Chapter 2 — Victor’s Warning

Third Person

The air in the detention center seemed to grow heavier the moment Victor Duarte entered the room, his presence as oppressive as the sticky heat that clung to everything. The sharp click of his polished leather shoes echoed off the grimy tile floor, cutting through the faint hum of distant voices. His tailored suit, immaculate even in the stifling humidity, seemed to defy the squalor around him, an assertion of his dominance over the space. The flickering fluorescent light above cast jagged shadows across his face, accentuating the calculating glint in his cold, gray eyes. He paused just inside the doorway, surveying the cell like a predator assessing its prey.

Jack Rivers sat back on the metal bench, his body language deceptively loose, but his blue eyes tracked Victor with a steady intensity, like a lens locking onto a target. His hand drifted to the worn leather strap of his camera, idly tracing its cracked edges. The motion was deliberate, masking the tension coiled just beneath his casual demeanor.

Amelia Hart, by contrast, remained rigid, her hazel eyes narrowing as Victor’s gaze settled on her. Her fingers twitched toward the silver pendant at her neck—a reflexive motion—before she forced them back to her lap. The pendant, warmed by the heat of her skin, seemed to vibrate with the weight of her mentor’s words etched into its hidden interior. She resisted the urge to touch it again, keeping her hands steady, her jaw set with quiet defiance.

Victor’s lips curved into a faint smirk as his eyes flicked between them, his expression one of faint amusement, though his gaze was sharp enough to cut. “Ms. Hart. Mr. Rivers,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried, yet carrying the precision of a blade being unsheathed. “How rare it is to find such distinguished company in a place like this.”

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest, but her voice was steady, clipped, professional. “I doubt this is a social call, Mr. Duarte. What do you want?”

Victor’s polished shoes clicked softly as he took a measured step closer, the sound oddly amplified by the quiet tension in the room. His smirk deepened, but his eyes remained glacial. “What I want, Ms. Hart, is quite simple. I want you to leave.”

Jack chuckled, a low, sharp sound that broke the tension like a crack running through glass. “Bit of a cliché for a villain, don’t you think? ‘Leave, or else’? Really leaning into the classics.”

Amelia shot him a sidelong glare, but Victor barely spared Jack a glance, his smirk narrowing slightly as though irritated by the interruption. “Ah, Mr. Rivers. The photographer with a remarkable talent for being… misplaced. Forgive me if I don’t appreciate your attempts at humor.”

Victor turned back to Amelia, his expression cooling, hardening into something resembling steel. “You, however, have a knack for asking questions that should remain unanswered. That sort of curiosity, Ms. Hart, can be dangerous—especially in a place as… unpredictable as San Paloma.”

Her fingers clenched into fists on her lap, but her voice remained resolute. “If I’ve become dangerous, Mr. Duarte, it’s because there’s something worth hiding.”

Victor chuckled softly, a hollow sound that carried no warmth. “You misunderstand, Ms. Hart. You are not dangerous. Not to me. You’re merely… inconvenient.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an almost intimate murmur, as though the peeling walls themselves shouldn’t overhear. “But San Paloma has its ways of swallowing people whole. Disappearances, accidents… tragic misunderstandings. It’s remarkable how quickly one can vanish, how easily one’s story can be rewritten.”

Amelia’s stomach churned, but she kept her gaze locked on his, refusing to blink, refusing to break. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re wasting your time.”

Victor tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. “Scare you? No. I simply believe in fair warnings. Consider this one of them.”

Jack shifted on his bench, his casual facade cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Fair warning? That’s generous. I’d call it a lazy threat.”

Victor’s attention snapped to Jack, his smirk vanishing like a shadow under midday sun. “Mr. Rivers, I would advise you to exercise caution. Cameras, while powerful tools, do little to shield their users from harm.”

Jack leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice measured but laced with defiance. “Good thing I’m not in the habit of hiding behind one.”

Victor studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp, almost probing, before flicking back to Amelia. His tone softened into something resembling false concern. “Ms. Hart, I must say, I admire your determination. But there is a fine line between bravery and recklessness. You would do well to consider which side you’re on.”

His gaze dropped, lingering on her pendant. The air seemed to freeze in that moment, his smirk returning, faint but deliberate. “That’s a lovely piece you’re wearing. Sentimental, I assume?”

Amelia’s pulse spiked, her hand brushing the pendant instinctively before she caught herself. She dropped it back to her lap, forcing her voice to remain even. “It’s none of your business.”

Victor’s smirk widened, his voice a low, mocking purr. “Of course. Sentimentality has a way of clouding judgment, don’t you think?” Straightening, he cast a final, appraising glance between Amelia and Jack. “Consider this your last chance to leave. San Paloma is no place for idealists… or fools.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode to the cell door. As it swung shut behind him with a metallic clang, his parting words lingered in the humid air. “Do enjoy the rest of your stay.”

The oppressive silence that followed seemed almost deafening. Amelia exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the edge of the bench as if grounding herself. The faint scent of mildew and sweat clung to the room like a second skin, but it was Victor’s warning that weighed heaviest.

Jack leaned back, blowing out a slow breath through his nose. “Well,” he said lightly, though there was an edge beneath his tone, “that was cozy.”

Amelia shot him a glare, her hazel eyes flashing. “You think this is funny?”

“Not exactly,” he replied, his sarcasm giving way to something steadier, more serious. “But I do think he’s serious. And I think you’re planning to completely ignore that.”

“What choice do I have?” she snapped, her voice sharpening. “He’s not going to scare me off.”

Jack studied her, his gaze narrowing as though trying to gauge how far her resolve would carry her. “No, I didn’t think he would.”

Amelia looked away, her jaw tightening. The faint hum of distant activity filtered through the walls, a reminder of the world outside their cage. “Victor Duarte doesn’t make warnings unless he’s afraid of something. That means we’re close to something big.”

“Or he’s just drawing a line in the sand,” Jack countered, though his voice carried a flicker of reluctant agreement. “Either way, you’re planning to cross it.”

Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hazel eyes hardening. “I’m not walking away. If anything, this just proves I’m on the right track.”

Jack tilted his head, watching her with a faint, curious smile. “You’re not much of a quitter, are you?”

“No,” she said simply, her voice resolute.

His smile softened, tinged with something like admiration. “Good to know.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy but no longer uncomfortable. Whatever distrust lingered between them, it was tempered by an unspoken understanding—a shared awareness of the danger they faced and the fight that lay ahead.

Amelia’s fingers brushed the edge of her pendant again, a quiet gesture of resolve. Victor Duarte thought he could intimidate her into silence. He was wrong.

And that, she thought, was his first miscalculation.