4:30.
BOOM!
The first explosion tore through the silence.
Mateo jolted awake before the second blast rattled the windows of his room. Outside, the eastern sky glowed red—not from dawn, but from fire.
He was already on his feet, already reaching for the pistol under his pillow, already sprinting to the window before his mind fully registered what was happening. In the distance, three kilometers from the palace, a towering plume of black smoke rose into the air. Directly toward the Korps headquarters.
The phone on his desk rang. He grabbed it.
"Master!" His aide's voice was frantic. "Attack! The Korps headquarters were hit by bombs! Two trucks exploded at the entrance! We—"
BOOM!
A second sound cut him off. Another explosion, closer this time. Mateo turned to another window—westward. The main market. Flames were beginning to lick the sky.
He pressed down on the phone cradle, then dialed again. Felix's secure line.
"Report!"
Heavy breathing on the other end. "I'm here... headquarters is half-destroyed. Twelve of my men dead, thirty wounded. The market was hit too—three explosions, probably homemade bombs."
"Perpetrators?"
"Don't know yet. But—" Felix paused. In the background, people were shouting, sirens wailing. "—at the headquarters blast site, there's something. A banner. 'This is for Valverde.'"
Mateo closed his eyes.
"Evacuate the casualties. Secure the area. Don't let any journalists in before our teams arrive." He was already moving to his closet, grabbing his uniform. "I'm on my way."
***
5:13. Korps Headquarters Blast Site.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with blood. Concrete fragments littered the street. Cars parked along the curb had been transformed into hollowed-out metal shells. On the sidewalk, a body lay under a tarp—one foot still protruding, wearing a Korps uniform boot.
Felix stood amidst the debris, his face ashen. Beside him stood Cruz, his left arm bandaged from shrapnel wounds.
They both turned as Mateo stepped out of his vehicle.
"Fourteen dead," Felix reported without preamble. "Thirty-two wounded. Two are still critical."
Mateo walked through the rubble, stopping before a red banner hanging from the building's fence. Crudely painted letters screamed their message: THIS IS FOR VALVERDE. THIS IS FOR THE FAMILIES OF THE CORRUPT OFFICIALS YOU TORTURED.
"Where did this come from?"
"The market was hit too. Three explosions. Sixteen civilians dead, including children." Felix exhaled heavily. "They didn't just want to kill soldiers. They wanted to terrify the people."
Cruz added, "My team has been tracking the trail. The two trucks used—stolen last night from a businessman's warehouse. The businessman? Julián Montero. City council member. On our wanted list."
Mateo fixed his gaze on him. "He financed this?"
"Either that, or he was coerced. But the trucks, the money, the evidence—" Cruz handed over a folder that was damp from water—fire hoses were still spraying in the background. "—our special team found this in the ruins. A notebook. Records of money transfers to the Valverde group. Montero's signature."
Mateo opened the folder. Page after page. Numbers. Dates. Names. José Machete—already dead. But other names too. Customs officials already detained. The judge executed yesterday.
He closed the folder. "This is what we need. This can be used..."
Felix looked at him. "What do you mean, sir?"
Mateo turned and walked back toward his vehicle. Before getting in, he looked over his shoulder.
"Gather the journalists. Ten o'clock this morning at the plaza."
***
10:07. Plaza de la República.
The weather was scorching. But thousands had already gathered since dawn. They came because of the explosions. Because of fear. Because they needed to know.
A makeshift stage had been erected in the center of the plaza. Behind it hung a new banner: TERROR WILL NOT VICTORY OVER JUSTICE.
Mateo ascended the stage alone. No father, no ministers. Just him, in a black suit, his face an expressionless mask. In his hand, a thick brown folder.
The crowd fell silent. Hundreds of eyes stared at the fifteen-year-old boy who was said to be making many of the nation's decisions.
He wasted no time.
"You saw what happened a few hours ago."
His voice boomed from the loudspeakers, echoing across the silent plaza.
"Fourteen soldiers dead. Sixteen civilians, including children, dead at the market. Thirty-four wounded. The hospitals are full as we speak."
The crowd remained frozen. A woman in the front row began to cry.
"And the perpetrators?" Mateo raised the folder. "Not enemies from outside. Not the rebels you've heard about in Valverde. These are insiders. Traitorous officials. Rotting corruptors. The very traitors we've been protecting all along."
He opened the folder. Read a single name.
