On a typical morning of urban fervor, the busy avenue was cut by a black SUV, sliding fast like a ghost among the living. Its interior was a microcosm of tension: the driver, with the expressiveness of a spy in stealth mode, focused on the road, while by his side, a security guard, whose stature and beard made him look like a walking fortress, remained alert. In the back seat, a man of Asian features, small and thin, was enclosed by his formal suit and the imposing presence of two other security guards. The silence inside the vehicle was so intense that it became almost a living entity, a specter of discomfort hovering in the air.
Suddenly, normality was broken by a solitary figure in the middle of the street. The tires of the cars sang against the asphalt, a chorus of rubber and smoke as they tried to avoid the inevitable encounter with the stranger. The orchestra of horns that followed was a mixture of confusion and irritation, a chain reaction that paralyzed the traffic.
The people who walked on the sidewalk, initially curious, soon understood the meaning of that abrupt interruption. In a world where danger lurks in every corner, a masked figure standing in front of a tide of metal was not a good omen. The instinct of self-preservation overcame curiosity, and many began to move away quickly from the place, leaving behind only those whose thirst for adrenaline or viral content kept them firm, with cell phones raised as modern shields.
The man at the center of all this agitation, dressed in a black overcoat that gave him an air of mystery, remained motionless. His black mask hid any expression that could give clues of his intentions. The morning breeze played with his black hair, adding a theatrical touch to the already dramatic scene.
The scene unfolded with the tension of a violin string about to break. The sound of the horns filled the air, but the masked man, a statue of calmness and coldness, did not let himself be disturbed. Inside, the Chinese businessman, whose survival instinct shone brighter than the city lights, realized that he was about to become the protagonist of a nightmare. Urgently, he ordered the driver: "Get me out of here!"
In an almost instinctive reflex, the driver maneuvered the armored SUV with the skill of a getaway driver, engaging the reverse and accelerating. The collision with the vehicle behind them was so abrupt that it looked like a scene taken from an action movie, where physics is just a suggestion. After getting some space, he turned the steering wheel and entered the opposite lane, a desperate decision for an escape route.
However, the celebration of the escape was premature. Like a ghost, the masked man reappeared in front of them, materializing with the naturalness with which night succeeds day. Faced with the frantic order of the Chinese to "Run him over!", the driver did not hesitate, stepping hard on the accelerator.
But then, with a gesture that defied reality, the masked man raised his arm and, with a downward movement, invoked the impossible. The SUV was split in half with the precision of a surgical scalpel, the metallic sound of the cut vibrating in the air like the final note of a macabre symphony. The vehicle, now in two unequal halves, continued its fatalistic advance, a cruel reminder of the futility of their escape attempt.
Elegant in his evasion, the masked man just took a step to the side, dodging with the ease of someone who dances between the drops of a storm. The SUV, finally finding its destiny against a pillar, had its two halves tragically separated, like a couple divided by fate.
The roar of the collision reverberated through the streets like a thunder announcing storm. The masked man, protagonist of a scene worthy of the most dramatic thrillers, advanced towards what remained of the SUV, his steps echoing on the asphalt with the authority of a judge walking to the bench of sentences. Approaching the vehicle, now divided into a grotesque imitation of itself, he treated the rear door as someone who discards a piece of paper, tearing it off with the ease with which one tears a sheet from a notebook and throwing it into the air.
As he inspected the interior of the car, the scene that unfolded was a macabre painting. The Chinese, once whole, now found himself divided by a final line as definitive as the cut of a guillotine. The driver, immortalized in a last embrace with the broken glass, and the security guard next to him, maybe dead, maybe unconscious — at that moment, the distinction mattered little.
However, a thread of life still persisted: a security guard in the back seats, alive, but unconscious and wounded, a mere supporting actor in the tragedy that unfolded.
But this macabre pause was abruptly interrupted by the sound of sirens and something else — a sharp buzzing tearing the sky, a promise of imminent complications. "I've reached the limit, huh?" muttered the masked man, his frustration palpable in the breeze that swept the crime scene.
"Send me back," he commanded to the void, hoping for a divine or technological intervention that would pull him out of there. However, the silence that followed was only broken by the growing roar in the sky, now more menacing than ever.
Anxiety made him start marking time with impatient beats of his foot, a nervous dance with fate. But, when the threatening sound was almost over him, his body began to dissolve into blue pixels, a dematerialization worthy of a final scene of a video game. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, leaving behind only chaos, unanswered questions and the distant echo of sirens and buzzing.
While the silence that followed the disappearance of the masked man still hovered over the scene, the sky, a tranquil mantle over the city, was abruptly violated by a purple figure that descended with the fury of a storm about to erupt. Upon hitting the asphalt, the impact was so violent that the earth seemed to tremble, a huge crater emerging as if the ground itself surrendered to the force of that arrival.
