He woke at precisely six—not because he wanted to, but because his body had learned routine as a form of survival. His hand moved automatically to the right, landed on the alarm clock, shut it off, and surrendered to the heavy quiet that had followed him since the accident.
Bare feet met chilled stone.
Ten steps forward.
Turn right.
Four steps to the sink.
Nothing was left to chance.
Nothing improvised.
When you can’t see, disorder isn’t inconvenient—
it’s dangerous.
Even the shower followed a fixed sequence, precise as a medical procedure. Soap always on the left. Towel on the second rack. Clothing laid out exactly the same way each morning: crisp charcoal shirt, tailored slacks, polished shoes worth more than most people’s rent.
Flawless.
And unseen.
Down the staircase—twenty-one steps. No more, no less. At the bottom waited Samuel, the butler, greeting him with practiced warmth.
“Good morning, Dr. Alvarez.”
“Good morning,” Mateo replied, courteous and hollow.