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The sound of oil sizzling against the hot surface of the pan filled the kitchen with a constant, almost hypnotic murmur, accompanied by the deep aroma of freshly chopped garlic and onions slowly browning. The yellowish light from the ceiling bulb fell in a warm circle over the counter, illuminating the scattered utensils, the carefully aligned knives, and the vegetables cut into different containers. There was something domestic, almost comforting about the scene… something that gave the illusion of normality.
But that normality lasted exactly three seconds.
“¡SOLANGE!”
(“SOLANGE!)
It wasn’t a simple call. It was a powerful, deep shout, charged with an energy that vibrated against the walls of the house as if someone had struck a massive drum inside the home.
The sound traveled down the hallway, bounced off the living room, and reached the second floor.
For a second, the only sound left was the sizzling pan.
In the hallway, a dull thud was heard… then dragging footsteps.
“¿Qué pasó?”
(“What happened?”)
A voice responded from the kitchen entrance.
Solange appeared leaning against the doorframe as if he had just woken up from a three-hour nap. His hair was slightly messy, falling over his forehead in strands that seemed to refuse to obey gravity or logic. His eyes still carried that half-drowsy shine of someone who clearly wasn’t moving at the same rhythm as the rest of the world.
He stretched lazily, lifting his arms over his head while letting out a short yawn.
“Ooh… ¿Qué va a haber esta noche?”
(“Ooh… what are we having tonight?”)
He stepped closer, enough to try to look inside the pot Santiago was stirring.
The aroma was strong. Rich. Comforting.
Tomato, spices, some meat… and the soft scent of fresh cilantro.
Santiago didn’t even look at him at first.
He kept stirring the food with controlled, measured movements, as if every turn of the spoon were part of a ritual.
”Estoy cocinando comida”
(“I’m cooking food.”)
he finally replied in a dry, emotionless tone.
Solange tilted his head.
”Bueno, sí… eso es evidente”
(“Well, yeah… that’s obvious.”)
Santiago turned off the heat for a second to adjust the temperature.
Then he spoke.
”Si recogiste a los niños de la escuela, ¿verdad?”
(“You did pick the kids up from school, right?”)
It was a simple question.
Direct. Short.
And yet…
The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to have physical weight. The kind of silence that settles into a room like thick fog.
Solange stopped moving.
His eyes blinked once.
Twice.
His brain made a desperate attempt to reorganize memories.
School.
Kids.
Car.
Keys.
…
Oh.
Oh no.
Santiago slowly set the spoon down on the counter.
Very slowly.
Too slowly.
The movement was so calculated it felt as though every passing second was building pressure inside his chest.
Then he turned.
His eyes locked directly onto Solange.
”Solange…”
(“Solange…”)
he said with a calm so dangerous it made the air feel colder.
The younger one smiled.
A nervous smile.
A this can be fixed smile.
”Sí…?”
(“Y-yes…?”)
And then he exploded.
”¡SOLANGE, ESTA HA SIDO LA QUINTA VEZ QUE TE OLVIDAS DE IR A RECOGERLOS!”
(“SOLANGE, THIS IS THE FIFTH TIME YOU’VE FORGOTTEN TO PICK THEM UP!”)
The shout shook the kitchen.
The utensils vibrated slightly.
The echo rolled down the hallway like thunder.
Solange took a small step back, nearly hitting the doorframe.
”¡ANDA AGARRA LAS LLAVES DEL AUTO O TE JURO POR TELAMÓN QUE MAÑANA TE REENCUENTRAS CON 226W6!”
(“GO GRAB THE CAR KEYS OR I SWEAR BY TELAMON THAT TOMORROW YOU’LL BE REUNITING WITH 226W6!”)
There was a second of absolute panic in Solange’s eyes.
”¡SÍ!”
(“YES!”)
He didn’t walk.
He didn’t jog.
He ran.
He shot out of the doorway as if his life depended on it.
Clumsy footsteps echoed through the hallway.
A crash against a table.
A muffled “¡AW!”
Then the sound of drawers being opened frantically.
Santiago closed his eyes.
He took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His hand grabbed the spoon again and he resumed stirring, though now the movements were rougher.
At that moment, another figure appeared at the kitchen entrance.
Sebastián.
The Peruvian leaned a shoulder against the wall while observing the scene with calm curiosity.
He had heard the shout from the other side of the house.
And when Santiago shouted…
There was usually a story behind it.
”¿Qué hizo nuestro solcito ahora?”o o
(“What did our little sunshine do this time?”)
Santiago didn’t answer immediately.
He kept stirring the food.
The smell of spices still filled the kitchen.
But now there was something else in the air.
Irritation.
”El mamaverga ese olvidó nuevamente a los niños en la escuela”
(“That dumbass forgot the kids at school again.”)
