“We will never be separated,” Laya declared, her voice firm despite the shivering cold. “We are stronger together, we always will be.” Laya’s promise hung in the air like a sacred oath. The three of them fell asleep huddled together, sleep finally conquering fear and the cold. Throughout the night, the rain continued to fall relentlessly, turning the streets into small streams and soaking the park around their fragile shelter. The fragments of the medallion remained tightly clutched in their small hands, even in sleep, as if not even unconsciousness could make them forget the promise made to the Father.
The roar of the storm muffled the sound of the sirens that still roamed the city in search of the missing triplets. “Even in the darkness, I know we’re together,” Iris murmured in a restless sleep, responding to the nightmares that haunted her. “They won’t separate us, they won’t.” Elsewhere in the city, San Mateo Hospital stood imposingly against the night sky, its illuminated windows contrasting sharply with the darkness of the storm. Unlike the public hospital where Iván had left hours earlier, this was a luxurious establishment with marble in the lobby and works of art on the walls.
The respectful silence was broken only by the soft tapping of telephones and the discreet whispers of the impeccably uniformed staff. On the tenth floor, an area restricted to the city’s elite patients, Marco Rodriguez waited alone in a spacious office decorated with solid wood furniture and framed diplomas. “Mr. Rodriguez, the doctor will see you now,” the secretary announced with professional efficiency, holding the door open for him. “He already has all your results.” Marco entered the office with purposeful steps, his posture erect, his immaculate suit concealing the anxiety he felt.
At 45, he had built a financial empire from scratch, overcoming adversities that would have destroyed less determined men. His graying temples were the only visible sign of time on his well-groomed face. The doctor, a middle-aged man with a serious expression, stood to greet him, but didn’t smile. A sign that Marco, accustomed to reading people, immediately recognized as a bad omen. “Marco, please sit down,” the doctor said, gesturing to the leather chair in front of his desk.
“I have the results of all the tests we ran this week.” “The office was too quiet,” Marco thought. The kind of heavy silence that precedes devastating news. The soundproof walls ensured privacy, but also amplified the feeling of isolation. The doctor, now seated behind his imposing mahogany desk, adjusted his glasses as he arranged a series of tests and X-rays. His clinical efficiency seemed almost cruel in the face of the palpable tension in the air. “Let’s get straight to the point, Doctor.”
“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Marco said. His voice was controlled, the same tone he used in high-stakes business meetings. “I want to know exactly what I have.” The doctor took a deep breath before answering. A calculated pause that confirmed Marco’s worst fears. Then, with the professionalism of someone who has delivered bad news countless times, he positioned a series of images on the viewbox against the side wall. The X-rays and CT scans lit up, revealing shadows and spots that even Marco’s untrained eye could identify as abnormal.
The doctor pointed to several specific areas with a red laser pointer, its bright spot seemingly marking each place where death had planted its flag. “I’m sorry, Marco. The pancreatic cancer is stage four, already metastasized to multiple organs,” the doctor explained, his professional voice barely masking genuine compassion. “Treatment options at this point are palliative.” Marco received the news with surprising calm, even for himself. It was as if some part of him already knew, had been preparing for this moment since the first pains he had ignored for months, too busy building an empire he now wouldn’t have time to enjoy.
His face remained impassive. Only a slight tightening of his lips betrayed the emotional storm beneath the controlled surface. “How long?” he asked, his voice firm, looking directly into the doctor’s eyes, as if daring death to look back at him. “Be honest with me. I need to get my affairs in order.” The doctor lowered the laser pen and returned to his chair, sitting down heavily. There was a certain admiration in his gaze. Marco’s response was rare among his patients. No denial, no hysteria, no pleas for miracles.
Only pragmatic acceptance and the need to plan for the little time that remained. The doctor consulted his notes, though they both knew he already had the prognosis memorized. “A month at most,” the doctor replied, opting for the blunt honesty his patient seemed to prefer. “We can try some procedures to increase your comfort, but it would be irresponsible of me to offer false hope. A month, 30 days, less time than it took to close most of his important business, less time than he had spent planning his last vacation, a vacation he never got around to taking, always postponing it until he had time.”
The irony didn’t escape Marco. His entire life had been a race to accumulate more and more money, more power, more property. Now, the only resource that truly mattered—time—was hopelessly depleted. “I understand,” Marco finally said, adjusting the exorbitantly expensive watch on his wrist, as if checking how much time he had left. “I’ll take all the documentation with me, and please keep this confidential. I don’t want the information leaked to the press or any interested parties.” The doctor nodded, fully grasping the subtext.
A man in Marco’s position had much to lose from such a leak. Stocks would plummet, partnerships would be reevaluated, and vultures would begin circling before his body had even cooled. As the doctor prepared the necessary paperwork and prescriptions, Marco gazed out the wide office window, taking in the city he had helped build, the skyscrapers that housed his companies’ offices, all poised to continue existing without him. “Any recommendations for these last few weeks, Doctor?” Marco asked, still looking out the window, the city lights reflecting in his thoughtful eyes.
Something I should avoid or something I should finally allow myself to do. Outside the office, Cassandra Rodriguez waited impatiently, her high heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. At 40, she still possessed the beauty that had helped her win over one of the richest men in the country a decade earlier. Her designer dress perfectly accentuated the figure maintained by discreet surgeries and hours at the gym, while expensive jewelry adorned her neck and wrists—gifts from Marco during their marriage, which had lasted barely five years and ended in a bitter divorce and a generous alimony payment.
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