The morning mist over the capital Caraccass draped the tile roofs in a damp, gray blanket.

  From the palace’s enclosed balcony, the city looked like a faded watercolor painting—vague, silent, full of things hidden beneath layers of moisture.

  But I knew that silence was a lie.

  Suddenly, from the direction of the harbor district, a fiery orange bloom erupted, followed by a delayed rumble that reached my ears two seconds later.

  Black smoke began to billow, staining the morning mist. The third explosion this morning. Or the fourth? I’d lost count.

  Mendez had consolidated his power with terrifying speed. The rebel attack on the palace that night—which had nearly cost us our lives—had become the perfect legitimacy for him.

  On the radio, in the newspapers that now only echoed the government’s voice, the narrative was clear: "The nation is on the brink of collapse by anarchist terrorists. Only Colonel Mendez’s iron fist can save us."

  Father, de jure, was still called the "Supreme Leader resting to focus on strategic thinking."

  Nonsense. Everyone knew Mendez was the de facto ruler. Orders came from his headquarters. Soldiers were loyal to the flag and to whoever paid them—and Mendez held the state treasury.

  Sitting on the wicker chair on the balcony, I counted down in my mind. If Mendez needed three weeks to secure the capital after the internal coup against Father, then with this new legitimacy...

  He might only need ten more days to clean up the last of Father’s loyalists in the provinces. Fifteen days to fully control the media. A month, perhaps, to hold an "election" or "referendum" cementing him as president.

  Running the plan using Coco was impossible; it would take too long. We didn’t have a month. We might not even have two weeks.

  Because once Mendez was completely secure, once all external and internal threats were eliminated, what use was keeping the former leader’s family? We would turn from propaganda assets into liabilities.

  A tragic accident. A sudden illness. Or perhaps "kidnapped by remaining rebels" and found dead.

  The morning wind carried the distant smell of smoke and the sour scent of the sea. I took a deep breath. The decision had been ripening in my head since the night we were held hostage, since I saw Mendez’s calculating eyes as he looked at me on the ceiling.

  We could no longer wait. We could no longer play it safe.

  We had to bring down Mendez before he became too powerful to topple.

  And for that, perhaps it was time I stopped pretending entirely to be a "somewhat clever" eleven-year-old.

  Mother already knew. Mother Rosa had seen enough. Captain Rios and the underground network—they needed sharp thinking, not role-play.

  Perhaps, by revealing my true strangeness, I could give us an advantage.

  "You'll catch a cold sitting out here."

  Isabella's voice broke my concentration. She stood in the balcony doorway, holding two cups of tea. Her face was still pale from that night, but there was a new firmness in her eyes—like steel forged in fire.

  Even though she was clever, it was unsettling to see her forced to mature by circumstance; it reminded me of memories from another life.

  "Better cold air than the smell of gunpowder," I replied, accepting the cup. Chamomile tea. Its gentle aroma clashed with the smell of the burning city.

  She sat in the chair next to mine, watching the plume of smoke in the distance. "They're getting bolder."

  "Or more desperate. Javier lost two men in the attack here. He needs to show strength to his followers. Attacking in broad daylight, at the harbor—that's a message. 'We're still here. We can still hurt you.'"

  "And Mendez responds with more patrols, more arrests." Isabella sipped her tea. "A vicious cycle."

  "Yes. And in the middle of it, we're trapped." I turned the cup in my hands. "Sis, I have a question. What's more dangerous: being known as a threat, or being underestimated?"

  She looked at me, her brow furrowed. "You're thinking something strange."

  Isabella was silent for a long time.

  BOOM!

  The sound of another explosion, farther away, echoed. "What are you planning?"

  "I don't have a full plan yet. But I have... components. Information. And possibilities." I lowered my voice. "We need allies on the outside. Javier's rebels are the only organized force directly fighting Mendez."

  "You want to cooperate with terrorists?"

  "They're not terrorists to some people. They are rebels. And in politics, the enemy of your enemy—"

  "Father wouldn't approve."

