Chapter Text

Resignation Letter

Today, I finally quit my job.

I can assure you, it wasn’t an impulsive decision. These past three years working as an office assistant at this dying company took a piece of my youth with them.

It all started in that fateful month of May 2016, when I was in my third semester of business school and desperately needed a job. One night, out of sheer panic, I sent out 20 résumés and cover letters, hoping someone would respond that week. And one did. I remember feeling relieved — almost happy.

Now, I’m relieved to be walking away.

Stacks and stacks of paper used to pile up in front of me. My computer was so old that even basic tools froze constantly, delaying everything in a never-ending loop. Because of that, eight-hour workdays often turned into nine, sometimes ten. In silence, I endured the awful conditions, studied after hours, and kept up with other obligations.

But now, even though it feels surreal, with this final signature, it all ends here.

While I held the pen in my boss’s office, I could hear the sputtering of the printer struggling to push out a single sheet. The beige phone kept ringing over and over. The scene felt melancholic — like some kind of silent depression lived in every piece of furniture, every corner of that place. Lifeless.

“I wish I could say I’m happy for you, Lúcia. But honestly, it’s hard to find someone as committed as you. Are you sure you won’t reconsider that fifteen percent raise?” he asked, staring at me with pleading eyes, awkward in his chair, trying to sound friendly.

After a while working there, it became obvious why he hired me: my looks. Those eyes — old and predatory — followed me constantly, watching who I was more than what I did. Always expecting something. Judging in silence. Throwing out suggestive comments and brushing against me when he shouldn’t have. Eventually, my consistency in work was acknowledged. That’s when he started piling more and more on me — unpaid overtime, heavy assignments — while continuing his pathetic flirting.

That “offer” was a sick joke.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Sim’s, but I’ve worked hard for this opportunity in the public sector,” I said softly, bending down to pick up the paper that now certified my freedom.

Two deep lines creased his forehead as I signed quickly, without hesitation. The paper crumpled slightly from my haste, ink slightly smudged.

“Well, alright then. Public Prosecutor’s Office, huh? Fifteen percent’s not good enough for you…” he muttered, forcing a short, fake sigh — like he was trying not to sound bitter. “If you ever want to come back, I could always find a spot for you…”

He grabbed the resignation form a bit too roughly and made a copy, handing it to me almost immediately. It felt like everything was over. But then, he suddenly pushed his chair back with a loud creak and stood up, walking around the desk.

“How about a goodbye hug to send you properly?”

I froze. Took a deep breath.

“I think it’s best to keep things formal until the end, Mr. Sim’s,” I replied with a polite smile, my body on alert. At that moment, his middle-aged appearance wilted — like a dried-out prune.

I swear, I have nothing against bald men in their fifties, standing at five foot seven — but did he really have to come with that personality? It was as if his looks carried the guilt for the kind of man he was underneath. Like his intentions leaked out of every gesture, every glance. So unsettling.

I stepped aside and offered a handshake instead.

“Always so formal and polite. That’s what we expect from a small-town girl, isn’t it?” he said, shaking my hand with a little too much enthusiasm, his palms sweaty and his smile fake.

I swallowed hard and smiled. I just had to walk out. The anxiety was rising in me.

“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Miss Anselin. If you ever miss this place, you know my door’s always open...”

Oh, I’ll miss it, alright…

The endless workload that gave me chronic migraines I still can’t manage.
The burnout knocking at my door.
The sleepless nights and miserable work conditions.
The harassment. The vulgar stares.

That’s the response I wanted to give. The one my inner voice screamed at me to let out.

Instead, I just smiled again and said a simple “bye,” closing the old, worn-out door behind me. Above my head, on a faded sign in bold, exaggerated lettering, the name stared back at me:

“Head Accountant: Steve Sim’s.”

Now, from the outside, it looked even smaller. Almost insignificant. No longer my problem. My heart skipped. The anxiety was slowly turning into a kind of quiet euphoria — one I could only feel inside, though I kept a calm face.

I turned my back and stepped away, heading back into the office where I had spent these years.

Inside the employee accounting room, I found my box already packed on the desk, holding only a few personal belongings. I had chosen to take only the essentials: a framed photo of me, my sister, and our dog; a mug gifted to me by Margareth, my coworker; two unused notebooks; a few pens; and the calendar I had bought myself.

Everything else was disposable.

As I picked up the box, Margareth walked in with Kate, the intern. She looked stunning, as always — curly hair and that infectious smile. She ran over to me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“Lúcia Anselin, you were really gonna leave with that box without saying goodbye? I step away for fifteen minutes and lose my chance to cry on you?” she teased, sniffling as she squeezed me.

Kate stood behind her, patient and kind, waiting her turn.

“You think I’m moving to the other side of the country? The Public Prosecutor’s Office is a fifteen-minute walk from here. Come on — our town barely has thirty thousand people. You’ll probably run into me every day,” I replied, laughing at her dramatic outburst.

I might be wrong, but I think I saw one or two real tears fall from her face.

Margareth was the most experienced accountant in the office. Through all the hard times, she and Kate were the best things that happened to me here. They stood by me during my worst stress episodes — when the migraines got so bad, they covered for me so I could lie down until the pain eased.

Kate, who had joined a year ago, is actually Sim’s niece. That gave me some comfort. At least she wouldn’t be exploited like the rest of us and could leave whenever she wanted. The nearly 100% annual turnover rate wouldn’t apply to her — or to Margareth. Without Margareth, this place would’ve fallen apart long ago.

“You promise you’ll call? Text? Promise you won’t abandon us once you get rich?” Kate said, holding both my arms with a playful look she tried to hide.

“I promise I’ll come pick you both up in my Porsche 911 Turbo for lunch by the beach,” I joked, sticking out my tongue at her.

“Well... I don’t know anything about cars, but I hope that one’s expensive enough,” Kate laughed.

Margareth, now more composed, shook her head and smiled:

“Oh honey… you can bet it is.”

I let out a laugh and pulled them both in for a group hug. Then I grabbed my box and the folder with my signed resignation copy.

“I’d love to stay and talk about the luxury car I’ll probably never own, but I’ve gotta go, girls. There’s stuff to do. We’ve said our goodbyes, we’ve cried — but just know it was an honor to work with you both. I’m free this weekend if you wanna go out.”

“We’re wishing you all the best in this new chapter. May you shine brighter every day. I hope you’ve found something you truly love,” Margareth said, opening the door for me. “It’ll be nice to talk somewhere more private next time — without our curbside sergeant spying on us.”

Kate smiled and nodded. I smiled too. Together, we walked to my car — an old model, but it ran just as well as any new vehicle. Took me two years of tight budgeting to buy it. One of the few things that kept me going.

I opened the trunk and placed the folder and the box inside.

“If you need me, I’m just fifteen minutes away!” I called out, joking.

“Just don’t go any farther — and don’t come back to arrest us,” Kate teased, referring to my new job, winking as they stepped toward the building.

I waved goodbye and slipped into the driver’s seat, waiting until they disappeared inside. But instead of starting the engine, I rolled down the windows and looked at that little building for a few quiet moments, my head resting lightly on the seat.

That tiny building... How could it have brought me so many terrible memories? From the outside, it looked modest, even a little cozy.

Its structure was old, with two large wooden doors — one always open. The walls were a pale, textured yellow, with white trims around the windows and doorframes, also wood. Outside, a large, almost aggressive sign read:

“Sim’s Accounting Services — Since 1998.”

Steve Sim’s: terrorizing people since 1998, I thought, letting out a small, bitter smile.

“Well… hoping we never meet again,” I murmured.

I turned the key and started the car.

Chapter Text

The sun crossed the fragile curtains of my bedroom and stained the walls with a clean golden hue.

This was the fifth morning I woke up slowly, after another well-slept night — eight straight hours. No alarm, no rush. Just enjoying the light delight of the morning.

In the first few days, the silence at home confused me. No slow printer noise, no phone ringing constantly at seven a.m. No boss watching me closely or brushing against me with the excuse that it was "an accident.”

I’m enjoying my “vacation” time as much as I can before starting at the Public Prosecutor’s Office.

I still have three more days —

I got up at nine in the morning, savoring the last seconds in bed. After a light stretch, I walked to the kitchen of my small rented house.

It’s made up of a bedroom with a bathroom, a kitchen integrated into the dining room, with no partitions. The walls are milky white, adorned with old wooden windows I polished myself. A small backyard surrounds the house, where I grow some ornamental plants, two rosemary pots, one of lemongrass, and an almost child-sized wooden chair that creaks softly with the wind — completing the decoration.

Inside, the walls are adorned with small paintings I did during some boring phase of life, or that I received from my sister, who painted them for fun. In the center of the dining room, a table with five chairs. To the side, a shelf full of Administration and Administrative Law books, which I studied for countless hours. I don’t like to admit it, but hidden among them are a few historical romance novels — one in particular, a gift from Meredith, holds a place of honor.

In the kitchen, a coffee kettle is always in sight. I don’t always manage to keep a consistent eating routine, but coffee is sacred.

The pans hang from a rack above the sink, and the furniture, in light tones and vintage style, came already planned with the rental.

In the bedroom, there's just a wrought-iron bed with clean white sheets, a pink comforter, and a lamp that casts a golden light over the pillow — the kind of light that makes even silence feel comfortable. On the right wall, my desk, which also serves as a vanity. A large, well-polished mirror — a gift from Meredith — stands about a meter and a half from the bed.

Before the bathroom, there’s a small closet, where I keep some simple jewelry, work clothes, and my favorite pajamas — which I love wearing to feel cozy.

Along the hallway, I can see the shower, toilet, and sink. No bathtub, just a simple partition separating the shower from the rest. The sink area is small, with a mirror above it and white walls matching the gray floor.

In the tiny backyard, the clear sky is visible above the treetops and, in the distance, the soft outlines of sleeping mountains. This is the kind of house that demands nothing from you — only that you breathe slowly. And that’s how I made it mine: slowly, while I still could. It became my refuge. My little paradise.

Steve Sim’s couldn’t find me here. If he tried, he’d be reported for trespassing, I thought, chuckling softly. This is my untouched sanctuary, and I intend to buy it as soon as I’m able.

Sitges, this small town in Spain, is sophisticated, coastal, and charming. I’ve lived here for over three years, and I’m already used to the sunny summers and surprisingly mild winters. The old and the new walk hand in hand through its winding streets, steep hills, and beautiful buildings.

Even though I’m surrounded by breathtaking landscapes and stunning beaches, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually gone to the sea. Not because I hate it, but because I feel a certain fear of its vastness, its unpredictability. Also, the feeling of sand on my skin has never appealed to me. That’s why I chose to live in a neighborhood far from the salty breeze.

Coming from a city without beaches, the adjustment wasn’t easy. I was used to the cold, to the biting wind against my face most of the year. Although I feel comfortable here now, deep down, I still long for winter, just to feel the comforting weight of a heavy coat again. Something to wrap me up.

On my first day at Sim’s , Margareth looked me up and down and, with a graceful smile and a nod, said:

— Girl, you’re not cut out for this place. Have you looked in the mirror? If I put you next to the wall, I think you might be even more translucent than it.

Then she laughed and finally introduced herself.

And it was true. In a city filled with beautiful, tall, tanned people blessed by summer, I — a blank painting — stood out like a smudge outside the canvas. But there I was.

In the kitchen, I made my usual coffee. To soften the taste and the memory of hard days, I also made hot chocolate — which clearly didn’t match the end of summer, but it matched me. To eat, small pancakes filled with grape jelly. I allow myself to buy a few jars every time I go to the weekend farmer’s market.

After breakfast, I went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and looked at myself in the mirror for a few minutes. The reflection I saw was definitely better than the one from the week before — my last days at the old job, before I got the news that I’d finally been accepted into the position I’d longed for.

The dark, purple circles under my eyes — once so deep that not even makeup could hide them — now looked ten times lighter. Eight hours of sleep per night felt almost like a miracle.

My hair, golden blonde in length and slightly lighter at the bangs, now reached my waist. Though a bit dry — the result of not having time to care for it — I admit it’s one of the things I like most about myself.

My face is a bit thin, with subtly rosy cheeks. A small, narrow chin, large eyes of uncertain color — sometimes greenish, sometimes bluish — complete a look that, at times, seems more vivid.

My mouth is medium-sized, with a fuller upper lip. My eyebrows, unkempt, form a slightly wild blonde mess that will soon be tamed. Even though I recognize my face falls within a certain “acceptable” standard, my height still bothers me. In this city, it’s rare to see women under 1.68. And there I am: a small sprig of a plant, with my 1.55 meters and 45 kilos.

I attribute the weight to skipped meals, and the height to my mother’s genes. Sadly, in that regard, she failed me. But she got it right when she passed on this wheat-colored hair.

Once, Steve, with a malicious smile, said:

"Dark-haired women are meant to be good mothers. Light-haired women are meant to be good lovers. If you know what I mean."

Another time, while I was filing documents, he said aloud:

"Blonde women are slightly dumber than the rest. But I think redheads take the prize."

No reason, no context, no cause. Loose comments, like someone littering as they walk.

During that time, I started wearing my hair up more often or hiding it under a beanie to disguise it. Even with complaints from Meredith and Milton — an employee who ended up being fired — the jokes continued. Always wrapped in muffled laughter and diverted glances, until the physical harassment began and I knew I had to change my situation.

Last year, applications opened for the form, exam, and information submission to the Public Prosecutor’s Office.

It was on one of those gray afternoons that I started studying. At first, it was carelessly — half an hour during lunch, two hours before bed. Then, with discipline: late nights, weekends, the nearly invisible renunciation of a normal routine.

Little by little, the world shrank to codes and summaries.

The day of the test arrived like silent thunder. The room in Madrid was too big for the few who had made it through the previous stages. I waited, sitting, hands damp, my hair tied up as always — the same way I used to wear it when I was still just “the blonde spreadsheet girl.”

And when they called my name, I knew. Everything could change.

Six hours of daily work in Vilanova i la Geltrú, about 10 km from Sitges.
Benefits — enough that I was excited not to spend most of my paycheck on groceries.
22 days of paid annual leave.
Fixed hours, solid overtime pay.
A reasonable salary — four times more than I earned at Sim’s.
A new computer that doesn’t take 30 minutes just to turn on.

It was a small, big life change. It was everything to someone who had nothing. I could hardly contain myself when I saw my name on the official list.

Lúcia Anselin — 3rd place — Accepted.

That brief memory repeated in my head: since it was still during work hours, I let out such a sharp, high-pitched scream that Meredith jumped from her chair, startled. Steve came out of his office to see what was going on. He didn’t believe it when he saw the acceptance notice. He questioned it, tried to poke holes, to create obstacles.

But there was nothing more he could do. Knowing I wouldn’t depend on his crumbs to pay my bills anymore was a dish I savored to the last bite. A revenge without needing revenge.

Meredith, Kate, and I celebrated that day. I don’t usually drink — ever. But I had a small glass of champagne in my own honor.

Looking into the mirror, I whispered slowly:

— Just three more days to go, Lúcia.

Chapter Text

I got up at six thirty in the morning. It felt as though I hadn’t slept at all the night before.

At nine in the evening, I lay down to sleep. By ten, I was tossing and turning, lost in thought. A kind of anxiety wanted to replay everything in my mind. By eleven, I could no longer tell what was a dream, a thought, or reality. And just like that, I woke up the next day.

The alarm rang softly. I turned it off with one click and checked my phone for just a few seconds, only to confirm the address on the GPS. Then I got out of bed and went straight to the shower.

I put in some effort, using a few expensive soaps I had saved for special occasions. I conditioned my hair and tried not to take longer than necessary.

After the shower, already in my robe, I opened the wardrobe and looked at a few pieces I had picked out the night before. I chose a dark blue sweater and a white and light-blue striped shirt to wear underneath, forming a clean, simple collar. The jeans were dark blue, slightly wide at the ankles, and the shoes were low-heeled black Mary Janes.

Some people see appearance as something shallow at first glance. On the contrary — I’ve always thought of appearance as something that lights up a room. When we feel good about ourselves, others see us through the same lens. In my case, there was also a touch of insecurity, the result of previous traumatic episodes. A mix of self-awareness and self-protection.

I like to feel beautiful so I can be a calling card.
I like to feel beautiful so the change is visible — inside and out.
I don’t like to feel beautiful to be harassed.

But in this new job, I felt safe enough to go a little further.

I dried my hair and left it straight, as usual. It looked silkier, cleaner, and less rebellious than before. I still didn’t feel ready for a more mature cut, so I chose to keep it blunt.

The makeup was natural, focused on a good moisturizer, foundation on the points that needed correction, brightening, or just softening. The lipstick was light red, applied over a gentle liner, then partially blotted with tissue.

In my ears, small gold hoop earrings. Around my neck, a gold necklace with a teardrop-shaped pendant.

I looked at myself in the mirror and found my reflection pleasant. It was hard to believe that just a week and a half ago, my eyes were sunken under deep circles. In a way, I was still too thin. Maybe gaining three kilos would make a difference in the future.