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"Julián Montero. Member of the Caraccass City Council. Arrested three days ago on corruption charges. But before his arrest, he had already arranged this. The trucks, the bombs, the money. All from the proceeds of his corruption."
The crowd erupted. Some shouted curses. A bottle was hurled toward the stage—it fell short.
Mateo raised his hand. They fell silent.
"Here is the proof." He pulled out documents. "Money transfers to the Valverde group, with Montero's signature. Testimony from two of his men we captured last night." He read quickly, flatly, as if reporting the weather. "Montero paid them to attack the Korps headquarters and the market. His objective: create chaos, make the people afraid, then blame the government."
A journalist from La Voz shouted, "Is that evidence authentic?"
Mateo stared at him. "Come to the Korps office and see for yourself. The signatures, the photos, everything."
The journalist fell silent. From the crowd, a middle-aged man bellowed, "EXECUTE HIM!"
Others joined in. "EXECUTE HIM! EXECUTE HIM!"
Mateo waited until the noise subsided.
"You want them punished?"
Another roar. "EXECUTE THEM!"
He nodded. "Tomorrow! Nine in the morning. Right here."
The plaza exploded into chaos.
***
La Voz del Pueblo
Page 1: PHOTO—Plaza packed, Mateo on stage with raised folder.
BLOODY TERROR: CORRUPTOR BOMBS MARKET, 30 DEAD
By: Dona Esperanza
This morning, Caraccass City awoke to plumes of smoke. Not from factories, but from explosions. Sixteen civilians died at the main market—mothers out shopping, children accompanying their parents, merchants opening their stalls. Fourteen soldiers fell at their headquarters.
The government acted swiftly. Within hours, evidence was released: this was no random attack. It was a meticulously planned operation by Julián Montero, a city council member detained three days ago on corruption charges.
Money transfers, testimony from his underlings, trucks from his company—all of it points directly at him.
We at La Voz have never supported the death penalty. But today, writing this, our hands tremble. Not from fear. But from rage.
Sixteen civilians. Fourteen soldiers. Thirty-four wounded. Children who should have been in school this morning are now in the morgue.
Tomorrow, they will be tried. Tomorrow, they may die. And for the first time, we will not shed a tear for corrupt officials.
El Sol Nacional
Page 1: PHOTO—Soldiers evacuating victims, smoke in the background.
TRAITORS PROVEN GUILTY! CORRUPTOR NETWORK BEHIND THE TERROR!
By: Editorial
This morning's terror has opened all our eyes. Julián Montero, the city council member in his expensive suits, turned out to be the mastermind behind the massacre. Money stolen from the people he used to buy bombs, hire thugs, kill soldiers and civilians.
Fortunately, the government moved swiftly. Within hours, the evidence was uncovered. Arrests, interrogations, confrontations—all recorded, all available to the press.
Tomorrow, a military tribunal. Tomorrow, the verdict. Tomorrow, justice.
The people spoke at the plaza this morning. One voice: EXECUTE THEM!
We fully support this.
El Independiente
Page 1: PHOTO—Site of explosion, a victim's shoe still lying there.
TERROR AND VENGEANCE: THE DEATH PENALTY DILEMMA
By: Editorial
Sixteen civilians dead. Fourteen soldiers fallen. The perpetrators: corrupt officials who used the people's money to murder the people.
There is no doubt: Julián Montero and his network are guilty. The evidence released by the government—transfers, testimonies, documents—is sufficient to convict them in any court.
But tomorrow, a military tribunal. Tomorrow, the death sentence. Tomorrow, a public execution.
We ask: can justice that is rushed still be called justice? Is a death sentence carried out before thousands of enraged onlookers a verdict, or is it vengeance?
We do not defend Montero. Let him rot in prison. But we defend a principle: every human being, even the worst, deserves a fair trial, appeals, and time.
Tomorrow will set a precedent. Tomorrow will determine whether we are a nation of laws or a nation of rage.
***
18:00. Isolation Cell, Bull Island.
Julián Montero sat on the concrete floor. His hands trembled. He already knew from the guards—tomorrow morning, at the plaza, before thousands.
He wept, not from fear of death. But because he remembered his child. His youngest son, five years old, who had celebrated a birthday yesterday—and he couldn't be there. Tomorrow, he would never come home at all.
The iron door opened.
Cruz entered, his face expressionless. In his hand, a brown envelope.
"This is from your family."
Montero accepted it with shaking hands. Photos—his son, his wife, in a park. They were smiling. They didn't know.
