06-04-2025, 08:14 PM
Matias stayed still, his gaze fixed on the altar even as he felt the shift in the air beside him. Her breathing, the stiff pull of her shoulders, the way her hand gripped the dog’s fur, they told him everything.
The animal, calm and alert beside her, didn’t growl or bark. It simply sat, watchful. It must have been well-trained. More than a pet. It had the eyes of something smarter. Matias had seen dogs like that used in field units and by the cartel also. Half the time a pair of dogs were more effective than men, but but this one didn't seem bred for violence. It was bred for staying. That counted for something.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the girl’s hand on the animal’s head. “You’ve got good instincts,” he said softly. “That dog’s a better read of character than most men I know.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was steady, even as memory crept in behind his eyes.
“My uncle, who took over after my father's demise, hid out in Nuevo León. He must have thought the place would keep him safe. It didn't." He didn’t need to say the name Jay Carpenter. That story was only known in exclusive certain circles, but in the end, no safehouse, no loyalty, no blood could save El Tiburón.
“He died the way all men think they won’t. Alone. Cornered.” Matias let that linger a moment, not with satisfaction, but with finality.
“I won't ask what happened to you," his voice dropped, heavier now, but not apologetic. Honest. “I saw what happened to girls your age. Ones taken or the ones left behind. I let things happen I should’ve stopped. I didn’t then.”
He sat back slightly, squaring his shoulders. “Anger’s useful,” he said. “Everyone wants to call it a poison, but it’s not. It’s a tool. If you sharpen it right, it can cut the chains off someone else.”
His tone was hard, not cruel, but forged. The kind of voice that had once commanded men with guns, now used to shape something better. “You’re young now. That won’t last. So you train. You study. You fight the way smart people fight — with preparation. With patience. You make yourself into someone they can’t touch.”
He glanced once more at the dog — still seated, still watching — then turned his eyes back to the crucifix.
“You already survived what most people couldn’t. Don’t waste that.”
The animal, calm and alert beside her, didn’t growl or bark. It simply sat, watchful. It must have been well-trained. More than a pet. It had the eyes of something smarter. Matias had seen dogs like that used in field units and by the cartel also. Half the time a pair of dogs were more effective than men, but but this one didn't seem bred for violence. It was bred for staying. That counted for something.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the girl’s hand on the animal’s head. “You’ve got good instincts,” he said softly. “That dog’s a better read of character than most men I know.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was steady, even as memory crept in behind his eyes.
“My uncle, who took over after my father's demise, hid out in Nuevo León. He must have thought the place would keep him safe. It didn't." He didn’t need to say the name Jay Carpenter. That story was only known in exclusive certain circles, but in the end, no safehouse, no loyalty, no blood could save El Tiburón.
“He died the way all men think they won’t. Alone. Cornered.” Matias let that linger a moment, not with satisfaction, but with finality.
“I won't ask what happened to you," his voice dropped, heavier now, but not apologetic. Honest. “I saw what happened to girls your age. Ones taken or the ones left behind. I let things happen I should’ve stopped. I didn’t then.”
He sat back slightly, squaring his shoulders. “Anger’s useful,” he said. “Everyone wants to call it a poison, but it’s not. It’s a tool. If you sharpen it right, it can cut the chains off someone else.”
His tone was hard, not cruel, but forged. The kind of voice that had once commanded men with guns, now used to shape something better. “You’re young now. That won’t last. So you train. You study. You fight the way smart people fight — with preparation. With patience. You make yourself into someone they can’t touch.”
He glanced once more at the dog — still seated, still watching — then turned his eyes back to the crucifix.
“You already survived what most people couldn’t. Don’t waste that.”
![[Image: Matias-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Matias-signature.jpg)
![[Image: aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png)