  "Father isn't here. And Father might be dead if we don't act." The words were harsh, but necessary. "We have to make decisions with the information we have now. And that information says: Mendez is an immediate threat. Javier is a potential threat. We have to choose which is more dangerous today."

  Isabella closed her eyes. Below us, in the palace garden, a new squad of guards marched—darker uniforms, newer rifles. Mendez's special forces. They moved like machines, expressionless.

  "Are you going to talk to Mother Rosa?" she finally asked.

  "And through her, to the network. But the message must be clearer now. No more metaphors or codes. Just concrete plans."

  "And if they don't believe you? If they think you're just an imaginative child?"

  I gave a thin, humorless smile. "Then we'll die because they underestimated us. But at least we tried."

  ***

  Tomas pressed his body against the warm brick wall—warm from the morning sun, not from gunfire. But that could change at any moment.

  He was a corporal in the 7th Infantry Battalion, the "Guardians of Caraccass." Three months ago, he was proud of his uniform. Now, it felt like a shroud.

  Across the street, among piles of goods in the deserted fish market, something moved. Tomas didn't raise his rifle—a dull Mauser 1893 with the bayonet folded.

  He gestured with his hand to his men, two young men whose faces showed more fear than militancy.

  "Left. Behind the basket," he whispered.

  They both nodded, lips trembling. One of them, Pablo, should have been helping his father on the farm. The other, Rico, was a butcher before the emergency conscription.

  This wasn't war. This was a rat hunt. And sometimes, the rats bit.

  Last week, his cousin in another unit was shot in the neck while checking an empty house. Not by an armed rebel, but by an old man with a revolver—the father of someone "handled" during Mendez's initial purge.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The old man was then shot dead by twenty bullets.

  "Corporal?" Pablo whispered. "Do we—"

  "Wait."

  Tomas watched. The movement again. Then, a face—thin, dirty, wide eyes. Not a fighter. A child. Maybe fourteen. In his hands, not a rifle, but a can.

  Gasoline.

  "The kid has a molotov," Tomas muttered.

  Rico raised his rifle. "Take him out?"

  Tomas stared at the boy. The boy looked toward them, eyes full of a hatred that shouldn't have been on a face so young. Then the boy ran, leaving the can.

  "Don't," Tomas said. "He's running."

  But Rico had already pulled the trigger.

  Bang!

  The sound was louder than Tomas remembered. The Mauser kicked against Rico's shoulder. The boy across the street stopped, sat down, then fell forward. No scream. Just a twitch, then stillness.

  Tomas cursed. "Are you insane? He was running!"

  "Orders: neutralize all threats," Rico said, but his voice wavered. His eyes were fixed on the small body in the distance.

  "A threat? He was just a kid with a gas can!" Tomas stood, nausea rising. "Pablo, hold position. I'll check."

  He crossed quickly, rifle ready, though he knew it was pointless. The boy was on his back now, eyes open, staring at the sky turning a dirty blue between the smoke. His small chest had a hole, blood pooling on the cobblestones.

  Tomas crouched. In the boy's pocket, he found a torn piece of paper. A crude drawing of a building (the palace?), crossed out, with writing: "Mendez Murderer."

  Primitive propaganda. Not a military plan. Just poorly expressed anger.

  "Find anything?" Rico yelled from across.

  "Collateral damage," Tomas replied, his voice flat. He folded the paper, put it in his own pocket. Then he closed the boy's eyes with a rough hand.

  When he returned to the position, Pablo's face was pale. "He's... dead?"

  "Yes." Tomas looked at Rico. "You didn't need to shoot."

  "Orders—"

  "I know the orders!" Tomas shouted, then lowered his voice. Other troops might hear. "But we're not machines. We're still human. Or we were."

  Rico looked down. "Sorry, Corporal."

  Tomas didn't answer. He stared at the deserted fish market. The stench of rotten fish mixed with filth and fear. In the distance, a siren wailed. Maybe another explosion. Maybe just a patrol.