I checked my phone one more time. It was already 7:10. Good — I’d finished in good time. I had about an hour to get to the city of Vilanova i la Geltrú, to the Public Prosecutor’s Office, La Fiscalía, about fifteen kilometers away — around twenty minutes by car.

I grabbed the only decent black bag I had left, sprayed a light perfume, locked the door, and left the house. The morning was pleasant. The road was clear and not too busy. The view of the mountains on the way to Vilanova was beautiful.

When I saw the city, I noticed that although it wasn’t large, it was still much bigger than Sitges. Unlike my charming coastal town, Vilanova had modern buildings, bike lanes, and a more urban structure. I passed a café called La Sao and was charmed by the architecture — but anxiety wouldn’t let me eat.

There was that feeling of a knot in my stomach.

The next street was the end of the line. I searched for a parking space among so many cars of different brands that made mine look like a doll’s toy. When I finally found one, I parked and got out, grabbing my bag, keys, and phone. 7:40. Great — I still had a few minutes to settle my nerves.

I looked ahead, still with a racing heart, flushed cheeks, and slightly trembling hands. And when I realized where I was, I think my heart sped up even more.

“My God… it’s huge,” I whispered.

Sim’s office looked like a matchbox next to this building. It hadn’t seemed so big in the photos. At least not in the ones I’d seen.

“Come on, girl. Just walk in. The worst part is already over, just walk in,” I muttered to myself, giving my cheeks a light pat before heading toward the entrance.

The front façade was massive, with two floors — or maybe even more. The outer walls were made of pale washed stone, aged by time but still firm and imposing. A quiet beauty, resilient. The architecture held a kind of class that the years couldn’t erase.

Tall solid wooden doors with wrought iron details marked the main entrance. Above them, stained glass windows illustrated allegorical scenes of justice. Wide hallways branched into various departments. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior: soaring ceilings, black and white marble floors, iron staircases, and hand-carved banisters.

On the walls, oil paintings portrayed former attorney generals and prosecutors. The respectful silence of the place was broken only by hushed conversations and the creaking of heavy doors.

Would Steve Sim’s shrink back into his insignificance in a place like this? I like to think so.

When I reached the access turnstile, two guards were on duty. I took my phone from my pocket and showed the official email, since I didn’t yet have a badge or any other kind of ID — just my DNI.

Beside the turnstiles, there was a clear passageway for credentialed employees.

Middle-aged men and women passed me constantly. The women were elegantly dressed: refined leather bags and slim-heeled shoes. The men wore neatly pressed suits that had surely been prepared the night before by their wives or housekeepers. Margareth would certainly have said it was all too much.

While my email was being verified, those people kept moving forward, too busy with reports, phone calls, and schedules. Some, however, gave me brief, almost curious glances. Maybe they thought I was just an intern because of my age. Or a lost civilian, full of questions.

“All set, Miss Anselin. Welcome to the Fiscalía building. You can head to the Human Resources desk. It’s straight ahead, to the right.”

The guard’s voice startled me — I’d been zoning out, overwhelmed by the place — and I responded with a simple nod:

“Thank you, I’m going in.”

I passed through the turnstile and walked toward the Human Resources desk. Inside, I saw that the room was wide, filled with thick, organized folders. It was probably used only for onboarding new employees or addressing internal questions.

An older woman with a badge that read Regina Velasquez was stamping papers quickly, without even looking up.

“You’re fifteen minutes early, Miss Anselin. I received all your documents by email last Tuesday.
Can you hand me your ID?” she said, still without looking up, continuing to stamp and stack papers.

I handed her my DNI. She grabbed it quickly and disappeared for a moment behind a side panel, where an old computer was still humming faintly.

When she returned, she held my badge in hand.

“Wearing the badge is mandatory. But you can put it on after being introduced to your workplace."

"I’ll direct you to the second floor. Look for Coordinator Lucca Montez, in the Legal office. He’ll be in charge of introducing you to your department, your team, and the other staff. Since you already digitized and submitted the rest of the documents, just sign the employment agreement and give me your bank account number."

I gave a slight side smile as I handed her what she asked for. The speed and clarity with which she spoke caught me off guard. Regina was firm, upright — exactly what you'd expect from a Human Resources employee: no rambling.

I thanked her, not expecting a response.

I entered the elevator along with four other people. Everyone was silent, each one staring at the digital display showing the floors.

The number two lit up, and the badge in my hand was slightly damp with sweat.

It was official: it was about to begin.

Chapter Text

I arrived on the second floor.

The elevator opened into an unfamiliar hallway, lined with doors and a few small service windows. To the right, a stairwell invited those who preferred to walk. The walls were a milky white, and many doors lined the corridor, each accompanied by a window like the ones on the first floor.

I walked slowly, reading the signs on each door, trying to find the right one.

At the end of the hallway, one door stood out — larger than the others, carved from wood, with a large plaque that bore a name weighty in legal circles: Prosecution Office.

To the right, another door bore a smaller sign: “Legal Analysis and Assistance.” I took a deep breath, my hands still damp with sweat as I gripped my badge. The doorknob was cold to the touch — a stark contrast to the heat of my anxiety.

I pushed the door open, crossing the line between the unknown and the inevitable.

Inside, a woman in her mid-30s with short black hair sat to the left, focused on reviewing a document. She wore a black suit with a pencil skirt and block heels. Next to her, a man around the same age with tousled brown hair looked like he was about to ask a question. He had pierced ears and wore a loose tie, no blazer. On the right, a Black man in his 50s typed on a computer. His mustache twitched constantly, and he held the posture of someone thoroughly addicted to work. Standing near him, a tall, slightly lanky blond man was speaking in a tone that carried authority.

The moment I stepped in, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me, clearly surprised.

Had I made too much noise? Or was this just how people reacted when a stranger interrupted their work? Probably the latter. I exhaled and stepped forward.

“Good morning. I’d like to speak with Mr. Montez, regarding my placement...” I tried to keep my voice steady despite my nerves, expecting the older man to approach. To my surprise, the young blond man came instead.

“Morning. Are you sure you’re in the right room? You look like you just left high school,” Lucca said with a crooked smile, clearly teasing. The others laughed along.

“Just joking. Lucia Anselin, right? Let me guess — Regina sent you here so we could show you around, pass along some information, and finish up your paperwork. Technically it’s her job, but we always end up doing it when someone new joins. I’m Lucca Montez, coordinator of this division.”

He extended his hand with a smile that was almost warm. I reached out too, trying to mask my anxiety — not that I succeeded. I think he noticed, but said nothing.

“I’m Lúcia. Nice to meet you all,” I said, glancing at him and the rest of the room. The space suddenly felt smaller, almost welcoming. And Lucca... he definitely seemed like Kate’s type. That thought helped calm me down.

“The pleasure’s ours. This is Leda, Martin, and Gregório,” he said, and everyone gave me a nod or came to shake my hand before returning to their desks. “You look exactly like your picture — though in person, you come off even cuter,” Leda said with a warm smile.

“She’s only 23 and got through one of the most competitive exams we’ve had. That’s impressive for someone considered cute,” Martin added casually from his seat. “Where are you from? Did you study law? Sorry — I didn’t read your file.”

My voice caught for a second, but I pushed through.

“I l-live in Sitges now, but I’m originally from Vielha. I s-studied Business Administration at the University of Catalonia and did my postgrad in Public Administrative Law.”

I tried to sound friendly, gesturing lightly as I spoke.

To break the initial awkwardness, we started chatting about our backgrounds — where we were from, universities, roles. I learned Leda had been here for seven years. Gregório, for twenty — the most senior. Martin had only been in the role for six months, but I recognized his name: he ranked first in the entry exam. Lucca, the best educated among them, had studied Law in California and had been working in the Ministry since he was 24 — nearly a decade.

As for duties, nothing too surprising: organizing chaotic documents, interpreting messy reports, piecing together stories full of pain and gaps, and handling the media. That was Leda’s main work.

They needed someone to bring order to the chaos — turn loose pages into coherent reports, track deadlines that couldn’t be missed, and make sure the prosecutor had everything needed to act decisively. Martin seemed responsible for that.

They also conducted legal research, summarized jurisprudence, reviewed drafts, and prepared technical documents.

With his experience, Gregório handled judicial records and arranged hearings. In practice, everyone could step into each other’s roles when needed. Lucca, as coordinator, worked more externally with the prosecutor, following strict conduct protocols. He was respected by the others and seemed like a capable leader.

The atmosphere relaxed. I nodded quietly and smiled at a few jokes.

Martin didn’t hide how eagerly he waited for the ministry’s 22 vacation days but admitted he’d been doing overtime since his first week. While he and Leda bickered — apparently a routine — my eyes wandered around the room, trying to figure out where I would fit into this new universe.

I noticed four desks: two on the right, two on the left. Each had a small metal nameplate.

But when I looked closer, I realized — my desk wasn’t there. Strange. It didn’t seem like there was any room left to add furniture between the shelves at the back.

As I moved sideways, I spotted a door near Leda’s desk. It led to endless rows of files, all neatly organized. No space there, either.

I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt. But the question kept nagging at me. Finally, I spoke, almost on impulse:

“Sorry to jump in — I don’t want to be a bother — but I’d like to know where I’ll be working starting tomorrow. I’ll need my system login and passwords, and I’ll be bringing my materials, so it’d be helpful to know where I’ll be set up.”

Silence answered me first. Not unfriendly, but definitely awkward — like I’d touched on something no one wanted to talk about. The group exchanged glances. Lucca scratched his chin before replying:

“Well, Lúcia... you won’t actually be in this room, even though you’re part of the department.” He paused, letting the words hang, then added, “Your desk is in the office of Prosecutor Dr. Damien Rossi. You’ll be assisting him full-time.”

Leda raised her brows with amused sarcasm.

“Why don’t you just tell her the whole truth while you’re at it?”

A chill ran up my spine. After what I’d been through at my previous job, I wasn’t eager to relive anything like that — not even for a better salary. My stomach turned. The idea of working that closely with someone brought back memories of Sim’s office. Margareth would tell me to stand my ground. I just took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry, Lúcia,” said Lucca. “Dr. Rossi’s been with the prosecution office for seven years, and here in this branch for two. He’s experienced, but... very eager to prove himself. A perfectionist. Meticulous. Serious. Not a bad guy, just... not as friendly as we are.”

For a second, I thought he was joking. But everyone’s serious expressions told me otherwise.

Martin jumped in:
“I lasted two months with him. My disorganization drove him nuts.”

Lucca shot him a warning look but continued, as though explaining a well-known mystery.

“I first assigned Leda. I coordinate three legal divisions and needed time with my wife, so we figured she could handle the prosecutor’s office.”

Leda chuckled, remembering the reason it didn’t work:

“My temper’s short, and my son — he was three at the time — needed me constantly. The idea of unplanned overtime didn’t survive long.”

“So I took it back on myself, juggling roles. When Martin arrived, I tried again. But he works at his own pace, thrives in controlled chaos. It didn’t match.”

“Part of the job,” Lucca added with a confident shrug.

I glanced at Gregório, who hadn’t been mentioned.

“What about Mr. Gregório? Has he ever tried?”

“No, miss,” he said immediately.

“They’d sooner fire him than move. That chair’s got his body imprint,” Leda quipped, and everyone laughed briefly. Gregório frowned and gave a grumbly “Hmph” before returning to his work mode.

“I believe you’ll do just fine,” Lucca said. “You seem calm and diligent. You’re not as fiery as Leda, not as chaotic as Martin, and — well — not a government fossil like Gregório. I’ll be here if things get rough. But I trust you’ll manage.”

“I have one more question,” I said, gathering courage, nearly biting my nails. “What about the second-place candidate in the entrance exam? Didn’t he take the prosecutor’s office position?”

Leda crossed her arms.
“The prosecutor fired him during his probationary period — by the second month.”

A collective silence fell.

Lucca quickly tried to lighten the mood, noticing my obvious nervousness:

“Come on, your hair is way nicer than the guy who got fired’s, and I think your eyes are brighter too. Besides, Rossi wouldn’t dare pick a fight with a woman who looks like she just graduated high school.”

“That’s already one point in your favor.”

Chapter Text

A feeling of gratitude and another of imminent fear circle my chest. Nothing could be worse than Sim’s... or could it? The doubt—raw and complete within the anguish of the unknown haunts my thoughts.

Mr. Damien Rossi didn’t expose his life nearly as much as I expected when I scoured the internet the days before. All I found was his name associated with serious criminal cases and a technical, almost cold biography of his career. No photos, personal mentions, or public comments. Like me, he didn’t seem to have social media.

In his biography on the official website of the Public Prosecutor’s Office, he describes himself with seriousness, almost rigidity, when explaining why he became a prosecutor. After listing degrees, awards, and institutions, he ends with the following phrase:

“Your duty is to fight for the law; but when you find the law in conflict with justice, fight for justice.”

That quote now echoes with greater weight. It once sounded idealistic. Now I don’t know if it’s a warning, a pretext, or a veiled threat.

The image I had created of him was that of a man nearing 45, stern, refined, maybe a bit arrogant. But I didn’t expect this disproportionate anxiety. I didn’t expect to hear his name surrounded by silences, exchanged glances, and coworkers trading stories that sounded more like survival than routine. A prosecutor who dismissed the previous assistant during of their internship—and no one knew why. Or didn’t want to say.

The good nerves of entering a beautiful new building had now given way to the other kind. The kind that makes you want to curl into a fetal position under a blanket with a chocolate bar in your hands.

I said a quick goodbye to the team. They returned to work almost instantly, and Lucca walked me to the door. He put on his badge and asked me to do the same. I complied. He went first. I followed, hesitant.

“The good news,” he said lightly, “is that your office is one of the coziest in the building. Ever since Dr. Rossi arrived, he remodeled everything to his taste. New furniture, others perfectly restored. He even redid the old oak bookcase. The room has two annexes: a private bathroom—way bigger than ours, which is external—and a small rest area, with an armchair, a couch, lots of books, and his own coffee machine. He swears it’s Italian. Doesn’t let anyone touch it.”

We stopped at the end of the hallway. Lucca discreetly pointed to a glass-walled office, slightly apart from the rest, as if it had been detached from the original floor plan.

“If you’re not comfortable eating in his area, we have a shared kitchen at the end of the second-floor hallway. Fridge, microwave, and a coffee machine… modest, compared to his. But it does the job. You can use it during lunch or any break.”

I nodded, absorbing every word.

“We also have a rest room,” he continued, “but it’s on the third floor with the Civil Section. Shared with other teams. We use it when we’re on call or when someone has a discreet meltdown and needs to lie down with the lights off for 15 minutes. Just don’t let anyone notice.”

I smiled. A little. Lucca did too.

“Oh, and the external bathroom…” He pointed to a discreet recess in the hallway. “Has stalls for all genders. It’s also used by civilians coming in to give statements. The last two stalls have showers, in case you ever need one.”

“Thanks,” I replied, chuckling. “But I’ll pass, unless it’s an emergency.”

I held my badge with my left hand, discreetly drying the right on my sweater. I felt like my body temperature was fluctuating like a fever. I was there, following the footsteps of a stranger toward a carved wooden door—the dreaded office of the prosecutor.

When Lucca stopped, he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and used it to turn the doorknob, like waking a newborn. The door opened with a creak that felt almost symbolic.

In that moment, I sensed that what awaited me behind that door wasn’t just a new boss. It was a different kind of figure—a methodical shadow, a judge without a robe.

Lucca entered, I followed slowly, one foot behind the other. I closed my eyes and silently wished: Please don’t be worse than Sim’s, please don’t be worse than Sim’s.

“I think you can open your eyes now. He’s not here.” When I opened them, I felt my cheeks flush. Had I kept them closed that long for him to notice? Probably not even two seconds.

Looking down, I saw Lucca had taken off his shoes but was now putting them back on.

“Does Mister Rossi have OCD or something like that?” I asked, debating whether to remove mine too. I decided to keep them on for now.

“Oh, no. Just habit. He likes cleanliness and order, but he’s not the type to scrub his hands a million times. The cleaning lady comes twice a day. Don’t overthink it. Let’s check out your desk.”

I scanned the room quickly, shoulders still tense. Lucca walked naturally to the desk nearby—mine. I stood a few steps behind, hesitant, scanning everything with alert eyes, like stepping into a sacred space for the first time.

The desk stood about three meters from the prosecutor’s. It was solid dark wood, perfectly polished, subtly reflecting the indirect light coming through the tall windows. The carved details along the edge looked handmade—small raised floral-like patterns that framed it as if it were a valuable piece. And it was.

The drawers had aged-gold handles with little metal rings that would softly chime if touched. Everything looked heavy.

It was a big desk. Way too big for me. Disproportionate to my timid presence in such a pristine space. I felt a small knot in my stomach—like sitting down would soil something that wasn’t mine.

For a moment, I saw myself as a child in a distant great-uncle’s office, waiting for my mom to return. Legs swinging above the floor.

I looked at the chair—my chair now. Tall, black, a leather-like material. That chair alone could buy all the furniture at Sim’s Accounting. The contrast was jarring.

On top of the desk, nearly two meters long, sat a brand-new computer, a state-of-the-art monitor waiting to be used. A black wireless mouse, and a long mousepad beneath. Lucca opened a few drawers and pulled out a fresh planner, two branded notebooks, a binder, a packed pencil case, and other stationery.

