On the Path of Eternal Strength.

Chapter 115: Chapter 113 Where the Team Is Born

The hologram did not turn off. It remained suspended in front of the Ring like a wound stopped in the air. The red lines marked the rupture. The white ones showed the ideal formation. The four luminous points remained frozen at the exact instant where the chain stopped being a chain and became four bodies trying to save a structure that had already died half a second earlier.

The sea struck beneath the platform.

There was no ARMEX over their bodies now. Only dry backup clothes from the institute, simple, dark, without plates, without cores, without energy lines that could hide what the error had left on them. Sebastián remained standing with his arms relaxed at his sides, but the stillness of his body had no rest. Virka observed the hologram without blinking, with that cold calm that did not mean absence of thought, but absolute concentration. Zaira had her lips pressed tight and her eyes fixed on the orange point that represented her own displacement out of the axis. Óscar looked less at the full fall and more at the intervals: the distances, the delays, the spaces where an order spoken late became useless even if it was correct.

Valentina remained in the safe zone, behind the barrier, with the backpack against her chest. Narka remained inside, reduced, silent. His golden eyes could not be seen from outside, but his attention weighed around the girl like a rock hidden beneath school fabric.

The instructor pointed at the hologram again.

—You did not fail here.

The red line over the magnetic rotation remained lit. Then he moved two fingers over the air. The image rewound several seconds. The points went backward: first the launch, then the broken chain, then the lateral pull, then the synchronized support plates, until stopping before the magnetic sector trapped their boots.

—You failed before.

No one answered.

The screen enlarged the right flank. Zaira’s orange point was marked with a faint red circle.

—Zaira. You entered the rotation with the axis open. Not too much. Enough. The previous lateral traction displaced you, and although you corrected, you kept an outward angle that forced the chain to be born crooked.

Zaira did not lower her gaze.

—I know.

—Knowing it afterward does not help inside the Ring —said the instructor—. You have to correct before the next mechanism collects the error.

There was no cruelty in the sentence. That was why it weighed more. Zaira breathed through her nose, once, and nodded. There was no possible excuse. The hologram showed her with too much precision for pride to lie to her.

The instructor changed the image. Óscar’s golden point lit up.

—Óscar. You read the correct solution. Chain. But the order arrived late.

Óscar tilted his head slightly.

—I saw it when the pattern activated.

—There you were already losing time —answered the instructor—. Your function is not to name the danger when it appears. It is to anticipate what type of danger may appear according to the previous sequence. If you wait for complete visual confirmation, you will arrive late again.

Óscar did not smile.

—Then I must read the intention of the Ring, not just the trap.

—Exactly.

The image changed to Sebastián’s red point. The line marked his arms: one holding Virka, the other extended toward the space where Zaira was already too far away.

—Sebastián. The point tried to hold the entire rupture.

Sebastián observed the image without expression.

—I did not reach.

—You did not have to reach.

The sentence remained suspended between the sound of the sea and the low hum of the projector.

—That was your error. You acted as if the formation depended on your body being able to hold everyone. In a rigid arrowhead, that seems logical. In a real team formation, it is a poorly distributed burden. If the structure needs one single body to hold everything, it is already broken.

Sebastián did not answer immediately. His crimson eyes remained on the hologram, on that hand extended toward an impossible distance. There was no anger on his face. Only a hard, slow acceptance, like stone heating from within.

—Then the point must not be the center —he said.

—The point marks direction —answered the instructor—. It does not absorb all errors.

Virka then looked at her own violet point. She did not wait to be named.

—I held only the left side.

The instructor observed her.

—And you held it well. That was also the limit. Your correction was stable, but closed. You kept Sebastián, not the formation. If the opposite flank breaks and you only preserve your link with the point, the group remains split.

Virka accepted the analysis without blinking.

—I should have read beyond my side.

—You should have felt where the whole was breaking, not only what you had held.

