The morning sun was a liar. It poured through Madrid’s skyline in golden streams, soft and beautiful, like it wanted the city to believe it was innocent. But inside Alejandro’s penthouse, sunlight did nothing to mask the truth. The walls were cracked by bullets, glass littered the marble floors, and smoke coiled in the air like ghosts refusing to leave.

I stayed low, pressed against the cold stone, my breath trembling with each burst of gunfire outside. My ears rang from the explosions, my ...