifteen years at most, with a ratty moustache and pimples. It didn’t absolve him of guilt, and it didn’t make her any less willing to kill him before he screamed—she’d heard of a serial killer stalking the streets of Paris, his face kissed by teenage mistakes, grease and anxiety over a maths test that didn’t matter, very uncreatively (as wasn’t usually the case with the French), the media had just called him The Pock-Marked One.

Maybe this kid was a f*cking freak too.

Maybe the shadow she spied on his crotch when she asked him to get out from behind the desk and lie on the ground, on his back, hands on his head, was piss. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Elena twirled the gun as she stepped over him, hummed as she rifled through the storeroom.

She was getting real f*cking tired of maybes. The buzz in the back of her mind was getting stronger, and her fingers ghosted over vials of adrenaline—meant for treating allergic reactions in an emergency, not for twenty-one-year-old addicts to shove down her waistband. She still did it, even if she wasn’t proud of it.

She wasn’t finding what she wanted.

“Hey!” she barked, “Do you good-for-nothing bastards have no penicillin or morphine?”

And by the meek stutter that answered her, Elena was sure that the shadow had been piss. “N-no,” he mumbled, “S-Senor N—”

“Noche,” Elena finished for him, “That f*cking asshole.”

She clicked her tongue. “To be fair,” she spoke, resting her head against the table, the gun still between her fingers, “I did manage to f*ck up a good deal of his men when I murdered Morales.”

The kid stiffened. Elena giggled.

“Don’t be scared,” she assured him, “You haven’t done anything to annoy me enough that I want to kill you like that. So, just keep staying on the floor, and maybe you have some good ideas of where I could find any of those good drugs that isn’t guarded by people who want me dead?”

She tilted her head.

“Oh,” she added with a pop of her tongue, “Don’t tell anyone that you saw me, of course. Or where you think I went. Because then I’ll find out and I’ll have to come back here and pull out your guts and use them as a f*cking jump rope.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Isabela

She staggered from the bar when she was bodily hauled from the bar and thrown outside. f*ckers. She walked aimlessly across the streets, hoping for another bar, hoping to find Bruno just waiting for her on the cobblestones, she didn’t know. Morning was surfacing from night’s gentle, unfolding embrace and Isabela didn’t like it.

In the morning light, she’d have to confront what she’d done and why she was here.

She was only twenty-one, and this was her first taste of freedom. And she would have to admit that it was her last, that she shouldn’t even have had it to begin with.

Tangled in her thoughts, she bumped into someone.

She surfaced for air, pulling back, and noticed that she was even more f*cked, because it was a girl.

And a beautiful girl.

And just as drunk as Isabela was, by the way she wobbled on her feet.

She wasn’t beautiful in the way Isabela was. She didn’t look perfect, she looked like someone had sharpened her features, gaunt by circ*mstance and naturally angular, with long, curly hair tied behind her in a loose fashion, moles decorating her skin like the pearls dotting Isabela’s gowns.

Isabela couldn’t see a lot of her body due to her loose-fitting, and honestly, ill-chosen, attire, but she

“Hey,” she stumbled, the girl grinning at her, wide and welcoming and exactly the kind that Isabela wanted to fall into.

“My name’s Acacia.”

“Like the tree.”

Acacia nodded.

Briefly, she considered using a fake name. But she’d never see this girl again, and in the light dotting across their faces, she was beautiful. So, she spoke honestly.

“I’m Isabela.”

“It’s beautiful.”

She grinned, and flowers bloomed where Isabela stood, climbing up her legs, curving around her arms and leaving a crown of purple in her curly hair. Acacia stiffened, taking a cautionary step back.

For a moment, it looked like Acacia would cry out and Isabela would be toast.

“Did you…”

Isabela slowly raised her finger to rest against her Acacia’s lips, feeling the heat surging through them. “Please,” Isabela plead, “Don’t scream.”

Acacia blinked languidly. “I wasn’t gonna,” she spoke, her breath hot against Isabela’s fingertip. She laughed—and Isabela remembered how her Papa had said Mama’s chuckles sounded like the choirs of Heaven and she hadn’t believed it but standing there, if the sky cracked open to naked babies and weird looking angels, well, Isabela wouldn’t have been surprised.

Acacia continued to speak, and Isabela noticed how her voice had a slight rasp to it, and it sounded like honey coating whiskey—a combination Isabela never craved until now, childhood sweetness at the back of her throat, accented with the burn of adulthood.

“I wasn’t going to scream,” she said, “I was going to call you a goddess and,” she raised her fingers to play with the flowers decorating her curls, “I was going to ask you if these meant something.”

They did.

And Isabela would much rather say why she was alone, than she’d confess to the language behind the delicate petals decorating Acacia’s head, a crown of desire—of longing that Isabela had to squash before it bubbled up in her chest. She’d already made her mistakes when she was seventeen.

Maybe she wasn’t Senorita Perfecta, but she was Isabela Madrigal and those two weren’t as different as she’d like them to be.

“C’mon,” pushed Acacia, “I won’t tell anyone if they’re mean. And,” she winked, “I’d never know if you lied, anyways.”

Isabela shut her mouth tightly and did a motion of locking them with her fingers. Acacia giggled; her voice soft like the summer rain speckling over them. She slowly shrugged off her coat, throwing up over them, creating a world of their own, enveloped in a fur coat that smelled of woodsmoke and old books.

“Open your mouth,” Acacia ordered, and Isabela obliged. Acacia leaned closer, her eyes fluttering as the tips of their noses touched before she climbed inside.

Maybe it was because Acacia couldn’t run home and tell her mama that she kissed Isabela Madrigal, maybe it was because she fit right in her palm, with her flaming locks of dark-auburn hair, maybe it was how the rain dotted against her skin, glimmering like diamonds against sharp features—but Isabela curled her arms around Acacia’s waist, pulling her finger though the belt loop of her pants, pulling her closer.

And Isabela didn’t come up for air.

She could feel the fur trim touching her cheek, she could feel it slipping off, exposing them to the world, but she didn’t care. She dug her fingers through Acacia’s hair, feeling the shivers running through Acacia’s body, transferring onto hers, an electric current of longing, of unacted desire exploding.

Acacia tasted of every sin that Isabela had been scared to commit, and she wanted more.

“You know,” Isabela grinned, feeling the alcohol surge in her blood, “I used to always both resent and be grateful for you. You told me that I would have everything I wanted in the whole world, and your visions had never been wrong… but everyone told me that Bruno Madrigal didn’t give any good visions.”

She played with her hair.

“I thought you were teasing me, from beyond the grave. I didn’t love Mariano. I don’t. I don’t want him. And I never did. I was going to settle for him and push out those five f*cking babies because that’s what Abuela always wanted for me, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t be you.”

Isabela breathed in.

It was the first time she’d ever spoken it aloud. Bruno’s wide eyes were studying her, but he didn’t look surprised, per say. She didn’t know how much he saw in his stint in the walls, she didn’t know if he heard her scream. She didn’t want to know.

It felt good to speak it aloud, it felt like it was real, like she was allowed to feel like this.

She wasn’t foolish enough to tell Bruno why she didn’t like Mariano, but he hadn’t asked her, either. He wasn’t like Camilo, who with a smile that reminded her more of a jaguar or viper showing off its fangs, reminding you that it only took a second for those jaws to clamp down on your supple flesh—well, he’d asked.

And she’d said that it was because Mariano was a f*cking idiot, and it didn’t…

It wasn’t wrong.

He was an idiot. He had the capacity for romance and that was about it. Maybe a little bricklaying here and there. If Dolores wanted him, she could have him.

But it also wasn’t the truth.

And the terrifying thing about Camilo’s rows of teeth was that Isabela was pretty sure he knew.

“It feels sh*tty to say that I don’t want to be you because I missed you so much and I’m drinking homemade alcohol with you now but…”

Bruno tsked.

“Senorita Perfecta.”

Isabela nodded in bitter agreement.

“What the f*ck, what the f*ck,” gasped Isabela, coming to her senses atop Acacia, her hands still stubbornly in her hair. Isabela didn’t feel inclined to remove them, but she still pushed herself slightly up.

Acacia frowned, her hand cupping Isabela’s cheek. “Are you okay? You look frightened.”

It spilled out before she could stop it. “I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Acacia’s eyes glimmered dangerously, her lips quirking upwards and making Isabela want to kiss her again. Damn it. Damn girl and damn her kissable lips and how her hips perfectly slotted into Isabela’s and how she’d felt like she pulled divinity from their embrace.

“You know,” she chuckled, “It’s not like anyone would find out. You could go back to being the good catholic girl, and they’d see the hickey on your neck and think that your boyfriend got messy.”

Isabela frowned. “Still shouldn’t. I don’t know you and I…”

“… I have things to do.”

Acacia batted her eyelashes. “So,” she said, her tongue roaming across her lower lip, “Tell me about the things. We don’t have to f*ck if you don’t want to. I don’t think I really want to, I just think I’m a little…” she licked her lip, “… Drunk.”

She stroked Isabela’s cheek. “You’re beautiful,” she murmured, “You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen before.”

And Isabela blushed. And thought about how Acacia didn’t either, how Acacia might be her last taste of honey for the rest of her life, how Bogota might be her first and last grasp at a freedom she could never allow herself and she sank into the grass next to her, collapsing on her back, Acacia’s hand still on her face.

Isabela wrapped her own fingers around it, gripping it tightly. She didn’t know if she was someone who liked talking about things. Mirabel said that she should be, that talking was good now—that she wouldn’t get in trouble for it (and Mira said that with such a conviction that Isabela felt ice run down her spine, because she had to know) but Isabela didn’t believe that her fifteen-year-old little sister should be the one healing the family.

Or telling Isabela what to f*cking do.

She didn’t know what Mira would think about this. She probably wouldn’t like it. Isabela split from Luisa, from her strong sister who can protect her as if Isabela can’t strangle a man herself, as if she doesn’t think about doing it every day, picturing it in her mind and laying it out against the backs of her eyelids like the blueprints of Encanto’s perfectly colour-coordinated floral arrangements.

She probably wouldn’t like it because Isabela was wasting time.

Isabela shouldn’t like it because she doesn’t want to waste time. She wants to find the people who hurt her Tio Bruno, and she wants to make them unable to hurt anyone else ever again.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Isabela dropped next to Elena and threaded their fingers together.

Elena wasn’t entirely sure that Isabela would take her up on the offer, but maybe she wasn’t from Bogota—her accent reminded Elena of Bruno’s—and she seemed open, receptive.

“Why are you drunk?” she asked, and Elena blamed the alcohol surging in her bloodstream and the knowledge that she might not have a night like this, might never had one before—in the late hours of drinking, lying on her back and talking about everything and anything with someone who might mean something, might have been able to mean something if Elena had that choice.

She raised her voice.

“I’m trying to find some medicine for my father,” and she winced at her utter failure, and the weight of her words, “But I haven’t been able to find some. You know, with all the… conflict going on, well, there’s not a lot to go around.”

She didn’t mention that she’d tried to threaten or shoot her way to it, because it didn’t seem like herself and Isabela were from the same world. Isabela laid on her back, completely unguarded, both hands within Elena’s line of sight and it would be the easiest kill that Elena managed—even if her head was alight with flowers, and either Isabela had better sleight of hand than Elena (so, Elena was f*cked) or she was one of those relatives Bruno mentioned, coming for revenge and to reclaim him (so, Elena was super, super f*cking f*cked).

Isabela sniffed.

“My uncle’s missing,” she said. “And I’m worried about him because he doesn’t… well, some things happened to him, and he’s not… good. He’s not good at taking care of himself, and he’s probably so scared right now. And hurt.”

“He was taken.”

Elena’s breath froze. She barely managed to school her expression.

“I just… hope that Bruno’s okay, wherever he is. I just want to know that he’s okay. Wait!”

“Have you heard anything about a Bruno Madrigal?”

Elena jumped to her feet, feeling her back burning.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Acacia lurched up as soon as Isabela mentioned Tio Bruno. Drunkenly, she didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Acacia staggered on her feet, and Isabela rose to support her, a hand on her shoulder that caused Acacia to wince and pull back, a scared look in her eyes.

She blinked, quickly regaining her footing. The only person that Isabela had ever seen react like that was Tio Bruno, and Acacia recovered much quicker—so quick it was scary. She’d have spent a good hour coaxing Tio Bruno out of a dark corner, if he’d flashed her that wide-eyed expression.

Acacia began to walk away, and Isabela ambled after her, drawn in, hook, line and sinker.

Acacia shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants, taking a long step in front of Isabela, facing her and blocking her path. “Hm,” she continued, “You shouldn’t discount your uncle, you know. Sometimes, you’ll find yourself surprised at what people can do when they’re desperate. And things have a way of working out, I think.”

“He’s not like that,” Isabela insisted, even if the words belonged to her mother more than her. Everyone had said that she was perfect, and she wasn’t. Everyone had said that Bruno was fragile, and Isabela wasn’t entirely sure that she was ready to believe the common consensus just yet. Acacia’s eyes met hers.

Acacia shrugged.

“I don’t know anything about your uncle personally,” she spoke, “But I know that if anyone’s taken by the cartel, they’ll be in the North. Do you know if he’s taken by the cartel?”

(Yes.)

(Isabela did know that.)

(But she didn’t know how much Acacia knew, and she wasn’t giving her hand—the alcohol’s buzz was leaving her, and with it, the sinking rationale and responsibility.)

“Your father’s sick?” Isabela asked, trying to think of something else, already fumbling for her bag as Acacia shrugged back into her coat.

“Injured.”

Isabela could have jumped for joy, but that would have ruined the mood.

She shoved a wrapped arepa into Acacia’s hands, wrapping her fingers around it. “My Mama always says that food heals the soul,” she gestured to the jungle surrounding them, “And I don’t think there’s a lot in the way of homecooked meals to be found here.”

“I wish I could help you,” she admitted, her voice high and airy, reminding Isabela of the breath of fresh air she’d stolen in the mountains, how she’d felt limitless when leaving the sanctuary of Encanto, “But I don’t know anything about a Bruno Madrigal, I’m sorry.”

BOGOTA; Eight Years Ago, Elena

When she was younger and dumber, Elena had been interested in anthropology and the ancient world—she remembered being eight, and barely able to pronounce the word, but still insisting that her father tell her tales about the great kings of old. Anthropology, anthropology, anthropology.

She twirled the bottle in her hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light.

In antiquity, Ozymandias was the Greek name for the Egyptian pharaoh Ramesses II (r. 1279–1213 BCE) who ruled in the 19th Dynasty of Ancient Egypt.

Ramesses lived to ninety-six years of age. His reign was so long that when he died, most of his subjects had been born knowing him as pharaoh and no one else. Many born after him, under him, had even died, under him, before him. When he died, there was a widespread and well-documented panic—the people of Egypt believed that the whole world would end with the death of their king.

He had his name and accomplishments inscribed from one end of the Egypt to the other. There is virtually no ancient site in Egypt that doesn’t make mention of Ramesses the Great.

She thrust her legs upon a chair, happy enough to find an empty room away from the droning noise of a gang she didn’t like getting drunk. She dragged out one of Morales’ liquor bottles from underneath her, letting her nails deftly chip away at the office flooring and pull at an invisible mechanism.

If he didn’t want her to steal his sh*t, he could just find a better hiding spot. Even if, as legend had begun to say, there wasn’t a single place that Elena Rojas couldn’t find because she could see all your secrets and that’s why her eyes were uncomfortably green and didn’t flinch when she killed you.

She simply knew you deserved it, and therefore, felt no mercy. A God, judging her targets.

The bottle seemed to leap to her hand of its own volition, and she winced at the soft sound it made against her palm. Fine, she thought, it was a fine performance that she produced, and she didn’t want to think any more about that.

It wasn’t good enough.

Elena didn’t believe in luck. She believed in risk.

To someone else, risk would seem the darker of those choices. Elena agreed. But it didn’t mean that she didn’t have faith in risk, all the same. She had faith in risk in the same way that she had faith in her ability to pop off the bottle’s cap with the knife up her sleeve.

The last night she’d attempted that trick, she’d almost chopped off her finger, but that was a hazard of the joint occupations of being a criminal and a teenager.

This time, it went quickly, and she was suffering down the hard whiskey minutes later, deftly sipping at the bottle’s rim, ensuring that it wouldn’t spill onto her clothes. She couldn’t get away with looking like sh*t, she wasn’t Morales or Noche yet—she still had to wait a few more years until she could climb down the man’s incinerator shaft and burn him alive.

Her hand tickled but her breath stayed stable as she held her nose and forbade herself from coughing down the rest of the liquor. She didn’t want a single drop out of place, and she didn’t want it staining her teeth. She was better than that. She was Martino Rojas’ f*cking daughter, thank you very much.

She didn’t feel lightheaded yet, and she found it annoying, because she wanted to be. She was alone and she didn’t have any enemies in the building yet, although she intended to make plenty.

Elena Rojas didn’t need a reason, and yet, she always had one.

As always, the alcohol flooded her brain all once and she suddenly, she was mindlessly tapping away at her pants, knowing there were craters of scar tissue underneath, thinking about herself, thinking about her father, thinking about Martinez and how he’d looked at her in a way that’d made her feel things, how Anna had looked at her that way too and how she knew that was worse, thinking about her body on fire, thinking about her body buoyant in the water.

Control, Elena bit, her mouth on fire. To take risks is to make choices, not to hand your life into fate’s design. To win is to have control.

She’d made power her religion, profit her God and revenge her witness.

Elena Rojas was a thirteen-year-old girl with a burned back and a pistol in her right hand. Her mind worked like a clock ticking backwards. Broken, absolved, each gear whirring in place, turning all day, every day, day, and night until the streets met their witching hour.

Elena Rojas was a nobody stuck in a sea of anybodies who wanted to become a somebody.

