The low, pleasant hum of the house settling for the night was a symphony to my ears. Downstairs, the faint, muffled echo of Emily's laughter mixed with the low murmur of the newsfeed from the living room TV, where Mom and Nadia were undoubtedly dissecting the day's events. The air in my room still felt charged, electric with the residual energy of their celebration. The success of Silent Hill : First Fear wasn't just numbers on a screen anymore; it was the warmth in my mother's eyes, the proud, heavy pat on my back from Nadia, the way Bella had looked at me—like I'd hung the moon itself.
I could feel it, a solid, warm weight in my chest, a thrumming certainty that was starting to feel like a second heartbeat. I leaned back in my desk chair, the worn leather sighing under my weight as I stretched, my muscles taut and then releasing in a long, satisfying pull. I was the architect of this feeling, the provider of this security, and damn, it felt good.
"Tap-tappa-tap-tap."
"It's open."
The door creaked open just wide enough to reveal my Tía Vera, her form silhouetted by the softer light of the hallway. She filled the space, not just with her physical presence but with her energy—a vibrant, earthy warmth that seemed to push back the shadows in my room. Her dark, wavy hair was a little mussed, freed from its usual clip, cascading over her shoulders in a way that was both casual and incredibly alluring. She was wearing a soft, thin, grey cotton t-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the generous, heavy curve of her breasts, the fabric straining just slightly across their fullness. A simple pair of black cotton shorts hugged the swell of her hips and showcased the toned strength of her thighs. In one hand, she dangled a plastic-ringed twelve-pack of cerveza, the cans clinking together with a soft, promising music.
"¡Oye, sobrino!" she said, her voice a warm, husky alto that always seemed to carry a laugh just beneath the surface. Her smile was a mile wide, a little mischievous, her dark eyes sparkling.
"Look what I found hiding in the back of the fridge, behind Mamá's scary pickled beets…. Thought you might need a real drink to celebrate, eh? Consider it a… mordida." She winked, using the Spanish word for a little bribe, a little taste.
I laughed, the sound genuine and easy. "A bribe, huh? For what? You already got me my favorite tamales last week." I gestured her in with a sweep of my hand. "Get in here before you let all the cool air out."
She slipped inside, her bare feet making almost no sound on the worn floorboards. The door clicked shut behind her with a solid, final sound, sealing us into the private, dimly lit sanctuary of my room. The air immediately changed, taking on the faint, familiar scent of her—jasmine soap and warm skin. She didn't go for the stiff-backed chair in the corner. No, she walked right over to my bed and perched herself on the very edge of the mattress. It dipped significantly under her weight, the springs letting out a soft groan, and the intimacy of her choice of seating sent a tiny, anticipatory jolt through me. I stayed in my desk chair, rolling it closer so our knees were almost touching.
The psst-hiss of the first can opening was sharp and satisfying in the quiet room. She handed it to me, her fingers brushing against mine, a brief touch that felt electric. Then she opened her own.
I watched the way her throat worked as she took the first long swallow, a tiny trickle of condensation escaping the can and tracing a path down her neck, disappearing into the neckline of her shirt. I took a sip of my own. The beer was ice-cold and bitter, bursting with hoppy flavor, the condensation already beading on the aluminum and wetting my palm.
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, just drinking, the events of the evening hanging between us like shared, pleasant ghosts. Her eyes, those deep, dark pools, roamed around my room before landing on the semi-transparent holographic display still hovering over my desk. Blueprints, schematics, and photorealistic rendered images of a building spun in a lazy, mesmerizing rotation.
"¿Qué es eso, mijo?" she asked, nodding her head toward the display while taking another sip. "Looks serious. All those lines and numbers…. Is this for your next game? Some kind of castle?"
I shook my head, a slow, building excitement starting to churn in my gut. This. This was what I'd been wanting to share. "No, Tía. Not a game. This is… this is for us."
I reached out and rotated the display with a flick of my wrist, zooming in on the central courtyard. "It's an apartment complex. The 'Olivia Point,' out in the North-Western Sector. Old, pre-Fall construction, but the bones are solid. Titanium-reinforced concrete."
I zoomed in further, my voice dropping into a more explanatory, intent tone. I wanted her to see it, to truly see it. "See this? The entire eastern façade is fitted with new, polarized poly-carb glass. Triple-paned. It'll tint automatically when the UV index spikes. And up here," I said, pulling the view up to the sprawling roof.
"We have tiered hydroponic garden beds. Not just for veggies, but for air filtration. The yield calculations are right here—enough to supplement our diet by forty percent, easy. And this open area here," I pointed to a large green rectangle,
"that's the sports court. I'm having it resurfaced with the new spring-tech artificial turf…. Feels like real grass, they say. Emily will love it. Bella, too." I was lost in the details, painting the picture for her, making it real. I showed her the schematics for the independent water reclamation system, the battery arrays for the emergency generators, the subdermal lead-mesh weaved into the walls of the interior rooms—the safe rooms for when the storms hit.
It was only when I glanced back at her that I saw her expression had shifted. The casual ease was gone. Her posture was ramrod straight; her beer held tightly in both hands in her lap. Her beautiful face was a mask of stunned disbelief.
"Sael…" she breathed out, her voice barely a whisper.
