We Don't Want To Anger Morven

[Matías]

“Unlike Dominion Carpenter, once my word is given, it is kept.” Matías’s tone was sharp, a razor slicing through the air between them. His eyes locked on Michael’s, unyielding and precise, as though testing the strength of the man’s conviction. But after a moment of taut silence, he relented, giving a curt nod. Without further protest, he extended his hand and clasped Michael’s in a firm shake.

The terms were clear. Conversation only. No channeling, no outward displays of the power that simmered beneath his skin. He would keep to the agreement. For now. But Matías silently marked the boundaries of his compliance. He was no fool, and certainly no martyr. If Jay pushed him—if it came to that—he would defend himself without hesitation. Turning the other cheek was a philosophy better left to priests, not the son of a cartel lord. No matter how often the Sacerdote preached forgiveness, Matías had learned early in life that the world answered blood with more blood.

True to Michael’s word, the Dominion named Karim was introduced not long after. A tall, broad-shouldered man with the stern, assessing gaze of someone who’d lived his life surrounded by danger, Karim was all military precision. His tone was clipped and efficient, his posture rigid as steel. Matías observed him carefully, offering no more than a polite nod in return. Respect was something earned, not freely given, but he saw enough in Karim’s bearing to know this was no ordinary soldier.

The tour of The Garden resumed. If the codename suggested anything lush or serene, the reality could not have been further from it. The compound was a study in function over form, its architecture stark and utilitarian. Blocky buildings constructed of reinforced concrete loomed over razor-straight pathways, their walls mottled with the gray of aging stone and the black of military grime. Surveillance cameras watched from the corners of nearly every structure, their unblinking lenses tracking every movement with quiet menace. 

The air carried the faint metallic tang of weapon oil and machinery, mingling with the muffled sounds of drills somewhere in the distance. Rows of soldiers moved in tight formations across an open courtyard, their boots striking the ground in unison. Beyond them, armored vehicles rested in orderly rows like sleeping giants, their hulking forms bristling with weaponry. This was not a sanctuary. This was a war machine.

Matías walked with measured calm, as though he had every right to be there. His questions, though few, were carefully chosen—bland enough to seem casual, yet angled to glean useful information. He commented on the compound’s efficiency, inquired about the number of personnel stationed there, and made a passing remark on the tactical positioning of the outer walls. He kept his tone conversational, careful not to stray too close to anything that might raise suspicion. Years of navigating tense, dangerous situations had taught him to extract what he needed without setting off alarms. It was strange to be the visitor in a compound like this. Usually he was the one in power.

All the while, his steps were deliberate, his presence steady and self-assured. But beneath that calm exterior, Matías remained alert, every muscle in his body prepared for what might come. As he walked, a few of the flashes came—brief and sharp, like lightning slicing through the dark. He glimpsed what could be: the door to a barracks bursting open, soldiers pouring out in response to a threat; the echo of gunfire in tight corridors; the clash of fists in a shadowed room. These possibilities flickered across his mind like fragments of a dream, disjointed but vivid.

He had long since learned to live with these visions. To prepare for them. Sometimes they showed him victory, bloodied but standing; other times, death came swift and brutal, his body crumpled on cold concrete. But none of it unnerved him anymore. He had seen his end a thousand times and survived every one. 

Eventually, Karim turned to him with a nod. “It’s time,” he said simply. 

Another soldier joined them, introduced as Samuel. Matías recognized him immediately—the same man from the gate, his stern features etched with suspicion. Samuel’s gaze swept over him again now, assessing, as though searching for cracks in the armor. Matías allowed himself a faint smile, just enough to suggest he was unimpressed by the scrutiny.

The three of them moved through the compound, entering one of the larger administrative buildings. Inside, the air was cooler, the sterile lighting casting harsh shadows against the walls. The faint hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, joining the rhythmic click of boots on tile as they walked. 

Matías noted the details as they passed: the security keypads on every door, the plain utilitarian furniture, the lingering smell of coffee and old paper that clung to the halls. Workers moved briskly from room to room, their expressions focused, their movements efficient. Everything about this place screamed control—rigid, relentless, and absolute.

Finally, they arrived at a door. Samuel gestured for Matías to stop while Karim stepped forward and knocked. The soldier slipped inside, closing the door behind him, leaving Matías standing in the hallway. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, his posture deceptively relaxed as he waited.

The tension in the air was palpable. Though Matías’s face remained calm, his thoughts churned. Behind that door was Jay, and with him, the unfinished business that had driven this entire encounter. A flicker of the past crossed Matías’s mind—the rage in Jay’s eyes, the sting of the punch, the crack of pain that had spread across his jaw. Now, the bruise had deepened into shades of purple and blue, spreading like an inkblot over his cheekbone. He wore it like a badge, a visible reminder of the price of being an Amengual. 

The door swung open, and Karim reappeared. With a brief nod, he motioned for Matías to enter. 

The office was plain and utilitarian, with little in the way of comfort or decor. Jay sat on one side of the room, his expression tight and guarded, but Matías’s attention was momentarily drawn to the woman seated nearby. She was an unexpected presence, and his sharp eyes studied her face for a beat longer than necessary. If he saw something in her, he did not show it.

“Matías Ángel Amengual,” he introduced himself, his seductive accent was rare in this part of the world. The words carried a weight of formality, their rhythm slow and measured, as though savoring the sounds. His dark eyes flicked to hers, watching closely for her reaction. He noted the tension in her shoulders, the subtle shifts in her gaze—small tells that revealed more than words could.

Custom dictated a kiss on the cheek in his homeland, but here, he restrained himself. This was not the time or place for familiarity

Turning to Jay, Matías allowed a faint quirk of amusement to tug at the corner of his mouth. “It appears to me,” he began, his tone dry, “that it is irrelevant whether or not you wish to have this conversation. Commander Vellas wills it, and so here we are.” 

Without waiting for a response, he moved to the chair opposite Jay and sat down. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though every action were calculated for effect. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. 

“Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”