The morning broke without sunlight. Thick clouds hung low over the city, casting everything in a muted gray that felt heavy, almost suffocating. Inside Ion Ayala's private residence, the operations room was already alive with quiet urgency. Screens flickered with data, documents lay spread across the desks, and the faint hum of machines blended with the steady rhythm of rain outside.
Nathan Saavedra had not slept.
He stood near the central table, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, his eyes fixed on a growing web of connections displayed across one of the monitors. Names, timestamps, transactions, and call logs formed a pattern-fragmented, incomplete, but unmistakably deliberate. The deeper he looked, the clearer it became: this was not a simple sabotage. It was a coordinated system, layere
