The afternoon light was turning golden in Carlos's office, filtering through the window and illuminating the papers scattered across the large wooden desk. The air was heavy with the smell of ink, old paper, and an administrative tension that seemed more stifling than any battle. Carlos was sitting, elbows on the desk, listening to the report from the Minister of Economy, Aqua, whose slender fingers traced columns of numbers in a large ledger.

  "In total, President," Aqua was saying, her voice maintaining its usual soft and precise tone, "the Republic's population is estimated at twenty-three thousand souls."

  Fernanda, the Minister of Labor, seated beside her, leaned forward.

  "Of that total," she interjected, her tone practical and contrasting with Aqua's formality, "about half still reside and work outside the Tatu Mocambo, mainly on the farms."

  Aqua shot a brief, slightly irritated glance at Fernanda—a silent dispute over who presented the most relevant data—but didn't interrupt her. Carlos observed the exchange with resigned weariness. Don't tell me they're are growing tired of each other...

  He picked up one of the sheets, his eyes scanning the numbers that seemed to dance before him. A deep concern furrowed his brow.

  "And those who left?" he asked, not looking up from the paper. "How many followed Ganga Zala?"

  Aqua flipped through some pages of her ledger until she found the right section. Her index finger ran down a column.

  "From our own mocambo, only three," she informed, with a hint of relief. "Elderly, fearful of the rumors of war. As for the other mocambos..." She made a small pause, choosing her words. "Our estimate is about seven thousand people. Since they weren't under our direct jurisdiction before, we didn't have detailed records. Of those, about three hundred were road workers."

  Carlos let out a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of that division. He looked up, staring into the void beyond the window.

  "It wasn't as catastrophic as it could have been," he murmured, more to himself.

  Fernanda, however, didn't let the observation hang in the air. A half-smile, laden with irony and exhaustion, appeared on her lips.

  "Catastrophic for you, perhaps, President," she said, her tone firm but not disrespectful. "For my ministry, it was a deluge. We had to process the arrival of thousands of people at once. Housing, work assignment, family registration... The line in front of the immigration office literally stretched to the end of the main street. We need more staff. Urgently."

  Aqua, seeing the opening, seized the moment to add her own burden.

  "And it's not just the Ministry of Labor," she said, closing the ledger with a soft thud. "I've had to recalculate the entire payroll, incorporating these new citizens and now, the army's salaries. On top of that, the volume of imports and exports we need to account for, with the Popess and other small merchants..." She shook her head, and for the first time, Carlos saw a crack in her perfect composure. "The human resources we have are insufficient for the nation we're trying to build."

  Carlos brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples where a throbbing pain was beginning to announce itself. The weight of decisions, logistics, building a state from scratch, was sometimes more oppressive than the threat of an army.

  "I understand," he said, his voice sounding hoarse for the first time in the meeting. "I understand it's been a superhuman burden for everyone. But I can't manufacture literate, trained people out of thin air. Minister Quixotina is finalizing the elementary school exams. Those who pass will have a chance to work with us. It's the only sustainable way to grow."

  Almost in unison, both Aqua and Fernanda leaned forward, their faces marked by the same urgent frustration.

  "President, with all due respect, we can't wait," Aqua began.

  "The exams will take weeks to administer and grade, and the problems are now!" Fernanda finished, her voice a notch higher.

  Carlos was about to respond, trying to calm the waters with an argument about long-term planning, when a sound cut through the air.

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  It wasn't a common boom. It was something different. A sharp, dry CRACK, like a giant tree splitting in half, followed immediately by a muffled, deep roar that made the office windowpanes tremble slightly. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through the concrete floor.

  All three were frozen for a split second. The sound came from the east.

  "From the industrial zone!" Carlos shouted, rising so fast that his chair fell back with a thud. He ran to the window, his eyes frantically scanning the horizon, where a different cloud was beginning to rise—not the thick black smoke of coal, but a greyish-yellow cloud with sinister reflections.

  In the corner of the room, Shadow was already moving. His eyes, for an instant, gleamed with the calculating coldness of a hunter scenting prey. Enemies again in the heart of the mocambo? Unacceptable!