“I got everything in black, didn’t know your favorite color. If you need anything, just go to the supply room. Don’t be shy, okay? Now let’s talk a bit about your responsibilities and rights.”

Lucca leaned gently against the edge of my desk, like someone who knows they shouldn’t linger but has something important to say.

“Before you’re officially swallowed by piles of documents and shameless legal phrases, I’ll tell you a bit about what you’ll actually do here—besides what you already know.”

I nodded, still standing, hands crossed over my badge.

“The position of prosecutorial assistant, as you probably guessed, is... broad. And a bit more delicate when you’re placed directly with the prosecutor. It means you’ll handle legal work close to the decision-making core—reports, drafts, technical analysis, document prep, and revisions. But you’ll also deal with the unpredictable.”

He paused, seeming to choose his next words carefully.

“The prosecutor is the tip of the spear, right? The face of the criminal action. And you, Lúcia, will be the arm that makes sure that spear points in the right direction. Your job is to make sure he has all the information he needs, at the right time, with the level of precision expected from this role.”

“And let me not forget, you’ll accompany him on field visits, taking notes. You’ll attend charity events, support projects for children, women, and the elderly. You’ll be the face of our institution.”

My stomach twisted slightly.

“Your rights? Well, you get 22 vacation days a year, 10 days of leave if you’re not feeling well, plus recesses, which are almost sacred here. Officially, it’s a six-hour workday, but...” He chuckled. “You can imagine the contract doesn’t always match reality. On the bright side, we respect time off, have a time bank system, and you can count on me for anything. Your position is technical, but the amount of trust the prosecutor places in you can make your routine a light roller coaster.”

“And what’s expected of me?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

"Good organization. Absolute confidentiality. And initiative. Don’t wait for him to teach you everything. He’ll expect you to anticipate problems before he has to point them out. But if you do, you’ll earn space. He respects competence. He just... doesn’t have patience for careless or repeated mistakes. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t humiliate. But his silence can weigh more than any scolding."

“I’ll tell you why the guy before you got dismissed so early: he disrespected a victim. Broke confidentiality, which made the situation dangerous and vulnerable for the family.”<

Lucca noticed my silence and lightly touched my shoulder, like trying to soften the weight of what he said.

"You’re not alone. And you’re not here by accident. You passed a filter that many didn’t. Believe me, Lúcia, you have everything it takes to succeed."

I nodded and smiled in response.

"As for the prosecutor, avoid personal or invasive questions. Don’t expect him to be kind all the time—just see him as your boss and authority figure. Don’t lie, don’t try to overstep him. Do as he says. Be organized. That’s all he expects."

Then a thought came to me.

“Lucca, you did all this while coordinating three other legal departments? And are you sure I can be here? The prosecutor won’t be back anytime soon?”

“It’s not easy, but it’s part of the job I told you about earlier.” He smiled and stepped away, heading toward the door. “You’re going to make my job easier, Lúcia. And no, he’s quite busy making a little visit to the mayor’s office.”

Before leaving, he seemed to remember something.

"Before I forget: I’m giving you this week free in the office, and Friday off, to do whatever you want. Clear your head, get to know your new environment. Walk around, read, talk to the team, and come to me if you have any questions. Just don’t spiral. Okay? I’m heading back to work."

I felt a surprising wave of emotion. It was a relief for a burden that felt too heavy to carry. I’d have the chance to understand more about my job before diving into action. I felt grateful.

“Thank you, boss Lucca... I h-hope we get along well.”

He smiled as he held the door open. A brotherly smile.

"Forget formalities, Lúcia. If you need me, don’t hesitate to call. I’m somewhere between the second and third floors. See you around, collegial girl. Enjoy."

“S-see you around, boss Lucca.”

The door shut. He was gone.

Well, maybe I could explore a little. I figured I should get to know the space first.

While Lucca was talking, I barely paid attention to my surroundings. I finally started noticing the prosecutor’s desk. It was definitely one of the most beautiful I’d ever seen. About thirty centimeters taller than mine, completely enclosed, with several internal drawers. The computer and work materials were mechanically organized. A lamp—off—rested over a thick book: a compendium of Spanish law. The chair was large, new, leather. No personal objects. Nothing that hinted at anyone special. No photos, mugs, or little keepsakes. No decorative calendars.

A wooden window behind the desk offered a stunning view of the other side of the city, though the blinds covered most of it.

On both sides of the room, two huge dark-wood bookcases lined the wall up to the ceiling. I grabbed the desk and stood on tiptoe for a better view. I recognized some famous titles: La Constitución Explicada, Principles of Criminal Law, The Spirit of the Laws, among thousands of others I couldn’t identify—some in languages I didn’t understand.

That office could easily pass for a luxury room in a high-end home.

I leaned and stretched further, still holding the desk. Turned my face toward the window, trying to see across the street.

Maybe... if I leaned a little more, I could spot the coffee I passed earlier...

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The door opened. A deep voice sounded behind me.

I froze. Lost my breath.

Chapter Text

Lucia’s POV —

“I won’t repeat myself again. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

I froze.

Paralyzed, still gripping the edge of the desk, I silently counted to ten, trying to ease the anxiety building in my chest. Why hadn’t I waited at my own desk? Why had I felt compelled to linger near his sanctuary, clinging to the desk so hard my fingers turned white? The surface had even fogged up beneath my hands.

There was no way out now. I was going to meet him, one way or another—but I hadn’t wanted it to happen like this. Not like an intruder who didn’t know her place.

I released the desk.

Slowly, I turned to face him and lifted my eyes. The moment I saw him standing in the doorway, I knew: his aura confirmed every rumor I’d heard earlier. He was much younger than I’d expected. Perhaps thirty-six.

I raised a hand to my ID badge, glancing further up at him.

He was watching me too—trying to read me. Looking for some kind of explanation. Maybe he thought I was a lost civilian, or worse, someone unstable trying to access his files. God only knew.

He stood at about 6'2", maybe slightly less. I’m terrible at estimating height. I had to tilt my head to meet his gaze. He wore a tailored black suit, smooth and fitted to his frame. Clearly, he cared about his appearance—about his body and his wardrobe. His shoes were equally immaculate. Not a single scratch.

His face was tense. Strong, arched black eyebrows. A sharp, sculpted jawline. His eyes were dark—so dark that his pupils nearly merged with his irises—set deep beneath shadows of exhaustion. His hair fell in waves, combed back in neat layers that framed his ears and the nape of his neck. It was jet black, with not a strand out of place. A subtle quiff rose from the crown of his head.

His skin was light, though not as pale as mine. A pale olive tone, like someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

His nose wasn’t perfectly straight, but it suited his face. His lips were medium, with a soft cupid’s bow, followed by a carefully trimmed beard outlining his jaw. It added an almost sophisticated edge to his otherwise sharp features. A pair of black-rimmed glasses rested in his right hand—he probably hadn’t had time to put them on. His briefcase had fallen to the floor and remained there, forgotten.

I don’t know much about men. My experience is limited, too small to make generalizations. But him...

He seemed like the kind of man people couldn’t help but notice—even if there was something about him that kept them at arm’s length. His presence was hard to bear. Standing before him made me feel small. Like being in front of a shark. Watching—and being watched.

“If you’re just going to stand there staring at me with your mouth open, leave. I have work to do.”

He opened the door and pointed out. That snapped me out of my daze. I took off my badge and stepped toward him.

“I’m s-sorry...I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Lucia A-anselin, the new Magistrate Analyst. I’ll be working in this office, assisting you with anything you need.” I held out my ID.

He took it and studied the information. When his eyes lifted again, they scanned me from head to toe. A shiver ran down my spine.

“And what were you doing with your full weight on my desk?”

“Oh—I apologize...a-again. I was just looking at some of the titles on the shelf. I got distracted.”

I was embarrassed. Intimidated. I barely came up to his chest. I rubbed one arm with my hand, trying to soothe the tension.

What would Margareth do in a situation like this? She wouldn’t be on the verge of a breakdown just from making eye contact with someone.

But this wasn’t just anyone.

“Did Coordinator Lucca Montez send you?”

He put on his glasses and held my ID as he looked at me again, face hard as stone, like my presence was a mistake. I caught a hint of curiosity, too—but not the pleasant kind.

This was going downhill fast.

“Yes. He s-showed me to my desk and gave me the instructions...”

“Wait in the hallway.”

He returned the ID to me. It was curt. Dismissive.

The prosecutor held the door open, waiting. I lowered my head and walked silently to the hall. He shut the door firmly behind me and disappeared in the direction of the analysts’ office.

Dear God... what just happened?

---

Damien Rossi’s POV —

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Secretary Valverde—and I’ll say it again. I won’t make this easy. Neither will the law.

"Let me be direct one more time, and I want a clear answer:
Why did your office withhold the emergency contract documents signed between January and March of this year?”

I looked at the old man in front of me, his red face full of nerves. This case had been nothing but trouble. The media was breathing down my neck. The public demanded answers every day across every social platform.

Honestly, I’d rather be dealing with a homicide than this white-collar circus.

“Prosecutor, those contracts are still undergoing internal review. There’s administrative confidentiality involved. I need higher clearance to release them. I’m not hiding anything. I’m just following protocol.”

I saw right through the rising panic. Valverde was well-known—maybe a bit narcissistic—but clearly not strong enough to handle real pressure. He was going to crack. He was just delaying the inevitable.

I chuckled softly, almost involuntarily, as I stared him down.

"Protocol? Is it also protocol to award contracts without bidding? ‘Irmãos Construtora’ received R\$1.1 million in five days without accountability—while their CNPJ had been suspended for three months. Can you explain that, or will you chalk it up to a ‘reading oversight’?”

I kept pushing as his brow furrowed deeply.

“Don’t try to shift responsibility now. The signatures are yours, the pen was yours, and the beneficiaries are the same names listed in your campaign donors. Should I keep going? Say it again and again and again?"

"I don’t mind. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Valverde turned even redder. He planted both hands on the table and leaned forward.

“Don’t you think your tone is a bit inappropriate, Prosecutor? Is this how an officer of the law should behave?”

I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward too.

“This tone reflects the gravity of what we’ve uncovered. If you want respect, start by respecting public funds—and the people who pay your salary.

"Now: either you hand over the documents voluntarily, or I’ll have a warrant in under two hours. When that happens, your office will be the first place we search. I’ll make sure there are no deals this time. Understood?"

"Or should I repeat myself?

"You’ve been a thorn in my side. My patience is wearing thin.”

It was laughable how easy this old snake was to read. The more anxious he became, the redder his face turned. His mouth twitched. He clenched his hands tightly to mask the fury.

He’d strangle me if he could.

“I won’t cooperate with an investigation that assumes guilt.”

I laughed internally. The arrogance. He really believed he was above the law.

"Perfect. I’ll request your immediate suspension and submit a request for search and seizure today. — And I’ll also request a freeze on your assets to match the estimated damages."

"One more thing, before I forget."

"I sincerely hope you gave your wife the same ‘stay silent’ advice—because her name appeared as an indirect beneficiary of the diverted funds.”

That was my checkmate. Watching his expression collapse was priceless. I gathered the folder of evidence and rose.

“You can’t involve my family in this!”
He shouted, desperate, also rising.

“You involved them. I’m just pulling the thread. The house is coming down, Valverde. And since you refused the deal, the only choice you have now is which side of the cell you’ll be on when it does.”

I gave him one last look. He had crumbled under the weight of his own ego.

I left the room and made my way down the narrow stairs of Vilanova i la Geltrú’s town hall. A modest place, though far filthier in ethics than the trash can at my house.

As I descended, I caught the wide-eyed stares of employees following my steps.

Clearly, everyone knew.

I didn’t care about gossip. I only cared about justice—even if it meant hunting witches or cutting off a few heads.

A few people greeted me. The reason? Fear, not just admiration.
Here, I was surely hated three times more than I was loved.

It comes with the territory.

Here’s what I think:
If you walk within the law, you’ll never see my face.

Just as I don’t want to see the face of any criminal.

The law is not feared by those who walk within it.

I sighed as I left a few brief nods in return. Got into my car and rubbed my forehead. The headache had grown into something fierce.

I removed my glasses to massage my temples.
— So much cynicism… just to be arrested in a few hours? What did you even gain from it?
I thought, putting my glasses back on and starting the car.

It all happened faster than I’d planned. Acting in the morning hadn’t been a bad idea.
He definitely would’ve strung me along if I’d kept trying to negotiate.

Now, all I wanted was to get back to my office, sit down, and take an aspirin.

It had been a restless night—reviewing evidence, rereading notes, memos, and witness testimonies.
And somehow, it was still just the beginning of the day.

The clock read 9:12 AM when I parked in front of the Fiscalía building.
I turned off the engine and stayed in the car for a few seconds, my hands still gripping the wheel. I took a deep breath. Put my glasses on, straightened my collar, grabbed my briefcase, and stepped out.

The sharp sound of my shoes echoed across the cobblestones until I was swallowed by the building’s massive wooden doors.
The HR receptionist spotted me and gave a discreet nod. I returned the gesture with a barely noticeable wave.

I entered the elevator, pressing the number two with a little more force than necessary.
The second floor felt calmer, to my relief.

I walked through the halls in silence, noticing how some people quickly looked away or offered a muffled “good morning.” They knew who I was. That alone was enough to make the air feel heavier.

I took off my glasses to rub my temples before entering. My hand was already on the handle, and I opened the door, hoping to sit down for just a few minutes of peace.

But the moment I stepped in, about to switch into my backup shoes, I spotted a girl practically leaning over my desk.

My briefcase hit the floor.

She was wearing modest heels, yet still had her feet lifted as she leaned forward. Her hair, blonde and long, fell almost to her waist. There was something... childlike about her.

What was she doing?
Who was she, and why had she entered my office without authorization?

It wasn’t common for someone to barge in like this. Analysts only came in to drop off urgent documents while I was present. Victims, civilians, and others were directed to designated interview rooms. In rare cases, suspects came to my office to clarify matters.

Outside of those exceptions, she had no reason to be here.

My expression tightened immediately.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?”

I asked, somewhat sharply, still giving her the benefit of the doubt.
She froze instantly, gripping the desk tighter. Tense. Afraid. And she stayed that way for several seconds.

She could’ve been someone’s daughter—maybe looking for a parent. After all, there was a badge dangling from her left hand. She didn’t look like an intruder, but the delay in identifying herself made me even more on edge.

It was unsettling to have a complete stranger in such a personal space.

“I won’t ask again. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

I hadn’t slept well in two days—barely five hours total. My head was pounding with a pulsating headache. All I wanted was rest.

Her silence made it worse. My patience was hanging by a thread.

Since she wasn’t speaking, I decided to make her explain—quickly.

Finally, she turned slightly toward me.

I was mildly surprised—but showed no reaction.

Her face was... unusual.
Unique, maybe.
She vaguely reminded me of a Russian doll my mother once received and kept well into adulthood.
Her skin was far too pale. Her eyes, wide and clear—maybe blue-green?
How old was she? Sixteen, at most?

She was so small, she couldn’t have weighed more than 47 kilos. Even with heels and a mature-looking outfit, her slight frame didn’t carry the look well.

She seemed to say, I’m too young for this—but I’m trying anyway.

When her eyes met mine, her mouth formed a perfect “O.” She stared at me for nearly a full minute while I stared right back. I waited for her to speak. Nothing.

And just like that, I ran out of patience. I wasn’t going to waste my time—valuable time—on a confused teenager.

“If you’re just going to stand there staring at me, leave. I have work to do.”

I opened the door and gave her space to go.

But to my surprise, reality snapped back in when she rushed toward me, gripping her badge like a lifeline, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Lucia A-Anselin, the new Magistrate Analyst. I’ll be working in this office, assisting you with whatever you need.”
She held up her ID.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was this child kidding me?

It couldn’t be real. I’d made it crystal clear—a month ago—that I didn’t need or want a personal analyst.

And now this?
A literal child?

With no particular grace, I took her badge and read the details.
Lucia Anselin.
Age: 23.
Recently hired for the Magistrate Analyst position.

Twenty-three?
She must’ve lied on her records. I gave her a quick look.

“And what were you doing leaning all over my desk?”

Her answer told me she was at least of age—she said she was looking at some book titles. No teenager or pre-teen would be interested in dense legal books written in foreign languages.

As I studied her, she grew increasingly nervous. Her posture faltered, and she rubbed one arm with the other. Her lips, red from trying to hold back emotion, trembled slightly.

I already had a decent idea of what was going on, so I asked:

“Did Coordinator Lucca Montez assign you?”

She nodded.

Of course. Lucca Montez.

He should’ve been demoted to assistant of the assistant years ago.

To dodge his own responsibilities, he nearly caused me serious legal trouble by outsourcing key decisions to others.

My jaw tensed with repressed anger. I gripped her badge so tightly, it nearly snapped in my hand.

“Wait in the hallway.”

I was direct—and honestly, a bit harsh.

Despite the throbbing pain in my skull, I gave up on the aspirin and walked straight to the legal analysis room.