Sebastián raised his eyebrows.
”¿Otra vez?”
(“Again?”)
”Quinta”
(“Fifth.”)
The Peruvian let out a small whistle.
”Waos, que record”
(“What a record.”)
Santiago tightened his grip on the spoon.
”Se lo perdoné hasta la cuarta”
(“I forgave him up to the fourth time.”)
Sebastián crossed his arms.
”Es el más joven entre nosotros… perdónalo”
(“He’s the youngest among us… forgive him.”)
The look Santiago gave him could have pierced steel.
It was so direct that Sebastián even raised a hand in surrender.
”Se lo perdoné hasta la cuarta… pero el chucha de su madre se pasa de lucido”
(“I forgave him up to the fourth… but that son of a bitch is pushing it.”)
Sebastián let out a small laugh.
”Lúcido o no… es nuestro solcito”
(“Pushing it or not… he’s our little sunshine.”)
He leaned forward slightly.
”Y nos toca aguantarnos”
(“And we have to put up with him.”)
From the hallway came a shout:
”¡NO ENCUENTRO LAS LLAVES!”
(“I CAN’T FIND THE KEYS!”)
Santiago closed his eyes again.
The vein in his temple began to throb.
”Están en el hijueputa estante donde SIEMPRE las dejamos”
(“They’re on the damn shelf where we ALWAYS leave them.”)
A short silence.
Then running footsteps again.
”¡AH!”
(“AH!”)
Sebastián let out another laugh.
”Sí… definitivamente es nuestro solcito”
(“Yeah… he’s definitely our little sunshine.”)
Santiago turned back to the pot and muttered, almost to himself:
”Algún día me va a matar del estrés…”
(“One day he’s going to kill me from stress…”)
—
The room was wrapped in a soft dimness, barely illuminated by the bluish light that slipped through the window and filtered between the curtains. It was a quiet night, one of those nights where silence didn’t feel uncomfortable, but rather heavy and warm, like a blanket covering the entire house.
In the center of the room, occupying a large portion of the space, was the nest.
It wasn’t a nest in the simple sense of the word. It wasn’t just scattered blankets or stacked mattresses. It was a complex structure that had grown over time: thick blankets, large pillows, soft comforters, and some old fabrics Santiago had insisted on keeping because they carried the family’s scent. Everything was arranged in a kind of protective circle, with higher edges and a sunken center, as if the whole structure embraced whoever slept inside.
And in the middle of that improvised refuge, the family slept.
The children were curled up against each other, tangled in the blankets like small animals that had instinctively settled together to preserve warmth. One of them had an arm stretched across another’s chest; the youngest had his face buried into a pillow while breathing with that deep, carefree rhythm only children can have when, on some instinctive level, they know they are completely safe.
Their slow breathing mixed with the soft sound of the wind outside.
Closer to the edge of the nest slept Solange and Sebastián.
Solange was completely sprawled face down, one leg outside the blanket and his messy hair covering half his face. He slept with the absolute tranquility of someone who could fall asleep anywhere, in any position, as long as there was enough warmth around.
Sebastián, on the other hand, lay on his side, one arm stretched over a pillow and his breathing deep. His face held a relaxed, almost serene expression, as if the exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with him and dragged him into sleep without resistance.
Both of them were deeply asleep.
But not everyone in the nest was asleep.
Because, just a few centimeters away, Sierra and Santiago were having a small argument.
Santiago was awake.
Completely awake.
His eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, reflecting the little light in the room.
There was something different about him these days.
Something more primitive.
More tense.
The drakkobloxxer hybrid was in his mating season.
And even though his rational mind told him something very clear—that four children were already more than enough—his body didn’t seem particularly interested in listening to that logic.
Instinct was complicated.
It didn’t always push in the direction one expected.
In his case, the dominant urge wasn’t exactly to reproduce again.
It was to protect.
Protect the territory.
Protect the nest.
Protect his partner.
Protect everyone.
That was why he had spent the last few weeks building that place with almost obsessive dedication. He had moved mattresses, dragged blankets, rearranged the room until the entire space became a kind of enclosed refuge.
A place where everyone could sleep together.
A place where he could feel them.
Smell them.
Hear them breathe.
And make sure no one was in danger.
The problem was that his protective instinct didn’t turn off when morning came.
Nor when the kids had to go to school.
Nor when any of his three partners had to leave the house to do something as simple as buying food, working…
Or going to the bathroom.
And that was exactly what was happening now.
"Amor…"
(“Love…”)
Sierra’s voice was barely a murmur, carefully low so as not to wake the children.
She tried to move a little.
But the arm wrapped around her didn’t give even a centimeter.
"…Tengo que ir al pinche baño"
(“…I need to go to the damn bathroom.”)
