98.1 The Invisible Threads.
The city drifted slowly beneath a leaden sky.
From the window of that modestly fronted house, in an area devoid of cameras or patrols, the metropolis seemed harmless.
A white curtain fluttered in the breeze, letting in the orange glow of the sunset.
Inside, it was a different story.
The second-floor office looked like it belonged to another world: dark leather furniture, a Turkish rug, and a library filled with books in French, German, and Russian.
On the desk sat an open laptop, a glass of whiskey, and an empty ashtray.
There were no family photos, no personal paintings.
Only luxury and power.
Ivor Amaro stood by the window.
His silhouette, rigid as a statue, looked more like a shadow than a human being.
He wore a white shirt and black trousers, no jacket.
His rolled-up sleeves revealed tense forearms the kind of tension that doesn't come from physical labor, but from constant calculation.
The door opened without a knock.
—Boss, I have the report from the central zone.
Said the emissary, a thin young man sweating despite the La Paz chill.
Ivor didn't turn around.
He simply raised two fingers, signaling him to speak.
—The march ended in the afternoon. No fatalities, but twenty-three arrests, including two alternative journalists.
Our plant provoked them at the exact spot, and the police responded as predicted.
Silence.
The emissary swallowed hard.
Ivor lowered his hand without a word, and the young man understood: leave.
The door closed softly.
Then, Ivor turned slowly toward his desk, picked up the whiskey glass, and sat down.
He took a sip.
It was almost ceremonial.
—How easy it is to manipulate them...
He murmured.
—A single spark and they scatter like ants, believing they are fighting for justice, land, and a voice.
How sweet... how blind.
He set the glass down.
His eyes narrowed; his voice grew lower, darker.
—And while they fight... I clear the ground for what is coming.
He turned on his laptop screen.
A polling graph appeared: the current president's approval rating had dropped five points in a week.
He smiled.
—It's not chaos; it's strategy. The elections are approaching, and that inept fool cannot remain in power.
Bolivia needs to fall lower... so that I can raise it in my image.
He reclined in his chair and looked at a small Bolivian flag someone had given him, almost like a mockery.
He watched it for a few seconds.
—And while I'm at it, I'll collect what this country owes me. Its mountains, its jungles... its people.
To them, it's a motherland. To me, it's a place that doesn't know its own worth.
Another pause.
Another sip.
Ivor swirled the glass lightly between his fingers.
He had learned very young that in this land, only two types of people survived: those who commanded... and those who were crushed.
He had decided long ago which side he would be on.
"I don't do politics... Politics is for idealists. I do business. I make history."
Ivor closed the laptop slowly.
He stared at his reflection in the black screen for a few seconds.
Bolivia had always been the same to him: a place that spat him out into the world.
Then, he practiced a different smile.
Softer, clumsier.
The smile the country expected to see.
As he looked at Mount Illimani through his window, he couldn't help but think.
"The curious thing about this country is that it always wants to believe in someone."
As the city prepared for another restless night,
Ivor Amaro was already planning his next move.
98.2 Last View of La Paz.
The freezing Andean wind whistled through the airport's large windows while the afternoon sun gilded the imposing silhouette of Illimani.
Zayra and Ryu sat side by side, waiting for the announcement of the flight that would take them back to Santa Cruz.
She rubbed her hands slowly, trying to regain some warmth.
For a moment, she thought of home wondering if her mother had already seen the news of what happened the day before.
She sighed and thought.
"I hope they aren't worried."
Ryu, for his part, reached for his shirt collar and slightly loosened the top button.
He still felt the scratchy sensation of the gas in his throat.
He watched the flow of passengers while trying to process the previous day's events.
Perhaps it had all just been a coincidence.
Santa Cruz wasn't like this.
La Paz had shaken them from the sorojchi (altitude sickness) to the tear gas;
from the beauty of the cable car and the Isla del Sol to the news that kept stirring up uncomfortable realities.
Bolivia wasn't just a beautiful country... it was an open wound and a heart beating strong.
Zayra pressed her lips together for a second.
She had learned to control her temper, but some images lingered too long in her mind.
"It was just a bad moment..."
Ryu concluded, inhaling deeply, trying to leave that bitter experience behind.
As if wanting to return to reality, he asked.
"Do we have everything?"
Ryu checked the boarding gate number for a second time.
He didn't need to, but it calmed him.
He thought:
"This time, everything has to go right."