  "Understood," he growled, and his dark form detached from the shadow of the corner, crossed the room, and disappeared down the hallway in a fluid, silent movement that was more like a glide.

  Shadow arrived at the industrial zone like an extension of the anxiety gripping the place. His senses, attuned to violence, sought signs of combat: weapons, enemy formations, shouts of order. Instead, he found a different chaos.

  The smell was the first indicator that something was terribly wrong. It wasn't gunpowder, nor fresh blood. It was a chemical, corrosive odor that scratched the throat and made eyes water. A smell of things being dissolved that shouldn't be.

  The chemical factory, a simpler concrete structure, didn't have blown-out walls. But from its open door, whitish-yellow smoke rolled out, heavy, moving slowly like a sick fluid. People were running away, coughing, some clutching their faces or arms, with expressions of panic and confused pain.

  Gas! thought Shadow. His hand went to his dagger's hilt. He surged forward, not fleeing the smoke, but plunging into its edge, seeking the epicenter.

  The interior was a vision of silent torment. The smoke was denser near a central workbench, where a large, thick glass container had cracked, leaking a clear, steaming liquid onto the wood, which sizzled and darkened. There were no enemy warriors. There were only victims.

  Two bodies were on the floor near the workbench.

  An older woman (Dona Marta) was on her knees, clutching her right arm. The skin, where the acidic mist had touched it, was red, with horrible, whitish blisters already forming. She wept soundlessly, her face contorted into a mask of shock and agony.]

  A strong man (Raimundo) was a little further away, lying on his back. He breathed in short, ragged gasps, each inhalation a wet, horrible wheeze. His wide eyes, full of incomprehensible terror, stared at the ceiling. He tried to get up, but only managed to spit up a pink, frothy liquid.

  Two other workers further back, less affected, tried to help but were driven back by coughing and the burning in their eyes.

  Shadow's initial fury—the urge to find an enemy to fight—evaporated, replaced by a cold, practical urgency. This wasn't an attack. It was an accident. A horrible accident.

  "You!" Shadow's voice cut through the air, pointing at one of the less affected workers, who held a damp cloth to his face. "Clean air! Now! Pull them out!"

  Without waiting, Shadow acted. Breathing as little as possible, he approached Raimundo. The man's lung wheeze was the sound of death. Inhalation poisoning. Shadow wasn't a doctor, but he knew injuries. He grabbed the strong man by the shoulders—feeling his muscles clenched in spasms of pain—and dragged him back, away from the steaming puddle and the denser smoke. Each pull was followed by the distressing sound of Raimundo's breathing.

  Next, he went to Dona Marta. She recoiled, frightened by the dark, impersonal figure.

  "My arm... it burns so much..." she moaned.

  "Out of here first," Shadow ordered, his voice a command, not comfort. He helped her up and guided her to the exit, his touch firm but avoiding the burned areas.

  Once outside, in the relative safety of the open air, still carrying the smell but not the lethal concentration, Shadow assessed the scene. A small crowd of the curious and concerned was beginning to form, keeping their distance.

  He saw a perimeter guard, drawn by the commotion, running towards him, spear in hand.

  "You!" Shadow pointed at the guard. "An accident occurred. These two are poisoned. Take them to the hospital. Now. Top priority. Use a cart if you have to. Don't let them stop breathing."

  The guard, recognizing the authority in the voice of the President's living shadow, nodded quickly. "Yes, sir Shadow!"

  Within seconds, he and another man who volunteered placed Raimundo, who was now almost unconscious, on an improvised stretcher. Dona Marta, in shock, was helped to walk.

  Shadow didn't accompany them. He stayed behind, standing on the border between the clean air and the chemical hell leaking from the factory. His eyes scanned the scene again, now with the correct perspective. The broken container. The fallen drum beside it with a red and brown burn stain on its side. Another drum, further away, with a band of red paint intact around its lid.

  He looked at his own hands, clean, and then at the hands of the victims being carried away—one burned, the other stained with the pink liquid from his own lungs.

  Shadow went to speak with the Minister of the Chemical Industry to see what had happened.