Isabella checks on Romero

The laboratory was blindingly white, a sterile and clinical space devoid of humanity. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, cold and sharp, with a metallic tang that hinted at blood and suffering just beneath the surface. Charts and graphs lined the walls, displaying all forms of data—heart rates, brain activity, chemical levels—all measuring the body and mind's limits. In the center of the room, under the glare of fluorescent lights, sat Alejandro Romero.

His wrists and ankles were strapped to a chair of gleaming steel, its design grotesquely utilitarian, with adjustable restraints and wires connected to a generator that hummed softly. A set of instruments—scalpels, syringes, clamps, and devices with more sinister purposes—were neatly arranged on a nearby tray. Every inch of the room was designed for precision, for methodical pain. Valdés had turned **** into an exact science, and Romero was the latest subject of his dark experiments.

Isabella entered the room, her heels clicking against the spotless tiled floor. The sound was sharp and rhythmic, echoing against the lifeless walls. She wore a fitted black coat, its stark simplicity standing out against the clinical brightness. Her expression was cold, detached, a mask hiding the turmoil roiling beneath.

“Presidente,” Valdés greeted her from the corner of the room, where he stood beside a sink, wiping a bloody scalpel. His tone was clinical, professional, as though they were discussing a routine procedure. “He’s resilient. Remarkable, really. No confessions yet, but his body can only endure so much more.”

Romero looked up as she approached, his face battered but his spirit intact. Much of his body was covered under white sheets, red spots blossoming from underneath even as Isabella observed. Valdés must have done it for her benefit, spare her the sight of his broken body. Yet, his eyes, bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion, still glinted with defiance.

“You’ve gone to great lengths,” he rasped, his voice dry and cracked. “I’d almost be flattered if I didn’t know how **** you are.”

Isabella ignored the taunt, taking her place in front of him. She studied him for a moment, her gaze cold and unyielding. “Romero,” she began, her voice smooth but laced with menace, “you’ve withstood a great deal. But let’s not pretend you’re invincible. Everyone has a breaking point.”

Romero let out a weak laugh, his breath hitching from the pain, his body shuddering underneath the white sheets. “And you think this will find mine? You really don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”

Isabella stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “What I understand is that you are a man still clinging to illusions of power, illusions that I am about to strip away. Tell me who Mr. Green is. Tell me where to find him, and this ends quickly.”

He chuckled again, though it quickly turned into a grimace of pain. “You don’t find him. He finds you. And when he does, you’ll wish you never involved yourself in the game.”

Romero’s voice turned grave, his tone suddenly quiet but no less intense. “You can carve me up, little princess. You can tear me apart piece by piece. But you’re wasting your time. He already knows you. He’s already watching. And you are already dancing in the palm of his hands.”

For a long moment, silence hung in the air, broken only by the hum of her spymaster as he prepared his tools. Isabella straightened, her face unreadable, before turning to Valdés.

“Continue,” she ordered curtly. “Push him further, but keep him alive. For now.”

She turned on her heel and left the room, the sterile brightness giving way to the dim corridors beyond. Behind her, the hums grew louder as Valdés began his grim task, a smile stretching his face.