The slums of Tepito always smelled like smoke, sweat, and something vaguely rotten—but today, there was something else in the air. Rain was coming. Heavy, thick clouds loomed over the crumbling rooftops, casting long shadows over the narrow alleys and rusted tin shacks.
Valentina Cruz, 24, stood at the edge of her family's small balcony, gripping the peeling metal railing. Below, street vendors shouted in rapid-fire Spanish, kids chased stray dogs, and police sirens wailed faintly in the distance. She could see it all—chaos wrapped in survival. And still, her gaze wasn't on the street. It was locked on the cracked piece of paper in her hand.
"Congratulations. You've been accepted to Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana. Full academic scholarship."
Her lips trembled, but she didn't cry. Not yet. Not when her mother might walk out and scold her for catching a cold. Not when her little sister, Isabella, was in the next room belting out a telenovela theme song off-key.
This is it, she thought. The golden ticket. My way out.
"¡Valen! Mamá dice que la cena está lista!" Isabella's voice snapped her out of the daze. Valentina smiled slightly, folded the letter with care, and slid it under her mattress.
Inside, the tiny two-bedroom apartment was filled with warmth—beans simmering on the stove, the low hum of an old radio playing Luis Miguel, and the sound of her father, Manuel Cruz, coughing from the other room. That cough had gotten worse lately.
At dinner, everything felt normal. Her mother talked about needing to fix the broken window. Isabella asked if they could buy a pink hairdryer like the one in the magazine. Her father was quiet. Too quiet.
Valentina watched him push food around on his plate. He was an accountant for a "logistics company"—at least, that's what he always said. But lately, he'd been acting strange. Distracted. Paranoid. Sometimes he came home with bruised knuckles or glanced out the window like someone was watching.
"Mija," he said suddenly, eyes locking with hers. "If anything ever happens to me… go to the address in the back of my red Bible. Don't trust anyone. Not even the police."
She blinked. "What? What are you talking about?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just… promise me."
Valentina didn't answer. Not then. Because the front door burst open.
A man in a black hoodie stepped inside like a shadow falling over the table. Behind him—three more, armed and silent.
Time slowed.
Her mother screamed.
Valentina grabbed Isabella, pulled her under the table just as gunshots rang out.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Blood splattered across the cracked kitchen tiles.
Valentina didn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.
She stared into her father's lifeless eyes as a boot stomped toward her.
But the last bullet wasn't meant for her.
Darkness swallowed her before she could even cry.