  He remembered his oath—to protect the people and the nation. Which nation was he protecting now? The one led by Mendez? The one whose people he killed for carrying a gas can and a crude drawing?

  His mind went back to a night in the barracks, when a mid-level officer—not from his unit—had whispered doubts.

  "Guerrero might be an idealist, but at least he doesn't shoot children." Then that officer was transferred. Gone.

  Tomas felt the paper in his pocket like a hot coal. The drawing. The message. Mendez Murderer.

  Maybe it was true. Maybe they had all become murderers.

  "Corporal," Pablo said suddenly, his voice trembling. "Something approaching. From the north."

  Tomas raised his rifle again. "Ready."

  But what came was not a rebel or a kid with a molotov. It was an army truck, with the emblem of Mendez's special unit on its side. It stopped. A sergeant jumped down.

  "Corporal! Report!"

  "District secure, Sergeant. One... hostile element neutralized."

  The sergeant, a sharp-faced man with a neat mustache, glanced toward the boy's body. "Good. Continue patrol. This area will be cleaned up." He didn't ask about age or weapons. Didn't care.

  "Question, Sergeant," Tomas said before the sergeant could climb back up. "Any news about... General Guerrero? His health?"

  The sergeant looked at him, eyes narrowing. "The General is under care. Just focus on your duty, Corporal. Keep the streets clean." Then he climbed up, and the truck drove off with a diesel roar.

  "Clean," Tomas muttered. That was the word they used now. Clean the streets. Clean the district. Clean the disruptive elements.

  Like cleaning up trash. Like that boy.

  He looked at Rico and Pablo. They were just sixteen-year-olds themselves, even if they held rifles. They looked at him, seeking certainty, direction, meaning in all this.

  Tomas had nothing to give. Only orders and a deepening nausea.

  "We continue patrol," he said, his voice hollow. "Watch windows and rooftops. And... look carefully before you shoot."

  They nodded, relieved at least to have orders to follow.

  Tomas led them into a narrow alley, away from the boy's body. But the image of the boy's empty eyes staring at the sky haunted him.

  And the paper in his pocket carried a message he was beginning to understand all too clearly.

  ***

  That night, in the palace, I met Mother Rosa in the small kitchen she usually used for making special teas. The room was warm and fragrant with spices—cinnamon, cloves, something warm and soothing.

  She was grinding something with a mortar and pestle. She didn't look up when I entered.

  "Young Master should be sleeping. It's late."

  "I need to talk. Directly. Without codes."

  She stopped grinding, then turned. Her eyes, in the lamplight, looked old and very tired. "Directly about what?"

  "About overthrowing Mendez. And about time running out."

  Mother Rosa let out a sigh, then sat on a wooden stool. "Speak."

  I sat across from her. "Mendez is now the de facto ruler. Every day he consolidates power. Father's loyalists are arrested, silenced, or bought off. Javier's rebels are growing more radical, giving Mendez more reason to be repressive. In two weeks, maybe less, Mendez will feel secure enough to get rid of us. Or turn us into completely controlled showpieces."

  "And your proposal?"

  "We must trigger internal conflict within the military. We must provide an alternative to those who doubt—soldiers like Lieutenant Vargas guarding Father, or troops on the streets tired of killing civilians. We need a symbol that there is a way other than Mendez or chaos."

  "That symbol is your father. And he's locked up."

  "Not just Father. Us." I looked at her. "The Guerrero family. Victims from both sides. But we must be active, not passive. We need to send a message—to the army, to the rebels, to the people—that Mendez is not the only option."

  Mother Rosa observed me for a long time. "You speak like a strategist. Not an eleven-year-old."

  "I'm not an eleven-year-old. Not entirely." I took a breath. "You already know. And now, I'm telling you because we need to work together without pretense. I have memories, knowledge from... another place. Another time. I've seen patterns like this. And I know how they usually end if no one changes the course."

  She wasn't shocked. Just nodded slowly. "I see. The way you look at the world... too mature. Too sad." She paused. "So, what do you see in this 'pattern'?"

