BLOODCAPE

The ship made lazy circles in the air, clutched tightly between Hernan's small hands. Its worn plastic edges caught the dying sunlight as it zipped and spun above the living room carpet, a makeshift galaxy underfoot.

He made the usual sounds — whooshes, soft pew-pew noises — the soundtrack of quiet wars only he could see. His mother laughed from the kitchen, the warm, bubbling kind of laugh she always had when she didn't think he was listening. His father lounged across the battered couch, half-watching, half-lost in thought, the evening news murmuring low from the wall-screen.

For a moment, the house was just a house.

And Hernan Vale was just a boy.

The communicator clipped to Solaris's belt buzzed once — a tiny vibration against fabric. Hernan barely noticed, but his father did. He moved like the couch had turned to fire beneath him, snatching the device up with a hand too quick, too sharp.

A thin voice crackled through the tiny speaker. Hernan couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to.

Solaris's face had drained of color.

The toy ship dropped to the floor with a soft clatter as Hernan looked up, confused. His mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The smile faltered on her lips when she saw Solaris's expression.

"Who was it?" she asked. Not loud. Like she already knew the answer.

Solaris didn't respond.

He only crossed the room in three strides and seized the old latch on the front door, snapping it shut with a decisive, brutal click.