As the dust and shock settled, a purple aura began to fade slowly, revealing little by little the figure of a man whose presence was as imposing as the mystery that surrounded him. With hair as black as night and eyes that shone with the splendor of a purple twilight, he rose from the rubble, revealing a well-built musculature, wearing casual clothes that somehow, could not disguise the power that emanated from every fiber of his being.
Some brave souls, armed only with curiosity and their cell phones, remained there, witnesses of the murder that had occurred. Amid the tension that dissipated slowly, a voice rose, seeking to capture the attention of that enigmatic being. "Michael del Ferraro! Say hi to the camera." But the name, pronounced with the expectation of a child on Christmas morning, found only the vacuum of his indifference. The flashes of the cameras were lost in his aura, like stars swallowed by a black hole.
Without letting himself be distracted by the frenzy around him, he cast an evaluative look over the scene before him. The destruction of the SUV, the body split in half, everything whispered the signature of an extraordinary event, a work orchestrated by skillful and ruthless hands. "Was the author of this a high court assassin?" The question, asked more to himself than to any spectator, carried a mixture of irritation and disdain. "Do they think they can do whatever they want?"
With a sigh, seeking within himself the calmness in the face of the chaos that unfolded, he prepared to leave. The ground under his feet barely had time to mourn the loss of his touch before he shot up again into the sky, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions.
---
In the setting of a white room that looked like it had come straight out of a luxury decoration catalog, Alva was immersed in the parallel universe of her cell phone, wearing her pajamas of combat against the morning boredom. Nivea, her sister, was delivered to the arms of Morpheus in the bed next to her, oblivious to the digital magic that began to unfold in the space between them.
As if someone had pressed the 'start' button on a cosmic console, blue pixels, reminiscent of the glory days of Atari, began to dance in the air in front of Alva. She, in turn, demonstrated the tranquility of a monk in meditation, perhaps because she believed that nothing in her timeline could be more fascinating than the spectacle forming before her eyes.
The pixels, in a choreography worthy of a drunk programmer, slowly intertwined, forming the outline of a man. Colors and textures merged until, voilà, Dean materialized, as if he were the latest update of a highly anticipated game.
"Damn, did you have to teleport me like that?" Dean grumbled, clearly more disturbed by the trip than by finding Alva in her natural morning habitat. He adjusted his clothes, trying to recover some of the dignity lost in the pixelization process. "Do you know what it's like to have your body turning into pixels of a cheap video game from the 80s?" Dean's irritation could not hide the humorous tone, as if, deep down, he found some amusement in his own misfortune.
Alva, finally diverting her gaze from her cell phone, faced Dean with the expression of someone who had just discovered a new filter for stories. "Actually, no," she replied, with a sincerity that bordered on sarcasm, "but I imagine it's a new definition of 'time travel'."
Dean, in a mixture of frustration and perplexity, let out a "Huh?" that echoed through the room as a sign of his momentary disorientation. "Ah… Forget it," he muttered, his hand scratching his head in an attempt to ease the irritation he felt, perhaps by the pixelated trip or by Alva's apparent indifference.
"I've already taken care of that rich Chinese guy," he announced, hoping that this news would elicit some kind of reaction from Alva. However, the only sound that filled the room was the imaginary "cri-cri-cri" of the crickets, a silence so eloquent that Dean could swear he heard them for real. Alva remained immersed in her own world, ignoring him completely, without even granting him the comfort of a look.
"Hey, aren't you going to say anything? Did you know that I could have died today if you had taken any longer?" Dean's frustration bubbled like a volcano about to erupt, but the lava that spewed was purely of sarcasm and a slight resentment.
Alva, finally motivated to drop her cell phone, faced Dean with a look that mixed provocation with a pinch of condescension. "Do you want a compliment, puppy? I'll give you a compliment, okay?" The way she got up and started to stroke Dean's head was both a gesture of affection and a torture, especially when accompanied by her words: "Congratulations for being a good dog, okay?"
The vein popping on Dean's forehead was the only visible indicator of the storm that was forming inside him. "This woman…" he thought, fervently trying to decide if that was a compliment or a disguised insult.
"Listen here, I want a vacation, a month," Dean muttered, the frustration weaving every word as Alva continued to stroke his head, a gesture that mixed comfort and provocation. She, with a smile that brought more questions than answers, and her eyes closed in a sign of finality, replied: "Request denied."
"What? Why?" The incredulity in Dean's voice was palpable, a clear sign that he was not used to having his wishes so readily discarded.
"Because no." Alva's answer came quick and firm, an insurmountable wall built with only two words.
Dean, looking for some way to maintain his sanity in the midst of this emotional tug-of-war, breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to find a balance point. "Calm down, Dean, calm down… Inner peace…" he murmured to himself, his eyes closed, searching in the depths of his mind for an oasis of calm. After a moment of reflection, he made a new proposal, his voice tinged with hope: "If you won't give me a month, I need a day off, just one."
"Does my puppy want a day to walk?" Alva, now with a hint of curiosity in her voice, seemed genuinely intrigued by Dean's persistence.