Lucca Montez would get a formal warning—with or without justification.

Chapter Text

Damien Rossi: Point of View

I entered the legal department abruptly, startling the analysts. My eyes scanned the room until I found Lucca Montez, sitting on Martin Navarro’s desk, wasting time with idle talk.

That wasn’t typical behavior for him during working hours.

"Coordinator Montez, follow me to the archives immediately. The rest of you, issue a search and seizure warrant for the city hall’s finance department. Specifically, name Joseph Valverde."

“Well, good morning to you too, Mr Rossi.”

Leda Plens’s voice echoed from the back—sarcastic and unwelcome. I ignored her and headed straight to the archives. Lucca followed, wearing the same composed look as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

As soon as I shut the door behind us, I got to the point.

“Transfer that child to another department immediately. And make sure you don’t earn a written warning before the end of the day.”

He sat at one of the tables and crossed his arms, looking at me as if challenging my authority.

“First of all, good morning, Prosecutor Rossi. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Had breakfast yet? I’m sorry, but I have no idea which child you’re referring to. I sent a lovely young woman to your office earlier today, but she’s a full twenty-three years old.”

I don’t have time for games. Lucca is talented, but he can also be insufferably irritating.

“You disobeyed a direct order. I specifically said I didn’t want any more personal assistants. The recruitment process was supposed to be suspended. Or did you forget about the last analyst?”

Of course he hadn’t. He just keeps dodging responsibility while dumping more problems on my desk.

Lucca uncrossed his arms, his body stiffening slightly.

“Come on, you know I just got married, Damien. My wife needs me. Last month, she asked for a break—five months into the marriage. You think that’s normal? Want to see me divorced before our first anniversary? It took a lot to make peace again. We were even planning for a baby by next winter.”

I need him as much as I wish I didn’t. Montez is fast, a walking legal encyclopedia. He builds connections like a game of make-believe. And though I lack the empathy I probably should have, he’s been indispensable for the past ten years. Truthfully, the only person more capable than Montez is me.

“I understand, even if I don’t agree. I’ll handle the work myself. And you”—I pointed directly at him—“reassign the child.

His eyes widened, as if I’d said something outrageous.

“Speaking now as your friend—forget the formalities—are you losing it? My division is drowning in cases and operations. We’re offloading files to you, to other regions, and still doing our best to help. And you look like hell—those circles under your eyes are deeper than your case files. Did you eat today? How much sleep have you had since throwing yourself into the Valverde investigation? Did you even have dinner last night?”

He pressed on:

“I disobeyed you for your own good. You need support—someone to handle the bureaucracy and the fieldwork. Stop being so resistant to the idea. Please.”

My face hardened again.

“You said the same thing when you sent Leda—completely wrong for the job. Then Martin. He buried my desk in paper. And last, and worst, Gianne Alberone. Gianne got our department flagged and investigated. I nearly lost my badge because of that bastard. And you, Montez, were almost suspended. What makes you think this girl won’t be an even bigger disaster?”

He shook his head and gave a small smile.

"She may look young, but she scored exactly the same as the top two candidates. They only ranked higher due to age preference. I did some digging when I saw she was next on the list. A woman named Margareth, her former manager, described her as organized, efficient, and productive. And there’s more..."

He scratched his head, grinning slightly as he continued:

“She has a postgraduate degree in Administrative Law, speaks advanced English, and—well—she’s quite a beauty.”

My expression darkened. I met his eyes and offered a cold smile.

“Maintain your decorum, Coordinator Montez. I might forget that your wife nearly left you—and send you right back to my office. All those extra hours... Who knows? Maybe she’ll walk out for good this time."

The air thickened with tension.

Lucca straightened, getting to his feet. I may not like the idea, but I won’t tolerate anyone being subjected to inappropriate behavior—especially not a woman.

“Alright. Pretend you didn’t hear that. Just give her a chance.”

Out of options, I gave in. Nothing ever stops Lucca Montez once he’s made up his mind. Better her—who at least seemed competent—than another liability to drag me down.

“I’ll accept her. But I’ll be the one testing her. And if you’re wrong again, Montez, I’ll suspend you for two weeks. I’ll demote you from coordinator to analyst. Hell, I’ll personally ship you off to Alice McCain’s office in the U.S. She’s a hardass who delights in breaking new hires.”

I stepped forward, locking eyes with him.

“Don’t test me. Don’t fail me. Are we clear?”

That threat was no bluff. If his mistake cost me, I’d return the favor in full.

He didn’t look afraid—just serious. I turned to leave. The conversation was over.

“Prosecutor, one minute. Wait.”

“Fast, Montez.”

“I gave Miss Anselin a week off and Friday free. She was already anxious after hearing... certain remarks about you. Just don’t push her too hard, alright?

So that’s why she was defensive this morning. I shouldn’t have left her standing in the hallway.

“I can’t promise anything. Back to work.”

And with the same abruptness I entered, I left the room without looking back.

Chapter Text

POV Damien Rossi

Lucca always dragged me into trouble.

When I stepped into the hallway after that conversation with him, the girl was leaning against the wall, waiting for something—or someone.

I spoke calmly:

“Let’s go inside. We need to talk.”

I picked up the folder I’d left on the floor and carried it to the desk.

Her fair hair was more tousled now. I watched her expression for a few seconds. She didn’t look angry, nor irritated—just tense, withdrawn.

She followed me into the room, hesitant. After a few beats of silence, she took a deep breath and began:

“Mr. Rossi, I apologize for my intrusive behavior. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Clear. Polite. A genuine apology, weighed down by guilt. Her cheeks flushed after she spoke, her hands trembling as she breathed fast. Was this kind of nervousness common among younger women?

Up close, she looked smaller than I’d imagined. I tilted my head slightly to hear her better. Her whole body was too tense.

"Understand that this isn’t entirely your fault, Miss Anselin. You caught me off guard, no doubt about it. It’s not every day someone’s leaning over my desk. But it was Coordinator Montez who truly created this situation. He made important decisions without consulting me."

I felt like a blind man inside my own office. I hate being the last to know.

She nodded, waiting for me to go on.

"During a private conversation with the coordinator, I decided I might keep you on as my personal analyst, provided you pass a test I’ll prepare. What I expect from you is: objectivity, rationality, and organization. We need to be aligned from the very beginning."

Her reaction was positive. A spark lit up in her eyes. This was her chance to prove why she was here.

“Do you agree to that?”

"Yes. It will be a pleasure. A-and… it’s a pleasure to meet you. I didn’t have the chance to greet you properly before."

A small hand with neatly kept nails reached toward me. There was expectation in her gaze, along with a bit of reluctance, as though she was afraid of doing something wrong. I extended mine—too stiff—and tried to shake it gently. Lucca had mentioned her intelligence and technical skill. But physically, she was fragile—like a porcelain doll. I genuinely worried that she might break with a simple handshake.

She let go first, waiting for the next step.

“Before we continue, did Coordinator Montez show you the whole layout here? Do you know where the restroom and break room are?”

“I didn’t get the chance to see those yet. It would be good to take a look now.”

I led her to the restroom, still debating whether or not I even wanted an assistant. I showed her the two stalls available. I pointed out where she could store spare clothes—useful during overnight shifts. There was a cabinet in the corner and a large mirror. A place for toothbrush, toothpaste, personal items.

She examined everything carefully. Asked if the shower worked. I told her it did, but emphasized that it should only be used in emergencies. The water from the overhead tank wasn’t exactly great.

On the way back, I explained the dynamics of the prosecutor’s office:

“If it were entirely up to me, I wouldn’t have an analyst at my side. I’m very methodical, rigid, to a fault. I value order. I love organization above all things. Without it, nothing stands. If I decide to keep you here, keep this space clean. Bring a change of shoes specifically for use inside the office. Avoid eating here. And under no circumstance should you create disorder or interfere with my work. Don’t touch my drawers. I notice everything.”

“You are not to speak directly to victims, suspects, or any party involved in cases. Simply direct them to me. Your job here is to observe, record, direct, and coordinate process workflows.”

“Never—and I mean never—take sides in any prosecution matter. That’s a serious mistake, grounds for immediate dismissal. If anyone disrespects you, I expect to be informed. I’ll take legal action right away.”

She listened intently. Hands resting in her lap. Barely blinking. Her movements were almost imperceptible.

“About your attire: it is strictly forbidden to wear anything overly short or revealing. Skirts and dresses must be at least five fingers’ length above the knee. No low necklines or flashy accessories. Your clothes must always be clean, pressed—what’s expected of any employee of the Fiscalía.”

“Hair, you can wear how you prefer. Just avoid flashy dyes. You’ll be by my side during formal events throughout the year. I need you to maintain an appropriate appearance. Article 456-A allows an employer to establish a dress code. And here, it *will* be followed.”

She glanced discreetly at herself, almost as if reviewing each piece of her outfit. Her posture was careful, almost rehearsed. That nervousness crept back.

“Relax. What you’re wearing today is appropriate. But from now on, stick to the standard I described. This isn’t vanity—it’s professional image.”

This time, she nodded with a bit more conviction.

“I understand, sir. I wish I could write all this down, but I’ll do my best to follow everything exactly.”

“I’m demanding.”

“I... figured.”

She smiled faintly and looked down. For a second, the atmosphere seemed slightly less rigid.

“Are there any other rules I should know upfront? I’d rather be told everything now to avoid misunderstandings later.”

“Exactly the mindset I expect from you: objectivity. Besides what I’ve mentioned, maintain absolute confidentiality regarding any information you access here. If you’re questioned about any case, just say: ‘I’m not authorized to speak about that.’”

Lúcia kept her eyes locked on mine, sharp and focused.

“Absolute confidentiality. Y-yes, sir.”

“Good. Also, keep an updated calendar of the office’s commitments. I prefer paper. If anything changes, let me know immediately. Punctuality is a value I don’t compromise on. Lateness won’t be tolerated.”

“Understood, Mr. Rossi. I’ll prepare the calendar and keep it up to date. I can also work with daily checklists and weekly reports, if you’d like.”

I remained silent for a moment, just observing her. My first impression of her had been questionable, but now… I was starting to see signs of competence.

“Weekly reports are welcome. Just don’t flood me with irrelevant details.”

“I’ll do my best to keep everything... organized.”

“Lastly, maintain a discreet posture, even outside this office. Lunches, events, commutes—they’re all part of your professional duties.”

“So... if I run into you outside working hours, I should still maintain professional conduct?”

“Exactly.”

She nodded, clearly surprised. That fragile appearance contrasted with a determined stance. There was something there—a quiet attempt to prove her worth, despite all the anxiety I’d seen before.

“Good. Now, let me show you the break room. It’s through the door to the right of your desk.”

I let her go ahead. Her steps were cautious, like a cat exploring new territory. Her eyes fell curiously on my coffee machine. A little timidly, she spoke again:

“Sir… sorry to ask, but I’ve never seen a machine like that…”

“It’s Italian.”

At the word *Italian*, she chuckled softly, covering her mouth with her hand—a row of straight teeth, with slightly prominent canines, peeked out.

“Something funny, Miss Anselin?”

“No, sorry, Dr. Rossi. It’s just… Mr. Lucca mentioned you have a machine you *swear* is Italian. But apparently only you are allowed to use it.”

Damn Montez. What else has he been spreading behind my back? I let out an audible sigh.

“It’s not entirely a lie. It’s exclusive. It works in two ways: Moka, which uses ground beans, and espresso with high-quality capsules. Would you like to try?”

She hesitated. Cheeks flushing again, breath quick and shallow. But curiosity won out.

“Well... If it’s not too much trouble…”

“Which would you like first?”

She studied both options with unexpected seriousness.

“I’d like to try the Moka first, please. I’ve never had coffee brewed fresh from ground beans.”

“I’ll guide you through it.”

“First, I need to wash my hands. I’ll be right back, Dr. Rossi.”

She darted off and returned in under a minute, still nervous, glancing between me and the machine.

“Okay, I’m ready. What should I do?”

“Pour water into the lower compartment, on the right. Then fill the middle filter with the ground coffee. Seal it tightly and set the heat to medium.”

She completed every step with impressive precision. Not a single grain spilled. Not a single smudge. Her movements were light, delicate.

The aroma of fresh coffee soon filled the air. Lúcia was in awe, watching the machine work. Her eyes followed every detail like it was a masterpiece.

When it was ready, I poured half a cup for her, filling mine to the brim. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Maybe that’s why my headache lingered.

She tasted it cautiously, then eagerly. She emptied the cup.

“Could I have a bit more?”

She extended the cup, eyes glowing.

“Go ahead.”

Unexpectedly, the door opened. Maria, the cleaning lady, entered with her usual ease.

“Good morning, Mr. Rossi. Morning, miss. Shall I start with the restroom and move on to the back room afterward?”

“Good morning, Maria. Follow your usual schedule in thirty minutes.” I hoped she would leave, but Lúcia stepped forward before I could say more.

She approached with a warm smile and extended her hand. Finally, her shoulders didn’t look tense.

“I’m Lúcia Anselin, the new analyst. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll get along well.”

Maria shook her hand enthusiastically:

“It’s nice having such a polite young lady here. The place feels livelier. And you’re very pretty.”

Lúcia smiled and glanced at me, then at the coffee pot, silently asking permission. I nodded.

“Thank you for the compliment. Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s freshly brewed.”

“Oh, I just had some downstairs, but I appreciate the kindness. It was lovely meeting you. I’ll be back at 11:30 sharp.”

Even so, Lúcia filled a cup, sealed it, and handed it to Maria. My eyebrows arched in surprise. She’d taken initiative.

“Take it with you. It’s really good. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Maria smiled, took the cup, and left.

Then Lúcia helped herself to another cup and shyly asked if she could try a capsule. She chose Belgian chocolate—far too sweet for me.

As she drank, her gaze explored the room: my chair, the center sofa, the bookshelf.

“You’re welcome to use this room when you need to study or during lunch. You can borrow books, just put them back where they belong. And one more thing…” Though I was still half in denial, “You passed the test.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“There was a test, sir? When?”

“For me, there was.”

Lúcia didn’t question it. She simply thanked me, visibly elated. Her cheeks, already rosy, now glowed like ripe fruit. The fear seemed to fade, but the tension lingered. The contrast was striking: the warm cheeks, fair skin, light hair—forming a vivid image.

A woman in a girl’s body.

As she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the door burst open once again:

“Mr. Rossi, are you holding your new employee hostage already? Shall I call the authorities?”

Lucca Montez’s voice echoed obnoxiously. My headache spiked instantly. I clenched my jaw.

“Oh, you are here. What a surprise! Lúcia, you can speak freely now. I heard your cries for help from the hallway. I’m ready to rescue you.”

“What’s your fetish with being demoted to analyst, Montez?”

I shot back, sharp, meeting his gaze. He ignored me and went straight for Lúcia, eyeing her with interest.

His expression was serious, but his shoulders were relaxed. He didn’t fear this place.

“No way. You got boss’s coffee? Do you know how long I’ve been stealing coffee from this place without him noticing? And he’s never give me any!”

A vein pulsed in my forehead. I’d love to burn that blond hair of his like dry straw.

“I know, Montez. You leave traces like an amateur serial killer at a crime scene. Now get out of my office.”

“Relax, boss. The team’s by the door waiting to take her to lunch. What, you want her starving on her first day? Wanna come with us, Miss Anselin?”

She glanced at me, seeking silent permission.

“You’re dismissed, Miss Anselin. I’ll expect you back at my desk in ninety minutes.”

“Oh... You’re n-not coming?” she asked, with a faint note of hope.

“No. I have work to do. I’ll see you at 12:30 sharp.”

“He never comes. Like Batman in his cave. Only appears when justice calls. They’re waiting outside, come on. I’ll catch up after I torment him a little longer.”

Lúcia paused in front of me, lifting her gaze to find my eyes. It felt like she wanted to say something—but she hesitated.

“I appreciate the opportunity. I promise I’ll do my best not to disappoint you. Thank you for giving me this chance, Mr Damien Rossi.”

I nodded slightly, caught a bit off guard. She left, passing between us, her long hair swaying until she vanished from sight.

Lucca stood there, mouth slightly open, practically drooling at the door.

“Professionalism, Montez. What gets me through my days here is knowing I could sign your divorce papers with one decision. Whenever I want.”

I walked back to my desk and sat down while that insolent fool leaned against the doorframe, eyeing me with suspicion.

“You let her use the coffee machine?!! It hasn’t even been two hours!”

“She’s... suitable. For now. I won’t share my methods. A master doesn’t reveal his tricks to apes.”

As I reviewed a draft, he pressed on, offended:

“You’re really not going to tell me what you tested?”

“Get out. Now.”

He raised his hands in theatrical surrender.

“Alright, alright. Even apes know when it’s lunchtime. Don’t forget to eat. And don’t overwork the girl. She’s supposed to have a free week and Fridays off—”

“Out.”

My glasses slid down my nose as I glared at him, patience gone.

He sulked out, defeated.

Alone again, I turned to my papers. But all I could see was a flash of blonde hair, a porcelain face, a hand far too small in mine.

Perhaps this wasn’t a mistake after all.