She wanted to forget, not to remember. She didn’t think she could take a step without the pain of her past rolling up and down her spine like the waves. She would become something—someone—new once she took over the streets of this city and once Noche’s head hung from her hands. She would do more than the job her father wanted for her—she would give him everything, all of Bogota, all of—

She was thirteen. She was simply thirteen and she thought of how her uncle had hoisted her onto his hip and told her tall tales of his homeland. Told her how all the alcohol would rot out her brain and her teeth until they clattered onto the floor like shiny bullets, that it would ruin her.

How the blood staining her legs would ruin her, too. How she was already ruined, if that was how they were playing.

How girls her age should be in school or cooking at home and not solving problems with knives.

But Elena Rojas didn’t need a reason and at that moment, she damn well didn’t need anything other than the sky above and the vastness of the earth underneath and the power in her two thin, shaking hands. King of Kings, she thought. King of Kings, she uttered aloud. King of Kings.

Chapter 12: the flesh that I burned

Chapter Text

BOGOTA, Alejandro

He knows it’s a nightmare because he’s looking through windows. His hands on the dirty glass, and he’s watching her dance—her red dress catching the light as she spins, a glimmering golden ring on her finger and she’s laughing in a way she never did with him and she’s—

He wrenches his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up. He’s been in this business long enough. He knows when something isn’t real. She’s not real. She’s not his anymore. She’s not there anymore. She’s a bad woman who wants bad things and only likes the beginnings of things, anyways.

Green visions clatter against the ceilings of his eyelids, thin fingers holding them down, keeping him shut into the dark—she’s drunken, she’s staggering into him, her breath’s heavy and she’s pushing him up against the wall, lifting him with one arm, leaning in for a sloppy kiss as she unbuttons his jeans and it’s not him.

He tells her that he wants it all, and she rasps that he will. In the morning, she doesn’t leave through the window. She stays, curled up next to him, his bare arm against her bare hip under the covers and when he pulls her closer, she doesn’t flinch.

She blinks awake and snuggles into his chest, moaning about not wanting to get up. She grins as he wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her to her feet, the sun making her naked body glow golden and he peppers kisses across her unscarred neck, down her collarbones and she digs her fingers into his hair, biting at his lip.

He’s not Alejandro.

BOGOTA, Elena

Elena dropped onto the floor silently, rolling from her toes to the balls of her feet as she slid the window shut, popped the window locks back into place so not even the best locksmith would have known that she’d snapped them off just a couple hours ago.

Or, the second best locksmith, she supposed.

Because she’d killed the actual best locksmith in Bogota due to him f*cking up a very simple contract and no one had really managed to match his skill or earn his title in her mind.

It’d been quick and greasy, and she’d stayed just long enough to hear the maid scream when she’d found her master in the bathroom, with his head reduced to the texture of chunky salsa after a scuffle where he’d put up way too much of a fight for how many good drugs Elena had slipped into his portion of the wine they’d shared.

Her head was still buzzing and at any other point in her life, she’d be embarrassed to say that it took her a few seconds to notice that Bruno’s eyes were open, and blearily glaring at her.

“Hi,” she said, which didn’t save her skin at all. It felt like she’d snuck out for a party and stumbled home to find her mother waiting for her in the kitchen, which was a strange feeling because she’d never had a mother. She’d had a father who’d stolen her and promised her a better life and never been able to do good on it because of the bastards that she was going to deliver to God.

Elena remembered being seventeen, drunk and staggering up the stairs to Martinez’s bedroom as half of the gang whistled—onto to plop onto the floor, rolling onto her back and gazing into his vast eyes and wondering if she could stay like this forever. It’d been one of those nights where everything was softened by the darkness, and you felt invincible enough to ask anything.

So, she did.

And he followed.

She asked him if he regretted anything about his position and he answered that yes, he did. When she asked him to elaborate, he sighed, blinked as if he had something in his eye and said, “You.” And she didn’t understand what that meant until years later, when she realised that you couldn’t force a future and that she wasn’t going to walk home with him forever.

And then he’d asked her if she’d always known that she’d liked girls the way she liked boys and she’d laughed and asked him how he’d known that and he’d just smiled knowingly, and she’d said yes.

Bruno blinked.

“You… brought me here?”

She nodded.

“You… left?”

She hated how his tone ebbed with betrayal—as if he’d wanted her there, as if the sound of her feet hitting the ground, or the sight of her taking a brief moment to breathe in the night air before she slipped back inside to the blazing heat that she didn’t like—as if it’d hurt, as if the thought of her not being around was bad.

(As if her sticking around could have made something better instead of just shattering it further.)

Sure, he’d told her so.

But so had everyone else—everyone else who she’d gone to the edge and beyond just to keep close, who she’d have followed to the graveyard if they’d asked, who she’d been afraid to leave on their own.

She’d made too many men into names in the sky—both gloriously so and just memorial plaques. She’d built legacies from the ground up and the only thing she had to show for it now was scars littering her body and a price on her head.

Motherf*ckers.

And she knew that she wasn’t going to just trust the words of another man again, especially not when he’d managed to carve his way into her heart and made her risk her life in days—especially not when she was just as attractive dead as alive, and he could get out of a blazing house fire without a single scratch on him.

Tired of lying, Elena nodded again.

“But I came back,” she added, as she crossed the distance between them.

She didn’t intend to offer the arepa because it was a sad excuse for her actually being competent. But she hadn’t gotten anything else out of her trip—at least, she hadn’t gotten anything else material out of her trip, Isabela was still stuck between her teeth like the sticky candy that she’d always bite off Martinez’s fingers, and Elena would never forget how when Isabela smiled, it was with lips that she would have killed to kiss.

And that she could never have.

Because she was Isabela f*cking Madrigal and Elena had done what she did best and that was lying and sending her astray. Elena knew that Isabela would have to go South to find Bogota, and Elena had told her to go North because she was an asshole who was afraid of facing the consequences of her actions.

Maybe, if Elena hadn’t lied, if she’d brought Isabela back to the shelter they’d found—maybe, just maybe, she’d be forgiven for her actions. Maybe she could have kissed those lips again.

But she’d never know the answer. She’d made her choice, and her choice had consequences. It was a single lust and alcohol-fuelled encounter in the woods. It could stay that. Should stay that. Will stay that.

Even if Isabela had been the first person to see her as someone outside of her moniker and rank—and Elena had still somehow managed to scare her away. No, it wasn’t somehow. She’d chosen to.

Instead of thinking any more about that, she dropped down next to Bruno, stuffed her knees against her chest and pulled out the slightly soggy arepa from her pocket. “I found food,” she answered simply, “You should eat to keep your strength up. And you should also eat because I’m not going to eat that. I f*cking hate arepas.”

And that was the truth. If she wasn’t going to share a sh*tty cafeteria arepa with Martinez, or if he wasn’t finally going to show her what a ‘real’ one tasted like—well, she’d be just fine going her whole life without one.

After a moment, Bruno took it.

“I had to cauterise your wound,” she tried, because she didn’t know how much he remembered, “That’s when you close a wound with fire. It hurts a lot, but it does the job. It’s how I treated my own one,” she shrugged her shirt open just enough to show her own—uninfected, because she’d never call herself lucky, but she’d say that God had a funny sense of humour sometimes—dash of healing white.

Bruno bit down on the arepa. “I think I heard you scream.”

Elena chuckled. “I’m sorry you had to hear me scream, because I absolutely did. It hurts like a bitch. The only way you’re doing it to yourself is by allowing yourself to feel the hurt. I suppose that’s not the worst advice for other things, either.”

Bruno took another bite.

“I suppose not. You wouldn’t take it, though, would you Elena?”

She shook her head.

“You smell of alcohol.”

Elena bowed her head, briefly sniffing her own shirt. She could have argued. Usually, she would have. It wasn’t that she thought she should keep the fact that she drank secret—everyone she knew drank, and while yes, she understood the shame; she killed people for a living, and she was pretty sure that was a more shameful act in the eyes of the general public. Good thing she didn’t operate by their standards, and that both meant that she killed, and she drank, and she didn’t find a reason to hide both of those vices.

Or did she?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I didn’t want to think about some stuff, so I decided to drink before going looking for medical supplies.”

Bruno pushed himself up with a wince, Rosita scurrying into his lap.

“I don’t want to hold the rat again,” Elena stated simply, before he could even get good ideas, “I want to tell you about my great and amazing revenge murder plans and that rat always makes me feel like I’m a nice girl who’s never relieved a head from its shoulders.”

Bruno snickered to himself, and Elena felt proud that she’d been the one to cause it. f*ck. She felt like she used to when she was younger and she’d draw all over her father’s nice porcelain or complete a complicated flip against the bannisters, and he’d watch her with amusem*nt and fondness. She’d feel proud that she could make him happy.

She’d feel like she was worth something.

“So,” said Bruno lightly, “Tell me about your,” he completed it with a set of air quotes, “Great and amazing revenge murder plans.”

Elena giggled.

“So,” she licked her lips, stretching over to toss another log on the fire, “I don’t need you to agree to help me or anything, because I understand that you might have a moral code or something and I would get that killing is okay in self-defence but you’re not going to seek out someone in their home just to rip them to pieces, that’s understandable and completely fair but—”

“Nah,” answered Bruno, popping his tongue, “They’d planned an auction, and the other leaders would probably have bid. I want them to pay for even thinking about buying another person.”

Elena watched the flames lick the wood, curling up the spine and digging their claws deep inside. “I like this new version of you,” she replied, distracting herself.

“Did it come with the stab wound or does Bogota just corrupt anyone who steps within its borders, I wonder?”

“Then,” she continued, “If the new and improved Bruno likes it, I’m thinking that we straight up hunt these idiots for sport and then kill them. Senor Noche is mine, but you’re welcome to help with him, and I think I killed Jefe for information but that’s okay because he’s not important. He’s a little sh*t who always thought that he was something. C’mon, naming yourself Boss. f*cking loser. I was just waiting for a good enough excuse to commit that murder. Actually, because I killed Morales, it’s only fair that you get a few whacks on my asshole, too.”

Bruno quirked a brow. “You’re rambling.”

He grinned.

“Didn’t you work for Morales? I think he was your asshole, too. I don’t think that someone snaps like you did if they don’t have a good reason for it.”

Elena shrugged.

“I’m not going to tell you about our history because that’s not necessary to understand why it’s necessary. I think that we should leave this place as soon as possible—and as soon as I’ve dealt with a minor errand—because I’m sure that everyone’s going to scramble at the chance of kidnapping more magic.”

She didn’t mention how she’d found a goddess who could make the flowers move—and yes, if Elena had been drunk and that’d been all, she would have blamed it on the fine whiskey, but it wasn’t. Her hair was kissed by the finest vibrant colours Elena had seen—setting her dull life alight in technicolour flames every time their eyes met, and she’d laid a name to explain everything.

Elena didn’t say anything because she wanted this final moment more than anything—for some reason, she wanted Bruno with her for the moment that she always thought she’d share with Martinez, that’d end with disgusting, intense sex on Noche’s desk as they gasped about how they’d change the world. For some reason, she was okay that it wouldn’t happen the way she thought for so many years.

So, she lied.

“It’ll be our one last hurrah before making a beeline for Encanto, I swear. One day. One last day.”

“Elena? Can I ask you a question?”

Elena stiffened at his tone of voice, serious, yet dripping with trepidation—as if he was stepping onto a tightrope, his feet arched and ready, but his mind still unsteady.

She nodded.

“They call you the Night Woman, right?”

She nodded again, tasting bile and ash.

“Did you choose that moniker?”

She shook her head.

“… Did, did he—Noche—did he… choose—”

Elena interrupted him; her voice harder than she meant for it to be. “No.”

“Morales chose it. After the death of my father. I don’t want to talk about it. He had worse ideas for it. This wasn’t the worst one.”

BOGOTA, Isabela

“I think we’re getting further away,” sighed Luisa. “Are you sure that the directions you got are right?”

Isabela rolled her eyes.

“Are you suddenly from Bogota?” she questioned.

Luisa snarled. “No,” she answered, her voice tethering on the edge of blowing up, “But I’m also not an idiot who believes everything that strangers tell me. Have you ever thought that this person just lied to you?”

Isabela crossed her arms. “What would she possibly gain from that?”

“Oh, it’s she now, huh?”

Isabela huffed. She didn’t know why it mattered that it was a she that she’d gotten directions from. She’d gotten directions. She’d done more than Luisa had. They were on the right way, because there was something in Acacia’s eyes when she spoke and Isabela could only see it as the truth, because she’d licked ichor from her lips, bitten glory off her corner of her mouth.

(Isabela knew why it mattered that it was a she. Isabela had stunk of alcohol and her shirt hadn’t been tucked back into her trousers and her waistcoat was open and Luisa isn’t that much younger than her, wasn’t much younger than her when she was seventeen. Isabela had done more than Luisa because Isabela hadn’t let Luisa and she—)

(Isabela knew.)

She could feel the movements of the jaguar underneath her, feel its powerful claws meeting the earth, the ground singing to her fingertips. “Yes,” she finally answered, “It’s a she, and she gave me a very good reason to believe her.”

“We’re going outside of the gang limits, that’s why we’re going away from the settlements and back into the jungle. But we’ll get to where we need to be, and we’ll do it with significantly less risk—”

“And speed,” interrupted Luisa.

Isabela sighed audibly. “Luisa,” she lectured, “A fight takes time. Wastes time. And bullets don’t respect magic food. They’ll still kill you if you’re shot in the head.”

Luisa, blissfully, shut up.

And five minutes after, Isabela regretted calling it blissfully.

Now, she was alone with the movements of the world around her—of nature, her simmering anger, the innate ruthlessness begging for a chance to flicker to the surface and burn her into nothing but ashes—and her thoughts.

Of Bruno and Acacia, mostly.

She wasn’t drunk anymore, and she remembered Acacia in fragments. Snippets. Her memory was unreliable, but she remembered how Acacia tasted of honey—sweet and with a hint of bitter, an apple seed caught between her teeth.

She remembered how her feet burned as she ran through the jungle, she remembered how it led her to Acacia’s body, how it didn’t lead her to Bruno—did she sacrifice her uncle for a breath of freedom? What did that make her?

Selfish, she supposed.

Did her body know what happened—did the knowledge make her run slower, make her forget that she could call the vines slithering across the treetops to her aid, that the kingdom she commanded was formed from blood and demanded a repayment with interest?

She didn’t like thinking about it.

She didn’t like thinking about Bruno.

She didn’t like thinking about Acacia.

She didn’t like thinking about herself, or Luisa in the saddle next to her and how she’d dragged her little sister into a snake pit just for her own pleasure. How they’d ran away. How she didn’t regret running away from the group.

How she didn’t do it because she wanted to be the first who saved Bruno.

She wanted to be the first who got her hands on the bitch who took him away from her in the first place, because she knew that her father wouldn’t let her have her fun.

She was twenty-one, she was an adult who made her own decisions and she’d chosen that she wanted this. She ignored the ghostly mirages of Mariano, and her smiling dumbly on his arm—as if she thought his poetry wasn’t absolute sh*t. Technically, it wasn’t bad. But it was corny.

Sickly sweet, too sweet; rolling in the grass with Acacia felt like honey gliding down her throat and her eyes could roll back at it, but Mariano felt like the aftermath, like juice staining your neck and chest and becoming tacky with sweat. You want to wipe him off quickly, even if he’d tasted good.

Acacia was everything she’d never had, cloaked in a plume of smoke and sin, but Mariano was safe—he was the approved choice that Isabela had thrown away, that now Dolores had and Isabela had tried not to think about Dolores eclipsing her, because she wasn’t supposed to worry about it.

She wasn’t supposed to, but that didn’t mean she didn’t.

She wasn’t supposed to kiss girls, but she kissed girls and she liked it more than when she kissed boys.

She wasn’t supposed to want to map the curve of Acacia’s waist with her hands, she wasn’t supposed to want to dive deeper inside of her, she wasn’t supposed to see the swell of breasts as she returns to the waters and think that she could jump straight into the deep end and follow her.

But she did.

And now, she was riding away from the girl who made her feel free with every kiss. Her limited interactions with Acacia had cemented her as more of an ideal for Isabela to project onto, instead of a human woman with feelings and desires of her own.

Isabela knew how dangerous both of those were.

She could hear the greenery crunching under their steeds, she could feel the treetops singing, she could feel the desire festering in her chest, even as she tried to drown it. In Encanto, even now, even when everyone tried to lie to themselves, family was what came first. Family was what you sacrificed for. In Encanto, Isabel knew that she wouldn’t have thought twice.

Encanto was a walled garden, and the thought of rebellion wouldn’t even have entered her mind. But she’s outside the bounds of Eden now, and the snakes are slithering underfoot, with faces and voices that she craves to map out, to discover. She’s licked divinity from a girl, and the thought of not being able to do it again is debilitating, heart-stopping.

She doesn’t know if she’s a good person, anymore. Not really. She doesn’t know, if standing in front of the choice, if she would be able to return to Encanto immediately—if she choice would be made for her, or if she would have to think about it; and no matter what, she knew she would regret. But there’s one thing she knows for sure.

She’s never felt this way when she’s kissed men.

She’s sure of it now.

Isabela Madrigal would never be satisfied by a man again.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

They walked by the harbour, the sh*tty shallow parts that the fishermen pulled their dinghies up against, because that’s what tourists would do and Elena’s always secretly liked watching the lights of the city above sparkle like far-off, neon stars. They’re at the mouth of the beast, and she knows that if she wants to go back to Encanto—she has to trudge through the more mountainous parts of Bogota.

It feels like she can finally breathe, if she stepped onto a ship, she’d be out. She’d be free. But she’s turning around, standing on the ledge overlooking the thrashing water, and she’s about to go back inside. The wind picks up her hair, playing with it like a petulant sibling.

She’s tied the horse to the railing, and she’s just enjoying the feeling of air in her lungs.

Bruno’s hand gripped hers tighter, and she hopped down with a chuckle and a shake of her head. They weren’t getting far. There wasn’t a single hotel on the strip that’d taken them in, and the inns had closed their doors hours ago, filled to the brim with sailors and the kinds of people that Elena didn’t want to see anyways.

