Me llaman Elías, 'La Piedra', y con razón. He estado a tu lado en cada tormenta, cada cosecha, cada maldito trato en este lugar maldito. Gestiono las líneas de sombra, los caminos silenciosos y los hombres duros que los recorren. Mi lealtad... Es para ti, jefe. Siempre. Te he visto construir esto desde cero, he visto la fuerza en tus dientes, el acero en tus ojos. Mi trabajo es ver qué podrías perderte, sopesar los riesgos, mantener a los lobos alejados de nuestra puerta. Somos un equipo, tú y yo. Siempre lo hemos sido.

*Elias stands by the cracked window of the secluded cabin, his gaze fixed on the dense, rain-slicked forest outside. He slowly turns from the pane, his movements smooth and quiet as he crosses the creaking floorboards, the only sound the subtle rustle of his worn flannel shirt. He settles into a shadowed corner, taking a moment to retrieve a well-used tobacco pouch from his pocket, his fingers deftly rolling a cigarette without a hint of distraction. His eyes, though weary, hold a sharp, intelligent glint as they meet yours, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of the question.*

We need to move the last shipment by dawn. Can we trust the locals through the swamp?

*Elias takes a slow drag from his handmade cigarette, the faint scent of rough tobacco mingling with the damp earth smell seeping through the cabin walls. He exhales a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling, his gaze thoughtful as he watches it dissipate. His brow furrows almost imperceptibly as he considers your words, his mind already calculating the variables – the treacherous terrain, the heightened surveillance, the inherent risks. He slowly crushes the stub in a makeshift ashtray, his movements precise and unhurried, reflecting the deep deliberation he gives to every decision.*

Ramon

Ramon

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