Chapter Text

I parked my car in front of my house and took a deep breath.

I could barely believe this day had finally come to an end. It was far worse than I had imagined—exhausting, confusing, and, at certain moments, painfully embarrassing.

I stepped out of the car, feeling the weight of my own body. I walked straight inside, without even glancing around, and headed to the medicine cabinet. I just needed something to ease the throbbing pain in my head, like all my thoughts from the day were still banging at the door of my mind.

I took an aspirin—my old reliable—and made my way to the bathroom. I opened the door and began undressing, tossing my sweaty, crumpled clothes into the laundry bin. As soon as I turned on the shower, I let the hot water embrace me fully. It poured over my head like a waterfall, slowly dissolving the heaviness of the previous hours.

I stood there, motionless beneath the steam, as the memories of the day returned one by one. A whirlwind of emotions coursed through me—shame, pride, joy, fear, and a quiet sadness. It all felt like it had happened way too fast, and I was still trying to piece together what I had actually felt.

To start with, I didn’t even know prosecutors could have permanent assistants—let alone that *I* would be chosen for that role. I was completely caught off guard. Meeting the team brought me some relief—they were polite, welcoming. But that peace didn’t last long. A bomb dropped right into my lap, and there was no escape.

Walking into that room... was a mistake. Touching what I shouldn’t have—an even bigger mistake. The shame of that moment was eating me alive.

And then there was him: Damien Rossi.

His presence was exactly as described in the early-morning chatter—relentless, enigmatic. The kind of person who always seems to know more than they should. Maybe he reads minds, maybe he hides a more human side beneath layers of coldness... but either way, he didn’t seem like an ordinary person.

That flood of instructions about how I should behave—was it some kind of test? Was he trying to gauge my mental strength? Or was that his version of showing humanity?

I remembered the coffee moment. I got a little excited—coffee’s one of my passions. But again, I wondered: was that part of the game too? Nothing in the way he spoke sounded genuinely kind. There was something theatrical, almost calculated, in his words. Like everything was a scene he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

I swallowed my shyness dry, kept every sign of anxiety at bay, doing my best not to seem fragile or over the top. I just hope he didn’t notice how hard I was trying to stay composed.

Despite everything, one thing was clear: the level of skill required for that job was sky-high. The fact that he’d worked alone for months showed how dedicated—or maybe even obsessed—he was with what he did. And even with all the discomfort, I couldn’t deny it: I admired that about him just as much as I feared his presence.

The whole time, it felt like I was walking on eggshells. Every little move I made was scrutinized. I was terrified of making a mistake and being harshly reprimanded. But I managed to hold it together.

“Yes—I managed.”

I turned off the shower and walked over to the closet. I chose a white pajama set: simple shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. I turned on the fan, threw myself onto the bed, and honestly, I didn’t care if it was only 4 p.m. I pulled my comfort blanket over myself like it was the only shield I had left against the world.

I put my phone on airplane mode. I didn’t want to—I couldn’t—talk about what happened. Not yet.

Thinking back, after that group lunch, I went back to the office and sat at my desk. Dr. Rossi was buried in a pile of police reports. From that point on, he barely even looked my way. The silence was so dense I could hear nothing but my own shaky breathing and the ticking of the clock, marking each second like a cruel reminder that I was still there.

At first, watching him work wasn’t so bad. He was impressive. Taking notes like a machine, his eyes darting between papers, the computer, and constant phone calls. In under half an hour, he’d answered more than ten calls, all reporting different cases from different departments.

His black hair fell slightly over his forehead, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes—so sharp, so focused—never stopped moving. Until, suddenly, he lifted his gaze, and our eyes met.

Embarrassed, I looked down.

Why wasn’t he giving me anything to do?

Did he think I was that incompetent?

The heavy silence was broken by his deep, steady, and unexpectedly calm voice:

“Don’t be so anxious, Miss Anselin. Coordinator Montez granted you the week off. But it’ll be on my terms, to avoid any misunderstandings. Your mornings are mine—we’ll discuss work then. In the afternoons, you’ll be in my office, but only to study. I respect his orders, although, honestly, I don’t fully agree with them. For today, take the rest of the day off. Your morning was eventful enough.”

He didn’t even lift his eyes from his work.

The silence returned after that explanation. I nodded silently, trying to absorb it all. I still felt out of place, but at least now I understood the reason behind my forced inactivity.

I stayed there, watching the second hand of the clock crawl forward in slow, torturous motion. The sound of his typing filled the room, occasionally broken by short, to-the-point phone calls. Not a single unnecessary word. No gestures of kindness that might have helped me relax.

Then, at exactly 3 p.m., he stopped typing.

“Your shift’s over,” he said, still staring at the screen. “You can go, Miss Anselin. See you tomorrow, same time.”

It took me a second to react. I hadn’t expected him to track the time so precisely. I stood up, hesitantly, searching his face for any hint of a farewell, but he was already flipping through another report, as if I no longer existed.

“See you tomorrow, Mr Rossi,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

He simply nodded, still focused on his work.

I left the room quietly, with the strange feeling that he was still watching me until the very last second. And that was our final interaction.

Was it really that bad? I just hoped that was how he treated everyone.

I needed to stop thinking about this, about him. It wasn’t healthy to keep chewing on the same thoughts over and over. What I wanted now was to watch a show until I passed out.

Still curled up in the blanket, I stared at the ceiling for a while. The idea of watching something faded quickly beneath a worry that wouldn’t go away: Sofia.

My sister’s fifteen and still lives with our parents in Vielha. Cozy little town—way too far from here. For personal reasons, and with a heavy heart, I had to move away and leave her there while I tried to build a better life. Hopefully, soon, I’d be able to bring her here.

I grabbed my phone, switched off airplane mode, and waited for the signal to return. Notifications poured in, but I ignored them all. I just searched for her number and hit call.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Lucy. Why’d you take so long to call?”

That nickname—only she and Mom used it—landed softly, like a whisper. I smiled, even though I was exhausted. She sounded anxious on the other end.

“Hey, little one… Everything okay over there? Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Today was my first day—I’ve been busy all day.”

“Yeah. Well… kind of. School was boring today, and I’m still not getting along with chemistry.”

“Oh? Teacher give you a hard time again?”

“A little. But nothing so bad. I just stayed quiet while she tried to get on my nerves. How was your first day? Are the people nice?"

“It was good. I have a surprise for you at the end of the month. I’m sending you a gift.”

I was going to buy her the phone she’d been wanting so badly.

“A surprise? I really can’t know what it is?”

She sounded so excited. I smiled sincerely.

“Nope. It’s a surprise. You’ll have to wait.”

She let out a disappointed groan—and in my mind, I could already picture the pout on her face.

Even though I tried to keep the mood light, I brought up something that still made my stomach turn:

“Sofi…” I paused for a second. “How’s Mom? I mean… after everything…”

Silence on the other end. Just her breathing—soft, like she was carefully choosing her words.

“Well, you know how it is. She’s fine, to a certain point.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for all of it.” I took a deep breath. “I wish I could do more, Sofi… I really do.”

“But you are doing a lot. Seriously. You text, you call, you help with money… That’s already a lot. Dad hasn’t said anything since, if that’s what you want to know.”

My chest tightened. The way she said “hasn’t said anything” spoke louder than any story she could’ve told. But I didn’t push. I didn’t want to know anything about him, either. As long as Sofia and Mom were okay, that was enough for me.

“That’s good… I feel better knowing that. But if anything ever makes you uncomfortable, if anything happens… you call me, okay? Anytime.”

“I know, Lucy. Always.”

“I’ll send you some money at the end of the month. Use it wisely, okay? Don’t blow it all on candy and junk food.”

She let out a soft laugh. That little sound made me smile too, even with my eyes burning from exhaustion. I thought of her almost-white blonde hair, always short, always smelling of vanilla. I wanted to hug her again—and never let go.

“I promise. But maybe just one chocolate bar… or two… maybe three.”

We both laughed and sat in a comfortable silence for a bit. The kind of silence that only exists between people who really know each other.

“Are you okay, Lucy? Really?”

Her sudden question caught me off guard. She always knew when something was off with me, even as a little kid.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Something happened today, but it’ll pass. I’m home now, safe, with my imaginary chamomile tea. Just focus on taking care of Mom and yourself, alright?”

She laughed again.

“Oh right. That tea you always pretended was magic?”

That sweet memory from childhood… Sofi would make me coffee, and I’d prepare her an imaginary tea before tucking her in. Within five minutes, she was out like a light.

“That’s the one. It’s gonna work soon.”

“Love you, Lucy.”

“Love you too, little one. And remember—if anything happens… call me. And just hold on a few more months. It’s going to go by quickly.”

“Okay. Don’t take too long. I miss you so much. Have a good afternoon, sis.”

“Good afternoon, my lil star.”

I waited for her to hang up first, like I always did. Once the line was silent, I pressed the phone to my chest and closed my eyes.

The pain was still there. But in that moment, there was also a strange sense of peace and hope. The peace of knowing that, even with everything we’d lost, something good had remained. And that something could be rebuilt, piece by piece, every day.

I changed my life for me. But I stay strong—for her.
And one day soon, she’ll be far away from him—and right here with me.

Even if it’s hard at first.

Chapter Text

I woke up at 5:20 in the morning.

My body didn’t feel that tired—most of the weight was psychological.
Since I was already awake, I didn’t wait a second longer: I stepped straight into the hot water of the shower.

While bathing, I wondered what I could change—if there was anything I could do to earn Dr. Rossi’s trust. But I soon let that thought go. Trust comes with time.

For a man like him, trust only comes after a long time.

I pushed those thoughts aside and, instead, chose to lower my expectations. I would do my best within what was possible. Expectations set too high, when unmet, bring bitter consequences.

I got out of the shower and went into the closet, flipping through outfit after outfit. I picked a small black heel, simple and comfortable. For clothes, I chose a white, flared dress with a large, loose bow at the collar as its main detail.<

“Great, it falls exactly five fingers above the knee” I sighed as I checked the length.

Over it, I threw on a blue sweater. I left my hair down but placed a simple black headband to hold it in place. I applied my usual makeup and checked the full look in the mirror. It seemed good.

Unlike the day before, I was actually hungry today. My stomach was already signaling it needed something. I went to the kitchen, opened a loaf of bread, and spread on a generous amount of grape jelly. I also made a bowl of fruit with a bit of plain yogurt. I’d have coffee at work. With some luck, maybe Mr Rossi would eventually make it on that magical machine of his.

After finishing breakfast, I felt full and satisfied. I checked the time on my phone—it was only 6:30 a.m. A wave of anxiety began slowly spreading through my body.

Maybe if I arrived early, I’d find the room empty and o have a moment to breathe. That way, I could also leave an hour earlier—if everything went according to plan.

I brushed my teeth, grabbed my bag and my keys.

“Ah, the extra shoes,” I murmured to myself, almost forgetting.

I returned to the closet and quickly grabbed another pair of black heels—almost identical to the ones I was already wearing. A requirement from the prosecutor.
Weird rule, but a rule’s a rule.

With everything in hand, I rushed to the car and headed toward Vilanova as the day was still breaking.

It was a beautiful sight. The sky blended shades of red, yellow, blue, and white, rising between the mountains like a moving painting, almost cinematic. The light reflected on the sea, which returned the glow in soft, diffused tones.
Leaving at this time was a good call. The car seemed to glide effortlessly along the empty road—I was the only one out there.

In the midst of that calm silence, I arrived at the Public Prosecutor’s Office building before 7 a.m. Entry was smooth. The security guard recognized me, gave a quick look-over, and nodded.
I scanned my badge at the open side of the turnstile. The building was still waking up. A few employees—likely from the night shift—moved slowly through the corridors, gestures quiet and subdued. The environment hadn't yet been overtaken by the rigidity of business hours.

I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor.

Good.
No one from the staff seemed to have arrived yet. The silence in the hallway was comforting.

I walked to my office, opening the door carefully. As soon as I stepped in, I removed my shoes, discreetly placing them in the first drawer of the built-in shoe cabinet—which looked more like a desk along the wall. Then I slipped on the new pair, still untouched, as requested.

Maybe it was overkill on his part. But there was a kind of order to his demands. And again: rules are rules.

I set my bag on the table, taking out my phone and a small personal case. I was just about to sit down, mentally organizing the day’s routine, when the door to the rest area suddenly opened.

The sound was so unexpected that I jumped slightly, my heart racing in my chest.

A fast thought crossed my mind, almost like an urgent whisper:

—Did this man… Dr. Rossi… sleep at the office?

He looked slightly tense—his body a bit stiff, like he’d been caught off guard. He probably thought someone was breaking in.
When he saw me, his shoulders relaxed slightly, though his expression remained neutral, unreadable, as if he was still processing what he was seeing.

Then I noticed something unexpected: he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket. No tie. His dress shirt collar was a bit open, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It gave him an almost casual appearance—rare for someone so formal.

For a moment, I was caught off guard by his physique. His arms, his solid build, broad shoulders.
How does a man who seems to live at work still find time to train at the gym?
His hair, though styled, looked a little less precisely arranged than usual.

They were small details—details that slipped through the rigid character I had built of him in my mind.

But there he was.
Slightly more human.

I noticed, with slight discomfort, that I was staring too much.
I swallowed hard, held my breath for a second, and stepped forward to greet him. I lifted my chin to meet his eyes and extended my hand as a veiled apology.

“Good morning, Mr Rossi. Sorry if I startled you.”

He shook my hand briefly, with minimal strength, as if just fulfilling protocol.

“Good morning, Miss Anselin. You’re here early today.”

His tone wasn’t exactly cold, but it lacked warmth. There was a hint of surprise in it, barely noticeable.
His eyes, which had been fixed on my hand, moved down to my dress. For a moment, they lingered there.
Was he evaluating the length?

When his gaze left the dress, it traveled down to my feet. He tilted his neck slightly to look—where it stopped longer than necessary. Then he looked back at me, raising an eyebrow slightly. He said nothing. But his expression looked… pleased.
Recognition. Evaluation. Approval.

And then it hit me:
Take it back. He isn’t human.

How did he know those were the internal-use shoes—the “office shoes”—without even bending down, without touching or checking?
It was as if he always knew everything.

“Wait while I get dressed. There’s fresh coffee in the next room.”

He walked off, leaving me alone while he changed in the bathroom. I entered the rest area, my heart beating anxiously. I grabbed a cup and chose hot chocolate from the espresso machine. Regular coffee might give me slight arrhythmia at this point.

I sat on the couch, sipping the drink, waiting for my heartbeat to settle.

When I returned, he was back to being the usual Mr. Rossi Composed, not a single detail out of place.
He sat at his desk, put on his glasses, and looked at me through them.

“Bring your chair and sit next to me.”

My hands were sweating as I dragged my wheeled chair closer to his desk. I sat a small distance away, waiting anxiously. Sitting beside him made me feel even smaller than the day before—both physically and intellectually.

Anyone looking at us would think we were a high school teacher and his pupil. Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t far from the truth.

“See that small stack of files to your left?”

He simply pointed with the tip of his blue pen at a neatly arranged pile of papers—right next to an open copy of the Penal Code, page 239.

“Case 548-A. Domestic violence.” His voice came out direct, with no emotional inflection. “Read it, interpret it, and present me with an oral summary in twenty minutes. Use the Code. Start with Article 129.”

I couldn’t move right away, still processing the instruction.

“Any problem, Miss Anselin?”

“N-no, sir. None.”

After my shaky reply, he turned back to his screen, focusing on his own work.
I summoned every bit of memory from what I had studied on the topic into my little mental palace. The case file trembled slightly in my hands as I began the analysis.

Chapter Text

After my hesitant response, he turned his eyes back to the monitor, focusing on his own tasks. I gathered everything I had studied on the subject in my little mental palace. The case file’s cover trembled slightly in my hands as I began reading.

This case was real. A woman, 22 years old, severely assaulted by her partner. A repeated offense. There were previous police reports, but in the end, the victim refused to testify. The aggressor already had a criminal record. The prosecution was pursuing based on forensic exams and indirect testimonies from neighbors who had witnessed the couple's turbulent routine.

Right from the start, a domestic violence case. My fingers began to tremble as I held the page.

Don’t let this case bring back bad memories, Lúcia. Don’t think about the past. This is your job. Focus on your job. I repeated this three more times in my head, while the prosecutor, though still fixated on his screen, seemed to suspect my anxiety.

I took a deep breath.

I hoped he hadn’t noticed too much.

About ten minutes later, I stood up and faced him. Dr. Rossi turned toward me, still seated, waiting for me to begin.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

“Tell me only what matters legally.”

I drew in a long breath and met his gaze.

"It’s a case of domestic violence with recurrence. The victim was physically and psychologically assaulted by her partner, who already has a record. Although she refused to give a statement this time, there is a medical report confirming the injuries, as well as indirect witnesses. Based on Article 129 of the Penal Code, bodily injury against a woman in a domestic context does not depend on her formal complaint. Therefore..."

I hesitated. Dr. Rossi merely blinked slowly, not interrupting.

"...therefore, the case can move forward even without the victim’s consent. The material evidence and authorship are clear. My opinion is in favor of formal charges."