"Tell them... tell them I'm sorry."
Cruz was silent. Then he spoke. "They've already received compensation. A new house. Free schooling for your son. But—" he paused. "—you won't see them again."
The door closed. Montero clutched the photos, weeping like a child.
***
Day Six, 8:30. Plaza de la República.
A hundred thousand people packed the plaza. They had come since dawn. Some brought children, some brought folding chairs, some brought packed lunches. Like watching a circus.
On the stage stood three chairs. In those chairs sat three men. Julián Montero in the middle. The other two—his accomplices, his co-conspirators, also involved in the terror.
Orange prison uniforms. Hands cuffed. Faces deathly pale.
Before them, a general read the indictment. His voice was loud, echoing across the square.
"...guilty of corruption charges, financing acts of terror, murder of thirty civilians and soldiers, treason against the state..."
Montero wasn't listening. His eyes searched the crowd, looking for his son and wife.
They weren't there. The government had already "protected" them in a secure location. He would never see them again.
The general finished reading. He turned toward the tribune where the President sat.
Ricardo Guerrero rose to his feet. A single nod.
The general turned back. His voice cut through the crowd.
"By the authority of the military tribunal and the state's emergency laws, the defendants are sentenced to: DEATH! IMMEDIATE EXECUTION."
The crowd erupted. Cheers. Applause. A woman in the front row wept—not from sorrow, but from satisfaction.
The three men were led to the execution area. Not posts—simple wooden chairs. Behind them, three firing squads. Nine men total. Neat uniforms. Rifles at the ready.
Montero fell to his knees. Not because he was forced—his legs simply gave out. Two soldiers hauled him up and bound him to the chair.
He stared at the crowd. Thousands of faces. Angry, satisfied, bloodthirsty. No one showed pity.
The blindfold was placed. Darkness... he felt the cold of metal at the back of his neck—no, it was just the wind.
The general raised his hand.
"For the justice of the people of the Republic of Venez..."
Montero remembered his son. His smile. Yesterday's birthday. A cake with five candles.
"FIRE!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three bodies jerked. Blood sprayed, soaking the wooden chairs, flowing onto the plaza ground. The crowd roared. Cheers. Some fainted. Some wept with emotion.
The general walked to the microphone.
"This is justice! This is a warning! To anyone who dares to commit corruption, who dares to murder the people, who dares to betray the state—this is your end!"
More cheers. Louder. Longer.
In a corner of the plaza, a man in a low hat scribbled something in a small notebook. Then he smiled.
"They think this is victory," he whispered to Felipe. "But this is only the beginning."
***
The Sun Palace.
Mateo sat in his room. He wasn't looking outside, wasn't reading reports. Just sitting, staring at the wall. Isabella's watch ticked away in his grasp.
The door opened. Isabella entered, her face pale.
"Did you... did you see?"
Mateo nodded.
Isabella sat beside him. A long silence. Then she spoke. "I went to the plaza earlier."
Mateo turned to look at her.
"I wanted to see for myself. Whether this was truly justice, or a slaughter." Her breath trembled. "I saw the blood, Mateo. Fresh blood, flowing onto the ground. I heard the satisfied screams. I saw a woman faint from sheer excitement."
Mateo remained silent.
"And I don't know how to feel. Because they were evil. They killed people. But—" Tears fell from her eyes. "—they were still human."
Mateo reached for her hand. His grip was firm.
"I know."
"Will this ever end?"
"No." His voice was soft. "This is only the first act."
Isabella stared at him. Then, quietly, "Can you still sleep?"
Mateo didn't answer. But the watch in his hand kept ticking. Second by second. Time marched on. And outside, the city of Caraccass cheered for death.
***
A Hilltop Villa, Outside the City.
The old man set down his newspaper. The front page: a photo of three chairs drenched in blood.
He smiled. Not a satisfied smile. An odd smile, like someone who had just won a chess match.
"Felipe."
The young man approached.
"Our people in Valverde. Tell them to prepare. We'll give them another surprise. But this time—" he tapped the photograph. "—let them savor their victory first. Let them grow complacent."
Felipe nodded. "How long, sir?"
The old man gazed out the window. The evening sky was orange. Beautiful.
"Not long. Let them busy themselves with celebration first."
He picked up his tea. Took a sip. It was cold, but he didn't mind.
"The game has only just begun, Felipe. Only just begun..."
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