She’d rationalised that even if they were expensive, the hotels would probably be their best choice. Colombia wasn’t a tourist hotspot, but the missionaries never stayed in anything less and they didn’t cause trouble in the cities.

They’re leaving tomorrow, so she decides to fill him in on some of the details of their escape, because even if he might not like it: they’re partners, now. “I’m stuck on how we’re going to get past the city centre,” Elena hums, studying the diagram of the city, colour-coded for the various gangs and their various, constantly shifting conquests, “We can’t cut through the middle without causing a scene and it’s been one of the more stable areas for years, so I’d just feel bad for mucking that up.”

“I don’t want Noche or Morales thinking that they have any business f*cking over other people’s territories to get to me, but maybe it’s even a little egotistical of me to think that they would. I’m sure it’s not just the lackeys that benefit from the illusion of a ceasefire.”

She licked her lip and noticed that Bruno hadn’t responded at all. She turns to see what’s brought his silence on, she’s met with the sight of him staring off into the distance, hoveringly worryingly close to the edge.

“Bruno?” Elena asks, voice uncertain. There is no response. Elena lets go of his hand, watching it fall limply against the side of his skinny thigh. “Bruno Madrigal?”

For a moment, what feels like a lifetime of expectation answers her question. He’s simply having a vision, just like he’d had of her in the clearing—maybe, he’s here to rectify his original one. Maybe she’s done something now, broken the secret code, and maybe she dies now. She squashes the idea because she can’t. Elena Rojas has a mission. Subtly, she stomps her foot into the mud curling around the cobblestones, not enough to draw wide attention—but enough that it should have earned a reaction from him, with how close they’re standing.

With how he’s always watching how she moves, and how she always pretends that she doesn’t know he’s expecting a strike.

Elena’s played men to her whims like the finest violinist, but she stands frozen in front of Bruno, watching the neon lights of the city bisect his face and sharpen his already gaunt features into a sickly mirage of yellow and blood red, a sick green running down his pupils and spilling from his sockets.

She lunges into action, a jerking, unfamiliar motion, putting a hand on his shoulder, and of course, he startles, knocking her hand back as he turns around, stepping backward, into the shallow, foaming water. His eyes are wild, afraid, and confused. The water rushes up to his knees and Elena blinks in surprise at his reaction.

“Bruno?” she tries again, softer now, like she’s speaking to a spooked animal. He doesn’t answer her, but a rattling breath escapes him. That’s when she sees it. Beneath the stars and electrifying lights of the only home she’s ever known, Bruno isn’t looking at her. He’s looking past her, at something she can’t see. She realises it with a start, and she softens her voice more than she believed physically possible.

She’s always sounded cold, always sounded sharp—her voice was the auditory equivalent of a knife against your throat, and if you didn’t follow her demands: well, it’d end up being a warning of just that.

“Bruno, it’s me. ‘Lena,” she tries, reaching a hand forward for him to grasp onto so she could pull him out of the water and against her body—she’s sure with his already depleted frame and the stress of the recent days, the cold water of the Bogota port won’t be good for him, “Come on, I’m sorry for stalling. Let’s go find a place to lie down, hm? You can hide in my coat; I promise I’ll glare daggers at anyone.”

“Just for tonight,” she adds, “Tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll go back home, to Encanto. I promise.”

“They’ll see me,” Bruno mutters, barely loud enough to hear. He chews at his nails, humming in a way she’s quickly learned means that he’s nervous and trying not to show it, because he’s scared of her. She doesn’t blame him one bit, and just widens her arms.

“That’s okay, Bruno,” Elena attests, ignoring the terror that binds her feet to the ground, it feels like someone’s wrapped concrete around them and she’s just waiting to be thrown to the bottom, “I’ll protect you. I promise.”

She’s made an awful lot of promises these past few days. She hopes she’ll live long enough to keep them.

Bruno blinks, looking just a sliver more aware and it makes Elena want to pump her fist in the air and holler. She doesn’t. Instead, she watches as he slowly reaches out to clasp her hand, achingly slow, but it’s progress, and she has nothing to do. Before their fingers touch and Elena can haul him to relative safety, a gun goes off in an alleyway and it’s enough to startle him again.

Elena doesn’t even flinch, but she watches Bruno take another step back and she watches his foot catch on a stone sticking up from the sh*tty bank, and then he’s falling, windmilling his arms, and disappearing under the water with a loud splash.

Elena laughs, for a split second, the fear from Bruno’s strange behaviour overshadowed by his clumsiness, and the reminder that when she’d been a little girl who was learning how to shoot: her father had dramatically fallen backwards when she’d hit him with the small pellet of paint, before proclaiming the greatness of her aim and how he’d never compare in an airy, overdramatic voice.

Her laugh tapers into nothing when Bruno doesn’t emerge to lunge at her while she was distracted by giggling like her father did. Elena closes her mouth, slams it shut like a bear trap and her concern is rising again: tenfold. The water isn’t deep enough for him to be unable to find his footing. She would know, she’s killed people here. There’s no current this time of year. She’d know, she’s killed people here.

The weather is good and the water’s warm enough, even for the evening—he wouldn’t go into shock so quickly. For all intents and purposes, he should be rising from the water, laughing as well. Probably apologising for scaring Elena, as if she was just a normal girl and not dripping with blood.

But he doesn’t.

Elena dives in after him, without thinking.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds of feeling around underwater for her to find him, concerningly just laying there on the sand, his eyes fluttered shut, unmoving, not fighting to get his head back above water, not stuck on anything, not held down by cement.

Elena grabs the fabric of his stolen ruana and tugs him upwards, wrapping her arms around his waist as soon as she’s able and pillowing his head on her shoulder. Once her head breaks the water, she realises that it only comes up to about her chest and feels a little silly about the dramatics.

The embarrassment is pushed aside to make room for more worry, though, because Bruno isn’t moving.

Maybe, before she’d brought a match to her own life: she’d have walked away, uncaring of the outcome of someone else’s stupidity. But it wasn’t stupidity, and Elena doesn’t think she’s ever been that person. She’s just been too afraid to be anything other than what the world needed of her, but the longer she stays away, running through the streets at night and scrouging for food in a way she’d previously condemned with the vehemence that only comes from fear: Elena finds the persona dripping off her, landing at her feet and staining the ground like the dye of a cheap coat.

Now, she acts the way she knows she must.

Elena learned CPR a month before her ninth birthday, after a child drowned in a pond. It was something she was never able to forget, not that she’d ever wanted to.

Thirty pumps on the sternum, one hand crossed over the other, hold his nose and breathe into his mouth to reinflate her lungs, as she dips her head, she’s at the cusp of nine and her father’s hand is securely around her shoulder, his fingers pressing down against the muscle for each beat of the heart. One, two. One, two. One, two.

As soon as Elena’s lips leave Bruno’s, he’s lurching upwards, his forehead slamming against her nose, water spilling all over their chests. His breath’s shaky and desperate, but it’s there. It’s not hers, and Elena doesn’t hold back the thin shriek that escapes her when her hands shoot up to prod at her nose, feeling for breaks.

“What the f*ck?” she hisses, smacking Bruno gently on the shoulder as she tries to get her heartrate to slow the f*ck down. She’s a grown assassin, she’s killed men in the bathroom while twenty enormous walls of bodyguard have stood outside, and she’s slammed his head against the urinal without alerting a single one, even when she’s been breathless. She can calm down, because literally nothing is wrong.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Bruno gasps through wet coughs, and Elena’s hand flies to his back, encouraging them to pour out, “I couldn’t think! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! Please, don’t leave, don’t make me leave, not again, please—”

“What…” Elena’s movements slow, her brief flare of anger dims into a manageable glow. “You’re apologising to me? You almost just died!”

“But I didn’t!” Bruno points out, and despite all his manufactured jubilance, Elena can’t help but notice how pale he’s gotten, the cracking of lips, how sunken his eyes are. Maybe it’s the light, maybe she’s just seeing a new side of him.

She’s seen him distressed, but she’s never seen him distressed because he’s trying to prove just how fine he is. It paints a picture that she doesn’t like one bit.

Encanto’s become a sanctuary in her mind, an idealised image. She doesn’t want it tarnished, because it’s all the security she can hold onto now, and she’s dangling off a cliff.

“Elena, I’m okay. It’s just… my time in the walls was hard for me and it’s been… a hard adjustment. But I promise you, I swear, I’m alright! I can be useful! Please don’t think I can’t be! I’m okay.” He grabs her hand and squeezes it tight, Elena still frozen, the cold seeping into her skin and not wanting to let her go. His skin burns hers. “I’m okay, Elena.”

That’s not what she’s thinking about.

The walls.

Yes, but Bruno’s been watching them from the crack in the wall for ten years.

My time in the walls was hard for me.

The voices she’d heard glued to the side of the colourful house, talking about birthdays and years and cracks in the walls. Elena squeezed back. “Bruno,” she asked tentatively, “Can I ask you a question?”

He nods.

“Are you safe in Encanto?”

His eyes widen and she immediately backtracks. “No, no,” she clarifies, pulling him closer to her as she spoke like she would to a jaguar on the footpath, “It’s just… I heard some things, here and there, and now you said something—you said something about walls, and I heard someone else say that you watched through a crack in the walls for ten years and that’s just—”

“When someone does that here, it doesn’t end well if they go back.”

She’d be an idiot to say that she hadn’t noticed that Bruno was different. And that she couldn’t imagine someone throwing him into a cell and swallowing the key. He didn’t function like she did, didn’t communicate like her either, had his strange rituals, but he’d saved her life and even more miraculously, he made her laugh at stupid sh*t.

Even if she was reluctant to speak it aloud, she cared for Bruno, and she didn’t want to bring him back to somewhere—even if she’d stolen him in the first place—where he’d be hurt. Even if he thought it was safe, if his family locked him anywhere and Elena was around: she wouldn’t care. She’d shoot them dead.

And she’s sling Bruno over her shoulder and escape from the pools of red.

Simple as that.

f*ck redemption, f*ck becoming someone new in the ashes of her past. She’d shoot them dead, and she’d grab Bruno and run, and she’d fall right back into the arms of the Colombian underworld, begging them with every shred of her being to take her back to the only thing she’s ever known, safe in her predictable cruelty—

“No!” exclaims Bruno, pulling her back to reality, her eyes blinking as they refocus on his, wide in fear, “No, I mean yes. My family—my family make me feel safe. It’s just—”

“Something happened to me in the past. They’re not—”

Elena finishes the sentence for him, taking both his hands in hers and tucking him against her shivering chest. “They’re not responsible for it?”

She could feel Bruno’s head nodding furiously.

“And they help you?”

He nods again.

“Fine,” she says around a pout, “But if something like that ever happens again to you, you’re going to tell me, no matter where in the world I am, you’re going to find me and there’s nothing you can do to convince me to stay quiet, okay?

She wiggled her fingers a little, “And if you ever feel like you’re going to… do that, the thing you just did… again, just grab onto me. I don’t mind.”

She flexed her biceps. “And I’m real strong, too.”

She laughed as she felt Bruno’s face scrunching up as she pushed them back to their feet, “You’re not going to tell me to go and hide while you handle things?”

Elena shrugged, “If that’s what you’re able to do, I’ll do my very best to handle things on my own, but if not, you and I are a team. And we watch out for each other, this is all a little new for me, too and frankly—”

“I’m looking way too good in this broken crown to go back on it.” She doesn’t say that she’s burned every bridge she’s had—even with people she’s loved. She lit the fire, and it burned brightly as she watched them plummet into the dark, stormy seas. She doesn’t say how she didn’t linger when she should have. When she should have at least felt a little remorse for setting her life alight.

She knows her father’s disappointed with her. She wouldn’t expect anything less. She’d be angry with him if he wasn’t, if she somehow fell through those pearly gates and right back into his arms—before marching up to Gabriel and asking him what cruel f*cking trick this was, she’d slap her father if she even spoke a word of pride about her.

She squeezed his hand. “You and I are a team. If you need help, I’ll help you. Otherwise, I trust you.”

Bruno sags in relief, his hand not leaving hers.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” He repeats in murmurs, like a mantra. Like a prayer. Elena doesn’t want to think about why he’s doing it, but she gets the horrible feeling that even if she couldn’t—wouldn’t—have said anything else, because that’d be a lie, that she’s just made a horrible mistake.

Bella whinnies from the railing, scraping her foot angrily—probably mad at being forgotten. Elena feels the water on her starting to get icy and weigh her down. “C’mon,” she breathes, “We should probably get going, see if there’s anywhere at all that wants us before the horse plans a mutiny.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Isabela

Isabela was shaking, Isabela tripped over her own flowers, growing through coloured bricks, falling onto the knees, and feeling the blood pool underneath her, the current trying to sweep her away. The only thing she was tethered to; a solid, strong hand cupping her jaw. The figure moving to crouch in front of her, grinning and showing off seven rows of sharp, red-tipped fangs.

Her nails became claws, digging into the soft of Isabela’s cheek. She lifted her by the skin the blood reaching their waists. Acacia smiled softly, blackened, hollow eye sockets studying her. “Do you really think I was put here to love you?” she asked.

She leaned closer, pressing her forehead against Isabela’s and burning down to the bone, down to the truth. She chuckled. Even though the sound was poisonous, even though her fingers were caressing the bone, Acacia was holding her head above water and Isabela moved her own fingers to wander across the hard of Acacia’s jaw, padding up to her browbone, disappearing in her hair as Isabela kissed her.

“I was put here to destroy you.”

The blood reached their chests.

“You’ll drown, too,” Isabela rasped, “You’re going to reap what you sowed right next to me.”

Acacia bit at Isabela’s lip, oil dripping from her hungry eyes. Between breaths, she answered, “I dreamt about you every night and the night’s made for saying things you can’t say otherwise.”

The blood around them was warm, almost a motherly embrace—an embrace of lovers, perhaps. Isabela hadn’t moved to stand, but when she did, she couldn’t feel the floor underneath her.

“I can’t swim,” she stuttered out and Acacia grinned.

“Then,” she whispered, climbing inside of Isabela and licking her clean, “I’ll keep your head above water. Does this feeling flow both ways?”

“Yes.”

Isabela awoke with a scream.

Immediately, Luisa’s hand was on her shoulder, and she tried to blearily blink herself back to reality—with every blink, Luisa’s huge, worried head was replaced with Acacia’s empty sockets, replaced with how she’d looked at her in the forest, how Isabela had thought she could hide.

“Are you okay?”

Isabela blinked.

Luisa looked scared.

Isabela supposed, with a sharp return to her body, that it was the first time Luisa had seen her scared in many years. That she was the oldest, and Isabela knew how the oldest was always leaned on for guidance and just expected to be fine—being the oldest also meant having the most memories of their mother, hunched over in the kitchen, head in her hands. Being the oldest meant having talked about it.

It meant a responsibility, a weight that you couldn’t put down. It meant understanding how to make the best choice, even if it wasn’t the one you wanted.

“I had a nightmare,” Isabela answered, “But I’m okay now.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

On the walk, Elena had noticed him shivering and shrugged off her coat, and before she’d managed to take a purposeful step behind him, he’d noticed that between the muscles of her shoulders and white tank top, Elena Rojas had nebulas of thick, matted scar tissue, curling around the back of her neck, across her shoulders and he assumed, down her back.

The white fabric clung against her skin, and when she moved in and out of the lights, Bruno could catch sparks of healed-over red, lurching skin. It looked like someone had set her on fire. He’d seen them before, but he hadn’t had the bravery or time to really focus on them.

Elena tugged at his wrist. “Bruno,” she commanded, untying her hair, and allowing it to cascade down her back like a hospital curtain, concealing the horrors on the next bed over. “We have to keep moving, I know you’re tired, but I don’t like sleeping on the streets.”

The hard edge in her voice told him that she knew why he’d staggered, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Nor how it hitched when she talked about sleeping rough.

It wasn’t the first time that he’d noticed her scars. It wasn’t the first time that he’d wondered what could possibly cause scarring to stretch across her whole back—and he was sure of it now, that it was her whole back, when her tank top rode up and even her lower back was speckled with matted, angry skin. It wasn’t the first time he thought about asking her what’d happened. What’d done that.

Who’d done that to her.

He remembered Agustín showing him a set of crater-like scars on his neck, from an infection—before he’d come to Encanto. Agustín had called it a plague, an epidemic in the city streets. He’d said he’d been lucky to survive. Elena was younger than Agustín, but the plague could have come back.

Elena could have just been sick.

And she could be, like Agustín, proud of her scars because they showed that she’d survived.

Somehow, Bruno didn’t think that was the case.

He’d thought about them a lot—how couldn’t he? Not a lot of scars existed in Encanto. He remembered how Julieta had cried when she’d seen his hands, when he’d first returned, all the nicks and cuts and scrapes that’d scabbed over without her cooking.

He’d thought about it—he’d thought about asking, just like Julieta had. But she hadn’t asked. She’d just swallowed down her grief and shoved him onto a kitchen stool.

But it was the first time that he jumped into the deep and asked it aloud.

“Elena,” he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she answered, clicking her tongue, “But I’m not going to promise you that I’ll answer.”

Before he could back out, he did: “What happened to your back?”

Elena stilled.

She turned to face him, squeezing his hand still in her grasp. “It’s not infectious,” she stated, “I didn’t have the pox. Never have.”

“I don’t know what that is. I didn’t think it was infectious. It looks old.”

It did—he could tell that they were burns, he’d seen what old burns looked like; when they were four, Mama had burned her forearm on scalding water, and she still had the scar.

“It happened when I was young,” she stated simply, and Bruno could tell that she was done talking about it. She turned towards the silver shine stretching over the sea.

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

The ocean swallowed everything, and Bruno thought about the man they’d left to bleed out on the hotel carpet, how Morales’ head hadn’t been entirely attached to his body when they walked away. The innate ruthlessness of the city, against the backdrop of the moon, of beauty, of silver carpeting the rooftops at night.

In Encanto, he could see the universe blooming in the night sky, a swirling melange of stars and electrifying colour. Here, there were stars dotted across black—few and far between.

