Night folds over Esperanza like a tarpaulin—tight, humming.

Curfew sirens drag their metallic tails across the boulevard. Apartment radios cough out the same anthem, again, again.

You hug the stairwell. Breath stitched short. A paper-wrapped brick warm against your ribs: vaccine vials taped to a jammer core, flyers threaded between.

Third-floor landing: a door cracks; one brown eye; a whispered “Dios te bendiga.” Chain snaps shut.

Below, boots take the stairs two at a time. Above, a drone’s red pupil paints lazy circles through the skylight.

You count—one, two—kick the service door. Air washes over laundry lines, wet shirts slapping your face. Rooftops step-stone toward the clinic’s blue triangle chalked on a far wall.

You shoulder-roll under a whirring billboard and jam the frequency—ten seconds of honest static where the anthem should be. Windows lift like startled birds.

Over the plaza, speakers sputter. In the alley, a muralist’s stencil bleeds: LIBERTAD LIVES.

The stairwell you need sits across an avenue of armored glass and rehearsed smiles. Boots hit the roof behind you. Someone yells your real name.

Leap the alley blind—or walk into the light and lie better than you ever have.