The documents piled up on the mahogany desk like an insurmountable wall, each folder containing numbers that needed verification, reports that required signatures, and decisions that demanded to be made. The paper never ended.

  Mateo opened the thirteenth folder of the morning. Gunpowder Factory Production Report: Sixteenth Week. His eyes swept across the columns of figures with a speed that would make most people dizzy. 340 tons of gunpowder. 12,000 bullet casings. 800 hand grenades. Production increased by 7% from last month. Efficiency—

  Something cold and wet touched his wrist.

  Mateo turned his head. A pair of amber eyes stared back at him with an expression that could only be described as defiant. Fantasma—Eleanor's mischievous gray cat—sat perched atop a stack of documents to his left, one paw still reaching toward his hand.

  "Naughty cat, don't disturb me." His voice came out flat.

  Fantasma meowed. Loudly. Protractedly. With the unmistakable tone of I'm hungry and you need to feed me now.

  "I'm working."

  Fantasma meowed again. This time while rubbing his head against the document pile, sending several sheets sliding sideways.

  Mateo drew a long breath. Fifteen seconds. He gave himself fifteen seconds to evict the cat without damaging any documents. Carefully—very carefully—he reached out, attempting to lift Fantasma.

  The cat dodged with feline agility, leaping onto the stack of documents to his right. Now he sat atop The Bridge Project Financial Report – Second Quarter. His tail twitched, flicking dust into the air.

  "Fantasma."

  Those amber eyes met his again. Then, with the graceful deliberation that only cats possess, Fantasma sprawled himself across the document, covering half the page with his furry gray body.

  "He likes paper."

  Mateo turned. Isabella stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smile she couldn't quite hide. She was already dressed—a simple light gray dress, her hair neatly tied back, a small bag slung over her shoulder.

  "Since when?" Mateo asked.

  "Since he saw you reading documents all the time. Maybe he's jealous." Isabella stepped inside, reaching out to stroke Fantasma. The cat purred loudly, pressing his head against her palm. "Or maybe he knows you need a break."

  "I don't need—"

  "You've been at it all morning. How many documents have you read already?"

  Mateo opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn't counted. But his back was beginning to ache, and his eyes—his eyes felt slightly irritated, perhaps from lack of sleep, perhaps from staring at numbers for too long.

  "His timing is strange," he muttered finally.

  "Cats are strange." Isabella lifted Fantasma, placing him on the floor. The cat protested with a small grunt, then—with great dignity—stalked out of the room, his tail erect like a question mark. "You need to come with me."

  "Come with you?"

  "Mother's charity foundation. A fundraising event for the children's hospital." She looked at him. "You promised, remember? Three days ago in the garden."

  Mateo remembered.

  Now the documents still waited. The gunpowder factory, the financial reports, the decisions that needed making. But outside the window, the sun was shining, and Isabella stood before him with a smile that said I won't take no for an answer.

  "Where's the event?" he asked, setting down his pen.

  "A multipurpose building in the northern district. Near the city park." Isabella walked toward him, picking up one document from the pile—the topmost report—and scanning it briefly. "You know, if you keep this up, you'll turn into a document yourself. Dry, dusty, and no one wants to pet you."

  "I'm not a cat."

  "No. But you need lunch and fresh air. And maybe—" she glanced at his clothes, a simple white shirt already somewhat wrinkled at the sleeves, "—a change of clothes."

  Mateo looked down. His shirt... yes, it was time for a change. But he didn't have time to—

  Isabella was already pulling at his arm. "Come on, Mother's ready. The car's waiting."

  For the first time in a long while, Mateo found himself without an argument.

  ***

  The Multipurpose Building, Northern District

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  The building wasn't grand—a two-story structure with white-painted brick walls, a small grassy front yard, and white tents set up on the side lawn. No palace, no government building. An... ordinary place.

  Mateo stepped out of the car, straightening his gray suit—a compromise between formal and casual, as Isabella had instructed. His mother, Sofia Guerrero, had already alighted and was being greeted by several middle-aged women in colorful dresses with wide smiles.

  "Mateo!" Sofia waved, beckoning him closer. "Come here, let me introduce you to Mother's friends."

  Mother's friends. Mateo already knew what that meant. Wealthy women with expensive jewelry, businessmen husbands who owed favors to the government, and those fake smiles trying to appear sincere.

  He walked over. Smiled. Shook hands. Nodded at names he would forget within five minutes.

  "This is Mateo, my son." Sofia introduced him proudly. "He's very busy, so he rarely gets to join events like this."

  "Oh, of course, Madam First Lady!" a woman with pearls the size of marbles exclaimed. "Such an outstanding young man! We've heard nothing but good things about the reforms he's implementing."

  "Thank you," Mateo said, his voice even. Polite enough, warm enough, inoffensive enough.

  Isabella appeared at his side, rescuing him. "Sorry, Mother, I need Mateo for a moment. There's something I want to show him."

  She pulled him away from the cluster of women, past the white tents, toward a quieter area beside the building.

  "Thanks," Mateo murmured.

