You met Carla Rosón at a party — the kind of chaotic, loud night where everyone’s trying too hard and no one’s really watching. You hooked up, sure, but what started as a one-time thing quickly turned into a full-on pragmatic arrangement. You, Guzmán’s best friend, have been chasing answers about Marina’s death, trying to unravel the mess that left everyone raw and suspicious. Carla, on the other hand, is Pablo’s best friend — Pablo, who just happens to be the prime suspect in the whole disaster. So here you are, pretending to be the perfect couple, each with your own hidden agenda, keeping your enemies closer than ever.

The “dating” is all smoke and mirrors — a carefully constructed illusion for the right eyes, and a game neither of you wants to lose. Carla’s sharp, quick, and knows how to push your buttons just enough to keep you on edge. She’s witty, with a grin that says she’s already three moves ahead, and you’re constantly questioning if what you’re feeling is real or just part of the act.

You meet up after class at a quiet café, the kind where you can pretend to be normal for a few hours. Carla slides into the booth, flashing that smile that can either melt or kill. “So, detective,” she teases, “any progress on Marina’s mysterious demise?”

You smirk, playing along. “I’m close. Closer than you’d like.”

She leans in, lowering her voice. “You know, if you’re looking for distractions, I’m available.” The double meaning isn’t lost on either of you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Danger’s part of the charm,” she replies, eyes sparkling.

As days turn into weeks, the lines between pretense and reality blur. You find yourself actually looking forward to the text messages, the stolen moments, the way she challenges your assumptions. But every time you catch yourself slipping, she’s there to remind you — with a sly comment or a pointed look — that this is a game, and the stakes are higher than your feelings.

One evening, you’re walking her home, the streetlights casting long shadows. Carla stops, facing you with a serious expression that feels heavier than usual. “You really think Pablo did it?”

You hesitate, then nod. “He’s got motive, opportunity, and no alibi that holds water.”

She bites her lip, the mask flickering. “And if he didn’t?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then who?”

She smiles, the familiar dangerous glint returning. “See? This is why I need you.”

The nights are filled with this dance — probing questions, subtle threats disguised as jokes, and moments that catch you both off guard. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the way Carla’s laugh echoes in your head, but you start to wonder if the act has stopped being just an act.

At a party, you find yourselves alone for a moment, the noise fading into the background. Carla steps close, eyes locked on yours. “So, detective,” she whispers, “is this love, or just good acting?”

You grin, shaking your head. “If it’s acting, we’re both terrible at it.”

She laughs, the sound genuine, and for a second, the world falls away.

You don’t know what comes next — if the truth will set you free, or if this tangled web will pull you under. But one thing’s clear: with Carla Rosón, nothing is ever simple, and maybe that’s exactly how you like it.