"Mijo, I… I see the numbers down here in the corner. The projected cost. ¿Cincuenta millones de créditos? Fifty million? ¡Por el amor de Dios!" The Spanish spilled from her, thick and fast, a sign of her deep shock.
"That's… that's impossible. That's more money than this family has seen in ten lifetimes combined… It's a fantasy."
I didn't get upset. How could I? Her reaction was born from a lifetime of lack, of scraping by. It was my job to shatter that reality. "It's not a fantasy, Vera," I said, my voice low and steady, devoid of any boastfulness, just pure, concrete fact.
"It's a necessity. You know what the weather patterns are like… Those radiation storms from the deadlands are getting worse, rolling closer every year. The sirens… they're not just for drill anymore. This place," I tapped the hologram, making it shimmer, "isn't just an apartment. It's a fortress. It's armor. I will not have this family huddled in a basement bathroom with towels shoved under the door when the sky turns orange. I will not have Mom worrying if the filters in our cheap masks will hold. …This is how I protect you. All of you.".
She was silent for a long time, just staring at the spinning image of our future home. I watched the emotions play across her face: disbelief, fear, a dawning, staggering hope. Finally, she nodded, a slow, deep, accepting movement. She looked from the blueprint back to me, and a new kind of respect was glowing in her dark eyes, mingling with a profound, emotional awe.
"Está bien," she murmured, her voice softer now, laced with wonder.
"You… you have it all figured out, don't you? Every last detail." A slow, proud smile spread across her face. She raised her beer can, her hand trembling just slightly.
"¡Salud! To my brilliant sobrino. The man of the house." Our cans clinked again, the sound more meaningful this time, a seal on a new understanding. She took a long drink, as if fortifying herself, then lowered the can, a faint, worried line appearing between her brows.
"But Sael… mijo," she started, her voice hesitant, almost embarrassed to voice the doubt. "Even with your game… which is incredible, don't get me wrong… but that kind of money… fifty million… how…?"
I allowed a low, confident chuckle to escape my lips. The sound was dark, rich, and it seemed to vibrate in the small space between us. I didn't answer her with words. Not yet. I simply reached out and with a subtle gesture of my fingers, I swiped the architectural schematics away. In their place, a real-time financial chart bloomed into existence, a complex, multi-colored galaxy of numbers, graphs, and streaming data. The figure at the very top, the total liquid asset value, was so astronomically high it was almost an abstract concept.
Vera's breath hitched in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening so much I could see a perfect ring of white around her dark irises. The beer can be slipped from her other hand, thudding dully onto the soft rug by the bed, foamy liquid seeping out in a small, ignored puddle.
"¡Ay, dios mío!" she gasped, the words muffled by her fingers. "I… mierda… I forgot. I saw the news, I heard the numbers, but… seeing it like this… it's not real. It can't be real." She looked from the screen to me, her expression one of sheer, unadulterated shock, tinged with a beautiful, flustered embarrassment at having so severely underestimated the scale of my success. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to doubt you, I just…"
This was it. The moment. The shift.
I moved slowly, with a deliberate, unhurried purpose that felt as natural as breathing. I placed my own beer can down on the desk with a solid, definitive thunk. The sound marked the end of one thing and the beginning of another. I rose from my chair. I am not a small man, and as I stood to my full height, my shadow fell over her, engulfing her where she sat on the edge of my bed, looking up at me with those wide, vulnerable eyes.
The air in the room grew thick, heavy, charged with an intensity that crackled against my skin. I could hear her breathing, a little quick, a little shallow. I reached out, my movement slow and infinitely sure. The back of my fingers, my knuckles, made contact with the warm, incredibly smooth skin of her cheek. She flinched, just a tiny, startled tremor, but she didn't pull away. Her skin was so soft, so warm, like silk left in the sun.
I gently, so gently, stroked her cheekbone once, then again. I could feel the fine, delicate structure beneath her skin. Using my fingertips, I carefully tucked a stray, dark strand of hair behind her ear. My fingertips deliberately, not accidentally, brushed against the sensitive, intricate shell of her ear, and I felt her shudder beneath my touch, a full-body tremor that she tried and failed to suppress. A soft, tiny gasp escaped her lips.
I leaned in closer, my face just inches from hers. I could smell the jasmine on her skin, the faint hop-scent of the spilled beer, and the pure, essential scent of her—a warm, feminine musk that was uniquely Vera. My voice, when I finally spoke, was a low, resonant murmur, a vibration meant for her ears alone.
"I know we never had this, Tía," I said, my thumb stroking her cheekbone again. "Not ever. You've spent your whole life worrying, scraping, fighting to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table. You and Mamá… you carried that weight until your shoulders were raw."
I paused, letting the truth of my words sink in, seeing the sheen of tears beginning to glisten in her beautiful eyes. My voice dropped even further, becoming a possessive, dominant whisper that brooked no argument.
"But now I do. You hear me? I do. You don't have to worry anymore. Not about storms, not about money, not about anything. I will provide. I will protect this family. I will build a world for us where nothing and no one can touch you…".
My hand slid from her cheek to cut the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in the thick, soft hair at her hairline. I applied the slightest pressure, not a demand, but a promise. A claim.
"You can rest now, Vera."