“Holy—Diego Mendoza,” he whispered. “The article from two years ago. He died in an accident at National Bank.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Santiago said, voice wavering. “It was negligence. The company hired the cheapest contractor for electrical work. There was a short circuit while my dad tested the system. He died instantly.”
Elena sank to the floor, sobbing.
“After he died, they denied responsibility,” Santiago continued. “Said my dad broke safety protocols. They took his pension. Evicted us. My mom, who had been a teacher, had to quit to take care of me.”
“And now she scrubs toilets,” Leonardo said quietly—all mockery gone.
“Now she scrubs toilets for men who refuse to see her,” Santiago confirmed. “Men who never asked her name, never cared she was raising me alone while working three jobs, never knew she once taught literature.”
The picture shifted. Elena was no longer “the cleaning lady,” but a whole human being crushed by the system they profited from.
“My dad taught me everything about safes,” Santiago said, refocusing on the vault. “We spent hours taking apart locks, studying algorithms. That was our time together.”
He rested both hands on the panel.