Víctor was mid-swing, the stick raised again, his face twisted with rage, when the room filled with shouting. “Police! On the ground—now!” Chaos erupted. Helena screamed. Nora dropped her phone, fumbling to shut it off with hands that suddenly shook too late. Raúl shouted excuses, words tripping over each other in panic. Alex said he didn’t hear any of it. All he saw was me—on the kitchen floor, curled around my stomach, blood on my leg, my face swollen, eyes half-open. He told me later he’d never known rage like that.
Víctor tried to argue. He tried to call it a “family matter.” The police didn’t listen. They took him down hard. Handcuffs snapped shut. The sound of them closing felt like a door locking behind me—a different kind of slam, one that meant something was finally ending.