Chapter 1
She kept the rhythm steady.
Same spacing. Same pressure.
Dot after dot.
The shading slowly came to life under her hand.
Each point landed with intention, timed to the opening theme playing in her headphones.
Her face hovered close to the page, lit by the desk lamp.
Ink filled the room.
Sharp. Clean.
To her, it was the best perfume.
The panel was almost finished.
Her desk looked like a battlefield—pens, brushes, markers scattered everywhere.
Then—
A hand on her shoulder.
She flinched.
Pulled off her oversized cat-ear headphones and blinked, trying to refocus.
It took a second.
Her eyes were still tuned for detail.
Her little sister stood there, slightly out of breath.
“Martina. Mom’s been calling you. For a while.”
And just like that, she was gone again, running down the hallway.
Martina stayed still.
Then she looked back at the page.
A pause.
She was getting it right.
The composition.
The ink.
Exactly how she wanted it.
***
Everyone was already at the table.
Even her grandmother.
Her father looked up as soon as she walked in.
“Marti, food’s getting cold. Don’t tell me you were drawing those Chinese cartoons again,” he said, mouth full. “Sit. Eat. You’ve got class tomorrow.”
“They’re not Chinese, Dad. They’re Japanese. I’ve told you a hundred times.”
He laughed and waved her over.
Martina sat beside her mom, across from her sister.
She looked down at her plate.
Pasta. Tomato sauce. Sausages.
One of her favorites.
“How’s that thing you’re studying going, dear? The drawing...”
Her grandmother leaned in, adjusting her glasses.
Wrong question.
Forks paused.
The sound at the table faded.
“I’m studying graphic design, Grandma... you know I like drawing.”
She twisted the pasta with her fork.
Didn’t eat.
“Pass me the salad,” her mom said.
She always did that.
Changed the subject when things got tense.
Her father kept eating.
Loud.
Every now and then, he glanced up.
“Well... Martina’s doing that design thing at the institute,” he said. “But I’ve told her—she could pick something else. Something that actually makes money...”
“Mario, please,” her mom cut in, holding the bowl mid-air. “She’s following her dreams.”
“...you don’t live off dreams. Someone has to put food on the table. I work like a slave at the factory... we could make an effort here.”
Martina kept moving the pasta.
Back and forth.
Her thumbs played with the edge of her sleeve.
Her hair fell forward, a curtain between her and the table.
Then—
Small arms wrapped around her.
Julita.
Always the same.
Martina didn’t say anything.
But in her head—
the panel kept moving.
***
The office smelled like cheap coffee and processed meat.
Workers filled the place early, trying to catch breakfast before the day started.
Talking. Complaining.
The site supervisor stood by the water machine, pressing the same broken red button over and over.
Tomás watched him with a faint smile.
Tall. Lean. Clean white shirt. Fitted cargo pants.
Helmet tucked under his arm.
“Another shitty day, huh, Tomy?” the man said. “This rain’s killing us. Too much mud.”
He filled his foam cup.
“Pay’s not great here, but it’s steady. Give it a couple years. This chair’ll be yours.”
He dropped into it, coffee in hand.
Tomás shrugged.
“That’s not really what I want, Carlos. I’d rather... move forward. Do something else.”
He brushed his hair back, tucking loose strands behind his ear.
“Come on, Tomy. I worked with your dad. I was his student. Architecture’s in your blood.”
A pause.
“I know handing over houses isn’t building medieval cathedrals...”
He laughed, half-choking on his sandwich.
“But that’s how it starts. Same for me.”
“If you say so.”
A thin smile.
Tomás nodded and left.
Closed the door behind him.
Turned on the computer.
Opened his schedule.
Two handovers that morning. One already delayed.
Problem client.
He checked the time.
7:30.
Still early.
Half an hour before work actually started.
And he wasn’t giving it to the company.
He opened another tab.
Armazón.
His profile.
Two uploads.
His best work.
He checked the numbers.
Twenty-three.
Fourteen.
Same as last month.
He looked away.
At the construction company calendar on the wall.
A perfect family smiled back at him.
Even the golden retriever looked fake.
Too clean.
Too perfect.
He checked the dates marked in red.
Next one.
Two months.
July.
Another tab.
The publisher’s contest page.
Morma Editorial.
He glanced at his smartwatch.
Automatic.
Unnecessary.
Still—
It steadied him.
A knock at the door.
“Hey, Tomy. Sorry,” his boss said, peeking in. “Clients are here.”
A tight grin.
“Good luck.”
***
Martina got on the bus with her backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Rain hammered the windows.
Inside, it was packed.
Perfume. Damp clothes. Cheap makeup.
She pushed through until she reached the back.
Dropped into a seat by the fogged window.
Forty minutes.
Hers.
Las Galaxias. The fastest bus in Concepción.
Always full.
She put her headphones back on.
Scrolled.
Picked the playlist she’d built at three in the morning.
Classic ’90s anime.
The best.
Volume up.
The world faded.
She pulled out her copy ofSolo Leveling.
Not the newest.
Third time reading it.
Graphite pencil in her other hand.
She opened it.
Not to read.
To work.
Quick notes along the margins:
“diagonal composition — tension”
“70% shadow here — eye follows the light”
“perfect panel cut — emotional pause”
Sometimes she stopped.
Studied a panel.
Eyes narrowed.
Her finger traced invisible lines in the air.
How would she do it?
Her notes were small.
Almost invisible.
But precise.
She wasn’t reading.
She was dissecting it.
Breaking it apart to understand the magic.
A couple of women stared at her.
She didn’t notice.
***
Tomás stood in the middle of the living room of the house he was about to hand over.
Helmet under his arm.
Professional smile locked in place.
The woman—mid-fifties, bleached blonde hair, bright fuchsia nails—pointed at the ceiling.
“I’m telling you, the natural light here is terrible. It’s dark. My husband wanted a bigger kitchen island and you gave us this. And the countertop isn’t marble. Is this what you call premium design?”
The husband stood a few steps behind her.
Silent.
Defeated.
Like he’d already lost this argument a long time ago.
Tomás inhaled slowly.
Organized his thoughts.
“I understand your concern, ma’am.”
A beat.
“But this is within the original design.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
She kept going, pointing behind a cabinet.
Once.
Twice.
He ignored it.
“We could add a skylight here,” he said, marking the ceiling with the laser. “It would look great.”
The phone buzzed again.
Three times.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you going to answer that? Sounds important.”
His jaw tightened.
He pulled it out.
Screen lit up.
WhatsApp.
Carmen — Morma Editorial.
URGENT — Real opportunity. Let’s meet tomorrow.
