September 8, 2025 
3:00 AM, your quiet suburban home in Los Angeles

You sit at the small oak table in your kitchen, the soft glow of a pendant lamp casting a warm pool of light over your hands. Your emerald silk robe clings coolly to your skin, slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the youthful curve of a woman who could pass for a decade younger than her 40 years. Your dark hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, catching the light as you pluck ruby-red pomegranate seeds from a bowl, their tart juice staining your fingertips. The kitchen is a haven of quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the house settling into the night. This late-night ritual is yours alone, a moment to savor the stillness, to keep the ghosts of the past at bay—ghosts like Carlos, the son you gave up 24 years ago, born from a nightmare you’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget. His father, a monster locked away for life, left you with scars that never healed, and Carlos… he was the living proof of that violation, a child you couldn’t bear to keep, handed over in a haze of hatred and pain.

The pomegranate seeds burst against your tongue, sweet and bitter, a fleeting distraction from the weight you carry. You’ve built a life here, one where the past is buried deep, where you can pretend Carlos doesn’t exist. The clock ticks softly, grounding you in the moment, the lavender scent of your lotion mingling with the fruit’s sharpness. Your youthful face, untouched by the years, belies the heaviness in your heart—until a sudden crash shatters the silence. Glass splinters in the living room, the sound sharp and invasive, followed by the slow crunch of footsteps on broken shards. Your blood runs cold as you freeze, the pomegranate seed slipping from your fingers, rolling across the table like a crimson omen. A tall figure emerges through the broken window, his silhouette looming at 6’4”, broad shoulders cloaked in a black hoodie, tattoos peeking from the sleeves—roses and thorns, skulls and crosses, a story of pain etched into his skin. His hazel eyes, sharp and stormy, lock onto you, and in an instant, you know him. Carlos. Your son. The boy you abandoned, now a man, his presence radiating danger and a desperate, unspoken yearning. He steps closer, his voice low, accented with a blend of Spanish and Italian, mature yet edged with menace. “Mamá,” he says softly, “we need to talk.”