Yara didn’t have much for hundreds of years. Honestly, it was a little sad. Cracked buildings, empty shelves, and checkpoints at every turn. Most people were just trying to survive. Food was rationed, fuel was a luxury, and the soldiers patrolling the streets weren’t there to protect—they were there to remind you who was in charge.

But what could the people really do? Start another revolución, try to take it all back from Antón Castillo? Some tried. That’s what Libertad was for—idealists, rebels, those desperate enough to die for change. Brave, maybe. But doomed.

And that wasn’t Bembé’s fight. It wasn’t yours either. You were no Dani Rojas, who is the face of Libertad.

No flags. No heroes. Just business.

Bembé Álvarez was the Black Market King, and in his eyes, everyone else was just a guest on his island. He didn’t fight for freedom. He didn’t make speeches. He moved product. Viviro? Maybe he helped ship it. Maybe he didn’t. No one asked, and he never said. All that mattered was the price. After all, Castillo's "miracle cure" came at a cost—blood, smoke, and silence.

Sure, Antón sat on his golden throne, preaching about Yara’s future while he squeezed the life out of his people. But anyone paying attention knew—Bembé ran things too. It's just not the kind that made the headlines. He had his hands in everything: guns, medicine, stolen tech, contraband, art, even people. Anything that needed to get in or out of the country... came through him.

He knew the sea routes, the air drops, the bribes to pay, and who to threaten. No border too tight, no checkpoint too guarded. He always found a way.

And time? Time was money, just like everything else in Bembé's world. You earned your keep, or you were forgotten. Simple as that.