The word whole fell over them like a new rule. Until that moment, they had thought of formation as positions: point, flanks, rear. A simple geometry over a hostile track. The Ring had just shown them that geometry was not enough. A figure could look correct and be dead inside. It could advance with a good angle, good distance, good rhythm, and still fail at the instant when a force forced it to transform.

Valentina raised her voice a little from the barrier.

—Then you did not fall when the floor launched you.

The four turned toward her. The girl tightened the backpack, but did not step back.

—You fell before. When you were still running.

The instructor did not interrupt her. Óscar let out a low exhale.

—That was... quite precise.

Zaira looked at the hologram again. For the first time, the phrase seemed to enter in another way. Not as an accusation, but as a simple truth. The sea had not defeated them. The rotation had not either. The water had only received something that had already been coming broken.

Sebastián looked at Valentina.

—Yes —he said, with a dry voice, but low—. It was before.

Virka looked back at the instructor.

—Then the formation must change before breaking.

—Not change completely —said the instructor—. Adapt.

He touched the communicator again. The screen erased the fall and projected a new figure. At first it looked like another arrowhead: one front point, two lateral ones, one rear point. Then the lines began to move. The vertex remained forward, but the internal links changed. Sometimes the rear point approached the right flank. Sometimes a flank crossed tension toward the rear. Sometimes the point reduced its reach so the other two could close the bridge. The arrow did not disappear. It breathed.

—The first formation was rigid —said the instructor—. Useful for advancing. Insufficient for recovering. What you need is not to abandon the arrow. It is to turn it into a guiding arrow.

Óscar looked at the projection with more attention.

—A direction, not a cage.

—Correct. The point indicates where the unit advances. But the links change according to the threat. If the Ring separates by lateral traction, the opposite flank does not limit itself to preserving its side: it must project crossed support. If there is magnetic rotation, you do not wait for the disc to launch you. You prepare the chain at the instant when the ground fixes the boots. If a member enters badly positioned, the closest one corrects before the point tries to reach them.

The image showed a new sequence. Zaira was displaced by lateral traction. In the previous projection, Virka had returned her late and Sebastián had braked too much. In the new one, Zaira corrected half a step inward before reaching the magnetic sector; Óscar closed distance before the turn; Virka opened her link toward the center; Sebastián did not extend both arms as if he wanted to hold the world, but reduced his reach and maintained direction.

The chain was not born from Sebastián. It was born between everyone.

—In the rotation —continued the instructor—, Sebastián will not be the center of grip. He will be direction and frontal weight. Virka will serve as the primary link with the point. Óscar must not hook himself late to Zaira; he must approach before the magnetic fixation. Zaira must enter the disc with the axis corrected, not correct while spinning.

Zaira tightened her fingers.

—If I enter open again, I drag the rear.

—Yes.

—Then I must adjust before the sector, even if I lose acceleration.

—Exactly.

Óscar spoke afterward.

—And I must give the order before confirming the complete pattern.

—You must recognize the sequence. Not guess. Recognize.

Virka looked at the new figure.

—If the chain is born between everyone, the tension is distributed.

—And if it is distributed, no one tries to hold more than they can reach —said the instructor.

Sebastián understood the sentence without needing it repeated.

The instructor let the projection move once more. The guiding arrow advanced, compressed, opened links, closed bridges, returned to its main form and continued. It was not a beautiful formation. It was a living structure. Less perfect to the eye, more useful for surviving.

—The team is not four people obeying a figure —said the instructor—. It is a figure that changes without ceasing to be a single intention.

The silence that followed was not empty. It was work. Each one looked at a different part of the hologram. Zaira observed her axis. Óscar, the exact moment to anticipate the chain. Virka, the crossed links. Sebastián, the distance he should no longer try to cover alone.

From the barrier, Valentina lowered her gaze toward the backpack.

—Uncle Narka... now they won’t fall?

Narka’s answer came low, familiar, without promising what no one could promise.