Dean, seeking refuge in the depths of his almost exhausted patience, murmured "inner peace" once more, like a mantra. He then corrected Alva with a touch of dignity: "My name is Dean, Dean Carleone, not puppy."
Alva's confusion was almost palpable, her head tilted in a gesture that bordered on theatrical. "Your name is puppy," she insisted, as if that were the most indisputable truth of the universe.
"It's not!" Dean was quickly losing the battle for calmness, each exchange with Alva pushing him closer to the edge of his tolerance.
"Puppy." Alva, clearly having fun with the game of provocations, threw the word back at him, a spark of humor shining in her eyes.
Dean snorted, the irritation bubbling inside him like a volcano about to erupt. At that moment, the difference between the two could not be more evident, Dean looking like a child in front of Alva's unshakable authority.
"Listen, I don't care what you're going to call me, I'm just asking for a day off, can you do that for me?" Dean's voice carried the weight of exhaustion, a simple request that sought only a breath, a pause in the constant battle of wills between them.
"Hmmm," Alva let out, a sound that hung in the balance between concession and contemplation. At that decisive moment, her hand stopped stroking Dean's head, marking the end of a chapter of provocations and the beginning of something new. "I'll give you a day, but with only one condition."
Dean's interest was immediately sharpened, a glint of hope lighting up his eyes as he inquired, "What condition?"
With a smile that carried secrets and promises, Alva pointed to Nivea, the image of serenity sleeping in the bed. Her white hair spread over the pillow, a peaceful contrast with the chaos of the negotiation in progress. "I want you to take her with you," Alva revealed.
This unexpected condition made Dean raise his eyebrows in surprise, a mixture of perplexity and resignation crossing his expression. "What did I do to deserve this?" he wondered, not knowing whether to interpret the demand as a punishment or a challenge disguised as an opportunity.
"Your dear sister hates me," Dean stated, waving his arm in a way that he clearly thought was convincing. "Why do you want me to take her with me? You don't even know where I'm going!"
Alva's answer was delivered with a smile that could light up a room, but that, in context, only served to sharpen Dean's irritation even more. "I don't know where you're going, I don't care and I'm angry at whoever knows," she retorted, making it clear that the destination of Dean's journey was of less importance to her than the condition she imposed. As she sat down again, her casual posture contrasted sharply with the gravity of her words. "This is the condition, if you can't fulfill it, you'll be without your so dreamed and glorious: one day off."
Dean, for a moment, stood there, digesting Alva's words, before having a flash of understanding. "You… You just want me to take her to have peace, right?" The accusation was tinged with a mixture of resignation and cunning, finally recognizing Alva's game.
"Quiet, I just want her to keep an eye on you. What kind of owner would I be, if I didn't care about the safety of my dog?" The comparison, delivered with a casual shrug of Alva's shoulders, was loaded with a sour humor that left Dean speechless. The idea of being watched by Nivea, as if he were incapable of taking care of himself, added a layer of comedy to the situation that Dean found less amusing than Alva clearly considered.
At this impasse, Dean found himself faced with a choice: to accept Alva's conditions and embark on an adventure that promised to be as unpredictable as Nivea's personality, or to refuse and lose the opportunity of a much-needed day off. In the midst of this decision, the dynamic between the three revealed itself to be full of nuances, a game of power and personalities where each one sought, in their own way, to find a balance between desire and duty.
Finally giving in to the inevitable, Dean let out a heavy sigh, a sound that carried the resignation of someone who had just realized that there was no escape. "Okay, I'll take her with me," he agreed, his words wrapped in a reluctant acceptance of what fate had in store for him.
Alva's smile in response shone with the satisfaction of someone who had just won a well-played match. Getting up, she announced her intention to refresh herself with a shower, leaving Dean with a promise of more instructions to follow. "I'm going to take a shower now, so wait here, I have to give you your next mission."
"Another one? Already?" Dean couldn't hide his dismay. The missions seemed to follow one another with the inevitability of the waves of the sea, each bringing its own set of challenges and dilemmas.
"Yes, but this time it will be lighter, you will only need to be a bodyguard, okay?" Alva threw over her shoulder as she walked away, her voice echoing from the hallway to the bathroom. The door closed behind her, temporarily sealing Dean's fate in a silence that left little room for protests.
"Inner peace…" Dean murmured to himself, trying to cling to the calmness in the midst of the storm of responsibilities that seemed to grow with every moment. "Working as a CLT is already horrible, imagine now working for someone without getting anything."
His gaze shifted to Nivea, who slept peacefully, a vivid contrast with the whirlwind of thoughts that plagued Dean. She looked like an angel in repose, but Dean knew very well that appearances deceive. "I'll have to pray that she doesn't get angry with me for some reason and doesn't end up killing me, 'Accidentally on purpose,'" he thought, foreseeing the challenges that would come when trying to navigate Nivea's volatile temperament.