The grip around her waist was strong.
Not painful.
But firm.
Too firm.
Santiago was half reclined behind her, his arm coiled around her body like a living barrier.
Sierra tried to slide forward.
The arm tightened.
"Amor"
(“Love,”)
she tried again, now whispering with a bit more insistence.
Nothing.
"San—"
The sound that came from Santiago’s chest was a low growl.
"Grrhm."
He didn’t open his eyes.
He didn’t move.
But the message was quite clear.
No.
Sierra let out a silent sigh.
She tried to gently push the arm.
Nothing.
She tried to lift it.
Still nothing.
"Amor, en serio…"
(“Love, seriously…”)
She turned slightly to look at him.
His eyes were half-lidded, still half asleep, but the grip remained firm.
"…voy a regresar en dos minutos"
(“…I’ll be back in two minutes.”)
The drakkobloxxer didn’t respond.
He only adjusted his arm.
As if pulling her a little closer was a reasonable solution to the problem.
Sierra closed her eyes for a moment.
She took a deep breath.
Then she started trying to free herself with a bit more determination.
She shifted her shoulder.
Tried to slide her hips.
Tried to slowly lift the arm.
Nothing worked.
Every attempt only made the grip tighten again.
"Puta madre wey…"
(“For fuck’s sake…”)
Sierra muttered under her breath.
She tried again.
And again.
And again.
But Santiago wouldn’t let her go.
The scene would have continued like that for several more minutes if, from the other side of the nest, someone hadn’t moved.
Solange opened one eye.
Just one.
Enough to see what was happening.
He watched Sierra struggling softly.
Watched Santiago’s arm.
Watched the hybrid’s half-asleep growl every time she tried to free herself.
Solange sighed.
Then he lifted his head slightly.
"Santi…"
(“Santi…”)
he murmured in a hoarse, sleepy voice.
Nothing.
The hybrid didn’t react.
Solange lifted his tail—long and flexible—and gently moved it until it touched Santiago’s arm.
A small tap.
"Santi, suelta a la reinita"
(“Santi, let go of the little queen.”)
Sebastián also stirred a bit at the sound of the voices.
He opened one eye.
Looked at the scene.
And let out a small sleepy laugh.
"Santi, ya suelta a la reinita"
(“Santi, just let go of the little queen already.”)
"Después se pone enojada"
(“She’ll get mad later.”)
That comment seemed to pierce through the fog of sleep.
Santiago opened his eyes fully.
He looked at Sierra.
Then at Solange.
Then at Sebastián.
His expression was a strange mix of drowsiness, irritation, and that still-active protective instinct.
He growled softly again.
But this time his arm relaxed.
Not completely.
But enough.
Sierra took advantage of the moment.
She carefully slipped out of his grip, moving slowly so as not to wake the children sleeping just centimeters away.
She sat at the edge of the nest.
Stretched her arms.
And looked at Santiago.
He was watching her with a slightly offended expression.
As if the mere fact that she wanted to leave was a personal betrayal.
Sierra raised an eyebrow.
"Voy al baño"
(“I’m going to the bathroom.”)
Silence.
Santiago huffed softly through his nose.
And finally looked away.
With that, Sierra stood up and left the improvised bed, walking toward the hallway.
The nest fell silent again.
Solange settled back against the pillows.
Sebastián closed his eyes once more.
But Santiago remained awake.
His eyes followed the direction Sierra had gone.
His fingers moved slightly over the blanket.
The instinct was still there.
Heavy.
Tense.
Protective.
Yes.
During those days…
Santiago was somewhat annoying.
Everyone knew it.
—
The house was too quiet.
It wasn’t the comfortable kind of silence that appears when everyone is asleep and the world seems to rest for a few hours. No. This was a different kind of silence. One that felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if the air itself were waiting for something.
In the center of the living room, the lights were off. Only a small lamp illuminated one corner, casting a yellowish glow that barely reached the couch where Santiago sat.
The drakkobloxxer hybrid hadn’t moved from there in almost an hour.
In front of him, on the table, there were three phones.
Well… not exactly three.
His own was in his hand, and the other two were constant mental reminders of the people who should be responding right now.
But they weren’t.
His fingers tapped rhythmically, nervously, against the back of the phone as he stared at the screen over and over again.
Nothing new.
No messages.
No calls.
Only the time.
03:02 AM.
The screen glowed for a few seconds before turning off again.
Santiago ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers from his forehead to his jaw.
They had said they would be back early.
By one at the latest.
It wasn’t the first time they had gone out without him. Santiago wasn’t particularly fond of parties. Places full of people, loud music, and alcohol weren’t his kind of environment, especially during those days when his protective instinct was still far too active.
He had preferred to stay home with the kids.