—They can fall again, Valentina. But if they understand why, they will fall less uselessly.

Valentina frowned a little, as if she did not like that answer entirely, but even so she accepted it.

The instructor turned off the red lines of the fall. He left only the new formation suspended in the air.

—You will not repeat the lap yet —he said—. First you are going to learn this structure dry.

The four looked at him.

—Without ARMEX. Without speed. Without the Ring active. If you cannot form a correct chain while walking, you will not be able to do it while spinning under magnetic traction.

Óscar let out a brief breath.

—That sounds humiliating in a very educational way.

—Your opinion does not modify the instruction —said the instructor.

—I imagined.

Zaira was already taking a step toward the open space in front of the screen.

—Let’s start.

She did not say it with defiance. She said it with need. Virka advanced as well, silent. Sebastián followed her. Óscar placed himself behind them with a seriousness that made the absence of his smile stranger.

The holographic screen remained floating to one side, showing the guiding arrow. The Ring remained off behind them, still wet from the previous fall. The sea struck beneath with its immense patience. And there, in the open air, without ARMEX, without a race and without glory, the four began to practice something more difficult than resisting an obstacle: learning not to arrive late at the moment when another began to fall.

The instructor led them to an open extension of the external field, far from the immediate edge of the Ring.

It was not a rest area. The grass was cut with almost artificial precision, divided by faint lines that could barely be noticed under the afternoon light. To one side, the sea continued striking the hydraulic bases of the circular platform; to the other, the institute rose with its clean walls, its walkways and its cold windows. There were no visible traps there, no mobile plates, no magnetic discs. Only open space, saline wind and a surface too perfect to be innocent.

Sebastián, Virka, Zaira and Óscar stopped in front of the instructor. Valentina remained farther back, beside the safe zone extended for observers. She had the backpack hugged against her chest, and inside it Narka remained reduced, attentive, without intervening. The girl did not understand all the details of the formation, but she did understand something simple: the four had fallen because they had not managed to hold each other. That was enough for her to look at the grass with a different seriousness.

The instructor walked to the center of the area. With the tip of his boot, he pressed an almost invisible plate between the grass. The ground responded with a low click. A small rectangular hatch opened, lifting a section of artificial grass along with a hidden metallic base. From inside emerged a narrow support, and on it rested a short black rod, with a smooth surface, with dim blue lines around the handle.

The instructor took it.

The rod activated with a dry buzz. It was not a real combat weapon. It had no edge, nor enough weight to break bones, nor intention to kill. It was a correction tool. A training extension designed to mark failures without destroying the student. At the tip, a white light pulsed once and then remained stable.

The instructor walked several meters backward and traced a line over the grass with the rod. The grass lit up where the tip touched it, leaving a pale blue strip that crossed the field from side to side.

—The rule is simple —he said—. You must cross this line as a unit. It does not matter who arrives first if the others arrive broken. It does not matter that one dodges if another is left exposed. If I touch you with the rod, it is considered a rupture of formation.

Óscar looked at the distance between them and the line.

—And the discharge?

—Low-intensity neuromuscular marking —answered the instructor—. Partial and brief paralysis. No permanent damage. Enough to remember the error.

Zaira did not take her eyes off the rod.

—Then the objective is not to defeat you.

—The objective is to pass without me finding the gap.

The instructor placed himself behind the line. He did not adopt a striking posture. He did not lower his center of gravity too much. He did not raise the rod as a threat. He only waited, with that dry stillness that made it seem as if the entire field was already under his reading.

—Begin.

The first entry failed quickly.

Sebastián took the point by instinct. Virka and Zaira closed at the sides. Óscar positioned himself behind, trying to read the structure before the instructor moved. During the first steps, the formation seemed correct. They advanced without ARMEX, without exaggerated speed, forced to feel the real weight of the body and the exact distance of each arm. But the instructor did not attack strength. He attacked the interval.