  "That dictators like Mendez rely on fear and a common enemy. He needs rebels like Javier to make people afraid. But if those rebels can be steered—not stopped, but steered—to hit Mendez's weak points, not random symbols, then we can weaken both."

  "You want us to manipulate the rebels?"

  "We want them to be an effective distraction. Right now, they attack markets, harbors, police posts. That angers ordinary people and strengthens Mendez's narrative. But if they attack... Mendez's personal assets. The logistics warehouses of his special troops. His internal communication lines. Or even, if possible, his intelligence headquarters."

  Mother Rosa let out a low whistle. "That requires deep information. High-level intelligence."

  "Which we have. Or can get." I leaned closer. "You and your network. You know troop movements. You know schedules. You know which lieutenants are bored and which sergeants are hesitant. We compile that information. Then we send it—through secure channels—to Javier."

  "And why would he listen to us?"

  "Because we will give him the victories he wants. Not symbolic victories like storming the palace, but real victories that weaken his enemy. And because..." I paused, choosing my words. "...we will offer something in return."

  "What?"

  "Access to Father. Or at least, a message from Father. A promise that if Mendez falls, there will be a place for them at the negotiating table. Not the elimination of the system, but reform."

  Mother Rosa laughed, her voice hoarse. "You think like a cunning old politician."

  "We don't have the luxury to think like heroes," I replied. "We only have the choice between dying with dignity or living dirty. I choose to live. And hope to clean up later."

  A long silence.

  Outside, the sound of a patrol passed, boots clattering on stone.

  "I will convey this to Captain Rios," Mother Rosa said finally. "But he may not believe the idea came from a child."

  "Just say it came from 'someone who understands patterns.' He'll understand. Or not. But we must try."

  Mother Rosa stood, returning to the mortar and pestle. "There's one problem. Our channel to the rebels... it's not direct. And it takes time."

  "We have a week. Maybe less." I also stood up. "Starting tomorrow, I want to learn. Full palace blueprints. Latest internal patrol schedules. Names of officers currently on duty. Everything you have."

  "What for?"

  "To know our own vulnerabilities. And to plan the next move if all this fails."

  Mother Rosa nodded. "I will bring those documents. But you must promise one thing."

  "What?"

  "Don't tell Eleanor. Let her remain... the Eleanor we know. This world has already taken too much innocence. Don't take hers."

  I felt something catch in my throat. "I promise."

  ***

  Back in my room, I stood at the window. The city was quieter tonight. Just one distant explosion, maybe in the hills. But the quiet was more eerie than gunfire.

  My thoughts circled on the soldier the network was watching—Tomas, or whatever his name was.

  People like him were the key. Those who carried rifles, who saw blood, who were starting to ask questions. If we could reach them, if we could give them a reason to defect...

  But that required a symbol stronger than words. It required action.

  I gazed at the faint stars between the smoke. In my previous life I survived bullet rains and artillery, but I died because I didn't see the truck coming. Passive. Too engrossed in my own thoughts.

  Not anymore.

  Now I see the danger clearly. And I've decided not just to avoid it, but to change its course—even if it means standing in the middle of the road and shouting, even if the risk is great.

  Tomorrow, I will truly begin to work. No longer as a child playing at the edges, but as a fully aware participant in this deadly game.

  And if the world will see me as a monster or an anomaly for it, so be it.

  Because sometimes, to protect a garden, the gardener must get down and pull the weeds by hand—even if his hands get dirty, and even if some innocent wildflowers get uprooted too.

  That is the price to be paid. And I, with old memories in this young body, am finally ready to pay it.

  From below, Coco's voice sounded, imitating a patrol commander's shout: "All clear! All clear!"

  I gave a thin smile.

  No, Coco. Nothing is clear.

  But perhaps, it's precisely in the chaos that we can find our path.

  And tomorrow, we will start digging that path—with colder calculation, with deliberate courage, and with the full acceptance that we might fail.

  But we will try. That's the only thing left.

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