At first, everything had been fine.
He made them dinner.
Helped them finish their homework.
Read a story to the youngest while the other two argued about who had to turn off the light.
Then they all ended up in his room, like always.
The children were sleeping deeply now, breathing calmly from the bedroom.
Santiago could hear them from where he sat.
Every small movement.
Every soft breath.
That usually calmed him.
But not tonight.
Because his partners weren’t there.
And it was already three in the morning.
His mind began to wander down paths he himself knew he shouldn’t follow.
Accidents.
Fights.
Some drunk idiot causing trouble.
Someone following them as they left the party.
A dead phone.
Hospitals.
Ambulances.
Santiago’s jaw tightened.
No.
No.
He shook his head sharply.
He couldn’t think like that.
But anxiety wasn’t logical.
He looked at the phone again.
Opened the conversation.
He had sent many messages.
Too many.
—¿Dónde están?
(“Where are you?”)
—¿Ya vienen?
(“Are you on your way?”)
—Son las dos
(“It’s two.”)
—¿Todo bien?
(“Is everything okay?”)
—Respondan
(“Answer me.”)
—¿Están en el auto?
(“Are you in the car?”)
—Son las dos y media
(“It’s two thirty.”)
—Contesten
(“Pick up.”)
His thumb moved again.
He was about to send another message when he decided to do something different.
He pressed the call button.
The tone began to ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Santiago clenched his teeth.
Four.
Five.
Six—
“Alo, Santi?”
(“Hello, Santi?”)
Sebastián’s voice came from the other side of the line.
And in that very instant, something inside Santiago’s chest loosened.
The air he didn’t know he had been holding rushed out.
His breathing returned.
But relief didn’t come alone.
Something else came with it.
Something hotter.
More intense.
Anger.
The phone was still in his hand.
Sebastián was talking on the other side.
But Santiago hadn’t received a single reply to any of his messages for hours.
Hours in which he had been imagining the worst.
Hours in which fear had grown in his chest like unbearable pressure.
And now…
Now they answered as if nothing had happened.
His voice came out before he could stop it.
Loud.
Charged.
“Miren, rechuchas de su madre…”
(“Listen here, you motherfuckers”)
Sebastián fell silent on the other end.
“Ustedes cabezas de verga me dijeron que dizque iban a una fiesta y que supuestamente llegarían temprano”
(“…you dickheads told me you were going to a party and that you’d supposedly be back early.”)
Santiago stood up from the couch as he spoke.
He began pacing across the living room, his free hand running through his hair in frustration.
“Son las tres de la mañana y NADA”
(“It’s three in the morning and NOTHING.”)
Each word came out louder than the last.
“Te mando mensaje tras mensaje, y yo pensando que les había pasado algo, par de malparidos”
(“I kept sending message after message, thinking something had happened to you, you assholes.”)
Sebastián tried to speak.
“Santi, nosotros”
(“Santi, we—”)
But the hybrid didn’t let him finish.
“¡Les juro por mi abuela que está en el cielo que si ustedes culian con las putas de sus madres no aparecen en la próxima hora me voy de la hijueputa casa!
(“I swear by my grandma in heaven that if you idiots don’t show up within the next hour, I’m leaving from this fucking house!”)
His voice echoed throughout the house.
Santiago stopped in front of the window, staring at the empty street.
“…y me voy con los guaguas”
(“…and I’m taking the kids with me.”)
The silence on the other end of the phone lasted barely a second.
Then everything became chaotic.
“¡SANTI NO”
(“SANTI, NO—”)
Sebastián’s voice sounded alarmed now.
“¡Amorcito, luz de nuestra vida!”
(“Sweetheart, light of our lives!”)
Background noise could be heard.
Music.
People talking.
Someone saying something unintelligible.
“No te preocupes, ya busco a los otros y llegamos ahí, ¿ok?”
(“Don’t worry, I’ll get the others and we’ll head back right now, okay?”)
Santiago didn’t answer immediately.
His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Finally, he spoke.
His voice was lower.
But just as dangerous.
“Más les vale”
(“You’d better.”)
And he hung up.
The phone screen went dark again.
The house fell silent once more.
Santiago remained standing in front of the window for several seconds.
Watching the empty street.
Listening to the silence.
Then he sighed.
Ran a hand over his face.
And finally walked back toward the hallway.
He gently pushed open the bedroom door.
The children were sleeping deeply, completely unaware of everything that had just happened.
Santiago knelt beside the edge of the bed.
He watched their faces.
One of them shifted slightly in their sleep, hugging their blanket tighter.
The hybrid slowly let out the air still trapped in his chest.
He rested his hand on Cristobal’s head.
Everything was fine.
For now.
But if his partners didn’t show up soon…
Santiago had been serious.