The location appeared on his phone: 847 Los Naranjos Street, Barrio San Miguel.
Lucas already knew what he would find—or thought he did. A cramped house. Excuses. Drama. He told himself this visit was about standards, not curiosity. He ignored the quiet tension tightening in his chest, the feeling he refused to name.
His black Mercedes moved seamlessly from glass towers to broken pavement. The city changed fast. Streets narrowed. Paint peeled. Children ran barefoot through cracked sidewalks. People stared at his car like it didn’t belong—and it didn’t.
When he stopped in front of a faded blue house, Lucas felt irritation flare. This was the place that thought it could waste his time.
He knocked sharply.
After a delay, the door opened.
Isabel Cruz stood there, wearing a stained apron, exhaustion etched deep into her face. She looked nothing like the silent woman who cleaned his office at night. Her eyes widened when she recognized him.
“Mr. Alvarez?” she whispered.
“I came to find out why my office has been neglected,” Lucas replied coolly.