That night I returned to the penthouse alone—with a glass of water and clean silence—and sat in front of the wide windows. Seville shimmered. The Guadalquivir lay like a dark ribbon below.

I didn’t feel victorious. I felt free.

And I understood that the most dangerous thing about people like Dario isn’t that they shout. It’s that they believe someone else’s fear is something they’re entitled to.

Until someone signs… and pulls the ground out from under them.