"Yes, we're set."
She replied, picking up the backpack where she carefully kept the document.
Ryu nodded. Though for him, this "detour" had turned into a complete immersion.
He looked at Zayra; she seemed calm, but he had learned that her silence often hid storms.
He couldn't help but wonder:
"How many more things do I not know about you?"
Sometimes he felt as though Zayra walked with the weight of a history, she had never told him.
Zayra, meanwhile, only thought of seeing her family.
Even though they had told her the fires had ceased thanks to the rains, she couldn't help feeling anxious.
With her left hand, she squeezed the locket containing the toborochi flower.
***
A screen in front of them suddenly changed its programming.
< Special Broadcast — Ivor Amaro addresses the nation. >
Both turned.
On the screen, former president Ivor Amaro wearing his customary black suit with indigenous-patterned cuffs and lapels,
sat in a makeshift studio.
Within seconds, several people in the terminal also looked up at the screens.
Zayra's stomach tightened instantly.
Not just because of the television or the speeches, but because of a day she preferred not to remember.
Ryu felt a slight weight in his chest seeing the former president's face.
He remembered the assembly and Zayra losing control for the first time...
He thought.
"That man."
Soft lights, a Bolivian flag behind him, and a perfectly measured smile.
"Dear Bolivian people... I am not a man of grand speeches. You know me."
There was a brief silence.
An elderly lady near them nodded slowly at the screen.
"At least he spoke clearly..."
She murmured.
Ivor looked directly into the camera.
"But when I see what is happening... marches, gas, detained youths... I wonder if our country is losing its way."
There was something strange about the way he spoke.
As if every word was calculated... yet disguised as simplicity.
Ryu frowned.
"Isn't that...?"
"Yes."
Zayra replied through gritted teeth.
"That is Ivor Amaro. A despicable man."
Her fingers tightened around the backpack strap.
Ryu tilted his head slightly toward her, studying her expression without interrupting.
His fingers moved slightly over his knee a nearly imperceptible gesture of unease.
***
"I am not a perfect man... I am only a man who loves his country."
Ivor continued in an almost melancholy tone.
"During my government, the voices of the people were never silenced. Protest was never criminalized.
We had stability, economic prosperity, foreign investment...
And now look: no freedom of speech, no respect for the people, no peace."
The face of her friend flashed in Zayra's mind without warning.
They were the same age when it all happened.
Zayra scoffed.
"Liar. He was the one who ordered the crackdowns and threatened his opponents.
But now that elections are coming..."
Her jaw tightened with force as she told herself.
"How many lives did you ruin..."
Ryu looked down at her clenched hands. He knew what that tension meant.
"The last time she got this angry... she fainted."
That thought left him worried.
He watched the slogan on the screen.
He had heard these kinds of promises before.
Over time, he had learned that speeches promising a return to the past always hide something.
He reflected on what she had told him before.
"Now I understand what she meant... when she said this isn't just a legal struggle, but a spiritual and cultural one too."
The screen displayed the new slogan:
< Ivor Amaro: The Bolivia that Returns. >
On the screen,
he bowed his head with an almost humble expression the same expression he had used for years to win people over.
Zayra turned off her phone. For an instant, she looked at Ryu.
She wondered if all of this would be too much for him.
"He could leave... he doesn't have to stay."
She squeezed Ryu's hand hard, her breathing slowing as she felt his touch.
She reflected.
"If he decides to stay... it will be because he wants to."
He didn't respond immediately.
He simply interlaced his fingers with hers and held her hand more firmly.
She looked at him seriously and declared.
"Ryu, I don't know what will happen..."
"Why do you say that?"
Ryu asked.
She sighed.
"Because my people need me, and I cannot turn my back on them."
Zayra held his gaze without flickering. She had learned that some battles could not be avoided.
Ryu looked at her in silence.
There were parts of her life he still didn't understand parts belonging to stories,
wounds, and struggles he was only just beginning to know.
The loudspeaker announced the boarding for their flight.
She stood up and headed for the gate, while Ryu watched her walk.
He couldn't help but think.
"She is already part of my life... and I don't want a life without her."
He caught up to her and adjusted the strap of Zayra's backpack on her shoulder before walking toward the gate.
She took one last look through the airport window.
Zayra inhaled deeply and declared.
"Bolivia has never been easy... but it is my home."
The city of La Paz was left behind beneath the wings of the plane.
But what had begun there... was only just the beginning.