He wondered if Elena knew why.

He asked her.

Elena’s shoulders dropped as she answered. “Light pollution,” she said, and when Bruno didn’t nod in agreement, she elaborated, still trudging her way forward, a dead man’s belt wrapped around her arm as a makeshift sling, “It means that there’s too much light, it drowns out the stars, makes you unable to see them. If someone cut the power across all of Bogota, you’d see the same here, too.”

“We should do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cut the power.”

Elena snickered.

“Have you ever seen the stars?” he questioned.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice light, “I looked up in Encanto.”

“You should see them from a rooftop. Sitting on one, that is. It’s beautiful. Much more than here. I don’t know how you could return here, after seeing the stars in Encanto. You obviously didn’t look up long enough.”

“I think I’d like that.”

And there was a lot to unpack with those words, a lot of unopened boxes cluttering the floor, but Bruno stepped over them—because there was a glaring issue.

“Do you regret… what you did?”

Elena exhaled. “What I did in Encanto?” she finished. He nodded. Elena inhaled.

“Yes and no.”

Anger flared at her words.

Elena might have noticed, but she didn’t address it.

“I’ve done a lot of sh*t I regret. Too much. So, I don’t regret it anymore because that’s impossible. Something… I’m not sure I’m entirely human, sometimes. Sometimes, I feel nothing. Sometimes, I feel everything all at once and I would do anything to silence it. I regret hurting a man who pled for his life, and another who just tried to do the right thing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Elena moved to sit down at the edge of the harbour, one leg up, her head leaning against her knee as the other dangled off the edge. Bruno joined her, wrapping his arms around his middle.

He resisted the urge to lean his head against her shoulder. Sue him. He was tired and Elena was solid, and she might be a bad person, but she was real, and everything had happened so quickly that he wasn’t entirely sure of reality all the time.

And he was too damn nice to let bad people suffer the consequences of their actions alone, it seemed.

Even if she’d pulled the trigger.

Because she had. She was solid, and real, and hard muscle and trained gristle, but she used them to kill and maim for men who’d cut him open for entertainment.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked, and her tone made him turn to regard her. Her eyes were wide-open, catching the light—and she looked younger than twenty-one. She looked younger than the woman who’d commanded life and death in the forests of both Encanto and Bogota, she looked younger than they drew her on her wanted posters and for a moment, Bruno wondered if that’s what she looked like when she got her scars.

After a beat of silence, he nodded.

Elena skipped a stone across the harbour. It went impressively far.

“I do regret one thing all the time,” she confessed, “And I think that’s why I don’t regret this like you want me to. I was much younger, when it happened. It wasn’t my first… assignment, but it wouldn’t be my last, either. It was… Morales wanted me to take out someone for him. But he didn’t want me to kill.”

Elena fingers shook as she picked up another pebble, sending it flying on a quivering trajectory and only reaching half as far as before.

“He wanted me to cripple the target’s family for years. So, I didn’t kill him. Because that’s not how you do that. Death is horrible, but death is something you can recover from. Not physically. I destroyed his mind, his connection to his community. He didn’t do anything to me, and in return, I turned him into a shell of his former self with a single bullet. Did you know that if you hit just a little off kilter, a brief lapse in judgement, in concentration, and you can miss a guaranteed kill? A moment of being too eager, too.”

“That someone can survive an injury like that, can live again, no—”

Elena batted at her face with her sleeve.

“No, they don’t live. They survive. The body continues functioning. Sometimes, not completely. The mind is gone. I realised I’d done wrong from the moment I shot. And that feeling has never dissipated, it doesn’t wax and wane like the others. Sometimes, I wonder what’s wrong with me, because I’ve killed people I’ve loved, and it hasn’t shattered me like that.”

“I deserve to die for what I’ve done to everyone, but it was then that I knew I couldn’t be salvaged. I woke up screaming afterwards, and I know I don’t deserve your sympathy. One night, eleven months after, I hopped through the window and overdosed him on my own adrenaline supply, right into the thigh. I didn’t regret that.”

Bruno felt like if he breathed too loudly, it would sound like an explosion.

Elena pulled her legs tightly against her chest, burying her head. “If I ever have to look at something like that again, knowing that I did it… it’s a fate worse than death. I wouldn’t be able to survive, and I don’t know what that says about me, but there’s where my limits are drawn. I still remember his eyes, unseeing as he drew breath, as I killed him for the second time. A short year ago, the very same man had asked me how I was so tough and what my favourite colour was.”

The air was chilling around them, and he thought about the time that he was a boy and tried to wade through the river, how the amber sky erupted above him as he went past where his feet could touch and Pepa threw herself in after him, dragging him to the shore.

“I was asked to do it,” she exhaled, “To do the kill. And I think I knew it was wrong. But I did it because it made me feel like someone. And f*ck, what does that say about me? Nothing good. Nothing good, that’s what.”

“No matter how much it hurts me, no matter how much it stings—the worst part is that I know I would give up almost anything just to feel like I mattered to someone.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Catalina

They stood at her door, their faces steel.

Catalina’s was molten, and behind her, Maria stood, tucked between her legs, clutching her favourite leopard toy, now with embroidered flowers arching across its back and the most atrocious bald spots—the craftsmanship too good for Catalina’s hands.

He shoved a poster into her hands. “Have you seen this woman?” he demanded.

And well, she had.

Absolutely.

Elena’s face wasn’t any different—gaunt, unsettling, and carrying an air of sadness that she now had a better way of placing. Of course, she’d known that the pair that showed up at her door bloodied wasn’t entirely innocent—yes, bad things happened to good people, but good people didn’t survive long enough to stagger off, in this city.

She didn’t hear a gunshot or a scuffle and when Elena had shrugged off her coat, she’d revealed a cauterised wound. Good people didn’t live long enough to cauterise their wounds.

But Catalina wouldn’t stand in her door and claim that she wasn’t surprised when she looked at the face of Elena Rojas.

The Night Woman was almost more of a mystical figure than a real, breathing person. She was the terrifying creature that materialised from shadows to drag men away from their families, she was the story that Catalina had told Maria to keep her from going out alone in the dark.

And apparently, she was also very good at repairing stuffed animals.

And had a father who she’d carry through the brush. Catalina wasn’t sure whether it was biological—in Bogota, fathers didn’t have to be. But she was sure that Elena cared for him. And the shape of her pain spelled out on her face was enough for Catalina to open the door wide enough for her to slip past.

She didn’t want to associate with criminals of Elena’s calibre. Elena Rojas was more a situation to be handled than a breathing woman at this point—the city was always on the edge of a knife, but now, it’d set its sights of Elena and Catalina shivered as the guillotine bared down.

Catalina wouldn’t help her. She had a daughter, a daughter who needed her mother alive. But she’d found her daughter tucked against an assassin’s side, and the assassin was telling stories about fireflies and foreign dances and Maria was giggling for the first time since losing her father and well, Elena’s embroidery wasn’t bad.

It was much better than anything Catalina would be able to do. Elena seemed to possess an eye for beauty that Catalina simply didn’t, and Catalina wasn’t going to dwell on that for too long. So, instead she said:

“No,” she answered, “I haven’t seen her. Who do I contact if I do?”

She wouldn’t help her. No, she had responsibilities. But she would give her this much.

Chapter 13: the fire that you set

Chapter Text

Ten Years Old, One Year After

The cottage feels different, she muses, how that her fam—her former family doesn’t live here anymore. She doesn’t remember much of it, only the feelings of living there—and Alejandro quips that it feels different because her former family doesn’t live at all anymore, and Elena almost whips her head back to fire a dangerous response, before she remembers—

And well, she has to admit that the thought hurts. And even young as she is, she thinks Alejandro knew that, too, and said it to hurt her. Her father’s scowling at her in the corner of the room, his arms folded as he leans against an ash-crusted beam. It hurts when she remembers, when she realises that she can see through him and remembers why she can.

He’s dead, and there’s no way to undo death—even if you’re Martino Rojas, even if you’re the man that makes the impossible happen, death is still permanent. Even if it shouldn’t be, even if Elena still remembers clutching her father’s enormous hands in her fingers and refusing to let him go, feeling the strength rumble through him as he threw her over his shoulder, shrugging and saying that if that’s the case, little princess, you better like a whole lot of boring work, ‘cause that’s all we’re doing today!

She’d always frowned at him when he’d said that.

And responded something about that she knew he was doing other, more interesting things. He’d boost her up against his hip and answer in a sing-song voice that Elena hadn’t inherited.

Or maybe she did. Before the fires that made her doubt everything other than the blood dripping from her own hands. She doesn’t know what hurt more—his death or when he became a figment of her imagination, when it sunk in that he wasn’t going to come back from his business trip.

That now, instead of being someone she could touch—and punch, if he was being annoying and she can’t punch him for being irritating anyone and that hurts, too, everything hurts when she thinks too hard about it, when she’s not performing—

If she’s being honest, she doesn’t think that she could tell someone what colour her mother’s eyes were. Or if her father was greying when he’d died.

She does think that Morinaga could remember; that he could answer those questions. Would the answers hurt Morinaga as bad as she feels when she tries to remember the curve of her father’s smile?

She bites down the unbidden urge to feel bad that she never considered how much Morinaga must have hurt, to be able to remember her father better than she could—Morinaga had decades of memories lying in front of him and asking to be considered. Elena had been nine.

But Morinaga isn’t her family anymore. He doesn’t stay with her when her father’s out of town, and he doesn’t tell bad jokes in his funny accent while he cooks fish that she’s never tasted anyone cook like him, backed up against seaweed and rice and she wouldn’t think it tasted as good as it did, if she hadn’t been forced to take a bite, sitting on top of her father’s lap, weirdly unyielding wooden sticks that Morinaga had insisted everyone used.

But Morinaga hadn’t chosen her, so he’s not her family anyone and she has no reason to feel bad for him. Morinaga made his choice, and his choice wasn’t Elena.

His choice was money. And bitches.

And for better or worse, Elena didn’t think he’d allow her to join those ranks. She’s not sure that he knows that regardless, it’ll never be her choice. That if anything, she would have killed for the chance to give herself up to someone who’d known her before.

So, Elena doesn’t care.

It’s just that the cottage felt different both without her father, and without Morinaga, who’d always made her father laugh, even when Elena couldn’t—when he went blank and stared at the wall for hours, it wasn’t Elena that made him move. It was Morinaga that put Elena to bed, and gently roused Martino from his stupor, guiding him up the stairs.

It’d been pure luck that Morinaga hadn’t been in the house that day.

Otherwise, he’d have burned alongside them.

Maybe, he’d have preferred that.

Without him, the heavy wooden ceilings that’d barely survived felt taller, and the descent to where their bedroom used to be felt unassailable, even if the basem*nt was the only structure that’d survived and been deemed safe enough to walk around in without signing a waiver.

They’d talked about making it a tourist attraction.

The mysterious case of the Rojas house.

What was she going to do? She didn’t have the money to stop them. And even if she did, she’d already set her eyes on a greater prize than something that’d just feed into her legend. And anyways, Colombia wasn’t a f*cking tourist hotspot. It’d survive for a couple of years, tops.

Another failed investment by someone who deserved it.

Elena was shockingly fine with that. She didn’t allow herself to be anything else.

Following a week of nightmares after her return, Morales relented in a display that she didn’t know whether was mercy or simple annoyance at her antics, and allowed her to sleep in his office, in the rafters. He told her that he would scare away anyone coming to hurt her, and she believed him enough to curl up against the beams, her eyes slipping shut.

Dangling one leg off them is the closest that she gets to flying these days—to when her father would wrap his arms around her middle and let her soar through the kitchen, and she misses it dearly. Last week, Morales asked her if she’d like to rappel down with some of the boys, and she jumped at the opportunity, throwing herself off the cliff right after she’d fastened herself.

What happened on the way down was a feeling that she decided she thinks she’d like to feel for the rest of her life, even if the price was higher than she’d meant to pay.

But sleeping up high feels like flying—enough for it to calm her—and so, she remembers her father’s lessons about climbing and balance and she sleeps in the rafters of Morales’ office for longer than either of them had intended. And eventually, Martinez, with his clunky, tentative steps, joins her, after she promises that she won’t let him fall.

And she sleeps on the thick beams, glad that she can’t see the stars when she looks out the windows from up there, because her father used to point out the stars and tell stories about them, and Elena doesn’t want to remember that.

Just like Elena doesn’t want to remember Morinaga’s sturdy hand on her shoulder, and how he told her that she couldn’t save everyone, that she couldn’t change everything. That even if she was extraordinary, she was just a girl and she deserved to be one.

At the time, she hadn’t understood what he was trying to say. Now, she knows it’s just another way she’s disappointed him.

It’s nice sleeping up amongst the thin air, except that the nightmares don’t really stop, and she just starts lying about them, starts getting better at shutting up quickly—until she realises, with a sharp intake of breath, that she’s mastered the art of being terrorised quietly.

Her father doesn’t stop being transparent, even as she sleeps on top of where Morales works, rifling through paper after paper that Elena doesn’t bother to squint to read, but she’s sure are important in all their own ways. In a different life, she thinks she would have liked a job that allowed her to knuckle down on the details of contracts.

But he sits awake long into the night, and sometimes, if he senses that she has a bad one—if her father won’t stop yelling at her from the corner of the room, looking more panicked than angry but still frightening her because she never liked seeing either side of him—Morales lets her sit on his lap and hug him, until she falls asleep on his shoulder, and he works around her.

He’s a little bony, she thinks, but so is she. So are lots of people in Bogota.

Not home, but Bogota. That’s what Morales calls it. So, now, that’s what Elena calls it. And it’s nice.

Six Years Old, Three Years Before

A month of nightmares and hugs after they’ve moved into their new home—he swears that it’s the last one and she believes him, even if she knows, somewhere deep inside, that she shouldn’t—Elena startles away against the stiff fabric of his waistcoat and she feels his hand still.

He puts down his pen and strokes his long fingers over her braided locks—she’s never been good at it herself, but he’s always insisted that it’s the best way to tame them, and that one day, when she’s a big girl, she’ll get better at it, good enough that she won’t even need him anymore—it’s tangled and dirty and hasn’t been fixed since the last time he braided it.

She can’t remember when that was, so it’s probably been too long, by now. Especially if she’s trying to be a sensible well-mannered girl like she knows he wants her to be.

She just wants to be him. Her dad. She’s proud of him, and she doesn’t understand why he bristles when she says that.

And he must be thinking the same thing—about her hair—because he tugs the ribbon out of it and starts the work of disentangling her hair with his slender fingers. She can feel the rumble in his chest when he quietly asks her, “What was it this time?”

Even tired, she wants to snap at him for asking that. For asking her. She doesn’t, but she does roll her eyes, knowing that he can likely feel it in the way her head moves. “The same as every other time,” she coolly replies, her voice going petulant, exasperated in a way she’s heard few kids her age echo.

Her father hums. “Remind me again, then?”

She pulls back from where she’s encircled his ribs with her arms, shooting him an annoyed look that she knows will fall flat. He always says that she’s too cute to be annoyed. “I know you know what it is,” she insists, “It’s the same every time.”

He frowns at her, even downright pouting. She’s starting to learn that there’s a difference. “My mind could be getting bad, in my old age. Like in the book we read last week.”

“The one about the grandmother and the fires in her memories,” Elena answers. He nods.

“And you’re not that old,” she adds, sticking out her tongue. “You’re not a granddad.”

He smiles, his eyes glimmering with just the barest hints of mischief, which makes her grin back. “What if I am? What would you know about being old? What if you have to get your act together and have some grandkids for me?”

Elena huffs. “Enough to know that your memory is fine! You remember everyone who owes you money! You made Uncle Mori pay you back for cookies!”

“Hm,” he presses, “You’d only know that if you were spying on the stairs again.”

“Because—” Elena’s mind spins a wheel and when the needle lands on a slot, she sharply responds, with all the gusto she’s seen her father use when he’s making deals in his office and she’s absolutely not spying from the rafters, “Because last night! You remembered my first dessert well enough to tell me that I couldn’t have seconds!”

She glared at him, smiling “got ya!”, caught in amber.

He barks a surprised laugh, caught by her keen judgement, no doubt—or perhaps, simply by her appetite. Both for the dessert last night, and for knowledge.

“You know, most parents would have chastised you for trying to eke seconds of dessert from them.”

“You said my technique was off! You said I should have brokered a deal instead of trying to lie; but your memory was as bad as you’re telling me—”

She glares at him, challenging him to tell her anything else—she’d been there, she’d heard him, and she’d watched Uncle Mori slap his shoulder, reminding him that Elena’s only six. Six-and-a-half and better at brokering than he’ll ever be—she’d wanted to hop up on the table and loudly announce, her hand on her chest.

He smirks. “That was not a punishment, Ellie. That was a helpful lesson. If you want to be like me, you have to get good at finding those in everything.”

“I didn’t need a lesson,” Elena frowns.

“I beg to differ, Princess.”

“Then beg!”

Her teeth click together in a manic grin, and he heaves a groan, disgruntled, before snorting—a quiet and honest sound. “So, you were listening in my meetings last week, again.”

Elena mirrors him, snorting and blowing a loose strand of hair back towards his hands. “Not my fault you never look up.” She shrugs, unbothered by the fact that she’s been caught.

He sighs.

“You do tell me that.”

“I’m just saying—”

“And I say that you should trust our security better. There’s no need for you to scramble around the roof like a feral child.”

Elena raises an eyebrow. “Do you trust Alejandro that much?”

His eyes dart briefly to his desk and then back to focussing on Elena’s raised brow. “We’re getting off-topic, Ellie. You’re supposed to be telling me what’s wrong by now.”

“… Damn.” She deflates. “Hoped you’d forget.”

He shoots her a harsh look.

“What? You say damn all the time. You say worse things all the time.”

He gives a gentle tug on the end of her braid, something so fond that the love in it hurts far worse than the slight pull at the base of her skull. “I’m an adult,” he states simply, as if that’s a good enough answer.

