Vargas gives her a tour

Mateo studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Words are easy, Presidente, but seeing is harder. If you truly want to understand, I’ll show you.”

Without waiting for her assent, Mateo turned and strode out of the hall. Isabella followed, her bodyguards close behind. They walked through the labyrinthine streets, the heat oppressive even in the evening. The buildings were cramped and dilapidated, with peeling paint and cracked windows. Children played in the dusty streets, their clothes patched and worn. Everywhere, there was a sense of weariness, of hope crushed under the weight of daily struggle.

Eventually, they came to an entrance to a mine - gold, judging from the sign hanging above. Specifically, it was a Carlos Industries operation. Inside, the mine was a dark and suffocating world of narrow tunnels lit only by flickering lamps. Workers moved like shadows through the gloom, their bodies bent under the weight of tools and sacks of ore. The air was heavy with the stench of sweat and the metallic tang of rock dust. Coughing echoed through the space, harsh and unrelenting.

“Many of them won't last through the next winter,” Mateo explained grimly as they walked deeper into the mine. “The dust gets into their lungs, and there’s no cure. The quotas your father’s regime imposed **** them to push their bodies to the brink just to survive.”

They passed a young boy, no older than twelve, struggling to carry a bucket of ore nearly half his size. Isabella stopped, her heart tightening as their eyes met. The boy quickly looked away, his small frame trembling under the weight. She turned to Mateo, her voice low but sharp.

“Children work here?”

Mateo’s expression hardened. “When their fathers die, someone has to take their place.”

Isabella said nothing, her silence heavy with shame and anger. The tour continued, taking her outside and through the nearby smelting plants where the air shimmered with unbearable heat. Workers stood dangerously close to molten gold, their faces hidden behind crude masks that barely protected them from the scorching fumes. The machinery roared, drowning out any chance of conversation, but the exhaustion etched into the workers’ movements spoke volumes.

In one corner of the plant, a man collapsed, his body crumpling to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Two other workers hurried to drag him away, their faces blank with resignation. Mateo glanced at Isabella, his expression a challenge.

“Do you see now?” he asked as they stepped back outside, the relative coolness of the open air offering little comfort. “This is what your father’s legacy has built. Gold for the elites, graves for the workers.”

Isabella swallowed hard, the weight of what she had seen pressing down on her. She had grown up surrounded by wealth, the fruits of Montesoro’s labor, but this was the first time she had truly understood its cost. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the district. For a fleeting moment, it was beautiful—until she remembered the horrors hidden beneath the gilded surface.

“I didn’t know it was this bad,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I... I will fix this.”

Mateo’s gaze softened, though his wariness remained. “Words won’t save them, Presidente. Action will. If you’re serious about change, you’ll need to stand against the very people who profit from this suffering—including some of your allies.”

“I’m prepared to do what’s necessary,” she said firmly, though she wondered if the conviction in her voice was enough to mask her uncertainty. “Show me how I can help.”

Mateo studied her for a moment, then nodded. “This is only the beginning, Presidente. If you want the workers’ support, you’ll need to earn it.”