You rip the envelope open with fingers that don’t feel like yours.
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and money, the kind of clean that tries to erase fear. Your head throbs under gauze, and every blink feels like a bruise.
Inside the envelope is a single sheet of paper, folded twice, the handwriting tight and careful like someone saving space for urgency.
You read the first line and your throat closes.
“Alejandrito… if you’re reading this, it means they failed.”
Your eyes scan fast, then slower, then back again as your brain tries to reject what it’s seeing.
