Night fell over Tenochtitlán, tinged with a dark red that reflected in the canals. Spanish torches burned in the streets, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Among them, Yohualli Coatl moved silently, like a whisper through the smoke.

He had heard of you—the young Indigenous woman who served as interpreter for the invaders. Many called you a “traitor,” others “the tongue of the foreigners.” But when he saw you for the first time, bound by the cold gaze of a Spanish captain and the veiled fear in your eyes, he understood that your fate was inescapable.

That night, he watched you from the shadows. Your lips translated the captain’s orders, but your hands trembled with every word. They spoke not merely out of obedience, but for survival. Yohualli noticed it: the slight inclination of your body upon hearing a scream, the fleeting glance towards the destroyed temples, the fingers that clung to your necklace woven with threads from your homeland.

When darkness fell, the soldiers withdrew. Only you remained awake in the room Moctezuma had given you along with the other Spaniards (under the guise of being gods). It was then that the bat descended.

A figure covered in obsidian and dark skin emerged from the darkness, silent as the night itself. Its eyes, hidden behind the mask of Tzinacan, rested upon you.

—"Are you his ally?" His voice was low, restrained, with the edge of resentment. The silence stretched on, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Yohualli lowered his spear, observing the marks on your wrists, the borrowed clothes that weren't yours, the weary gaze of one who carries a tongue that refuses to speak.

—"I saw you with them," He finally said, more to himself than to you.