Gill Santos types with the same fury she pours into her tequila. Diego Torres, slumped on the worn-out couch, chain-smokes Ducados while watching her fiery red hair tangle with the swirling smoke.

“Tell me something, Torres,” she says without lifting her gaze. “Do you know why Jose Cuervo is the best tequila in the world?”
“Because you couldn’t afford anything better?”
“Idiot. It’s because it has history. Tradition. Like every damn sip holds the secrets of centuries of drunks, poets, and bastards.”
“Bar philosophy. Does that help you hack any faster?” he mocks.
“It doesn’t help, but it makes failure taste less bitter.”

She smirks and waves her empty glass in the air. He takes the hint and gets up to refill it.

“This beauty survived wars and mediocre cops like you,” she says, taking a sip and savoring it. “You should learn to appreciate it. It’s like a good algorithm: you don’t see its value until it saves your ass.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” he asks, leaning over to look at the screen.
“BankPlus has laughable security, but they’ve got something interesting here,” she mutters, clicking her mouse to open an encrypted file. “Wait… here it is.”

She types a final line of code, and a folder labeled Metaverso_BPS pops up on the screen.

“Metaverse?” Torres reads, his voice shifting ever so slightly.

Santos takes a long drink, letting the tequila burn as she gives herself a moment.

“Remember that twentieth-century crap? Virtual reality, avatars, digital experiences… Everyone said it was the future until the future showed up in the form of an angry ocean that swallowed the Internet.” She pauses, frowning at the screen. “But this… this is different.”

She opens the folder. Images, simulations, and documents load slowly. One of them projects a 3D city: impossible streets, shifting geometries, and in the center, a gigantic crimson antenna beating like it’s alive.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Santos mutters, breathless.
“That antenna…”
“Exactly. This isn’t just a metaverse. This is Oniria,” she says, more to herself than to Torres.
“Oniria…” Torres repeats, tasting the word, trying to make sense of it. She’s too entranced to notice.

The ex-cop had heard the rumors, the conspiracy theories about Oniria. The kind of nonsense lunatics clung to, like his brother. Now Santos speaks of it like it’s just another day at the office. There’s something wrong with this tequila, he thinks.

“What does BankPlus have to do with all this?” he asks, trying to take control of the conversation.

Santos dives back into the keyboard, searching.

“That’s the weird part. BankPlus is neck-deep in this project. Look at this.” She opens a new file filled with endless graphs and transaction logs. “There are accounts funneling funds into something called ‘Phase Somnium.’ But here’s what’s screwing with me…” She points to a section filled with user IDs and codenames. “Some of these look like people. Connected users. Their dreams might be… used. Monitored, maybe.”
“Let me get this straight. We all know BankPlus is more than just a bank, but now they’re funding some kind of… dream network?”
“It’s insane…” Santos types again, and a list of connection dates and logs floods the screen. “What the hell is this? With the Method of La Llave, dreamers don’t need physical access. This kind of control shouldn’t even be possible…”
“The Method of La Llave?”

Santos stops typing and turns, surprised.

“Wait… Are you telling me you enter Oniria without the Method of La Llave?”

Torres stares back in silence. She exhales, running a hand through her hair, more annoyed than surprised.

“Of course you do. You don’t even know what it is, do you?”
“Not a damn clue.”

Santos laughs, a sharp, golden sound cutting through the hum of the fans.

“It’s a technique. Deep meditation, dream control. That’s how normal people enter Oniria. But you, rookie… you don’t need any of that. Which makes you weird. Very weird.”

Torres lights another Ducados, trying to clear his tequila haze. It all sounds like crap, but he can’t ignore the references—the Pelu, the accounts, the codes, and his brother obsessed with BankPlus.

“I don’t get a damn thing, but Ivan was hooked on something tied to this. They called it a metaverse…”

Santos nods.

“Oniria is like a metaverse, but not made of cheap graphics and code. It’s real… or as real as a dream can get. Some say it taps into parts of your mind you didn’t know existed. Others say it connects to something bigger.”
“And what do you say?” he asks.
“I say most things I don’t understand give me hangovers, just like this tequila.” She smirks. “Speaking of which, you should learn to appreciate this, Torres. Cuervo isn’t just booze—it’s an experience. Some people connect with the Method of the Key, and others connect with… whatever the hell you do. No, don’t tell me.”

Torres snuffs out his cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, unbothered.

“Got it.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Santos leans back in her chair and points at him with her empty glass. “Listen, whatever your brother was into, it wasn’t just a hobby. He was in the middle of something big.”

Torres eyes her and refills her glass.

“This stinks.” Santos downs the tequila and adds, “If you want answers, you might find them in Oniria. That said, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Torres hesitates but nods.

“How do I get there?”
“You know where.” Santos points at the antenna on the screen. “The Monument. I’ll see you there. But I’m warning you, rookie—nothing in Oniria is what it seems.”

Torres stays quiet, thinking.

“I’ve got something to do first.”

Santos raises her glass in a mocking toast.

“Fine. But don’t take too long. I’ll see you in the World of Dreams, rookie.”

The Monument, Torres thinks, like I have any idea what you’re talking about, carrot.

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