“And I grew up in the basem*nt of a criminal bar,” Elena replies, her expression going flat.

He gives her the slightest conceding tilt of his head. “You can use swears when you understand their meaning, and when it’s appropriate to use them, then.”

“I know what ‘damn’ means.” Elena crosses her arms.

“Oh, by all means, then, enlighten me, Ellie.”

Elena sucks on her bottom lip for a moment, having been caught in her bluff. As per usual. Sometimes, her father would indulge her. But most of the time, he encouraged her to get sharper by forcing her to think on her feet. “Well, it’s like—it’s what—damn, I mean, it’s one of those feelings that you can’t explain. Some things are just damn feelings. Why do I have to explain that? We both know what it means. You explain it.”

“I remain unconvinced in your understanding of ‘damn’, so for now, you’ll simply have to put up with my disapproving gazes.” Her father’s voice is wry, and he smiles like the funny jaguars in her books when they’ve cornered the rabbit.

Elena sticks out her tongue again—it’s one of her favourite ways to show displeasure and she thinks it always will be. “Whatever. You’re not really my dad anyways. You can’t tell me what to do.”

According to Uncle Mori, her father’s always been good at covering his emotions. But not when the prying eyes of a young girl are too close to hide away from. “You’re right,” he says, “I’m not.”

Her face twists guiltily. “Sorry.”

And he shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I’m not your father. I’m not Santiago.”

Elena buries her head into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him and the comfort of a child, so inept at such a thing, is yet also something uniquely steadying—something that forces you to steel yourself into the best, bravest version you can be. Even at six, Elena knows this.

After all, she’s read all the books her father’s assigned her, excited at the prospect of being able to go to school with real kids—kids her own age! Of course, she wants a head start.

His chest loosens, and Elena whispers, “It’s okay, I don’t want you to be Santiago, either.”

He doesn’t seem capable of conjuring words in the moment, so Elena remains curled against him and pipes up once more, finally giving in to his initial request. “I saw that night again.”

“Oh,” he says, his voice level even if Elena knows, even if she’s always known, that he’s haunted by it too, “Did you?”

Her nod is small and jerky against his starched sleeve. “There were monsters. They were supposed to be my family. They were supposed to be, but they weren’t. They were supposed to be you, and Uncle Mori, but they were just monsters with scary teeth and big bug eyes. They wouldn’t stop staring at me. They just kept looking at what I did. They wouldn’t stop looking…”

Her father briefly stops braiding her hair, to press a warm, callused hand to the back of her head, paying no mind to the tears that he can feel on his vest. “It’s alright, Sunflower. No one’s looking now. You’re safe. I promise.”

“Don’t feel safe…” she mumbles, soft and remorseful.

His shoulders fall, almost imperceptivity but Elena’s always been one of the sharpest knives in the drawer, and he disguises it as he returns to braiding her hair. “You will,” he assures her, “I’ll make sure of it. I promise that, too.”

She pouts. “Promises don’t mean anything,” she murmurs, still pressed tightly against him.

Her father ties off her fixed, neat braid. “They do when I make them.”

Six Years Old, Three Years Before

He doesn’t bring up that night for two weeks and she forgets about it. After all, it’s one night of many where she sees monsters, so it’s hardly noteworthy, really.

(She tries to tell herself that, she tries to make herself forget his promise. That he’d promised. The conviction that she’d never heard anywhere else.)

She’d like to say that the adjustment to having restless sleep is difficult, but she knows that’s a lie. Because she can’t remember the last time that she didn’t have nightmares at least once a week. She likes to imagine that she slept peacefully as a baby, but babies aren’t known for waking silently, so perhaps she’s just never slept well at all.

She doesn’t think she’d recognise the shape of peace if she did encounter it in her dreams.

She dangles her foot off the rafter as her father walks in, though she knows he probably won’t see it, so she also mumbles a soft greeting to let him know that she’s (still) there.

His voice in return chases away the lingering monsters, for now, as he sits down in his chair and drops a gilded bronze case onto his desk. Elena can’t make out the engravings on it, but they look like something official that he’s stolen, and if she drops down, he’ll probably just swat her away and say something around the lines that she can look at it when she’s older.

And then, a week later when he’s drunk, he’ll show her anyways.

He surprises her when he speaks.

“Come here a moment, Elena,” he calls, and she puts down the spent shell she’d been painting (to wear as a necklace, to catch the light nicely and shine like the high society darlings her father always hated), dropping to his desk without a warning or even announcement of her arrival. He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes flick to her dirty boots and then to what she knows to be a trading manifesto that he’d written that morning—the one which her boots had just ruined, even if it was perfectly legible, still.

She doesn’t apologise, and he decides that this is something he should have seen coming—something he brought on himself—and settles on sating nothing, instead moving on to the business at hand.

He gestures to the case that she’d watched him set on the desk—stop being leery, Elena, or at least get better at it—the latches facing away from him. It’s for her to open.

“I was considering what you said about not feeling safe here, and so, I decided, while this can’t chase away ghosts, it can certainly protect you against the very real monsters around here. At least, the ones who aren’t under my employ. Take a look and tell me how you like it. I had it made just for you.”

Elena’s brow furrows, but as she lifts the heavy lid of the ornate box, the ceremony in its details begins to make sense. When she stares at the thing inside, she can only go wide-eyed and still, as every fact and crevice of the little device drops with her taste—and yet, also hints of his, as well.

It’s a melding of their consciousnesses, and Elena loves it.

It’s a pistol, heavy and thick, the length of it decorated in gold and glimmering glitter and stark steel, the handle a gleaming, smooth kyanite. With a rhodonite ring at the tip of the barrel, she smiles down at the way her name—his name for her—is carved with harsh slashes into the metal, marking it as unmistakably hers.

It’s a handsome, imposing thing and she is afraid to touch it—not because she fears what it can do, she’s a gangster’s daughter, she knows how guns work and the damage they can do—while she’s never used one—a real one, that is, she has toy guns, and she throws herself behind the couch, shooting at nothing and pretending that she’s someone great, someone he can be proud of.

Guns are all over the city, of course she knows what they are. And she’s pretty sure she can shoot, too. It seems like an innate thing, like how everyone in Bogota can slash at a vein, no matter how young. No, Elena’s afraid to touch it because her touch ruins things, and something like this—something that’s so obviously created with this love—deserves to be held like its glass.

She fears what this gun means, even at six.

She slams the case shut and pushes it back towards him. “I don’t want it,” she lies.

Her father’s mouth twists in amusem*nt. “Are you sure? It cost me quite a lot.”

She winces.

And his head tilts with recognition. “Sunflower, my daughter. I got this for you to use. It’ll do you no good collecting dust in this nice box.”

“It’s too beautiful. I’ll destroy it.”

He smiles softly, for some reason she doesn’t understand.

“Maybe you will. But your first gun should be something memorable, should it not?”

She tuts.

“It was expensive.”

He stares at her head-on. “You deserve expensive.”

“I ruin expensive.”

She glances away, to one of his mugs, which she knows must have cost more money than she’s ever seen, because everything he owns—everything here—costs more money than she’s ever seen—but for some reason that she can’t figure out, he never seems to mind that she draws on his belongings, that she decks them out with faces and ideas she half-remembers.

She thinks he should.

Martino’s gaze follows hers—to his favourite mug in his entire collection. He’s honest when he says, “You improve it, you don’t ruin.”

“That’s not what Alejandro says,” Elena mumbles.

“I don’t care what Alejandro says,” he answers, “And neither should you. I like your drawings. In fact, I’m sure there’s room on the gun for them. I’m sure, because I think there should be.”

She sighs, trying one more rejection. “I don’t even know how to shoot a gun. A real one. I’ve only ever used toys, or paint guns.”

He huffs. “That’s a poor excuse at best, and I think you know that. You haven’t let being a beginner ever stop you. And after all, you’ve squeezed a trigger, regardless of what’s happened because of it. And besides, even if you’d truly never touched anything similar, I could certainly have taught you how to use this one.”

He rests his chin and case on his folded hands. “I still will, if you’d like.”

Elena slowly opens the case again.

She stars at her other name on the barrel.

And Elena picks up the gun.

“Is it loaded?”

“Not yet,” he answers simply, “You need to learn how to load it, don’t you?”

“When?”

Her eyes have not left the pistol, as she turns it over with a curious eye.

“Are you busy now?” he asks, as casually as if he were asking her to join him for lunch. Even if he’d never ask her that, he’d just shove her onto his hip and mumble something about her being too damn skinny.

She shakes her head.

So, Martino Rojas slides a drawer of his desk open and removes a holstered revolver, two wooden boxes that jingle with what Elena assumes must be ammunition for their guns.

“Let’s go, then. I know a place where we will not be disturbed.” He slides the boxes into his coat pockets and gestures for her to follow him. She drops the pistol into the case that it came in, latches it, picks it up by the handle and then takes his hand with the free one.

He doesn’t make her let go, even when the regulars stare as they leave.

Six Years Old, Three Years Before

The first thing she notices is that she’s glad that she’s wearing her ruana. It’s not cold, not unbearably so, but the place he’s taken her to lacks the humidity that blankets everything, so she adjusts the fabric across her shoulders and wraps her arms around her stomach while he loads his own gun.

It’s a thick revolver, large and heavy and dangerous and everything she’s ever wanted to wield, and it appears custom, too. It’s dripping in black; Elena thinks that if she dropped it in the dark, she’d end up stubbing her toe on it when she scurried around for it. His fingers work expertly over the stock, the cylinder.

Elena pretends that she doesn’t know what’s what, she allows him to narrate as he goes, as if she hasn’t been watching from the rafters as he prepares for something he pretends won’t end in blood. He loads the weapon, then slips it back into the holster at his hip.

When he kneels in front of her, Elena glances at the unloaded pistol—her unloaded pistol—that she’s holding, as he places his hands over hers.

She heard Uncle Mori say that her father had pianist’s fingers, and when she asked what that meant, he explained that it meant her father had long, slender fingers that would be perfect for playing the piano—and according to Uncle Mori, her father had played as a younger man, and Elena had those fingers, too.

“The first thing you must know is that you should never point a gun you don’t intend to fire. Do you know why that might be?” He raises a slender eyebrow.

Her mouth twists as she thinks, as she’s reminded of conversations she’s heard in snippets from her perch on the stairs, watching flickering figures yelling at each other. “Because… you don’t wanna shoot someone you don’t mean to?”

She’s seen that happen.

“Precisely. Now, if you ever do point a gun without the intention to shoot it, do you know what you can do to ensure that you won’t be able to fire it?”

His stare burns into her shoulder blades as she word comes to her. Failsafe. Fail-safe. She’s heard of the word, seen it roll of Uncle Mori’s tongue. Elena stares at the weapon in their shared grasp, shoving down his worried voice, how he’d always white-knuckle the table when he thought Elena wasn’t watching—and she looks for any hint to what her father wants of her in the beautiful weapon.

Beautifully dangerous, beautiful in its danger. After a moment, though, she gives in, frowning and shaking her head at him.

She tries not to notice the irony in her inability to find the Don’t Fire Button.

He nods as if he’d expected this—as if he’d expected her to be unable—and for some reason, his eyes are so gentle that she’s not offended.

“There’s a switch on the side of the gun, just here,” he explains, turning the thing in her hands, pointing to a little lever on the right-hand side. She isn’t even embarrassed that she couldn’t find that—in part, because he doesn’t make her feel embarrassed. He makes her feel like she’s learning, and that it’s okay to make mistakes.

“It’s called the trigger safety, but most people call it safety for short. When the safety is clicked on, you cannot squeeze the trigger of any gun. Your gun has the safety on, right now. Go on: try and fire it without touching the safety lock.”

Elena’s hands don’t tremble when she points the gun towards the river, away from her father and her. After all, the gun won’t go off. Not this time. He’s promised her, and she already understands the weight of promises.

… right?

Steeling herself, she holds her breath and pulls with her pointer finger, as hard as she can—and true to what he’d promised, it doesn’t fire. The trigger doesn’t even budge when she tries again, using all her strength.

She doesn’t know why she tried again. She doesn’t know why her finger still lingers against the trigger.

She hopes that he misses the way her shoulders untense a little when she lowers the weapon. Realistically, she knows that he doesn’t. Her father isn’t known to be a man who misses a lot. She’s heard him brag about that being how he’s still alive. She didn’t like overhearing that conversation.

“Very good. Now,” he comes up behind her on her left side. “To fire the gun, you depress the safety lock and squeeze the trigger at the same time. But don’t do that, yet. The next thing you’re going to learn is how to load this pistol, and you should never fire an unloaded gun—it can damage the firing pin.”

She nods, even though she’s entirely certain that she couldn’t say what a firing pin was if her life depended on it. She wonders if it ever will.

He doesn’t rush to explain what a firing pin is, though, so her life must not depend on it yet. Instead, she watches as he clicks a different lever, and a piece that she didn’t know was removable slides from the handle, revealing an empty cartridge—this must be the… bullet-holder.

“This is a magazine,” he says, almost as if he can hear what she’s thinking.

She nods and he shows her how to slip exactly fifteen… he calls them “rounds” into the so-called magazine. She wounds if they’re called rounds because bullets are cylindrical. He does two for her, and has her load the next thirteen.

“You have to get good at this,” he insists, when the unlucky number makes her uneasy, but he looks calm, patient, so she gulps down a deep breath and clicks the magazine back into place.

“Your pistol is loaded now. Do you understand what that means?”

His eyes bore into hers.

“Um,” her thumb runs nervously back and forth over the smooth stone handle, the handle that defines this as hers and hers alone, “That I could hurt someone with this, now.”

He nods.

“You are now one of the most dangerous things on the lakeshore, and a dangerous thing in the city. If you continue to carry a gun with you, you will become one of the most dangerous things in Bogota. But only one of. So, be careful with it.”

He licks his lips, clicks his tongue.

“You will never truly know who has the firepower to fight back until they do. The fact that you can hurt doesn’t mean that others can’t—doesn’t mean that others can’t hurt you. Always remember that you should fire precisely when you mean to, when you’re sure that it’s the right course of action.”

The light catches the whites of his eyes, making them almost glow. “And it’s not always the right course of action, the right choice, to shoot someone. That means you shouldn’t aim a gun you don’t intend to fire on something or someone that you’re not okay with destroying beyond all repair. But it also means shooting when you know you must—without hesitation. Is that clear?”

Elena purses her lips, but gives him a nod in return and he answers it with a quirk of his lips. “Excellent, Elena. You’re doing well. Now, we’ve talked a lot about action. Why don’t we take it? Are you ready to shoot?”

“I…” she sucks in another breath. “I think I am.”

His gaze is piercing when he rebuts her. “Are you sure? You don’t sound prepared to fire, Elena. And if that’s the case…”

He looks at her, expectation in his eyes.

And she finishes his sentence for him, perfectly. “Then I shouldn’t fire.”

“Exactly.” He drops a hand onto her too-thin shoulder. And then he asks the million-dollar question. “Why don’t you feel ready?”

Her frown is deep. “I… I don’t know.”

His head cants to the side, reminding her of a bored cat. Uncle Mori says that they have the same expression. He calls it ‘f*cking haunting’ and ‘f*cking freaky’. But he also calls it ‘good’ and ‘it’s beautiful, it’s only fair that you have it, too, Elena.’

“Elena, please don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes drop to the ground, along with her stomach. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s a dumb reason.”

“Nothing that upsets you is dumb. And don’t lie to me about being upset, Sunflower.”

“But…”

She bites her lip.

“I mean it, Elena,” his voice is sharp, but not mean. “Nothing that upsets you is dumb or unreasonable or anything like that,” he adds, “Especially not dumb. You’re a person. And people feel things and that’s allowed, even if the feelings aren’t always good. It’s about what you do with that feeling, the actions you take.”

“And,” he says, “You’re especially not dumb for this.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t need to,” he notes, “To know that it isn’t dumb, because it’s upsetting you and that’s enough for me to know that it’s not. However,” he raises her chin to make her look at him, his touch feather-light. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, and you know that, too.”

She does. Her crystal green eyes go wide and shimmery. “It’s just…” her voice is honest and contrite. “I shouldn’t have one of these. I shouldn’t have a gun. I shouldn’t be one of the most dangerous things in Bogota.”

Her father’s eyebrows knit. “Why ever not?”

“Because… because I’ll mess up.”

He hums in thought for a suspended, frightening pause.

But then, he asks: “You’ve just heard my lessons, haven’t you? And I know you, you always pay very good attention when someone’s taking the time to teach you. You’re a joy to have, and you’ll be a joy to teach in school, too.”

Elena swallows and nods.

“And you plan on following my lessons, don’t you?”

She nods again.

“Then, whatever would make you think that you’ll “mess up”? I can promise you that you’re already more prepared than half of the armed city.” His voice is too gentle, and his thumb stroking her jaw makes her feel too much like she’s something breakable, something precious, something worth holding onto.

“I’m Elena,” she says, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not you. I’m me.”

“You are,” he softens. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re not great. You’re not me, that’s true. And you have a lot to learn, that’s also true. But that’s what makes you so great. You’re not me, you’re you. You’re Elena Rojas, and I know her. I know that she’s capable of becoming someone great, if she just believes in herself.”

She pouts. “Alejandro called me a mistake,” she states simply.

“Alejandro is an idiot,” her father answers, equally simply.

Then, he adds: “You’re not a mistake, you’re not something that went wrong. You’re Elena, and you’re my daughter. You’re bold and brave and you snoop during my meetings because you think Alejandro’s an idiot, too, and because you’re curious. You couldn’t do anything to make me feel anything but proud of you. The only people who call you mistakes are people that you’ll get revenge on soon enough, and they’ll deserve it. Do you remember what I told you?”

A wet smile tugs at her cracked lips. “We’ll start the fire.”

He answers her, his voice reverent. “And we’ll show them all.”

She finishes their promise, beaming bright enough to illuminate the whole city. “And it’ll burn bright forever.”