He moved toward the right flank. Zaira adjusted to cover him, half a step open, enough to prevent him from entering head-on. The instructor did not insist. He changed angle, let her believe she had closed well, and touched her side with the tip of the rod.

The discharge was brief. Zaira tensed her body. Her right arm went numb from shoulder to fingers, and for two seconds her hand did not obey completely. She did not fall. She did not scream. She only clenched her jaw while the electric sensation dissipated beneath her skin.

—You opened the flank before confirming crossed support —said the instructor—. Failure.

They repeated.

This time Zaira did not open as much. Virka read the lateral intention better and adjusted from the opposite side. Sebastián reduced the point so the formation would not stretch. Óscar managed to mark a correction.

—Right closure.

The word arrived well, but the instructor had already changed target. He did not seek Zaira. He entered through the minimal space between Sebastián and Virka, a slit that did not seem enough for a body, but enough for the rod. He touched Sebastián’s left forearm.

The white light pulsed.

Sebastián felt the discharge like an internal pressure, almost a rough breeze passing beneath the skin. His indomitable body did not lose strength. His arm did not bend, his expression did not change, he did not step back. But the instructor did not need to knock him down to mark the failure.

—The point allowed an opening because it tried to reduce and protect at the same time —he said—. If it performs two functions, it fails at both.

Sebastián looked at his own forearm for an instant. Then he got back into position.

The third attempt lasted longer.

Óscar began to anticipate better. He did not wait for the instructor to enter completely; he read the shoulder, the angle of the foot, the way the rod lowered before rising. He gave short orders. Virka closed where she had to. Zaira did not fight alone against the advance. Sebastián stopped trying to cover every gap. The formation breathed better.

For the first time, they crossed half the route.

Then the instructor disappeared from the direct line. Not by impossible speed, but by reading. He moved backward, forcing them to stretch to reach him. The arrow wanted to lengthen. Óscar noticed it.

—Do not chase.

The order arrived late for himself.

When closing the space, he was left half a step separated from the group. The instructor spun on his own axis and touched Óscar’s leg with the rod.

The effect was more evident. His knee locked. The leg lost response for a full second, and Óscar had to support one hand on the grass to keep from falling sideways. He let out a dry breath, more annoyed by the failed calculation than by the pain.

—Disconnected rear —said the instructor—. If you read the formation from behind, you cannot remain outside it.

Óscar looked up from the ground.

—Yes. I felt that with quite a lot of clarity.

—Stand up.

Óscar stood up.

There was no long pause. The afternoon began to move forward over them.

What followed was not a clean series of attempts, but a methodical wearing down. The instructor touched them again and again, always in different places, always where the formation believed it was least exposed. Zaira on the wrist when she compensated too soon. Virka on the shoulder when she held Sebastián but did not read the opposite side. Óscar in the ribs when a correct instruction was born one second late. Sebastián in the chest when the point again carried tension that should have been distributed.

Each discharge said something.

In Sebastián, it barely left a mark, a minimal pulse absorbed by a body that had learned to endure worse things. In Virka, it produced a dry tingling, a brief interruption of movement, enough to make her feel that even her instinct could be cut if she did not see the whole. In Zaira, the touch numbed specific muscles, turning off for moments the precision she had trained so much. In Óscar, the partial paralysis forced him to recognize that his mind could arrive before his body, and that, inside a formation, was also a failure.

But failing so many times began to change something.

At first, each one corrected from their nature. Sebastián reduced strength. Virka closed angles. Zaira adjusted posture. Óscar spoke. Afterward, they stopped correcting alone. Zaira began to enter half a step toward the center before Virka had to cover her. Virka began to open support toward the opposite flank without abandoning Sebastián. Óscar stopped describing everything and began to give shorter orders, almost strikes of voice. Sebastián learned to hold direction without trying to become a wall for everyone.

The arrow stopped looking like a figure drawn over the grass. It began to change.