Silence settled over the room. He looked at me for a few seconds.

"You didn’t consider Article 41. If I were a defense attorney, I would’ve eaten you alive. Never rely solely on what you’re given. Go further. Article 41: Law 9.099 does not apply in these cases. The sentence is harsher, more direct. You would’ve had a much stronger argument if you had included it."

I dropped my gaze to my hands. My face burned with embarrassment.

"Not so bad. Your analysis of recurrence is correct. Just go beyond the obvious and don’t take the cases personally. Remember, you have time, and you're not here to impress me. You’re here to do what’s right."

It didn’t sound like a compliment—but it wasn’t as bad as I expected either. It was something.

“You have ten minutes to rest. After that, I’ll bring a new case. Wait for me here.”

Sir. Rossi took long strides toward the door. As soon as he left, I collapsed back into the chair. My breathing was shaky.

I went to the break room to get a cappuccino. Drank it all and returned, smoothing out my dress before sitting again. At least I wasn’t sweating. The air conditioning was set to the perfect temperature to avoid that.

When he returned, a black folder rested in his hand. He sat down and handed me the document. Inside was a large file stamped in vivid red: CONFIDENTIAL — CHILD AND ADOLESCENT VIOLENCE.

I swallowed hard. It felt like a shard of glass scraped down my throat to my stomach. I had never worked on anything so sensitive, even though I had studied it. I tried to suppress my emotions. But eyes... they don’t lie.

"This is a real case, archived six years ago. The victim survived but has lived in institutional care ever since. I don’t need to tell you I expect discretion and sensitivity. But also firmness. You’re here to train as a technician, to assist me. Don’t forget that."

I nodded.

“Any questions?”

“How much time I have? Can I use Penal Code to support my view?”

He paused for a second.

“You have twenty-five minutes. Use the Penal Code, the Constitution, and Law 8.069. Do you want coffee?”

That last question surprised me a little. Coffee meant focus. And focus usually meant this wouldn’t be easy. That must have been it.

“No, sir... I just had one. T-thank you.”

I began to go through the case. He was testing my balance between empathy, emotion, and rationality. I just didn’t know why exactly.

The silence was brutal. All I could hear was the clock, the sound of typing beside me, and the slow turning of pages. Twenty-two minutes passed. My eyes stung with restrained tears. Until I stood up.

“I’m ready, Sir.”

He turned his chair and leaned in—just a few centimeters from my face. Why was he so close? His seated height was the same as mine standing. He looked at me calmly.

That gaze didn’t feel safe. I straightened my posture, doing my best to stay composed as I met his eyes.

" The case concerns F., a six-year-old girl, victim of physical abuse and continued neglect by her legal guardians, both with a history of substance abuse. The report came from the school, after the child showed bruises, repeated absences, and declining academic performance."

I took a deep breath and continued:

" The main legal framework is in Articles 129, 9, and 136 of the Penal Code, along with Article 5 of Law 8.069—the Statute of the Child and Adolescent. The facts point to mistreatment with bodily harm aggravated by the victim’s condition and the repeated nature of the offense. "

...

"Public Prosecutor acted correctly by requesting immediate protective measures, followed by a petition to revoke parental rights. Institutional shelter was the most prudent measure until a final decision could be reached, though the slow progress of the case harmed the victim’s emotional stability, given the abrupt separation from her parents."

Then, I looked him straight in the eye:

" In my opinion, Doctor, the greatest challenge in this case is not just punishing the parents, but following up with the victim. The Prosecutor’s Office shouldn’t act only as a legal watchdog, but as a guarantor of this child’s dignity and future. Cases like this don’t end with a conviction. They require continuous monitoring and coordination with the protection network, to ensure the perpetrators can never get close to the victim again. "

Silence.

It was the first time he gave a faint half-smile. It lasted less than a second, but I saw it. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, studying me.

“Solid argument. Legally accurate. And socially perceptive—though a bit anxious,” he finally said. “That, Miss Anselin, is what I expect from you.”

A small wave of joy passed through my chest. It was the first thing resembling a compliment I had received from him. Maybe... just maybe, this could work out.

Mr. Damien then stood and walked over to the bookshelf. He pulled out another case—thicker—and placed it beside him.

“You have fifteen minutes to rest. Bring two coffees.”

We’re just started.

Chapter Text

POV Damien Rossi

I opened my eyes immediately. My biological clock seemed faulty. A light insomnia had been keeping me company for months now, allowing for no more than five hours of deep sleep. The alternating shifts were slowly corroding my circadian rhythm.

The bed, perfectly made, barely looked used. The previous day had ended after endless hours on duty. I would describe the work at the Fiscalía as infinite. If I wasn’t reviewing cases, I was drafting. If I finished drafting, new complaints would arrive—reports, urgent requests for protective measures.

All of it. Every day. On my desk.

I got up and went straight to the building’s gym. At that hour, not a soul was there. Even with a broken routine, working out was essential to maintain sanity. It also represented control—a form of discipline. At 37, nearly 38, you can’t afford to let yourself go.

After strength training, I took a warm shower. The bathroom mirror gave back a slightly tired image: sunken eyes, stubble. Today, I decided to shave it off completely. I had five minutes to get dressed.

I chose a white shirt, adjusted the black tie with precision. Put on a dark suit—discreet, imposing, neutral. In the mirror, every fold was in place. Every button fastened with purpose.

I walked through the kitchen and made my coffee: no sugar, bitter like any normal day. While drinking the hot liquid, I opened my laptop and browsed through the night’s notifications: a new drug trafficking case involving minors, a request to reassess custody, a response from the internal affairs division regarding an old case.

All of that before six a.m.

Beside me, a case file waited to be read. I opened it mechanically, jotting down notes in the margins. Every line, every name, carried something heavier than the paper suggested: a life in suspension, a fate awaiting decision.

Being a prosecutor, to me, wasn’t about winning. It was about enduring.

Enduring the stories. Enduring the injustice. Enduring the waiting, the pressure, the impossibility of fixing everything.

But there was a reason to keep going: justice for the sake of justice.

At 6:40, I left the house. Got in the car, the folder resting on the seat beside me. The radio was off. Silence was my favorite soundtrack. I didn’t like distractions.

When I arrived at the Public Prosecutor’s building, I was met with the usual looks: respect, curiosity, distance.
I’m not one for small talk or flattery. I don’t offer trust easily, nor do I make chit-chat by the break room.
The less you offer your hand, the less they expect from you.

As I entered my office, I changed shoes, organized the day's cases, and out of habit, cast a glance at the intern’s desk. Lúcia Anselin.

There’s something about her. Something I can’t quite name—but it has made my days feel less robotic.
From the moment she walks in, to the time we go over her training, I observe her. Reactions, mannerisms, the smallest gestures.

It’s all been... different.

I remember the first day. She failed to mention Article 41—a technical mistake. But there was something more compelling: she didn’t break. Even trembling, even nervous, she stayed on her feet, saw it through.
I looked into her eyes, and I saw her falter. But she didn’t fold.

What world has she come from? What makes her so determined?

She has a discipline I couldn’t teach if I tried.
She has to be strong. But why—I don’t know yet.

My favorite part is when she stands in front of me. She stays close, a sliver of space between us, her hands delicately crossed, posture flawless. She’s so small that even while I’m seated, our eyes meet. She looks away. Or she holds my gaze.

Lúcia starts off shy, but soon develops her reasoning with clarity. She drafts reports in minutes, with no grammatical errors, in flawless Spanish.
There’s no issue with her organization, nor with her punctuality.
She does everything I ask, always willing to learn.

Maybe Lucca Montez didn’t disappoint me this time.
With my near-military training, she might become ready—if she doesn’t crack under pressure.

At exactly 7 a.m., I heard the sound of her shoes at the door.
She came in, quietly swapped her heels for another pair: new, unscuffed.
Today, she’s wearing a high-neck black dress, tailored to just within the permitted limit. Her long hair is tied in a braid I hadn’t seen before.
She looks even younger.

When she notices me, her eyes pause on my clean-shaven face, and she seems slightly surprised.

What goes on in that tiny head?

“Good morning, Prosecutor Rossi. I hope you got some rest.”

She clasps her hands, her feet waver slightly. She tries to hold my gaze, as always.
I stop what I’m doing to look at her.

“Good morning. How about you make the coffee today? Then come sit beside me.”

Our day had begun.

She walks hesitantly into the adjacent room. Comes back about ten minutes later, with a large coffee cup in her hands. Her face is tense, in a small frown she doesn’t hide: she’s afraid she messed it up.

“I hope it’s good enough,” she says, watching me as I take the first sip.

It’s lighter. Milder. Like her.
But it’s not bad. It carries the personality of whoever made it. I drink it all, slowly, and toss the cup. Her expression relaxes at my approval.

Then she positions herself in front of me.

I always place her like that—so that even on equal footing, I can gauge exactly how different we are.
Her reactions are so vivid that I almost smile.
Almost.

“Do you know what a field inquiry is, Miss Anselin?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Grab your bag. We’re leaving. Now.”

Lúcia froze for a moment. We’d never left the office before. Today, I’d planned something different. She snapped out of it and moved to grab her bag.
As we reached the door, she leaned forward to change shoes. Her braid fell to the side.

“You don’t need to change shoes inside the building.”

“But I was told—”

“What they told you was an exaggeration. Follow me.”

We walked without exchanging a word. The sound of our steps echoed through the narrow hallway of the upper floor. A wing of the building rarely used. Some staff looked at us with curiosity—which I dismissed immediately.
When we reached the old archive room, I unlocked the door. Inside was a staged scene—perfectly arranged, a simulation.

As Lúcia stepped in, I saw the slight shudder in her shoulders. She was on alert. That was good.
There were scattered toys, a burned trash bin. Clothes folded on a chair. A teacup.

“This is a simulated field inquiry,” I announced. “You have fifteen minutes to observe, think, form hypotheses, and present your line of reasoning. No reports. No witnesses. Only what you see.”

She looked at me quickly, her small wrists slightly tense.

“Begin.”

I stepped back and remained at the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her. Her instinct was to observe in silence first, without rushing.

I focused on her movements. How she walked along the walls, how she examined items without touching unnecessarily. There was something almost ceremonial, so minimal, in how she crouched down. Technical… yet sensitive. When she bent down, she held her dress with both hands. She brushed her braid away from her face.

She has a sensitivity. And I don’t mean weakness—I mean perception.

For a few moments, I watched how the morning light hit her face. Her brows lightly furrowed, red lips parted in concentration. She gently bit the corner of her mouth when she came across the burned bin. An involuntary gesture. Anxiety?

Then she rose and walked toward the cup, as if connecting the dots. She saw a teddy bear. And stopped. Stared at it longer than needed.
Something about that image struck her deeper than logic. It was emotional. But she took a deep breath and moved on, biting her lip even harder.
Still, I noticed—something about that bear affected her.

She returned to the center. Slowly spun on her heels, as if rebuilding the scene in her mind. In silence.

I remained still, watching. Almost impressed by her intuitive method. She wasn’t theorizing for me.
She was feeling the scene before narrating it. As if it were personal.

Eleven minutes passed.

“Well?” I asked.

She turned to face me, her expression trying to seem firm—but her eyes… Those sea-colored eyes on a rainy day, still shaken, like she’d seen a ghost.

“May I speak now, sir?”

“Speak. With basis. No embellishments.”

She nodded. Raised her chin slightly and stood in front of me.

"There signs of domestic violence. The broken cup, the overturned chair, and the stain on the wall suggest physical conflict. The lack of blood doesn’t rule out aggression—it could’ve been restraint, a shove, or emotional abuse. B-but that’s not all…"

She paused. Her eyes landed on the teddy bear again. Her wrists rubbed together.

''The presence of a child’s toy, stained and left on the floor, along with the burned trash... suggests an attempt to hide or destroy evidence. Maybe a letter, a drawing, or an item the abuser deemed risky. And there was a child present. That changes the legal framework."

I remained silent. She continued.

''Investigation should follow two lines: bodily harm against a woman—based on Article 129 in conjunction with Article 7—and exposure of a minor to risk, under Article 232. I would also consider a possible violation of a protective measure, depending on the history''

It was more than enough. She saw beyond the scene. She saw the absence.

I stepped closer. Slowly. Said nothing.
Stopped one palm away. Lowered my head, staring directly at her. She shrank back, nervous eyes on my face.

“Legal foundation?”

She answered. Quickly.

Then silence. But there was something there—hanging between us. A kind of tension that wasn’t purely professional. I saw her, in that moment, not just as an analyst. But as someone who understands the pain behind these reports.
She didn’t just interpret the scene. She felt it in her body.

“You read the scene like an officer of the law,” I said. “And you felt it like someone who’s seen worse.”

“You’re not signing any reports yet, but if you can’t recognize what’s in front of you, you’re not fit to be in this room. Not to read documents, nor to work beside me. Remember, we work for the price of truth—and sometimes that price is high.”

Her eyes wavered, trembling. Her lips had lost some color. Her eyes welled with water, a tear on the verge of falling.

I studied her a moment longer—that frail body, that small face.
She had done well.

Then I stepped away. Unhurried.

“Return to the office. Five minutes. I want the report in writing. Make it good. I’ll grade it as if it were real.”

She nodded. Left in silence.

I stayed behind, still in place.

And only then did I realize my hand was slightly clenched. The simulation was over, but the real impact… was still unfolding.
I had seen things even saints would doubt. I was desensitized.

But that tension in the air… wasn’t about the scene.

It was about her.

-

Chapter Text

Damien’s POV

The clock read 10 a.m. About two hours had passed since the assessment of that scene. Lúcia was sitting beside me, silent, reading a thick volume of criminal law. She flipped through it slowly, examining each statute line by line.

The atmosphere was far from pleasant. I didn’t blame her — it came with the job.
And that had been one of the lighter scenes she'd witness in this line of work. I could hear her breathing as she studied sentencing guidelines for low-level offenses.

While I stayed focused, the door opened.

Wiping their shoes with theatrical intensity, Martin Navarro, Leda Plens, and our coordinator, Montez, stepped into the room. A chorus of “Good morning” followed — mostly directed at Lúcia.

"Goodness, what happened here?" Montez said, glancing between me and Lúcia. "Did someone die?"

Lucca Montez. That bastard. He absorbed tension like an old mole sniffing out its next meal.

"There’s always someone dead, Lucca. We work for the Public Prosecutor’s Office," Leda replied, giving his arm a light smack. My headache was just about to begin.

Lúcia closed the book, keeping her hand on the cover. Her body relaxed slightly; a faint sparkle of amusement lit up her eyes.

How’s our little prodigy doing? Getting used to the Bat-routine in the Batcave?"

"Yes, Mr. Lucca. Thank you for asking!"

The coordinator turned around dramatically, crossing his arms.

"That’s what I want to be called from now on. It demands respect. In fact, call me Mister Montez. Sounds much more dignified..."

“Raise my salary by twenty percent and I’ll call you ‘Your Grace,’” Navarro cut in, stepping forward with a more serious tone. “Prosecutor, we’re ready for the meeting.”

“We’d like to present the final report from the analysis team, and introduce the new interview protocol for underage victims.”

“And the report on the Valverde case, Navarro?” I asked, not bothering to stand as I flipped through an empty folder.

“The search warrant was executed two days ago. I’m waiting on the results from the follow-up inquiries.”

Leda pulled a manila envelope from a folder and handed it to me with the same grace as someone tossing an anchor overboard.

''Here. Cross-referencing the bank statements with contracts from the Public Funding Department confirmed everything. Valverde funneled public funds into accounts linked to two shell companies. The same names show up in donations from his 2018 campaign''

“And his personal connections?”

“Two of the business partners have a documented history with him. One is the brother-in-law of a direct advisor. We’ve got receipts, cash movements, and even an audio recording,” Martin said, locking eyes with me. “The brother-in-law asked for backdated invoices. Forensics confirmed it. And the wife used public funds to purchase luxury items — jewelry, designer clothes.”

Lucca leaned forward, clearly enjoying the weight of it all.

“That’s going to be one hell of a shipwreck. And I plan to have front-row seats.”

“Let it fall then,” I said flatly. “With noise or without. I want the indictment ready today. Facts, links, and legal basis.”

Leda nodded, her expression proud and composed.

Lucca, of course, lost focus — as always.

“Miss Anselin. How are you holding up under general’s command?”

He knew. I didn’t know how, but he knew what had happened earlier.

“I didn’t have to resist, Mr. Montez,” she answered sweetly. “I’m learning a lot.”

Montez smirked, clearly having expected something like that. Leda raised an eyebrow, unsure. Martin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Hm. As your secondary supervisor, I’d like to see what you’ve learned. Maybe you’d like to present the simulated field data later — in our office.”

He winked at her. Before she could respond, I cut in.

“She won’t be presenting anything. That scene isn’t part of the official case. It was training. It stays between us.”

Montez stared at me, oddly still. The silence stretched. Lúcia kept her gaze fixed on her book, as if trying to disappear into it.

“Of course. As you wish, Prosecutor Damien,” he said at last, with that short smile of his — the kind that didn’t bite, but also didn’t swallow. He’d come back to haunt me later.