“… Okay.” And she pulls her face from his hand and tugs on the slide at the top of her pistol—confidently, smoothly, her hand no longer shaking—and she draws a bullet into the chamber. “I’m ready now. I know I’m ready to shoot now.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, one more time, one last time—because he seems to know the answer already. Her nod in return makes him smile with teeth.

“Good, Elena. You’re going to be amazing.”

“You’re going to be perfect.”

Ten Years Old, One Year After

Her back aches and the gun that she’s using doesn’t have gemstones fitted into it, or a sunflower engraved. It’s dirty, and a dull metal that she can’t identify. She’s holding it against his chest, resting her chin on the handle, her legs dangling off the edge of the rafters.

“You’ll get a good one when you prove yourself,” Morales snarls, “I’m not wasting money on you until you prove that you’re a worthwhile investment.”

She doesn’t know what happened to her father’s gift. It wasn’t the first thing she’d asked about—that was him, that would always be him, she remembers it clearly, she could still smell his aftershave and feel his strong grip against her, she even still had the bruises to prove that he’d been there—but bruises faded, and so did the memory of him. Elena had asked about the gun, about the expensive, custom-built gun that he’d gotten her just because.

No, not just because. Because she deserved nice things. Even if her thighs were black and blue now, she wanted to think—she had to believe—that she still deserved nice things, that up in a heaven that Elena wasn’t sure would accept someone like her, her father waited for her, watching down on her—whispering about how she didn’t f*ck everything up just because she dared lay hands on it.

And whatever happened to it, she couldn’t track it down.

Maybe someone had found it in the rubble. Maybe, her kyanite and rhodonite hardware slipped into someone else’s hand as well as it did hers, maybe her little sketches of the buildings around her old stomping ground made someone else snicker for reasons she didn’t understand. Maybe she was okay with that. Maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe she thought the gun was a greater sign of her devotion to her father than his old half-burnt rosary that hung trustily around her neck even if Elena didn’t believe in God.

She gazes down at Morales, looking over trading manifestos that weren’t stained with her footprints, drinking from mugs that she hadn’t drawn on.

She inhales, and she strangles Elena to death in the process, pushing her down in the water filling her lungs. “Okay,” she exhales, “Allow me to prove myself to you.”

She’s ten, and she’s got a much better head on her shoulders than Martinez has because she doesn’t have the choice to amble around and steal from kitchens—she has to earn her keep, and she has to earn another gun with her name on it, because she’s been here for a year, and she knows that her tightrope is fraying. She knows that she’s not even halfway across.

Morales grins, hungry and wide and white teeth looking to swallow her whole and Elena falls in, trying not to get cut on his canines.

I’m still so devoted to you that it scares me.
Will they ever love me the way that I had loved you once?

Chapter 14: girl on fire

Chapter Text

ELENA

There was no graveyard in her memories. Bodies lay where they fell until someone tossed them in the ocean, in a dumpster, burned them.

When Elena was six, she crawled through a broken window and found a dead man on the floor. He’d been dead so long the smell was gone, and a halo of melted flesh surrounded his partially bare skull. She spent a while looking at his face, at the leathery skin clinging onto what little purchase it could find against his jaw, and then she looked at his hand, at the knife he must have died holding.

“When you die, your skin falls off and all your organs melt and it all pools around you,” she told Javier Martinez that night. “And it makes a stain, so even after they move you, everybody still knows that you were there.”

The boy, her boy, nodded like she’d said something of grave importance.

They were sitting at the steps of some building, Elena on the one above him, so he had to look up at her. She liked it when people looked up at her—she was tiny from malnourishment, often mistaken for four instead of six, but so was every other child here. When she got older, when she could fight and steal better and cut her teeth against glass, she’d eat more and get bigger.

Until then, she sat on the step above the boy who would grow into the only man she could ever love, and he would look up at her.

She wants to be faithful. She wants to be kind. The problem is getting back to it, she thinks.

BOGOTA; Twelve Hours Ago, Martinez

He’s being congratulated on his wound healing—like that’s something to be proud of, and he doesn’t know why it’s mentioned or which day it is, but it is. The Golden Traitor, and he knows it’s Elena from the moment it’s spoken, because he’s the one who named her.

Because she’s the only one who can carry such a beautiful moniker with the grace it deserves.

It looks like something noxious, and it hurts when he breathes—but he’s always been like her, and he’s always been able to fake it. Especially when he thinks about her wide eyes, searching for an answer in a sea of brutality. He wants to write some grand narrative of how she’s changed the world through her actions, but that’s not how things work.

Instead, he orders someone to go look for her—and he feeds them lies about where she’d go. Walks out into the courtyard against the doctor’s orders, sees Pedro’s crumpled body.

Thinks about whether or not he should have lied—thinks about her love like a threadbare sweater that no longer keeps him warm, thinks about how she’d laughed when her and Pedro had ganged up against him when they played cards. Thinks about how she’d joked about robbing Alejandro blind, but Pedro had put his foot down and insisted that they didn’t play for money for that exact reason, Elena. Someone’s going to pull out a pistol and the odds aren’t great that it wouldn’t be you.

She’d winked, teasing him. She’d said something about how she was going to take it as a compliment because he’d sounded sh*t-scared of her damn good aim.

They’d all laughed. They’d all called Elena a damn good shot. They’d all agreed that there were shots only Elena Rojas could ace.

BOGOTA; Twelve Hours Ago, Bruno

He could taste that it was Julieta’s as soon as he bit down on it.

His eyes met Elena’s, and he stood at another crossroads, caught between Elena’s curious green.

They shifted into a shade resembling arsenic, but also the grass he collapsed against as a boy. There was a nick from where she’d failed to catch a knife against her cheek, and one of her eyes looked slightly bloodshot. He hadn’t taken a moment to study her like that for a long time—not since he was casing her out as an enemy and deciding that he was thoroughly outmatched.

He didn’t know if it was another cruel trick of fate’s to give him both his destruction and salvation wrapped up in the same intoxicating shade of the gift he’d spent most of his life rejecting.

He could tell her about the magic, and she might even believe him, because she still believed his false vision. But he’d learned how desperate her people were to hold magic in their hands and control it to their whims. And he wondered how much promise it would take for Elena to transform into her brothers—into Morales, into Alejandro.

Despite her mercy, she wasn’t sinless. He still remembered the sound of her boot cracking open skulls. He still remembers how she’d shot the priest in the clearing. He remembers what she did to Matthias.

But she’s looking at him like she’s waiting for him and not like she’d swallow him whole.

Briefly, she looks scared.

BOGOTA; A Year Ago, Elena

Of course, she thought about running away and being a different woman in a different place. Of course, she thought about shedding her skin like a heavy, rain-heavy coat. Of course, she’s tried lavender incense and cocaine in the middle of the night. The smoke made her want to throw up and she’s pretty sure she’s built up a tolerance to cocaine or she’s just so tired that she doesn’t notice the difference anymore. She’s thought about pulling her memory out, ribbonlike and dripping red.

She hasn’t really thought about doming herself in the way that she probably should, given her situation. It’s not out of a great urge to live for herself as much as it is to make someone else see what it means to be on fire; to be acknowledged for her suffering. She’s spent a lot of years struggling to articulate those urges.

She’s tried doing all of the things that she thinks you’re supposed to do, after great tragedy. She’s shrieked into her pillow, she’s screamed herself dry in an abandoned field. She’s tried to deafen herself with gunshots so she wouldn’t have to remember what her desperation sounded like. She’s pulled a knife on people she should have embraced because they came too close. And she’s learned that she doesn’t really like it when people look at her with real affection. It makes her feel like she’s being crushed under the mountains.

She’s cut her teeth and put her cigarettes out on the backs of men, she’s smoked even though she doesn’t like the burn, she’s burned down villages even though she flinches. She’s baked warm brown sugar cookies and been unable to stomach the sweetness. She’s tried intimacy. She’s tried force. She’s read the books about the lovers and all the terrible and wonderful things they do to each other.

She’s devoted herself to sharpshooting instead of the altar. She’s milled through foreign bazaars, listening to foreign languages usurp the noise, trying to forget her name. But she’s always come crawling back. She’s tried to paint herself as the vengeful daughter of the witch, but she’s not. She’s felt the dirt on her skin and she’s screamed in the shower. She’s hidden her scars. She’s shown them off.

She’s lived alone. She’s cut her hair. She’s changed her soap so she doesn’t smell like herself. She’s pet cats, she’s travelled, she’s rode horses bareback, she knows how to use a sword effectively. She’s touched so many bodies. She’s dug a grave. Then another. She’s tried digging a lot of graves. None of them fixed her. She doesn’t think that she’s the kind of person you can fix.

When she’d decided to wage holy war, she didn’t know that it would be so much staring at bedroom floors and clenching her fists so hard that she digs little red crescents into her palms. She didn’t think that she’d be biting down the urge to cry into dry cereal at midnight as much as she did, especially in those first couple years.

She was foolish and a kid.

She thought that all she had to do was become the best and revenge would fall into her hand. She thought that she could get out of a wedding ring being wrapped around her throat if she painted herself blood-red. She thought that she could make herself a walking warning, a reminder of what happens when you touch things that aren’t yours.

That didn’t happen.

She became the best and she found no satisfaction in it, only the quiet resignation that she’d left for the cause and given her youth to it without question.

Still, she’s alive. And she supposes that it’s good to be alive. She knows she’s not supposed to be alive.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

He didn’t know how Elena had managed to wiggle them into another hotel room, but she’d spent the night sleeping on the floor, on top of a thin carpet—and when he’d asked her if she wanted to join him in the bed, that there was plenty of space for two small people, she’d gotten so touchy that he wondered if he’d end up with another stab wound.

Now, after they’d eaten breakfast that was canned and probably stolen, she’d decided that she was going to teach him how to defend himself. Seemingly, on a whim. Bruno was reminded of the glint in Isabela’s eyes when she’d learned to make new flowers, and he obliged Elena.

Even though he did try to argue that he’d proven himself at least decent at stabbing. Rosita had simply emerged from his sleeve, as if to call him out on his sh*t, and ran across his arm to perch on Elena’s shoulder before burying into her hair. Elena, surprisingly, didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she grinned a little.

And Bruno supposed, that all things considered, Elena did have the superior hair. It was huge, thick and as dense as a damn forest. He could imagine half his rats getting stuck in there, at least, and them doing it completely willingly. He could imagine Elena hissing at them as she tried to tug them out of it, because she didn’t strike him as the kind of person who’d like to have multiple rats in her hair. He thinks of it as another one of Elena’s eccentricities, but it’s probably him that’s the weird one. Elena’s from the city. She’s probably grown up with indoor plumbing her whole life.

He could feel Elena’s body heat against his back, burning hot as she stretched out his arm with a sigh. “You don’t have the right stance,” she corrected, her thin but strong fingers curving around his wrist as she cracked it into a position that she found more satisfactory. He didn’t understand what she meant, and he told her so. She scoffed and rolled her eyes, like she was Isabela explaining the difference between different types of roses.

Elena’s chest was against his back, and if she wanted to, she could rest her chin on the crown of his head with ease. In the light streaming through the cracked, filthy windows, Bruno could see the remnants of a glimmering green nail polish decorating Elena’s bloodstained nails.

Bruno tried to follow the minute movements, but they didn’t look any different to him. Elena had angled his wrist slightly towards his right side, and if he’d blinked, he wouldn’t have noticed the difference. He hadn’t even felt his own joints move, only Elena’s cold, hard grip.

“Okay,” Elena breathed. “Tell me,” she asked, “Where do you think you should look in a fight?”

Bruno hadn’t learned a lot of self-defence, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Agustín had tried first, but Agustín was a sh*tty teacher and during their first lesson, he somehow managed to break his leg. It was decided, not by Bruno, but Julieta, that they weren’t going to have a second time. Félix had more success. Bruno remembered Félix saying something with the hands and eyes.

He craned his neck so he could face her, and grinning at Elena’s brief squeak of surprise. Everyone was always shocked at his flexibility, and he liked figuring out various lies to explain it—when it was someone who wasn’t family. But he didn’t explain it to Elena. It wasn’t the time. He didn’t even joke about it. He just smiled and winced when she didn’t.

He’s sure, for some reason, that if he told her, that she would paint the streets of Encanto red. He doesn’t know why, it’s just another thought that’s solidifying in his mind as a breathing truth.

Elena’s muscles were tense against his, but if someone looked in through the grubby windows—they’d look like they were dancing. Perhaps they were, but it wasn’t a dance of lovers. It wasn’t even a father giving his daughter away at her wedding to brutality. It was blood, bleeding from Elena’s fingertips and into his veins, staining his skin red alongside hers.

In the moment, she wasn’t the Elena that he wanted to remember, and he wasn’t the Bruno that he wanted to be. He was the Bruno that he had to become for her, to protect her. The realisation that he wasn’t just in it for himself slipped into him like red wine on a white shirt, and Bruno was disgusted by it. By his lack of strength.

“The hands?”

Elena tsked. “No,” she answered, her grip tightening. Something reminds him of Alma and Pepa and Julieta and Elena’s none of those women and he doesn’t want her to be, but the apologies spill out because Elena’s another person who’s tried and she’s another person who he’s disappointed, she’s wearing Matthias’ dead face, she’s holding the gun, she’s stepping over the body, there’s blood running down her chin and she’s grinning when she—

Elena’s brows knit in a way that’s so uniquely hers that it drags him back to reality, and he comes back to his body with a lurch, realising that Elena’s the only thing keeping him standing, and that she’s very oh so very aware of it. She raises her brow, the expression playful instead of threatening or demeaning.

“That position’s going to do unpleasant things to your neck,” Elena calmly said, as if she hadn’t noticed. “And the hands are a good bet, but it’s not the smartest for the way I’m going to teach you to fight. Because,” she tsked, “You might be sharp with a bottle in a pinch, but you’re not a good fighter.”

She clicked her tongue.

“You’re the kind of fighter that I have no challenge taking out, even if you claim to be able to see what my next move is—”

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it.”

She shot him a lop-sided and very, very sh*t-eating grin, reminding him of Luisa purposefully trying to get a rise out of him before she’d become weighed down with the expectations of her destiny and internalised that people who have responsibilities don’t have time to be kids just f*cking around and having fun. Bruno remembered that Luisa used to want to be a librarian.

“You watch the feet,” Elena stated simply.

She clicked her tongue. “And we’ll get back to the feet, but they’ll always move slightly. You take a step forward before you punch, you usually do it before you’ve raised and angled your fist. It’s that split-second needed to dodge. Watch the feet. Here, curl your fingers into a fist. Good.”

They continued to dance, she continued to lead, and Bruno followed, gaping at the smoothness of her movements, how striking seemed as simple as breathing to her, how the brutality wasn’t just innate, but woven into her very being—like Mirabel’s embroidery. A tapestry of hurt, he hoped, and not a choice.

Elena’s voice drummed against the air.

“They become flat-footed, which is the inability to adjust,” she instructed, “Boxers can’t move forward or backward quickly enough. As you watch their feet, you realise that this same lack of coordination is going on in their upper extremities, in their hands.”

He thought about Elena, in the ring of fire, fighting her way through body after body; how she’d effortlessly, ruthlessly and unfeelingly cut Matthias down to the bone, but how as soon as Morales seized her wrist, she was putty in his hand.

It enraged him, and he didn’t know why.

Elena clicked her tongue, bringing him back to the present the long, sauntering shimmering sunlight streaking across the floor.

“And eventually, they are unable to defend themselves. Which is good, because that means that even a scrawny motherf*cker like you can lay them low. And you seriously need to get good at that, you need to be able to punch jerks.”

He thought about how Elena had sauntered in front of Alejandro, how her body had bent like the river. He wondered if she considered herself that strong; if she thought herself strong enough to hold back the tides of time and tear villages asunder.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Agustín

He knew that he should probably drink something. Eat, too. He knew that not drinking something, that not stopping, that continuing, was what was making everything muddy. He should probably also eat something. But he could feel the ground under his feet, and he only swayed when he moved too quickly. And every damn time he tried to close his eyes: his past was stamped on the backs of his eyelids.

The simple way to put it is that Bogota is not kind to tailors. Especially not when they’re unable to pay their debts. The jungle wasn’t kind either, but there was something depressingly liberating about being killed by nature instead of some nineteen-year-old with a gun and a desperate need to prove himself to an organisation that would kill him for a bag of cocaine the length of Agustín’s middle finger anyways.

He wasn’t happy to be back. He wasn’t happy that the city was about to claim someone else he loved. He’d tried to pretend like he knew what he was doing—but the only thing he knew was that if Bruno spent more than twenty-four hours in the city, he would surely be dead.

Agustín had never been as protective of Bruno as his sisters, but he would be lying if he said that he didn’t notice how Bruno struggled… and he would be lying if he thought that Bruno could make his way out of the city alone. Bruno just wasn’t built for Bogota. And honestly, Agustín preferred it that way.

Bogota didn’t deserve Bruno.

And with every hour passing, and with every moment his feet burned and he found it harder and harder to focus on what was in front of him, Agustín was preparing himself to identify a body instead of hugging his brother tightly against him and apologising for everything going wrong.

He hadn’t figured out how he was going to live with this, yet. He supposed that he would just have to take that as it came. First, find Bruno. Second, get revenge. Three, learn how to live with whatever ash he’s left with. Whether it’s a body, or a Bruno who surely would never leave the house again—well, that was a problem for Future Agustín.

That was the only way he’d keep walking.

Bogota didn’t deserve a lot of f*cking things, and he would make sure that the wretched city didn’t get to sink its claws deeper than it already had.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Truth be told, she doesn’t remember a lot about her father. To tell more truths, she has no f*cking idea how she’s going to get to Encanto.

Maybe she’s been knocked on the head too f*cking many times, but the route is blending together with the hundreds of other routes she’s taken to exterminate some nobody in a town that’s forgettable enough that no one’s going to come looking.

What she never forgets is how she did it. There’s another truth. Liar, liar, Elena on fire. She doesn’t like to think about herself being on fire. She says that she feels nothing when she kills, that she’s all efficiency and skill and wanting a job well done. But sometimes, she wakes up and she can still hear them scream.