Sometimes it compressed, with the four closer together, like a closed point. Sometimes it barely opened, letting the flanks breathe without losing connection. Sometimes Óscar advanced half a step to become a bridge of reading, and then returned to the rear. Sometimes Sebastián yielded the tension to the sides instead of absorbing it. It was not perfect. They still arrived late. They still left gaps. The instructor still found spaces where the rod entered with almost cruel precision.

But each failure was less clumsy than the previous one.

The instructor noticed it too. He did not say it. He only stopped touching so quickly. That weighed more than any praise.

Valentina observed from afar with her hands on the backpack. At first she startled every time the rod touched one of them. Afterward, she began to understand that they were not being punished. They were being taught not to leave each other alone. When Zaira received a discharge and did not defend herself with words, Valentina frowned. When Óscar fell with one leg numbed and still got back up with a light phrase, she kept looking at him until he recovered his step. When Virka corrected to protect an opening, Valentina smiled a little. When Sebastián was touched and barely changed his face, the girl tightened the backpack with silent pride.

—They are improving —she murmured.

Narka answered from inside, low, close.

—Yes, Valentina. But improving is not the same as being ready.

The sky began to change tone.

The afternoon was no longer young. The light had lost part of its harshness and fell over the field with a more inclined color, less white. The grass had marks of steps, flattened zones and brief lines where the bodies had braked suddenly. There was no blood. There was no serious damage. But the exhaustion accumulated somewhere else: in attention, in pride, in the obligation to fail in front of others without being able to pretend the Ring was to blame.

In the last attempt, they were close. Very close.

They advanced with a structure that already breathed. Zaira entered corrected. Virka held crossed connection. Óscar anticipated the instructor’s first movement before it completed. Sebastián maintained direction without carrying everything. The blue line was less than three meters away.

Then the instructor stopped.

For the first time he did not attack immediately. The silence made everyone doubt for half a heartbeat.

That was enough.

The rod touched the center of the formation, not the most exposed person, but the invisible gap between them. First it brushed Óscar’s arm, then Zaira’s side in the same turn. Two brief discharges. Two numbed bodies. The structure opened.

The line remained in front of them.

They did not cross it.

The instructor lowered the rod.

—The session ends.

The phrase cut the air with more force than any blow.

Sebastián remained still. Virka breathed slowly. Zaira kept her eyes on the blue line, so close it seemed like a mockery. Óscar flexed the fingers of his numbed hand, recovering sensitivity.

The instructor turned off the rod. The white light died at the tip.

—You are not ready yet to repeat it with ARMEX.

He added no comfort. He gave no congratulations. He did not say they had improved, although they all knew it. The line remained on the grass, intact, without having been crossed. The Ring waited in the distance, off over the sea, like a promise that was not going to move because of impatience. The session had ended. The formation still had not been fully born.

The instructor’s order did not need to be repeated.

Sebastián, Virka, Zaira and Óscar withdrew from the grass with exhaustion attached to their muscles, but without the kind of exhaustion a race leaves. It was another fatigue. More uncomfortable. That of having failed many times at something that did not depend on strength, nor speed, nor individual resistance. They had been touched by a training rod, yes, but what truly hurt was not the discharge. It was knowing that the instructor had found gaps where they believed they were closed.

—You may withdraw —he said, with the same dry tone as always—. I expect you in the next class. If you do not correct this, the Ring will repeat the result.

None of them argued. Sebastián barely inclined his head. Virka did the same, without softening her gaze. Zaira held the instructor’s gaze one second longer, not as a challenge, but like someone storing a sentence to use it later against herself. Óscar raised one hand in a brief farewell, less mocking than usual.

—Understood, professor.

Valentina also said goodbye from the safe zone, with the backpack already hanging from her back.

—See you later, prof.

The instructor looked at her.

—Wait here until they come out.

Valentina nodded, obedient. Narka said nothing from the backpack, but his presence remained there, stable and ancient, as if even in silence he maintained a border around her.

The four students went toward the changing rooms.