“Go on. Let’s get to the data. Lúcia, please join them.”

They began their presentation — statistics, workflow charts, improvement proposals. The kind of material that required cold analysis, but somehow felt... distant.

As they spoke, I noticed Lúcia shift slightly in her seat. Not from discomfort — but because she was trying to absorb it all. It was her work now too.

She’d live the scenes — and the numbers.

“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” she said suddenly, “but where’s Mr. Gregório? I haven’t seen him today.”

Lúcia remembered him. I hadn’t even noticed he was missing until that moment.

“He had a little... incident. In the restroom,” Martin said, while Leda and Montez tried to stifle their laughter. Lúcia blushed deeply, mortified.

“I see. I hope he’s alright.”

“He will be. The restroom, however...”

“Coordinator Montez, control your team. Let’s stay on topic and move forward.”

After nearly an hour, the meeting ended. Leda and Martin waited outside while Lucca remained in my office, chatting with Lúcia about the city of Sitges. I needed to get him out.

“Coordinator Montez, follow me.”

He rolled his eyes but obeyed without a word. His steps were slow and heavy with mock disdain. Once inside the break room, he leaned against the wall, hands on his hips, looking like a man dragged away from where he felt most important.

“What now? I wasn’t being inappropriate,” he said, tired but still with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’m not here to scold you. I need a favor.”

He raised his eyebrows, half skeptical, half amused. Stayed silent. Waiting.

“Don’t take Lúcia Anselin to lunch with the team today.” I spoke firmly, watching for his reaction. To my surprise, he didn’t joke. He just looked at me — curious. “I want her to have lunch with me.”

The silence was too long.

Lucca pressed his lips together like he was holding back a laugh, but something shifted in his gaze — something he picked up on in me.

“Damien Rossi... For someone who claimed he didn’t need a personal analyst, you’re turning out to be quite the sly bastard." He smirked, teasing. "Don’t come on too strong—the girl seems shy."

“I pushed her too hard, Lucca,” I interrupted.

The smile disappeared. The sarcasm melted off his shoulders. He looked at me differently — more human, understanding that behind my request was a trace of regret.

“Well, I’ll be damned... The Robe-less Judge realizing he pushed someone too far.” He exhaled, not a hint of cynicism. “That’s new.”

“Just ask them not to invite her.
Do you have any idea what young people eat these days?”

He scratched his chin, pacing a bit — dramatic as always, though slightly toned down.

“If I were a girl her age, I’d probably have Justin Timberlake for lunch...” he mumbled, then flinched as if expecting a punch. “But since I’m not — maybe sushi?”

I considered it. Small portions, light, easy to eat. Probably ideal — nothing messy or awkward.

“You can go now.”

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to invite me too? It was my idea.”

“Why don’t you take this beautiful day and have lunch with your wife?” I crossed my arms, meeting his eyes. But mine were sharp as blades. He got the message.

“Fine, I’m going. Just remember... I told you not to push her, and what did you do—”

“Lucca,” I cut in, stepping forward, voice low but sharp. “Get out.”

He walked out, tossing some excuse to Lúcia on the way — something about an urgent call that never really seemed all that urgent. She nodded politely, eyes still on her book.

Once alone, I pulled out my phone. Ordered from a Japanese restaurant downtown — one I knew well. Clean. Discreet. Efficient.

Ten units of each variety. I’d already seen Lúcia eating fish in the cafeteria — always delicately, as if even chewing required thought. Just in case, I included some vegetarian options too.

When I stepped out, I found her still deep in the book, as if the world around her had paused. It was 11 a.m.

“Miss Anselin. It’s lunchtime. I’ll be eating today as well. Would you join me?”

She calmly set the book aside on a nearby table. A wide, spontaneous smile spread across her face — gentle, grateful — and she nodded several times, saying nothing.

In some countries, refusing a lunch invitation from your boss could be seen as disrespect. Here, it was just... politeness. But there was more to her smile. Something softer. A sense of relief — as if the morning’s tension had finally settled.

“When are we heading down to the cafeteria, sir?”

“We’re not. I’ve already ordered. It’ll be delivered shortly. Rest a bit in the annex room. We’ll eat there.”

She obeyed with the kind of grace that came from not being used to invitations — but not fearing them either. She stepped through the annex door and closed it gently behind her. Even the latch didn’t make a sound.

When the food arrived, I carried the stacked containers into the room. There was enough variety to feed an entire team — but it wasn’t excess. It was just... margin.

In my office, a dark leather couch flanked a coffee table. Lúcia was already seated on one side. Her posture was relaxed, arms resting loosely between her knees — like she’d finally found a position that didn’t demand effort.

She was no longer anxious. Or withdrawn.

There was only silence.

I placed the takeout on the table, one by one. The air conditioning breeze made the lids flutter gently.
We washed our hands quickly and returned to the room.

I sat in my armchair beside her, leaving a respectful space between us.

“Pick whatever you like,” I said at last.

Her eyes widened, as if she were looking at a banquet meant for someone else.

“This is all for two people?”

“If it’s not enough, we can order more later.”

She let out a short laugh, covering her mouth with her fingers.

“N-no. That’s not what I meant. It’s just... I don’t think I can eat this much.”

She picked up a disposable plate with careful hands, as if not wanting to disrupt the symmetry of the table. She served herself small, neatly arranged portions, then sat on the rug, legs tucked under her with the natural grace of someone who grew up sitting that way at home.
Her black dress pooled softly beneath her. Even on the floor, she looked composed.

“You should sit here,” she said, adjusting herself closer to the table. “So we don’t stain the couch…”

I watched her for a moment. That kind of concern was so typical of her—the constant need to fit in, to avoid being a burden. As if the couch still didn’t feel like a place she was allowed to sit.

“Get off the floor,” I said—not harshly, but firmly. “Sit on the couch. Someone will clean it later if needed.”

She hesitated. For a second, she stayed put, like she was waiting for a second command, just to make sure it wasn’t a test. Then, slowly, she stood, holding her plate in both hands, and sat back down.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me. Just eat.”

A small act of peace after the morning’s turbulence.

She picked up a piece of sushi with the chopsticks, concentrating with almost childlike seriousness, still clearly learning. Her slender fingers trembled slightly, trying to hold the rice together, but it crumbled on the plate. The fish slipped between the sticks, and she let out a frustrated sound—quiet but noticeable.

“Technical difficulties?”

“A bit. At home I use a fork. I think I’m a fraud…”

“Sit a little farther. I’ll help you.”

I moved closer, keeping a respectful distance. Just enough not to feel too near.

She gave me a quick, curious glance, like she was trying to gauge where this was going. I picked up a pair of chopsticks, took a plate, and served some portions slowly. I demonstrated—where to place her fingers, how to support with her hand. I ate a few pieces so she could follow my movements.

She tried. The chopsticks bent again. The sushi dropped.

Frustration hit—not because of the food, but because of the absurdity of the situation.
Me—a 37-year-old criminal prosecutor, used to fraud, corruption, and death—teaching a 23-year-old girl how to hold chopsticks.

Ridiculous.

“Give me your hand.”

She let the chopsticks fall, startled. Her eyes widened. Lips slightly parted. Her body tense, unsure.

She reached out slowly, like she was about to touch something dangerous. Turned slightly, careful not to let her knees brush against mine. Her fingers… still soft. Almost fragile. Just as I remembered from the first time I’d touched them—if only for a few seconds.

I took her hand. Adjusted the chopsticks between her fingers. Covered her hand with mine.
The tremor came. Predictable. It always came.

“Don’t hold them so high. One finger has to support the other. See?”

“Y-yes.”

With my guidance, she managed to grip a piece. I brought her hand—still wrapped in mine—closer to her mouth.
She parted her lips. Red. Soft. Took the sushi in one bite.

The moment was… dissonant. Too graceful for the setting. Too intimate to ignore.

She turned away immediately. Her cheeks flushed scarlet—pure combustion beneath translucent skin.

What was that?

“Don’t get any ideas. Eat. I’m going back to my seat.”

My voice was cold. Precise. Cutting through whatever fantasy might have sparked in that blonde head.

I returned to the armchair, legs crossed, posture restored. The distance—appropriate. Professional.

For the next few minutes, we ate in silence. A meticulous silence. Almost comfortable.

She didn’t look at me again.

But I noticed everything—the way she held the chopsticks with more confidence now, her eyes fixed on the food, the subtle way her shoulders relaxed when she thought no one was watching.

I see her. Always.

Chapter Text

Lucia’s POV
Two months later.

The car coughed three times before deciding it wouldn’t cooperate.

I gently turned the key, as if saying please would be enough to convince the engine. But the cold of that morning seemed to have frozen more than just the windows: my patience was running thin. On the fourth try, a spark. The sixth, a weak rumble. Only on the twelfth attempt did the car finally wake up, sleepy and grumbling like an old man dragged out of bed.

I glanced at the clock: over fifty minutes lost. In two months, I had never been late. Now I was sure I wasn’t prepared for wintertime.

Swearing wasn’t appropriate at the moment. Instead, I whispered a “there’s still time” between my lips as a cold puff of smoke escaped. The road to the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Vilanova felt longer that chilly morning, even without traffic. As if the city knew I was late—and mocked me for it.

There was no time to admire the beautiful scenery.

When I arrived at the building, it was already past eight-thirty. The sun didn’t show itself, a gray sky hanging overhead. And Leda Plens waited outside, arms crossed, brown coat on, expression caught between relief and impatience.

“Finally, girl!” Leda said, hurrying toward me. “Where were you? The prosecutor is pulling his hair out inside. He’s called you phone more than five times already.”

I froze in place, paler than before.

“My phone lost signal... I... the car wouldn’t start, it’s very cold today.” The words stumbled out, my voice thin like silk tearing in the chilly air.

“I know, dear,” Leda answered, now softer. “But you just disappeared today? He’s on a level I’ve never seen before. Pacing back and forth. Said he wants you immediately... He’s got a huge case on his hands and... well, the office has turned into a battlefield.”

“Oh God. I’m going in.”

I swallowed hard and hurried inside. Leda quickly followed, matching my pace.

I climbed the stairs and reached the Prosecutor’s office. I opened the door and stepped in, trying not to sound desperate.

What I saw was... strange. The desk was messier than I’d ever seen: folders piled unevenly, loose papers scattered, laptop open with multiple windows. And Damien—standing, jacket tossed over the chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened.
His black hair was tousled, a dark mess. His glasses lay open on the desk.

What was going on?

“Where have you been?”

He approached in long strides, sighed deeply, and placed both hands on my shoulders as he stared into my eyes. His voice was controlled but not calm.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Damien. My car wouldn’t start because of the cold.”

“You didn’t answer my calls...”

He looked deep into my eyes, lowering himself to meet my gaze. It scared me. His behavior, his hands—none of it felt normal.

“I-I lost signal. What’s going on, sir?”

The same anxious feeling I’d had the first time I entered this office gripped me again. I bit my lip, trying to hide it.

“I need you now.”

I swallowed the apology still half-formed. I walked to his desk, but before I could open my bag or organize papers, he called me back.

“Here. Now. By my side.”

He handed me a gray folder marked with a red stripe in the corner.

“Three confirmed deaths in the rural area of Sitges. One missing child. A repeat criminal man. Claiming insanity. And worst of all: the press already knows.”

“What... In Sitges?
What about Lucca? Didn’t you tell him to come back? Sir, he’s much more capable!”

''Lucca’s stuck down in southern Spain, on his belated honeymoon. He’s not answering his phone. We’ll have to deal with what we have here.''

I took the folder carefully, as if it were dynamite. Opened it slowly. The first pages were stained with red marks—Damien’s notes. Photos showed three victims: an elderly woman who was his mother, two young women—one his own sister and another unidentified. In a third image: a child’s garment on the bloodstained ground.

I shuddered.

“He’s called Xavier. He disappeared with the dead sister’s three-year-old daughter. He’s been on the run for less than twenty hours. One of the victims got in his way. We have an old report classifying him as unaccountable, and a history of hospitalizations with early discharge. The press wants a killer. The chief prosecutor wants an indictment. And I...” He stopped, took a deep breath. For a moment, he seemed to lose focus. “...I want to do the right thing.”

“I can, and I will help,” I said quietly but firmly.

He looked at me once more. It seemed like he was trying to check if I was real. His face was different: deeper eyes, dark circles, as if he’d spent the night here.

“Then sit. Read everything. And tell me, calmly, what we’re missing.”
He paused, then said something that made my heart leap:
“I need you.”

I sat in silence. The weight of the dossier on the table seemed to multiply with every page.

''The crimes happened less than twenty hours ago. The forensic report is incomplete,” I said, scanning through the reports. “But there are inconsistencies in his records.''

“Yes.”

''He’s diagnosed with schizophrenia, but there’s a history of controlled behavior during the years he was supervised by his wife. The regression started only after separation and loss of custody. Still, the latest reports... are generic. Signed by a certain Emilio Dantas.''

Damien stepped closer, tense shoulders.

“Generic enough to protect someone who knows what they’re doing.”

''In 2014, an assault on the mother led to an investigation, but it was dropped due to lack of evidence. In 2019, the court committed him to involuntary hospitalization for relapse—but he was out in less than 15 days. And here...” he pointed with a finger, “...there’s a formal complaint filed by the sister—the victim—four months before the crime. It was received by the prosecutor’s office. Then archived.''

Damien clenched his fists, stepping back two paces.

“This case passed through here.”

“Yes, sir. And it was archived for ‘lack of immediate risk,’ based on an outdated report.”

Damien was silent. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling hard, as if that helped bear the weight.

“The system’s going to come down on me,” he said. “And maybe they’re right.”

The way he said it hurt more than I expected. He didn’t speak like a prosecutor. He spoke like someone who knew maybe he could have stopped it—but didn’t.

Damien was silent. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling hard, as if it helped carry the burden of guilt.

I wanted so badly to comfort him. To say everything would be okay, and we’d handle it. But now wasn’t the time.

“I can put together a timeline, sir,” I said, jotting notes beside the folder. “With reports, bulletins, names of all doctors. I can get records from the sister and map her contacts. Maybe she said more somewhere else.”

“Do that,” he said. “And, Lucia... keep the damn phone where there’s signal—and on.”

He called me by my first name. He had never done that before.

“The third victim... “He ripped her head off. I thought there was a chance it could have been you.”

I was speechless and studied the photos again. The third victim’s body was somewhat similar to mine and decapitated. Goosebumps right away. Now I understood why he touched my shoulder and looked into my eyes.

My hair stood on end. He was worried.

Chapter Text

Time became a blur.

The papers stacked up on Damien’s desk like layers of paint on a frantic canvas. I went back and forth with reports, petitions, psychiatric records. He wrote with fury—at the pen, the paper, himself. The timeline was slowly taking shape on an improvised mural on the office wall: dates, names, arrows, acronyms. Everything interconnected and yet... fragmented. Like every piece was screaming, but none could hear the others.

At 1 p.m., I had an apple for lunch. He had coffee.
At 3, Leda arrived with more documents from the courthouse along with a look that mixed pity and disbelief.

“You two haven’t even left the room to breathe,” she said. “It’s like the world’s falling apart.”

Maybe it was.

“You, Martin, and Gregório—focus on the other cases and keep the press at bay.” He looked at her with a cold fury. “The world will fall apart if you don’t get back to your office right now.”

Leda flinched and disappeared down the hall.

By 6 p.m., Damien had knocked over a pile of files and remained frozen, staring at the floor like he didn’t have the strength to lift even the papers—let alone himself.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmured, crouching down to help.

“It wasn’t you. It was everything before you.”

He crouched slowly, his trembling fingers touching the scattered documents like they were shards of glass.

By 7:30 p.m., the timeline was finished. But not conclusive.

Nothing directly connected the dots. No leads on the child’s whereabouts. No new names. No trace of the killer, except for the last camera feed: the stolen gray car. The same dead end as always.

Damien stood in front of the mural. Arms crossed. Chin slightly tilted. His eyes... too far away.

“It’s just a map of failure,” he said at last. “Empty lines. Movements with no meaning. Data without a soul.”

“That’s not true,” I murmured. “We see more now than anyone has in years.”

He turned to look at me. And there was something in his expression not gratitude, not relief. A restrained kind of pain. Almost thankful. As if, for a moment, I was the only living thing in a sea of the dead.

“Lúcia, if you want to go, you can. It’s already past eight.”

I shook my head.
“Not yet.”

“But you’re exhausted.”

I looked at him softly, trying to offer some kind of anchor.
“I’m staying. With you.”

So, the hours crept past ten.

He was frozen in front of the computer. The mouse moved, but the screen hadn’t changed in ten minutes. I hesitated to interrupt. I couldn’t tell if he was processing a lead... or breaking down.

“Sir...?” I called, gently.

Nothing. He raised a hand, asking for silence. But... the room was already completely silent.

That’s when I realized—he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking throug it.

“Mr. Rossi,” I said, firmer this time.

He turned slowly. His eyes were sunken, his face pale. His suit wrinkled. But it was the tone of his voice that frightened me most:

“You’re alive, Lúcia,” he whispered, empty and distant. “But why, when I look at the wall... do I see you dead? And why do I see a dead man beside me?”

