I kept the USB drive hidden.
Not in some secure office drawer or locked safe—I knew better.
I kept it on me, in an old leather wallet stitched behind the lining. If anyone came looking, they'd find nothing. Not unless they knew what I knew.
Three names stood out from the files:
Vega, Aranda, M. Torres.
All three had cases dismissed under Judge Beltrán.
All three were known in legal circles.
All three were still walking free.
I started with Vega.
He ran a construction firm that had "accidentally" won several million-dollar government contracts. The kind of man who wears a cheap watch but owns five luxury cars. His case involved worker deaths—buried under paperwork, literally. Beltrán ruled in his favor. The evidence had gone "missing."
But now, I had it.
Hidden in a digital trail, buried in Beltrán's files.
It wasn't just corruption.
It was orchestration. Every case, every ruling, part of a larger play.
The deeper I went, the more dangerous it felt.
Someone had decided to take Beltrán out.
But not because he was corrupt.
Because he was trying to make it right.
The final document in the USB wasn't a file—it was a letter.
"If I disappear, this drive goes to Santiago Del Valle. He's not part of the system. He listens to the dead. And the dead don't lie."
He knew.
He knew they were coming.
That's when I heard it.
A car outside my apartment. Engine idling too long. No movement. No honk.
Just presence.
This wasn't a case anymore.
It was a countdown.
And I had just become the next name on someone's list.