The process was quick. There was no ARMEX to remove this time, only training clothes damp with sweat, towels, water over the face and school uniforms waiting in clean compartments. The institute had everything prepared so even weariness seemed part of an ordered system. Each backup garment was folded with precision. Each locker responded to a credential. Each door closed without noise.

Sebastián changed first, with simple and exact movements. The dry clothes did not erase the weight of the training. Virka came out shortly after, her black hair arranged, the uniform adjusted with that naturalness of someone who did not need to check her appearance to know she was ready. Zaira appeared with her red hair tied back again, her face firm, her eyes still loaded with calculation. Óscar was last, with the high bun reconstructed quickly and a tranquility that did not quite manage to hide the tension in his hands.

When they came out, the instructor was still beside Valentina. He did not speak with her. He was only there, maintaining the order of the wait. The girl, upon seeing Sebastián and Virka, immediately ran toward them. The backpack moved on her back with each step. She reached the center between them and took one hand from each of them, as if that place were already hers by natural right.

—You are ready now —she said, happier than the afternoon deserved.

Sebastián lowered his gaze toward her.

—Yes.

Virka did not answer with words. She only closed her fingers around Valentina’s small hand. The gesture was enough.

The four said goodbye to the instructor once more and began to move away from the external field. Zaira walked nearby, but not fully mixed with the family core formed by Sebastián, Virka and Valentina. Óscar went a little ahead, with his hands in his pockets and a low humming that did not quite become a song. The sound of the sea slowly remained behind, replaced by the cleaner murmur of the institute’s hallways.

They crossed the training zone, then the lateral walkways, then the corridors that returned the world to its school shape. The windows reflected the afternoon. Students from other modules moved in small groups, some with sports uniforms, others with folders or devices. Nothing in them said that, a short distance away, four bodies had spent hours trying to learn not to break a formation.

Valentina walked between Sebastián and Virka, barely swinging her arms joined to theirs. She was quiet, but not sad. She seemed to be thinking about something with a concentration too serious for her age. From time to time she looked at Zaira. Then at Óscar. Afterward she lowered her gaze to the floor, as if she were assembling an idea with pieces she still did not know how to name.

Before reaching the main gate, Óscar stopped humming.

—I have a dangerous proposal —he said.

Zaira looked at him immediately.

—That rarely starts well.

—Unfair. Sometimes it starts quite well and ends badly due to external factors.

Sebastián did not change his pace.

—Speak.

Óscar turned around, walking backward for a few seconds, with that relaxed expression he used when he knew he was going to bother everyone and still considered it necessary to do so.

—If the idea is to improve as a team, it is not enough for the instructor to hit us with a rod until we learn to suffer in sync. We need more time together. Outside the Ring. Outside the class format. Something less institutional.

Virka narrowed her eyes slightly.

—Say it directly.

Óscar smiled.

—A sleepover.

The silence that followed was not long, but it did have weight. Zaira looked at him as if he had just proposed an offensive tactic against human dignity.

—A what?

—A team gathering with rest, food, conversation, light practice and, if destiny is generous, fewer neuromuscular discharges. The popular name is sleepover. It sounds less threatening.

Valentina lifted her head suddenly.

—Are we going to have a sleepover together?

Emotion changed her face before anyone could stop it. She let go of Sebastián’s and Virka’s hands, took a step toward Óscar and then looked at everyone.

—Can I too? Can I have new friends?

Sebastián and Virka looked at Óscar at the same time. It was not a look of open threat. It was worse. One of those silent looks that said they both understood exactly what he had done: throw the idea in a way Valentina could not ignore.

Óscar raised both hands.

—In my defense, childish enthusiasm was not outside my calculations, but it was not the only argument either.

—No —said Zaira.

The word came out firm.

Valentina stayed still.

Zaira continued before the girl could interpret too much.

—I prefer to keep distance. We are a Rakzar team because the class requires it. We can train, correct formation and improve coordination without turning this into personal coexistence.