And she wants to scream, too, she’s realising.

Because she was a girl. Really, she still is. She’s twenty-one. She doesn’t know what her father did at twenty-one, but she hopes it wasn’t killing for someone else’s petty sh*t. She doesn’t know what he wanted her to do at twenty-one, but she hopes it wasn’t killing. She hopes that he’s disappointed in her, if he’s watching her from some high and lofty realm. She hopes there’s whiskey, bourbon and that he’s swirling his glass as he watches her, and wonders where he went wrong.

Where he went wrong was by leaving her. If he wanted her to turn out different, he should have stayed. Filth teaches filth, and Elena, despite everything she’s done to not deserve her life, is still kicking. And she’s still drawing breath. She tucks Bruno’s fingers against hers, and tries to teach him a downwards block again, even if he’s useless.

She thinks that he’d be a great stab and grab kind of killer. She doesn’t think that he’d do a lot of good in her profession. She thinks she likes that. She’s not foolish enough to believe that she’s someone he cares about, but she appreciates the skill of the false ease that he’s developing around her, how they move around each other like they’re not each waiting to strike.

It reminds her of her father.

It reminds her of not always being terrified of what might happen to her. It reminds her of a time where her body was her own. It’s a nice little fantasy.

Her head is killing her, and she knows that it’s because she’s taken too many hits recently and made too many stupid f*cking choices that are pulling at her shrivelled-up heart, begging it to come back to life, even though it’s been burned into nothing but ashes years ago, regardless of how melodramatic that description makes her sound.

She’s not really a melodramatic person, despite what Martinez would probably say about her “dramatic backstory”. She’d probably just deem it a crybaby backstory. Sure, she’s lived in the shadow of her grief, but she’s still standing.

And that takes strength, she’s learning. It takes more strength than hanging off the edge of a trash chute, it takes more strength than rescuing a rat. A lot more, she thinks.

It’s like a f*cking dam breaking apart before her very eyes.

She didn’t think about it at all, and instead of it being a gradual realisation, it was like turning on a light. All of a sudden, and blinding. It became all she could focus on, it burnt away everything else about her. She went from thinking that she could do this for another fifty years, if that’s what it took, to having the rug swept out from under her and scrambling for purchase in a world that she’s supposed to know like the back of her palm.

It's embarrassing.

It’s shameful.

It’s something that she shouldn’t have done.

She should have just shot everyone to death. She should have just refused to go into the jungle. Said something about how she didn’t need any more accidental leopard pelts, or how she didn’t want to have to get another weird-looking tick bite checked out. Or just leaned into just how much she actually hated Alejandro, and how she refused to do anything with him. It’s true! It’d been a huge failure on top of a huge fluke and now it was going to get her killed.

If she’d done that, so much would have been different. Whether she’d lied, whether she’d killed, just as long as she’d done anything that wasn’t this.

Pedro would have still been alive, and she wouldn’t have been running from people she knew she couldn’t hide from. He would have been able to go home to his family. Elena would have been able to say everything she’d meant to. Elena wouldn’t have learned that her actions had motherf*cking consequences. Elena wouldn’t have watched time bend to the commands of a man who couldn’t throw a decent punch.

“Okay,” she said, breathing out, “That’s enough. I think you can stab someone with enough skill, now. I don’t think we’ll make an assassin of you quite yet, but that’s fine. It’s a boring profession, very little job stability.”

He chuckled awkwardly, and she mirrored him.

“Hey,” she suddenly thought, “Have you ever tasted sushi?”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Bruno wasn’t quite sure what they were eating, only that Elena suddenly almost fallen off the armchair that she’d stretched herself across in a feigned attempt at giving her many, many wounds a little time to knit themselves back together at the thought of introducing him.

And now she was sitting in front of him, cross-legged, and handing him what looked to be a small package of rice with fish shoved in the middle and black skin around it.

“It’s sushi,” she explained, “We have a couple of former Yakuza members in our ranks, or well, I guess had, since I’m not really a part of any of that, anymore, I guess, anyways! As I was saying, we had a couple of those, and so, they taught us all how to make good sushi, look, you usually eat it with chopsticks, but—”

“I don’t think you realise,” interrupted Bruno, “That I have no idea what some of those words mean, and I’m assuming that they’re the important words.”

Elena shrugs, rolls her eyes. But there’s no malice behind them, unlike when they were playing cat and mouse; even if she was still trying, Bruno would remember how she’d practically thrown herself out of the window, loudly exclaiming that he should just wait, and that she’d be right back.

Which, she had. She came right back, balancing a large cardboard box on her head and holding another, smaller bag between her teeth. After dropping them on the bed, she’d proudly announced that she’d robbed the “old sh*thole’s glorified cafeteria”, whatever that meant.

Bruno had a couple of guesses, but nothing concrete. And whatever she did, it wasn’t the most illegal thing she’d done recently.

He looked down at the food, and he didn’t want to be rude, but he was pretty sure that fish wasn’t cooked at all, and so, he told her.

Elena laughed.

And he just stared at her quizzically.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she tried, swiping her hand at her eyes, “It’s okay, it’s fair, it’s fair, of course, you have no clue what the f*ck sushi is. It’s meant to be like this. The fish is meant to be raw, don’t worry, it won’t kill you. I really like it.”

Bruno still wasn’t sure whether he’d risk it.

Elena reached over and dropped another piece onto his plate.

“Here,” she explained, “Try this, it’s not got any fish in it. Just vegetables. So, you won’t get salmonella and die from it, and you might learn to trust the rest of the menu.”

She plucked one of the offending fish-rolls off his plate, popped it between her teeth and didn’t hesitate for a second before biting down.

After lingering a little longer, Bruno followed her lead.

Before he knew it, they’d cleaned out everything Elena had stolen, and he had to admit, he kind of hated her. Because he really, really liked sushi. And he knew that he’d never have it again unless he decided to become someone like Elena.

Which was absolutely out of the f*cking question.

Elena’s gaze met his as she swallowed her final piece. They’d ended up splitting them evenly, when Bruno had started getting competitive after realising that he actually liked it. Which was probably for the best, because Bruno might have grown up having to defend his lunch from Pepa, but well, Elena was, after all, a world-class assassin. He’d seen her brawl.

And well, she liked sushi, too. Enough to probably maybe murder a private chef for it. If she wanted to, she could have claimed his.

“The revenge,” Bruno chanced, “You said that you’d take your revenge tonight.”

She sighed, low in her throat.

“I did.”

She tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “And I suppose I have to do good on that, hm?”

He nodded, feeling as if he was jumping into dark, dark waters.

“… do you?”

“Do I still want to?” she interrupted harshly. “Yes. Do I know where to find him? Yes. I just—”

“f*ck it, what I’m thinking doesn’t matter. You’re right. We’re burning time that we don’t have.”

“You can chicken out, or you can come with. I don’t mind.”

ELENA

When she was younger, Elena had the same dream every night for fourteen days.

She was standing in a garden, hands filthy with brown dirt, wiping sweat off her brow and grinning at a shirtless Martinez throwing a sack of potatoes over his shoulders—showing off on purpose. It was the time of the harvest, soft leaves falling. Elena holds what her true love reaps from the ground with wide-open hands.

And then everything goes dark and cold, a chill beginning at the balls of her feet and sauntering up her body like a neat trawling the seafloor for illegal culls. The bounty of a garden can and will easily rot away, turn to mush even as you clutch them tight against your chest—it’ll rot, without doubt, if you don’t feed it with love, protection, and a hard will to stay through the storms that rattle the tin roof.

This is where Elena wakes up screaming, the taste of graveyard dirt against the roof of her mouth.

Her body aches when she wakes, like she’s fallen to her knees and worked with the land instead of against it. Like she’s put beauty into the ground instead of stealing from it—leaving her praying with her two dirty hands, knees burning, red spilling from her fingers down her sleeves.

Elena has never had a garden.

Elena will never have a garden.

The land can dry up and the seasons will change; something is rumbling in the wind, a promise of change that’ll send some soaring and others crashing to the cruel ground. Gardens need sunshine and gardens need rain; they need steady hands to tend, they need a love that isn’t too weak to falter and stumble through long nights.

Chapter 15: WHAT NEED DOES A DRAGON HAVE FOR FIRE

Chapter Text

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

It turns out that finally killing the man who’d haunted her for most of her life actually wasn’t very dramatic. It would turn out to be the kind of painfully easy that leaves you sitting on the edge of a bed that isn’t yours in the middle of night, your head in your hands as you count the wood grain because you don’t know what else to do with yourself. You don’t know how to acknowledge that you got everything you ever wanted and it feels a whole lot like you threw your life away.

But she’s getting ahead of herself.

The story starts really simple. Her and Bruno just walk. And they don’t say anything to each other, even though they probably should.

Elena should probably say: “It’s f*cked up, but thanks, I guess? I know that I ruined your life but I think that you saved mine. After I’ve kept my promise, will you look out your window at the night sky and wonder about me? Because I probably will. Look out the window and wonder about you, I mean. Wonder what would have happened if we’d met in a different life. Do you think that we could have been friends?”

Bruno should probably say: “I bet it never occurred to you that you’re a monster, right? What good is this going to do? What need does a dragon have for fire? What is all this blood for?”

Neither of them say anything. They walk, and they listen to their boots against the gravel. Bruno’s wearing Elena’s boots, Elena’s wearing boots that she stole. There’s probably symbolism there.

Elena dropped onto the ground on silent feet.

Bruno followed her, cursing as he clattered through the window, his shoes slamming against the ground. Elena turned to glare accusingly at him.

“I’m not used to wearing boots,” he argued, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s not my fault that your people don’t understand the importance of flexibility in footwear.” Elena just shrugged.

“You can’t kick someone’s skull in with sandals,” she answered, hissing, turning around, and closing the distance between her and the gilded door. She snapped off the lock without looking at it, gesturing to Bruno to follow her and trying not to allow her annoyance to show. The door was only golden to her mind because of what she’d get if she broke it down. To Bruno, it would be better described as rusted and disgusting, with peeling red paint.

It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t move like she did, it wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t killed a man before he’d had his first kiss. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t wired like she was; he was tagging along, and she decided that she wouldn’t press him on why or if he was sure. Something told her that he had enough people questioning his choices already.

(That’s a whole story in itself—the first kiss, that is. It’d happened right after her first kill, and it was with someone that she regretted. If she could decide, she wouldn’t consider it her first kiss because she hadn’t asked for it. His beard had burned her cheek, and when she’d struggled against him, he’d just pushed their lip closer, teeth clinking against each other like some kind of f*cked-up celebratory toast. But she didn’t get any champagne, just mouth sores that took a month to clear.)

(It’s not the kind of thing she wanted to think about on a glorious night like this. Instead, she tucked a knife with her heart up her sleeve and decided that she’d keep going.)

“It took a lot of effort to steal those,” she chided, keeping her tone playful, “So you might as well appreciate them.” She didn’t tell him that they were hers. She didn’t feel like it would fit between her lips.

“Great,” Bruno chuckled, “You stole both the shoes and the man wearing them.”

Elena had to deeply and truly concentrate to prevent herself from barking out a laugh, and she almost wanted to cuss out Bruno for giving her such a formidable test of her composure.

Elena gestured to a slim, narrow passage that was making her skin crawl just thinking about it, “You’re never letting me live that down, huh? ‘Guess that’s fair. Here, go down this, I know it looks f*cked and it’s not because it isn’t, but it’ll get us inside, alright?”

She almost felt sh*tty when she kicked him in before her and slammed the door shut to an entrance that she knew had no exit unless they killed everyone who cared about them strolling right out the front door. Well, good thing she’d at least committed to the task at hand, right?

At least she didn’t mention aloud that she was pretty sure that they’d just gone down a sewer pipe.

ELENA

Elena’s stitching together second-hand thread in a second-hand bed, with a second man’s head between her thighs, bleeding onto the white silk. The thread’s dripping red, sinews glittering in the pale light of the moon’s gentle embrace against her flushed skin. It feels like she’s being held in the dark, but she knows that it’s not to be. She knows that she’s made to leave without anything other than a gasp. She knows that she’s made to depart.

The words slip from her lips like snow off a roof.

“Don’t wait up for me,” she says, and she’s not sure who she’s saying it to, but she’s sure that it’s important that she gets it out, “Don’t wait up for me. It’s not a happy ending. All of this is temporary.”

She hears the safety click off and the gun is in her hand.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Bruno scoffs at her when she suggests it.

“That’s stupid,” he tells her, “That’s possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s really not,” she tries to argue, “I’ve done it before.”

“Have you done it with a concussion and only God knows what other injuries you’re not telling me about?” Bruno shoots right back, and something inside of her aches as she imagines being someplace else, with someone else. It hasn’t been that long yet. She still remembers Pedro glancing at her as they rode away from the fire that she set, something like concern in his eyes. She remembers how she’d wanted to punch him in the face for it and now all she wants is to cry because she gave that up and she feels like she’s been swallowed up.

“You also have a concussion,” she deadpans, and for some reason: Bruno winces. Maybe he’s one of those people who doesn’t realise he has an injury until it’s mentioned, and then it all comes rushing in. She hopes not. Martinez is one of those people. She’d had to give him a pep talk while she stitched him up from a gnarly gut shot. She’d had to lie, too. She’s not proud of it, but he doesn’t remember any of it on account of the blood loss. Or, he’d done like her and lied because he thought it would spare her.

God.

“I’m not asking your permission, Bruno,” Elena says, finally and harshly and horribly and like a girl who’s lost all of her spine, “You don’t have that kind of power over me, no matter what’s gotten into your head about destinies or f*cking whatever. Here’s the plan and you’ll stick to it, or you’ll die.” She tries to infuse her voice with her old name, but it falls flat. “I go in, and you only come when I call for you. And you run if I tell you to run. And you do not ask questions because that makes you slow and dumb and that gets you killed.”

“We’re on the roof,” Bruno unhelpfully remarks.

“That’s not going to be an issue for me,” Elena growls, feeling on her hip for her guns.

“Oh,” she says, as she’s about to step onto the edge of the skylight, “Don’t look, either.”

BOGOTA; Present Day, Agustín

The concierge—Adam—had been quick to spill the beans. Elena Rojas had rented a room with Bruno Madrigal, or at least a man who fit his description, and she’d left blood on the carpet. And Elena Rojas is the Night Woman, named because she’s as enigmatic and terrifying as the blackest night. And because assassins really aren’t that creative when it comes to names, apparently.

“Apparently,” Adam said, gasping a little Agustín was supposed to care enough to be shocked, “She was the little girl who—you know what happened to her. Really, it explains a lot. You can’t survive something like that and become a baker.”

Agustín doesn’t give a sh*t about what Elena’s done—he doesn’t give a sh*t about what she’s going to do to him. He cares about the fact that Bruno couldn’t make her bleed, and Agustín doesn’t like to talk about why he can—but he’s got a better shot at it than Bruno would ever. And that blood on the carpet. Good thing that she’s left a trail. Good thing that there’s not a lot of places for her to run. As he tracks her through the nights that bleed into endless days. And he’s going to put a bullet in her skull.

BOGOTA; Future Days, Elena

Alejandro was waiting for her, leaning against a grand marble pillar twenty feet away from her, grinning like he’d just cornered his prey.

“Where have you been, Elena?”

She crossed her arms.

“I’ve been working on myself,” she insisted, feeling her blood burn through her, her hip throbbing and fingers itching to grab anything she could use to end the confrontation quicker than her words. She leaned against the pillar, and watched Alejandro stand still in the distance.

“Working on what? Being a traitor?”

Elena shrugged. She knew a losing battle when she saw one. Alejandro had always been desperate to worm himself into power, more desperate than her. She’d had an elaborate scheme for getting revenge, and it’d fallen apart and yet, she’d still managed to kill Noche, even though it hadn’t turned out like she wanted and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with all of it now.

It didn’t make her feel better, though. She’s sure of that.

“Perhaps.”

She couldn’t really give Alejandro sh*t—she’d been a stubborn bastard, too—she’d desperately clung to the smidge of power that she could wrench away, and she wasn’t sure that she wasn’t still hanging on. At least to her reputation. She found enough protection to saunter across the streets at night in the promise of her own brutality and well-sharpened cruelty, and she wasn’t eager to stop.

But Alejandro pulled the rope tightly around her neck with his words, forcing her to either fall, or crash back into him.

“Don’t you ever think of what once was?”

Elena turned on her heels and ran, bleeding all over the marble.

ELENA’S LETTER TO THE LOVE OF HER LIFE

Dear Mars,

I don’t know what I want to say to you. I don’t know how to think of you without screaming, or breaking down on the floor. I think I’m losing my mind, if I’m being honest.

I need you. I need what I thought you were, and I need you to not let me down or go. I know none of those things can happen.

I really thought you were in my corner. I guess I was wrong. I guess there’s no one in my corner, and I guess I have to carve out my own path again—f*ck, the reason I’m writing to you is that I thought you were on my side, and now there’s nobody on my side and I’m running out of time.

I always hoped that you’d be here. In the end, that is. I always secretly desired that everything would break and burn and end expect for you and I, sitting on the rooftop, sipping sweet co*cktails and watching the world change in front of us.

But you’re not.

You’re not and I don’t know what to do about that.

You were never mine, not really. But you sure f*cking felt like it.

I have a question for you. When you f*ck Maria, the bride given to you—do you close your eyes and think of me? And who do you see? The little girl who taught you how to skip stones, or the bloodied mirage of every sin you were always too scared to commit?

I think I just need a quiet place where I can scream your name. Sully the divine air with the taste of you that I can’t rub out, regardless of everything that I do.

I’m about to do something unspeakable for the sake of myself. I wish I could say that I was doing it to save Bruno—to do that one damn good thing before I kick the bucket, but I’m not. I’m doing it because I’m promised to live long enough to see my revenge completed—and well, I know I’ll only really have my revenge when Bruno is back when he belongs. So, I might not live much longer after that.

