IV. The Compound

​

He left again just after dawn, without telling his father. There was no need. 

 

The house had already gone silent in a new way—not the hush of sleep, but of surrender. 

 

His father didn’t rise. Didn’t move. Just lay behind the door like a man who had already buried something.

 

Nico stepped out quietly, carrying nothing. 

 

This time, the air was colder.

 

The trail curled into the hills, narrowing as it climbed. 

 

The town faded behind him—not just in distance, but in weight. Its sounds, its walls, its small rules and bargains—they all slipped away.

 

He moved as if pulled.

 

The compound appeared slowly, like a thing half-revealed. 

 

First the gate: tall, rusted, unmarked. 

Then the walls—low, worn concrete, lined with glass shards cemented along the top. 

 

Not to keep people out. 

To keep something in.

 

A man waited at the gate. No words. No gun. Just a nod. 

 

The gate opened. Nico entered.

 

Inside, it was quiet.

 

Too quiet.

 

No shouting. No trucks. No music. 

 

Just the sound of wind through dry grass, and the buzz of distant electricity. 

 

The buildings were low and square, made of pale brick and stained metal. Their edges were too clean—like the desert hadn’t been allowed to weather them.

 

Someone brought him water in a plain cup. 

Another handed him a folded towel. 

A woman showed him to a room.

 

Small. Clean. Cot, table, chair. 

A light that pulsed once every ten seconds. 

 

No lock on the door. 

No windows, either.

 

She left without speaking.

 

He sat on the cot. 

 

The room felt like the inside of a held breath.

 

A few minutes passed. 

Or maybe an hour. 

 

There was no clock.

 

Then the door opened again. 

 

A tray of food. Rice, beans, chicken. Still warm. 

 

Next to it: a phone. 

 

No cord. No label. Just a black screen. 

 

He didn’t touch it.

 

The light in the ceiling continued its pulse. 

 

Ten seconds on. Ten off. 

 

Nico lay back and watched it cycle until he lost track.

 

In the stillness, the stories returned. Not words. Images. 

 

The man with no tongue. 

The boots, still laced. 

Pedro Cortés, his spine broken like a toy. 

 

None of it had ever been confirmed. 

But none had ever been denied.

 

They lived in the town like ghosts—untouched, unchallenged. 

 

And now Nico was here, 

where those stories pointed.

​

​

Continue to Part V: The First Temptation

​

​

​