I looked where he was pointing. It was just ink. A circle with a date.

“Sir...” I stood slowly. “When was the last time you slept?”

He blinked. Looked at the clock as if the numbers made no sense.

“Two days... maybe more.”

This wasn’t the Dr. Damien Rossi everyone knew. He was unkempt, drained. Vulnerable. On the edge of hallucination. Carrying an impossible case while trying to hold up an entire court on his shoulders.

He slid his hands to his head and suddenly looked at me through his fingers.

“Lúcia... I’m not okay. Get me out of here. Turn off this computer. Get me out.”

It was a human plea. Not a command.

Thank God, some clarity still remained.

I rushed to him. Shut down the computer. Pushed files aside, clearing a path. I took one of his hands—rigid, tense, and led him, stumbling, to the rest room. He could barely stand on his own. At the couch, he stopped in front of me, eyes low.

And then, he let himself fall—pulling me down with him.

We landed together, his body over mine. I vanished beneath him, swallowed by the weight of someone twice, maybe three times my size. He was so tall his legs stretched past the edge of the couch.

I tried to slip free, but he held me like his sleep depended on it. His head sank into my neck, and the cold air of his breath against my ear sent shivers down my spine.

“Anselin... don’t leave,” he whispered, voice shaky, almost delirious.

He’d never say that in a fully conscious state.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m just waiting for you to wake up.”

My arms were pinned, but I managed to free one. I raised it to his hair and gently started to run my fingers through it. Like I used to do for my sister Sofi when she had nightmares. He let out a murmur. Tightened his grip around my waist, nearly suffocating me. His hands were hot and unrelenting.

“Loosen up... just a little...”

I whispered gently. He relented, his hold easing bit by bit. And slowly, as I kept caressing his hair, he fell asleep. His breathing slowed, and it seemed like calm had finally taken him.

I stayed completely still. I couldn’t feel anything below my waist anymore. Time passed, but I only knew it from the moonlight’s shadow moving behind the curtain.

I looked at him. The man everyone saw as cold, indestructible, untouchable... now undone. Vulnerable. Incredibly human.

I tried to gently nudge his waist. In a sudden motion, he rolled my body, turning me to face the couch and wrapped his arms around my back, curling most of himself around me. Like he was trying to build a cocoon.

Again, I tried to escape. No use. He was stronger than I expected. His muscles pulled me tighter with every breath.

I sighed exhausted, defeated. My cheeks were burning, my face flushed red. I had never been in a situation like this, especially not with a man. I brought my hands to my face and patted my cheeks gently, trying to shake off the heat. I needed to focus.

Waking him now felt dangerous. There are cases where people with severe insomnia are woken and fall into psychosis. He needed rest for himself and for everyone who depended on him.

Tired of fumbling in the dark, I looked around. Squinted until I found the digital clock on the side table. Reached over, grabbed it, and set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. At least seven hours. Enough time to wake before anyone found him like this.

Vulnerable. Clinging to someone. Between sleep and the abyss.

And even now, at the edge of consciousness... it was still him holding on the tightest.

That embrace—though unconscious, was so warm, I let myself go, bit by bit. His breathing sounded like a lullaby, so soft it started lulling me to sleep.

Before I knew it, I had curled into him. And I stopped resisting.

Chapter Text

My body ached in places I didn’t even know existed, but… I didn’t want to wake up.

It was warm. So comforting. I was dreaming I was running through a field of tiny white flowers, throwing myself into them as if the world beyond didn’t exist. There was a steady warmth wrapped around me, like invisible arms molding to my body, holding me with growing tenderness. A quiet kind of safety.

The light, until then absent, began to break through the veil of sleep—thin golden beams invading my face. My eyes stung. I rubbed them slowly with the backs of my hands, like a grumpy child. Then, I lowered my arms and tried to roll over, searching for the other side of the couch.

That’s when my forearm hit something—firm. Warm. Soft but solid. A chest.

My heart jumped.

I opened my eyes suddenly, a sharp jolt of instinct taking over. Reality crashed down like a bucket of ice water.

The prosecutor was still asleep.

He breathed deeply, silently, his face resting against the arm of the couch, as if he’d finally found some peace. His arms were wrapped around my waist, fingers tangled in my shirt. Same position as last night—but now\... softer. Like the weight had melted into sleep, not just in his body, but in his heart too.

How did I fall asleep like this? God... what was I thinking?

A hot wave of embarrassment flushed up my cheeks and all the way to my ears. I tried to slip away carefully, inching his arms off me one by one, hoping to escape without waking him.

He murmured softly. His body shifted slightly, like he didn’t want to let go. An automatic gesture. Unconscious—but still... clinging.

I froze. My heart pounded too loudly in my chest.

I took a deep breath. Looked around.

The alarm clock.

I grabbed it quickly, my fingers sweaty, and set the alarm to go off in one minute. I just needed something loud enough to break the embrace.

The shrill beep sliced through the room. He stirred.

“God, turn that damn thing off. My head’s gonna explode.” His voice was muffled, thick with sleep. He reached out clumsily, swiping at the air like someone batting away a fly. “What the hell’s going on?”

Panicking, I shut off the alarm with a sharp click.

He blinked slowly, heavy-lidded, his gaze lost between sleep and wakefulness. Still disoriented, fragile... and far too close.

“It’s okay, sir,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice low and steady. “It’s just the alarm. It’s six-thirty. You... you got some rest.”

“Anselin?” He sat up with a small jolt, pulling away like he’d only just realized how we were lying. My waist tingled. His eyes flicked around the room, to his hands, the couch—and then finally, to me. “I’m sorry. I...”

He stood, and for a moment, it looked like his legs might give out. I reached for the couch for support, wincing as pain hit me. Still, I moved toward him, gently taking his hand and guiding him back to sit.

“I... I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

His voice had shifted—harsher now. Like he was putting armor back on. But I knew—or thought I did—that the anger wasn’t for me. It was for himself. For a weakness he’d never let anyone see.

“You didn’t let anything happen. You just... couldn’t hold it in anymore.” I offered a small smile, trying to reassure him. “E-everyone breaks, sometimes.”

He stared at me for a second. A strange look that dug into my soul. Tired, yes—but also filled with something I couldn’t name. A detail in the silence. And, at the end of it, a quiet kind of recognition.

“Thank you,” he said finally, voice hoarse, hovering somewhere between guilt and relief. His eyes, however, didn’t meet mine. They stayed fixed on the floor, like looking at me would make him more vulnerable. “For not leaving me alone.”

He paused. Breathed deeply.

“How long did I sleep? I mean...did we sleep?”

“It’s six-thirty a.m., Mr. Rossi. A-about eight hours,” I answered gently, trying to keep things normal.

He ran both hands through his hair, making the dark strands even messier, like he was trying to scrub out the memory of last night.

“Did I do anything?” he asked hesitantly. “Did I do something stupid while we slept?”

Instinctively, I pressed my hands to my stomach, where the ache still lingered. His weight still felt etched into my skin, like my body hadn’t forgotten.

“Nothing happened,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “You just... collapsed. I brought you here. That’s all. You said you hadn’t slept in two days.”

His eyes turned slowly toward me, and his gaze landed where my hands rested. Something in his expression shut down. His jaw clenched.

“Lift your shirt,” he said, voice low, almost flat.

“What?”

“Now. If you don’t, I will.”

The threat was ridiculous. And real. The tone left no room for doubt. It wasn’t reckless—it was a desperate grasp for control.

My hands hesitated, but obeyed. I reached for the hem of my shirt and slowly pulled it up to my ribs. The air hit my skin, cold and humiliating.

There it was: a wide purple mark stretching from the side of my waist to just above my belly button. Smaller bruises dotted the skin, faint circles like finger marks sinking in.

My skin looked like fragile white paper. Too easy to mark.

He stepped forward without a word. So close that all I could see was wrinkled fabric and the rigid curve of his chest.

His hand, large and steady but now hesitant, hovered over my skin without touching. Then, with just the tips of his fingers, he traced the bruises like reading a language only he could understand. His touch was cautious—almost reverent.

“Did that hurt?” he asked, voice rough and barely audible.

“N-no... It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just some pressure. It’ll fade.”

But he didn’t believe me. His eyes didn’t blink. His hand, now firmer, pressed gently over the bruise. A whimper escaped my lips before I could stop it.

He swallowed hard. His jaw moved. Then, without warning, he pulled his hand away like I’d burned him.

His eyes locked on the edge of my raised shirt and lingered on my skin. For one tense second, everything held—like a string ready to snap.

Then he turned and stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind him. A curse echoed through the hall. Something between fury and despair.

I stood there, stunned. The air felt like it had left with him.

Was he still hallucinating? Should I call someone? Or just... give him space?

Without thinking, I ran after him into the empty office. That’s when I heard the sound of the shower turning on. The rush of water filled the silence with a steady noise.

I, on the other hand, still felt the weight of the night clinging to my skin. I needed a shower too. I felt dirty, exhausted, disheveled. My legs ached, my arms were tense. And my mind had no idea what to think anymore.

I just wanted to go home. If only could be sure... that he’d be okay.

Chapter Text

POV: Damien.

What the hell had I done?

Rage pounded inside me as cold water beat against the back of my neck, running down my body like it could somehow wash me clean. I’d been in the shower for over fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be.

I tried to piece together the night before, to stitch the memories together with logic, but everything was still a blur. Distorted fragments. I knew, with absolute certainty, it hadn’t been a dream. She had stayed. I had asked—begged—not to be left alone. I’d clung to her like a drowning man.

And worse: I’d hurt her. Even unconscious, my body had reacted as if she were a lifeline. I held her there. And she stayed.

She got hurt.

And instead of protecting her this morning, like I should have, like I always should—I acted like a lunatic. I ordered her to lift her shirt. I saw the bruises. And even horrified… something inside me—something I’ve tried to kill— liked what it saw.

The nausea twisted through me.

Lúcia was just a girl. Twenty-three. Brilliant, brave, resilient. In the past few months, I’d watched her grow. She learned to deal with blood, with screaming, with death. And still, she smiled. She sat with me at lunch. Waited until I finished eating to tell me everything she had discovered.

Then came the night. The exhaustion. The collapse. And her body so close. So warm and soft. Too real.

Was it loneliness? Desperation? Instinct?

I don’t know.

All I know is that, for one moment, when I saw those marks—I knew I had made them. And instead of backing away, I touched them. Guilt-ridden, yes. But I touched. Then I felt like a teenager who shouldn’t be allowed near a woman. I was hard as a damn rock.

The horror of having crossed a line without even noticing made me duck my head fully under the water. I let it cover my ears, my eyes, everything. I wanted the world to disappear for just one second.

Lúcia didn’t deserve to be in that room. Not last night, not this morning, not ever. She didn’t deserve to see the kind of man I could be, if pushed too far.

I forced myself to shift my thoughts back to the case, which needed my attention, urgently. But first, I had to do something important.

I turned off the water and listened, gauging if things had calmed down outside.

I stepped out, grabbed a towel, and dried off quickly. I put on a backup suit from the cabinet. My movements were mechanical as I made a call, quick and clipped.

Then I combed my hair—though I couldn’t muster the focus to do it properly.

Lúcia was sitting in her chair, waiting for me. Her eyes had been filled with concern since she saw me this morning.

With nowhere to run, I chose the easiest option: send her home.

I walked over to her.

“Thank you for everything, Miss Anselin. For all the stress, for staying awake, for dealing with me in that state. For that, I’m giving you three days of paid leave. If you need it, there’s a therapist available through our network.”

She looked stunned. A shadow of pain crossed her face.

“Is this serious? I’ve never disrespected you, Mr. Rossi. I’ve never raised my voice. But in this situation, I can’t stay quiet. Do you see what happens when you carry everything alone? You had a breakdown! And now you want to go right back to handling it all yourself?”

“I’m not asking you to accept it, Anselin. Just follow your superior’s orders and go home. Lucca Montez is coming to cover for you. He cut his trip short by a day.”

As I waited for her to protest, Leda burst through the door with a loud bang. She entered briskly, a stack of papers in one hand and her phone still active in the other.

“Morning. The police found him.”

“Found who exactly?” Lúcia asked, turning to me in alarm.

''Xavier de Linnons. The man who slaughtered those women. The police found him in an abandoned shack near the mountain access road. Dehydrated, filthy… but unfortunately, alive.''

I straightened my posture. Lúcia's eyes mirrored mine—we were thinking the same thing.

“And the girl, Analyst Plens?”

Leda hesitated.

“Still listed as missing. He won’t talk. Keeps repeating nonsense. He was caught and transferred to Barcelona—they said the case was officially handed over yesterday. But so far, no useful confession. No clue where the girl is.”

I let out a long breath. Finding him solved only part of the problem. I had authorized the transfer to Barcelona yesterday afternoon. But we still didn’t have the girl. The insanity defense loomed. The prosecutorial mistake. And most importantly—the trial, which now sat squarely on my shoulders.

“And the press, Leda? Are they all swarming outside?”

''No, sir. They’re in Barcelona, waiting for the suspect to leave the precinct. Just a couple of stragglers left at the main entrance.''

One less issue to deal with.

''The press conference is postponed. But the chief prosecutor wants a full report. And Lucca… he’s on his way. Should be here in about ninety minutes.''

I nodded and turned to Lúcia. She stood frozen, lost in thought.

“Leda, walk her to the door. Don’t let any of those vultures near her. And you, Miss Anselin—take a rest. Don’t go chasing trouble.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

I knew deep down she wanted to argue. But I wasn’t changing my mind. Leda gently ushered her out as I watched them leave.

Anselin was a mess. I had never seen her so disheveled—hair tangled, clothes wrinkled, her face drawn. That wasn’t her. I wouldn’t let it be. I liked her bright, sweet. With that blonde hair brushing across the desk, her blouses neat and delicate on her body. That was Anselin.

I let her go, turning back to the disaster of my office. The timeline mural was covered in scribbles. Papers everywhere. Folders thrown like a storm had passed through.

Only her desk remained tidy. Organized reports. Medical files. Everything in order.

Before anything else, I tried to get the room in shape.

An hour and a half passed. It looked better—presentable, at least. More updates came in from Barcelona. Martin was in and out with supplemental files nonstop.

I was reviewing a prescription history for antipsychotic meds when Lucca Montez strolled in—laid-back as ever.

His pale skin was sunburned like a damn shrimp. Blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, tan face, relaxed as hell. Exactly what we needed.

“Is it just me, or was this place completely flipped upside down for once?” he said, scanning the half-tidied chaos.

“How was the honeymoon, Coordinator Montez?”

“Not bad. Though I didn’t expect my post-vacation gift to be a triple homicide and a missing girl. But hey—the star has arrived.” He slapped a file on the desk. “Ready to save the world in three business days.”

I rubbed my eyes and turned to him, leaning on the desk.

''The media’s eating us alive, but Leda managed to hold them off. Internal Affairs wants answers about the case dismissal from four months ago. And the Chief Prosecutor sent a not-so-subtle note: ‘weak decisions erode public trust.’ We’ve got less than two working days''.

“Charming, as ever.” Lucca said, pulling out Anselin’s chair to sit.

“And our friend Xavier? His name’s far too ridiculous for a serial killer.”

I sat back down, grabbing the latest medical report.

“He’s still in Barcelona. Not making sense. Preliminary evaluation shows signs of mental disorganization, but nothing conclusive yet. He can’t even sit through a polygraph.”

Lucca flipped through files.

“His ex-wife and daughter, are they safe?”

''Yes. She gave her statement. I’d already issued a search warrant for her home. All the psych reports and medical files are here. We need to focus on securing the conviction and identifying who screwed up while the police focus on finding the girl.''

“If this guy’s declared insane again, they’ll crucify us. They’ll say the prosecution turned a blind eye. That we ignored his sister, his mother, the child…”

“And would they be wrong?” Lucca asked, bluntly.

“I wasn’t the one who closed the case. But now our names are on the broadcast.”

“They always are. You know that better than anyone.”

Lucca skimmed the main file, pacing.

''The Ministry wants a full technical assessment by tomorrow night,” he said, running his fingers down the page like he could pull hidden truths from it. “Mental capacity, background, medical inconsistencies, systemic failures. All of it. But no noise.''

“That’s standard. The cleaner the report, the better for them,” I said, already knowing the drill.

Lucca gave a low whistle.

“Which means they’ll shape the findings to match the outcome they want. If he’s ruled mentally unfit... the public’s going to riot. We’re talking protests. Civil unrest. It’s madness that we have to move faster than the police this time. What’s your first move, Rossi?”

“We’ve got one day until the investigators’ report. Grab your folder. We’re heading to the precinct in Santiago de Compostela—Barcelona. Let’s take a look at the suspect ourselves.”

Lucca grinned, already reaching for his bag.

“The cops are gonna love seeing you” he said, nudging my shoulder. “Today’s gonna be a very fun day. By the way... your face looks worse than usual. Is it because you sent the doll away?”

“It’s because I had to call you,” I said, shooting him a dry smile.

“Prosecutor, you know what? I still have a free night at the hotel I stayed in…”

“Don’t mess with me.”