I took a girl I found among the trash to see my wife, who had been bedridden for two years. When she saw the doctor’s vial, she screamed, “That’s poison!” and threw it to the ground. I didn’t argue; I gathered the pieces and called a laboratory. That night, I discovered why my wife never improved... and who was behind it.

I moved through the darkness like a ghost, taking advantage of the roaring storm to mask my footsteps. I circled around the perimeter of the concrete bunker, keeping low against the mud.

The structure was built into the limestone ridge of the quarry—an old military shelter from the 1970s that Rodolfo had illegally retrofitted into an unrecorded chemical synthesis lab and holding facility.

Outside the heavy steel door, the two guards were distracted, trying to light cigarettes under the concrete overhang while Salgado dragged the struggling girl inside.

I reached the corner of the building. Resting against the concrete wall was a discarded steel scaffolding pipe, six feet long and thick as my wrist. I picked it up, feeling its solid weight.

I stepped out from the shadow of the wall.

“Hey!” I shouted over the thunder.

The first guard turned his head toward the sound, his hand reaching for a holster under his jacket. Before he could clear his weapon, I swung the scaffolding pipe in a wide horizontal arc. The heavy steel caught him squarely in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the concrete doorframe. He collapsed into the mud, unconscious.

The second guard scrambled to pull a pistol, but I thrust the end of the pipe forward like a battering ram, hitting him directly in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air. I followed up with a sharp downward strike to the back of his neck, dropping him beside his partner.

I snatched the dropped 9mm pistol from the mud, checked the magazine—full—and kicked open the heavy steel door of the bunker.

The corridor inside was narrow, lit by flickering strip fluorescents, smelling strongly of ammonia and damp concrete. From the far end of the hallway came the sound of Salgado’s frantic voice shouting orders.

“Lock the secondary door! Set the thermal destruct sequence on the synthesis logs!”

I sprinted down the hallway, my boots echoing off the walls. I reached a large central laboratory filled with glass retorts, centrifuge machines, and rows of dark vials identical to the one Salgado had brought into Verónica’s room.

In the center of the room, Dr. Salgado was frantically stuffing hard drives into a duffel bag. Sofia was bound to a metal chair in the corner, her eyes wide with terror, a piece of heavy duct tape over her mouth.

When Salgado saw me standing in the doorway holding a gun, he froze, dropping the duffel bag. His face turned gray.

“Alejandro...” he stammered, raising his hands slowly. “Listen to me... you don't understand the full scope of this project—”

“Shut up, Valentín,” I snapped, my voice steady, the barrel of the pistol locked onto his chest. “Where is the communication line to San Gabriel Clinic?”

“What?”

“The phone! Now!”

Salgado gestured with a trembling finger toward a wall-mounted landline near the desk.

I stepped closer, keeping the gun trained on him, and grabbed the receiver. I dialed the direct internal extension for Room 312’s nursing station.

It rang three times before a young nurse answered. “San Gabriel Private Wing, Nurse Elena speaking.”

“Elena, this is Alejandro Montalvo,” I said, my voice cutting through the speaker like steel. “Listen to me very carefully. If Nurse Martha or anyone else comes near Room 312 with an injection, you call the municipal police immediately. I am currently standing in Dr. Salgado’s illegal laboratory in Toluca alongside officers from the State Prosecutor’s office.”

Salgado gasped, his eyes darting frantically toward the door.

“Mr. Montalvo?” Nurse Elena gasped. “Dr. Salgado’s senior associate just arrived here five minutes ago! They’re preparing an emergency IV flush for your wife right now!”

“Stop them!” I roared. “Lock the door from the inside! If my wife dies tonight, every single staff member on that floor will be charged as an accessory to premeditated murder!”

I slammed the receiver down, my chest heaving.

I looked at Salgado. He took a subtle step back toward an open metal cabinet behind him.

“Don't move,” I warned.

“You’re too late, Alejandro,” Salgado sneered, a desperate, fanatic spark returning to his eyes. “Rodolfo isn't just selling chemicals. He’s backed by politicians in the state capital. By morning, this entire site will be cleared, you will be framed for industrial espionage, and your wife will be dead. You can't win against them!”