The gatehouse feels like a stage someone built out of stone and bad decisions.
It’s a small building just inside the outer wall—thick door, thick windows, thick air. A table, a few chairs, a bank of monitors showing grainy camera feeds from around the property.
I’m not supposed to be here.
Which is exactly why I’m pressed against the narrow window in the side corridor that overlooks the courtyard, heart pounding as the SUV rolls to a stop at the outer gate.
From up here, I see him climb out.
Rafael looks out of place in this world of armored cars and armed men. He’s in a black button‑down and dark jeans, curls wind‑tossed, a guitar case slung over one shoulder like he brought his own weapon to the standoff.
He argues with a security guard for a solid thirty seconds—hands flying, eyes