  "You're welcome. I know you hate that part." Isabella pointed toward the row of booths set up on the lawn. "Look. This is the interesting part. Each booth represents one of the foundation's programs. Orphaned children, school scholarships, mobile health clinics, and—" she pointed to the largest booth, decorated with colorful balloons, "—the children's hospital. The one we're building."

  Mateo observed. At each booth, volunteers—mostly young women, a few men—explained programs to visitors. Some booths were crowded, some quiet. But what caught his attention wasn't the booths themselves.

  Children. On the lawn, dozens of children ran about. Some played tag, some sat on mats drawing with crayons, some queued at the snack stand. They laughed, shrieked, cried.

  "We have special activities for the children," Isabella explained. "That way, their mothers can chat peacefully while donating." She smiled. "Mother says when children are happy, parents are more generous."

  A clever strategy. Mateo nodded, acknowledging it.

  They walked along the row of booths. Isabella explained each program with enthusiasm—her hands moving, her eyes sparkling. This was a side of Isabella he rarely saw: not the critical older sister, not the president's vigilant daughter, but someone who genuinely cared about what she was doing.

  "This booth is for scholarships," she said, pointing to a table stacked with brochures. "Children from poor families can attend school for free through high school. We have 1,200 recipients this year."

  "How's the selection process?"

  "A dedicated team. They interview the families, check living conditions, make sure it's truly the needy who receive help." Isabella looked at him. "Not like some government programs that sometimes miss their targets."

  Mateo didn't defend himself. He knew it was true.

  They stopped at the children's hospital booth. Here, a young woman—perhaps twenty-five, in a white shirt with her hair tied back—was explaining the building plans to visitors. Behind her, a large poster displayed an illustration of a three-story hospital with a rooftop garden.

  "This will be the children's ward," Isabella said, pointing to a section of the blueprint. "There's a playroom, a small library, and rooms with bright colors. Not all white like ordinary hospitals."

  "Colored rooms?"

  "Children are afraid of white. White feels... cold, like a hospital, like death." Isabella smiled faintly. "According to the child psychologist we consulted."

  Mateo studied the blueprint. Detailed. Every space considered, every corner designed. This wasn't some slapdash charity project. His mother and Isabella were serious about this.

  "Did you design it?"

  "An architectural team designed it. But I provided input." She looked at Mateo. "I want sick children not just to receive treatment, but to feel... safe. A little happy, even when they're not feeling well."

  Mateo didn't respond. But in his chest, something strange stirred again—the same feeling as three days ago in the garden, after the homecoming ceremony. A feeling he couldn't explain.

  A middle-aged woman approached Isabella, calling her away for something. Isabella apologized, promised to return, and left.

  Mateo found himself alone in the crowd.

  ***

  1:00 PM. Side Area of the Building.

  He walked without purpose, leaving the crowded booths behind, passing the snack tents, until he reached a quieter area beside the building. Here, the sounds of children playing reached him faintly, muffled by the rustling leaves of old trees lining the street.

  Park benches were arranged beneath the trees. Some were occupied by resting parents, some empty. In the distance, a group of children played with a colorful plastic ball.

  Mateo sat on an empty bench, letting his body relax. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground. A gentle breeze carried the scent of grass and a hint of food from the tents.

  Maybe Isabella was right. Maybe he needed this.

  But even as he thought it, his mind was already planning again. Tomorrow's schedule. The meeting with the finance minister. Reports from the factory—A cry.

  Not a playful cry. A cry of pain. The kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

  Mateo turned toward the sound. At the edge of the play area, beneath a large tree somewhat separated from the others, a girl sat alone on a bench. She might have been fifteen—around his age—with long black hair in a ponytail, a worn white shirt, and a dark long skirt. Her face was bowed, but her shoulders trembled.

  A second cry, more restrained this time, more like a sob breaking free.

  No adults nearby. No friends. Just her, alone, crying beneath the tree.

  Mateo stood. His steps—without his conscious awareness—began moving toward the girl.

  What was he doing? He didn't know her. He had no business here. But his legs kept moving, crossing the grass, approaching the bench beneath the tree.

  The girl didn't see him. Her face remained bowed, hands covering her eyes, shoulders shaking violently. Between her fingers, muffled crying escaped—sounds she tried to suppress but couldn't.

  Mateo stopped two meters from the bench. He didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to do. Throughout his life—in this life, in his previous one—he'd always had a plan. Always known the next step. But now, beneath this tree, with a crying girl before him, his mind was... blank.

  The girl finally heard his footsteps. Her face lifted—wet, red, eyes swollen. For a moment, they looked at each other. The girl didn't ask who he was. Mateo didn't introduce himself.

  Then the girl bowed her head again, her shoulders shaking harder, and her sobs broke free—no longer restrained crying, but unrestrained weeping, like someone who had held it in for too long.

  Mateo stepped forward. One step, two steps.

  Now he stood beside the bench, barely a meter from the crying girl.

  He opened his mouth. No sound came out.

  He closed his mouth. Opened it again.

  "You..." His voice came out hoarse, strange to his own ears. "You... why are you crying?"

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