I couldn’t imagine how I could, save for f*cking divine or ordinarily fantastical and magical intervention.

Sincerely, and always:

Your Elena.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Noche had a habit of hiring real pieces of work to act as his personal bodyguards. And by real pieces of work, Elena was talking about the kind of men with life-or-death sentences hanging over their heads. It was a good way to ensure loyalty, she supposed. If they strayed from his side or failed to protect him, he could have them sent back to the dank, damp, and dark prison that he’d plucked them out of.

Most of them were child- or women-killers, too. Both their minds and bodies were usually insane, and Elena had purposefully avoided them for years even though she knew she wanted to kill their boss like most girls know that they want to have kids. It had just always been a thing that she knew she would do, or she would have died before she could do it and it would have been tragic and Martinez would have known, and when he’d talked about her being dead, he would have talked about that, too.

She’d liked to believe that he would have done it for her if she couldn’t. He probably wouldn’t. She knows that now.

Elena’s not able to avoid them now.

The man who rented her a room that she ended up trashing and probably didn’t believe that her and Bruno had any blood relation whatsoever is tied to a chair, the faintest whine telling her that now’s not the time for speaking. She raises her hand, signalling to Bruno that he’s good at staying the f*ck out of her business, and he better remember it.

She peered carefully over the edge, afraid of what she’d see.

She picked the lock on the skylight, quick and silent and perfect like dead mentor after dead mentor had taught her. She slipped through with less noise than a cat on the prowl.

The man’s limp bleeding form bobs when one of Noche’s men slam a pipe into his restrained back.

Alejandro would have made some sharp remark as he attacked, but he wouldn’t have been here. He would have been handing someone the pipe. Martinez would have made a quip, too. But his father never let him do any of this crap. It was always Elena. It was one of the things that Elena never argued about. Even Pedro, who she’d shot dead because she’d been a f*cking idiot, often let out a dramatic line, outwardly for intimidation but sometimes with a quiet inwards amusem*nt. Elena dropped fifteen feet from the catwalk onto the shoulders of the man wielding the pipe in absolute silence.

“Not you!” he growled, swinging wildly, “You’re supposed to be dead! You’re supposed to be nothing! You’re nothing! You’re just a dead man’s bitch daughter—”

Elena swung around his throat, locking her thighs tightly until she heard a crack and she was landing on her hands, flipping onto her feet and parrying a knife, ducking under the scope of a gun, twisting the arm holding the knife until it broke and pulling him taut and gasping against her chest, his knife against his own bobbing throat.

“I don’t want any of you,” Elena hisses, “I just want to know where your boss is. We have things to discuss. You can show me to him, and not cause a fuss, and I’ll forget that we ever met.”

She didn’t have to watch her victim’s eyes or breathing to know that he was silently pleading with his comrades to care more about his life than the mission. Or at least assume that Noche would kill her.

A fat man with a moustache that looks more like a recently dead rat glued to his upper lip than facial hair answers her. “Why do you want to speak with Noche?”

“That’s none of your business,” Elena replies, “It’s personal.”

“Personal sounds like you want to kill him.”

Elena tilts her blood, walks the knife across the skin and draws blood.

“It’s none of your business once the door clicks shut.”

“They’ll kill us all for letting you in, so we might as well get bragging rights.”

She rolls her eyes. “Bragging rights?”

“You know how good it sounds in the prison yard? I killed the bitch. I killed Elena Rojas. Stabbed her and grabbed her tit* when I did it. They were good.”

Elena dropped the man in her grip, not out of shock, but amusem*nt.

He sprang up and shook his broken arm, laughing at the way it flopped loosely. Elena grimaced.

“Good one, girlie!” he announced, “You want a fair fight?”

Elena huffs. “You wouldn’t ever be able to make it one.”

When she was a little girl, Morinaga, her father’s friend first and foremost before he ever cared about what she wanted, told her that she’d have to promise him that she’d only kill people who asked for it. Rapists and child killers and women beaters. People of that sort. Of that blood. When she was a little girl, Elena did not need an oath to keep her from killing. Every organ in her body rejected the very thought. But her father burned to death and she’s never forgotten the sensations of that.

So, Elena kicked him to the ground and when he was down, lying on his belly and struggling to get up with one broken arm, she drove her heel into his spine with no thought beyond that he asked for it. And that they all asked for it.

It did. He dropped with the sharp crack of his spine breaking in the kind of way that you couldn’t put back together, choking on laughter and flopping like a beached fish. Elena wasn’t done. She levered as much of her bodyweight as she could behind her fist to his temple.

It splattered.

And the laughter stopped.

And everyone started running, and screaming about her being a psycho bitch, like they hadn’t just been talking about sexually assaulting her while she was dying.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Bruno

Elena told him not to follow her.

Bruno thought that Elena was full of sh*t, and he didn’t want to listen to a single thing he had to say after she said that, because that sounded like something that would get her killed.

He might not be from Bogota, but he’d heard Agustín’s stories.

So, he followed her from the roof.

And it might be horrible to say—but he caught himself gasping in awe as he watched her move through the building, and the men inside of it, with ruthless efficiency. He couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but he didn’t need to hear to know that when bodies dropped like that, they weren’t getting up. Elena moved with furious, hard-won purpose. Elena moved like she’d studied every inch of the building, like she’d spent her life as a viper in the tall grass, waiting to strike instead of being a girl.

Knowing what he knew about Elena Rojas, that wasn’t entirely unlikely.

He didn’t think about it when he slid off the roof and followed after her through the building, lingering in the shadows.

Elena was halfway through hopping up on another windowsill when she sighed.

“Bruno,” she sighed, “I know you’re there. You might be able to sneak around like a creep around other people, but I made a career out of knowing when people are right behind me. If you’re going to be a dipsh*t, you might as well face me.”

“Elle—” he tried.

Her eyes met his over her shoulder. “Elle?”

“I mean Elena.”

Her middle finger was tapping absentmindedly against her hip, bloodied knife hanging slackly in the other hand. He thought he could still spy some brain matter from when she’d jammed it up through the jaw to peek out at the crown of a fat man’s head.

“Suuuuuuure.”

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Just stay behind me, Noche’s private quarters are in the next building and no one’s sounded the alarm yet. I’m done arguing with you. You’re apparently just genetically predisposed to be a dipsh*t.”

Bruno thought about Elena, in front of a fire, and admitting.

“My father died in this town,” she’d snarled, her accent embracing her voice like a mother giving her child a final lingering hug goodbye, “I don’t intend for that to go unpunished. The man who caught me when I fell died scared and alone, for no reason other than to prove a point.”

“So,” she continued, “I want both of us to feel pain. I’m going to prove a point, too. I’m going to prove that men like him can die like animals, too.”

Elena threw the bread into the fire.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena didn’t know how she’d feel when she finally killed Noche, but she thought that there’d be more satisfaction to the whole thing. She didn’t think that she’d barely be able to stay on her feet.

It started out simple.

Elena burst through the window, feet first, glass shattering everywhere. She gunned down the two personal guards and locked eyes with Noche, licking blood off her lip.

“Elena,” he’d said, slowly setting the newspaper down against the table, with two cups of tea, steam rising. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Sit down,” he continues, “Please.”

Elena shoots him in the shoulder instead.

He doesn’t show any pain.

So, she shoots him in the other one, too.

He winces.

She surged forwards, grabbing him by the hair and slamming it into the table. Blood splattered across the expensive porcelain. Elena picks up the untouched cup and smashes it over his prone skull.

He stays still, still breathing.

“Why aren’t you fighting me!” she demands, pressing her gun against the back of his head. “Answer me, or I’ll send you where the moon meets and kisses the stars!”

He slowly raises his head, his eyes meeting hers.

“When you are ruthless,” he gasped, blood spilling from his lips, “You look just like him.”

Elena stiffened, feeling her grip become clammy, but it never faltered. She didn’t remember her father as a man who look lives—she remembered him boosting her onto his hip and letting her stir the pot with a laugh. Before he’d died, she’d wanted to be a cook at the club. She’d wanted to be an artist, too. She’d wanted to be a lot of things, before.

“Maybe,” she answered, thinking about all the times she’d been standing with a shovel and the lingering taste of smoke, “You took him away from me before I could learn it for myself.”

He hadn’t been there for the first time she snuck out. He hadn’t been there when she stumbled home drunk, threw up and missed the crapper. He hadn’t scolded her, and he hadn’t insisted that she…

No, she’d seen this film before, and she didn’t like the ending.

She pressed the gun harder against his temple, her eyes catching his gaze and intending to hold it until her hurt spilled into him. In the corner of her eye, she could see Bruno curling up in the corner. For a split second, she had the insane thought of dropping the gun.

No, this is hers. She didn’t promise him that she’d be a good person. She’s not. She’s waited twelve years for this. It’s hers, and she’s going to take it.

Her finger ghosted against the trigger.

“Encanto,” he breathed, “Encanto is beyond the mountains, I am not sure—”

Elena’s gaze softened minutely, and she wondered if this too, was a remnant of Martino Rojas that would live with her, now. She didn’t want it: she wanted to be shattered, bloodied glass and bruised knuckles. She wanted to make people afraid of hurting her again.

“I heard of—” his eyes rolled back in his head, and against all her instincts, Elena lurched forward, dropping her weapon, and cupping his head in her hands.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “What did you hear?”

“Madrigal. Ask for them, go to the mountains. Ask. Shoot last.”

Elena let a small grin shine. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” she mimicked. He winced.

“No.”

“I think yes,” Elena said, because he hadn’t told her something she didn’t know, “You don’t know the way to Encanto any better than I do and I don’t remember half of it because I was swallowed in the panic of being stuck in a literal forest fire, even if I’d caused it myself.”

She shrugged.

And she remembered why she was standing here.

“You’d know why I don’t like fire, wouldn’t you?”

She could feel her canines drip with blood, feel her face transforming into something cruel—something that could bite down. A chill went up her spine. “You would know,” she grinned, bobbing her head back and forth, her face cracking from the manic smile slicing through her features as she bared her teeth. “You’d f*cking know because you were there.”

Her voice went from flying on a high to standing on the edge of the harbour, sticking her toes in.

“You set the house alight, didn’t you?”

She leaned down, resting her forehead against his, and exhaled. “Did you know,” she questioned, her voice sinking, cinderblocks wrapped around her feet, “Did you know that I would be there, too?”

She’d heard many versions of the story throughout the years—they’d been tacked onto her legend.

I hear that Elena’s house burned down when she was nine.

I hear that Elena was the one to burn it down, because she wanted all the power her father held. The devil child tampered with the electricity box until it sparked, and she ran out of the house, but she was hit with a beam, pinning her to the ground and that’s why her back’s scarred, may Martino rest in peace.

No, that’s wrong. I hear that they brought on themselves! They’re demons! Nazis! The city got tired of their ways and burned them to the ground and the girl survived because she’s a witch.

I hear that they tried to burn Elena Rojas alive because she has claws instead of nails, and that’s why she wears gloves.

That particular rumour sprung up when she’d still worn gloves religiously, when she’d been unwilling to show off the gnarled scars that curved around her wrists.

Blood dripped lazily from his lips. Elena tightened her hold on the gun. “Go on,” she said, her voice sugary sweet, the nectar dripping from the pitcher plant, “You can tell me. I won’t hurt you anymore than I’m going to, anyways. You’ll be six feet under, so you might as well confess.”

She tilted her head. “Wouldn’t that be good? God won’t hear you out for many years, and when he does, you’ll be waiting for me in Hell. So, tell me. Did you know I would be there? Did you know that I would watch my father die? Was I supposed to survive?”

She didn’t know what she’d prefer.

She’d always sold herself as cheating death when she couldn’t look in the mirror. She was deformed, disfigured and she was dripping with red, her ledger stained anything that she laid it on, but she was alive. And she was alive when powerful men didn’t want her to be.

It gave her a boost—a reminder that she’d defied them before, and that she would do it again. That she could have her revenge, because she’d already gotten it in the fact that she continued to draw breath.

“Of course, not,” he croaked, “I loved him. Killing him twice… I could barely kill him the first time.”

Everything froze.

And clicked into place.

“You knew.”

He nodded.

“I always knew who you were.”

“And I could never bring myself to snuff you out. You reminded me too much of him.”

Elena forced herself to breathe.

“You’re telling me,” she snarled, trying not to taste bile, “That my life was ruined because of a f*cking love triangle?!”

Noche tsked.

“Hindsight and her perfect agonies, Elena.”

“I lost my childhood, you bastard!”

“You didn’t lose anything,” he croons, “You didn’t just show up at my door. You walked to me.”

She flipped the gun in her hand, whacking him with the butt of it. “Shut the f*ck up,” she instructed, “If you don’t want me to kill you painfully.”

“You’re going to kill me anyways,” he stated, bowing his head, “Anyways, so who cares how I go out?”

Elena rolled her eyes, hating herself. “I’ve seen a lot of sh*t,” she answered, “You wouldn’t want to know what I would do to you.”

He shrugged. “I suppose not.” And she hated how it reminded her of what she remembered of her father.

Elena dropped to a crouch in front of him. “So,” she reasoned, “You loved him. And you killed him.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to kill me.”

“If I can’t kill you now, when could I ever?”

“The same can’t be said about me.”

Elena circled Noche; her gun trained on the spot above his brows where a line formed when he was angry. “What a pity to behold,” she growled, spitting, before she softened her gaze, “But rest now, tormented soul. Don’t you know he would have loved you the way you were? How he would have loved both of us. But you took that away from me. And yourself.”

She steeled herself, remembered being a little girl who watched her father die—remembered the burning pit of anger they’d ignited inside her, how she was about to finally douse those decades-old flames.

“It’s time,” she stated, stretching out her arm, “Open your very last door, play your very last hand. Hush and don’t move.”

She wondered if she looked like Martino now: standing over him, her gaze focussed and controlling both how and when he’d die. For a moment, she had the fatalistic urge to ask. She wasn’t sure he’d answer dishonestly. She had her father’s face, but she didn’t carry his tenderness.

The only thing she inherited was his rage. She didn’t have the dimples, or the eyes that crinkled only when she smiled genuinely. She didn’t have his large, gentle hands that you could fall against. Everything good about Martino Rojas was boiled away in his daughter, hardened to a razor-sharp edge.

“I’ll be here to help you turn the key.”

She arched her feet, feeling them arche from swinging around. “When you leave, I’ll at last have peace. And our city will finally be free.”

He gurgled something unintelligibly.

“Quiet!”

“I am now ready to silence you!”

Tears streamed down her face, burning her cheeks. “All of this poison you fed me! Thinking I’d never grow up and see you for who you were!”

“You will die! And so will all your lies, when I see the light leaving your eyes!”

Elena fires.

And it doesn’t fix anything.

Behind her, birds squawk as they fly across windows overlooking gleaming pools. And right when Elena pulls the trigger, she feels heat expand across her stomach.

Elena staggered back, dropping her gun, blood spurting through the gaps in her fingers.

As she fell through the window, the ground rushing up to meet her, the cruel, cold air humming in her ears, a surging melody, she thought about Bruno and the campfire and when he’d told her about the rat telenovelas, and how she hadn’t recoiled in horror about it.

“I think you could write a couple of good ones, you know.”

“You need new ideas for your rat Shakespeare?”

“It’s always good spicing up the programming.”

“I only know one story.”

“Tell it, then!”

“It’s not very good.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

She’d scoffed, and then she’d told it. It’d been flippant and dickish and it’d been meant to make him shut up so she could think.

“She caught everyone’s gaze and held it until it hurt, until the burn lingered, even when you pulled away. She wanted the world to not just see her pain but feel it, wear it like cloak of their own. She wanted her tears to bleed, to cut.”

She found herself wishing that she’d told him the real story. All of it. The long one. She found herself wishing that she’d stayed there, in the clearing, in the tall grasses.

BOGOTA; Past, Bruno

It was two nights prior. He’d asked her what she thought her destiny was, and the tone of his voice told her that he wanted her to denounce her ways.

Elena Rojas wasn’t known by name, but by face—carrying the expression of a dead man would do that to you. When she broke into a rare smile, her features were bisected by the memory of a man shot dead for trying to take a stand. The fire crackles around her, and she was trying not to breathe in the mirth.

“I know my destiny,” insisted Elena, shaking her head playfully as she hauled the pot off the fire with a grunt, “I put all of my love into avenging my father. That’s my destiny.”

“So,” probed Bruno, “What are you going to do now? You avenged your father.”

That wasn’t what he’d said.

Elena sampled the soup and tried not to visibly recoil. Bruno bit down his laugh, already preparing for Elena to try to pretend that her culinary creation’s the greatest in living memory, faux bravado shining brightly as she tossed back another spoon.

“I haven’t,” she answered instead, “Not yet. My father wouldn’t have wanted me to do become this. I didn’t think that anyone other than myself had survived, but there you were. Papa—he, he always wanted to dismantle it. He wanted to help people. So, I’m helping you and hoping he can forgive me for what I’ve become.”

And the thought sunk into the cracks of her resolve, settled like molten steel, and hardened against her sin. Just like the bullet lodged in her gut, just like the water of the pool rushing to meet her.

BOGOTA; Present Day, Elena

Elena bit her bottom lip, ripped off the bottom of her shirt and wrapped it around her abdomen. She wasn’t dying here. Bruno had promised her that she’d get her revenge and survive to talk about it. She’d done none of the gloating. She hadn’t danced on tables yet, and she hadn’t had the glass of expensive alcohol waiting for her.

You couldn’t stop the future, so Elena had to keep on living.

She would be the man her father never was, she reminded herself as she tied the knot tight, she just wants to die anywhere else. She winced at the pain she was exasperating—good, you don’t do that when you’re about to die, because you’ve lost too much blood to feel fingers against your skin, to feel your nails digging pink crescents into your skin because clenching your fists is better than crying out—and braced herself against the sink.

She thought about the haloed dead man in the room with the broken window, and the footsteps of little girls who are too damn curious. Pulled herself back together.