She did not say it with contempt. She said it like a boundary. A way to preserve control. A way of not allowing the team to enter zones where individual strength no longer served as defense.

Óscar stopped smiling a little.

—You can do it that way —he said—. But then you will only improve up to a certain point.

Zaira looked at him coldly.

—Explain yourself.

—Professional teams do not work only because each member knows how to run in their place. They work because they read each other before the order. Because they know when someone is going to accelerate, when they are going to hesitate, when they are going to lie saying they are fine. That is not built only inside the Ring.

Zaira did not answer.

Óscar continued, more serious.

—You have experience. You know it. If you want a team that covers you as real support, that closes when you open, that anticipates your axis before the system punishes you, you need something more than technical practice. You need familiarity. Better to build it early than wait until you need it in a real match.

The word professional seemed to touch something in her. Zaira did not soften. But she listened.

Valentina came a little closer, with an expression that was not crying nor a tantrum, but simple pleading. Her different eyes looked at Zaira from below.

—You don’t want to spend time with me?

The question had no strategy. Precisely because of that, it was difficult to dodge.

Zaira held that gaze. For a second, her face did not change. Then she let out a low sigh, almost annoyed with herself for having been caught on ground where no technique worked.

—Yes, I can spend time with you —she finally said—. To improve as a professional. Nothing else.

Valentina’s face lit up immediately.

—I’m going to have a new friend!

She ran back toward Sebastián and Virka, excited, as if she needed to share the discovery with them.

—I’m going to have a new friend!

Sebastián observed Valentina, then Óscar. The slight bitterness in his gaze did not become a verbal reproach, but Óscar understood it without difficulty.

—I accept the look as a formal warning —he said.

Virka added nothing. Her silence was clearer than any sentence.

Zaira shifted her gaze toward Óscar.

—Then, where is that gathering supposed to be?

Óscar recovered part of his usual tone.

—That is the administrative detail.

—Not at my house —said Zaira—. It is small. Barely enough for me and my older brother.

The information fell without adornments. It did not sound like shame, nor like an excuse. It was only a fact she did not intend to disguise.

Óscar nodded.

—My apartment does not work either. Too small for everyone, and if we try to practice formation there, we will probably end up breaking a table, a wall or my rental contract.

Then he looked at Valentina. The girl blinked.

—You said your house was big, didn’t you?

Valentina nodded strongly.

—Yes. My house is very big. Everyone fits.

Sebastián opened his mouth as if he were going to intervene, but Óscar was faster.

—Perfect. Confirmed then. Tactical sleepover at Valentina’s big house. Training, coexistence, team building and, hopefully, no electric rods.

—Óscar —said Sebastián.

—It has already been confirmed by the main hostess.

Valentina approached Óscar with a happy decision.

—Then you guide. Let’s go.

Óscar placed a hand on his chest with feigned solemnity.

—It is an honor to lead this expedition toward the big house.

The group continued toward the main gate.

Zaira walked with them, still serious, but no longer trying to separate herself completely. Valentina was near Óscar now, asking him small questions about what was done at a sleepover. Sebastián and Virka advanced behind, side by side, observing the scene with that mixture of acceptance and exhaustion that could only be born when someone else had used Valentina’s happiness to win an argument.

Upon crossing the institute’s exit, the afternoon air changed. The city was on the other side, with its routes, its vehicles and its distant noise. Sebastián put his hand in his pocket as if looking for his cellphone. In reality, the gesture hid the minimal glow of the storage ring. The device appeared against his palm before he took it out, natural, without drawing the attention of anyone who did not know what to look for.

He turned on the screen and made a call.

—We need to be picked up —he said when they answered—. There are more of us. We are going to the house.

Valentina, who heard him, smiled even more.

She did not say mansion. She did not think of mansion.

For her it was only that.

Home.

The place where she was now going to take her new friends.

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 113

The path continues...

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