Gill Santos hasn’t had sex in two months, and she’s in a bad mood. Her relationships don’t last as long anymore, or maybe she’s just getting older.

“Your face is disgusting,” she says, venting her frustration at Diego Torres.
“Love you too, carrot.”

Then the redhead’s raspy laughter lights up the room, and Torres thinks that if things were different, there’d be no way to escape her.

“Are you eating properly?”

Diego Torres ignores the question as he snoops around her desk, pouring another round of tequila: haphazardly stacked folders, unopened letters, shot glasses arranged in threes among colored markers.

It had been a while since he’d been there, and nothing had changed. The rickety couch piled high with cushions. Books scattered across the floor. Empty bottles of Jose Cuervo Especial Dorado Reposado lined up on the marble fireplace… and the computer.

Calling it a “computer” is a joke. It looks more like a mix of relic and fortress straight out of a cyberpunk movie, taking up the entire northern wall of the office.

Three machines bear the scars of obsessive use: one is a solid black tower scuffed all over; another has dents on top and a power button that only responds to a firm press, as if it needs an unequivocal command to boot up. The third, massive and vertical, with a worn casing, resembles a broken column filled with fireflies.

Connected to them are two oversized monitors dominating the space. They’re crammed with flickering windows running analysis programs, tracking tools, encryption software, and a few suspicious-looking apps. One monitor tilts slightly, held in place by Velcro to maintain the exact position Santos needs. The left monitor has a corner of its frame cracked, as if it had been struck by something heavy during a particularly rough night.

Torres notices that the keyboards are customized, and although he’s no expert (his brother was the keyboard geek), he can tell each one is a handcrafted piece. On the left, some key labels are worn off, replaced with improvised symbols drawn in black marker—Santos’s private notes for commands only she understands. The other keyboard features extra keys, modified shortcuts, and programmed functions for hacking and quick-access executables.

Farther down the desk lies a collection of external hard drives and USB modules stacked chaotically, like pieces of a complex puzzle. Some are labeled in handwriting: BP Records, HN Network, S Profiles. Others are unlabeled, and Torres wonders what kind of information those nameless drives might hold.

The vertical tower is equipped with several additional fans placed at odd angles, giving it a slightly improvised look. The blades hum steadily, a white noise that, in Santos’s messy office, feels almost like a heartbeat. A purple neon light reflects from a device Torres can’t identify, likely part of Santos’s DIY security system.

“Does that thing have a floppy disk drive?”
“Are you kidding me?” Santos asks, throwing him a look somewhere between amused and exasperated, as if Torres had just insulted her grandfather. “Of course it has a floppy disk drive, you idiot.”

Torres raises an eyebrow, and Santos sighs, setting her tequila glass down on the table with a sharp thud.

“An analog guy like you wouldn’t get it, but there are things modern machines simply can’t do.”
“You’re saying you have documents old enough to need them?” Torres asks.
“It’s not about age; it’s about security. Floppy disks don’t connect to networks, don’t transmit data, don’t have wireless vulnerabilities. Everyone forgot about them, and that’s exactly why they’re practically impenetrable.” Santos leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “But you didn’t bring me this bottle to talk about floppy disks. Did you?”

Torres smirks, hesitating for a moment.

“I’m more interested in what you know about BankPlus’s alternative projects,” he lies, finishing his drink.

Santos refills her glass as a tense silence cracks her knuckles. She swirls the liquor, inhales its deceptively sweet aroma, and sets it back on the table with care.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but since I’m your friend, let me remind you…” she says in a voice too raspy to be her own. “There are hornets’ nests better left unstirred.”

Torres shrugs, raising a defiant toast to the void. The hum of the fans grows deafening.