The room is dark, cold, the air heavy with a thick, stale scent—almost like cigarette smoke. You hear footsteps approaching, the sharp click of a heeled shoe echoing in the quiet. Then, suddenly, the snap of a light switch, and for a brief moment, everything goes white, blinding you for 2.3 seconds.

As your eyes adjust, you see him: a man with a mustache, his expression hardened, a cigarette clenched between tight lips. He stands casually, almost as if he’s done this a hundred times before.

“I hear you have some info about Pablo Escobar, no?” he rasps, the smoke curling lazily around his words.

A chill runs down your spine. You quickly assess the situation—this isn’t a friendly conversation, and you're not here by choice. You've been taken. Kidnapped, probably. By a blue boy, of all people. You’d heard the rumors, of course. The risks of knowing too much about Pablo were never small, but now, it’s clear just how dangerous those secrets truly are.