My name is Damián Herrera. I’m 53 years old. People see the tailored suits, the armored Range Rover, the mansion in La Moraleja — but none of that shows the truth. My life is built on ghosts. And they follow me everywhere.
My biggest ghost is named Sara — my wife. She died five years ago in what the Coast Guard labeled a “tragic boating accident.” I reached the hospital twenty minutes too late. Twenty minutes late to hold her hand, to say goodbye, to keep her warm for just a moment longer. That kind of timing carves a wound that never closes.
My only steady companion now is Titan, a four-year-old German Shepherd with intelligent amber eyes that read the world better than most people. He isn’t a pet — he’s my lifeline. A former tactical K9 turned therapy dog, broken by a corrupt disbanded unit. I rescued him from his past, and he rescued me from mine. He understands trauma in a way that bypasses words.
I don’t “play policeman.” But after losing Sara — and with my Special Forces past — I needed purpose. I became a high-level consultant for UDEV, the National Police’s violent crimes unit. Inspector Marcos Rivas, an old brother-in-arms, would call me for cases that required… unconventional skills.
That Tuesday, sunlight warmed Madrid with a false sense of peace. Titan sat in the passenger seat, calm but alert. My phone rang.
“Damián,” Marcos said, voice grim. “Strange report from 091. Delivery guy on Maple Street. Claims he heard a child screaming inside the Blasco mansion.”
My pulse kicked hard. “That’s Pedro’s house,” I said. My business partner, currently on a long flight from Tokyo.
“The caller mentioned a woman’s voice,” Marcos continued. “Says it sounded… cold. She kept mentioning a little girl. I’m ten minutes out. You?”
“Two blocks away.” My turn signal clicked. “On my way.”
“Be careful. It’s Catalina, the new wife. Her family’s powerful.”
Titan sensed the shift instantly — his posture changed. I was no longer a businessman. I was back in combat mode.
I arrived behind the delivery van. The driver, Julián, paced nervously.
“I heard a little girl sobbing,” he said. “And the woman… her voice, man. Like ice. She kept saying things like ‘eat it all’ and ‘Mommy will love you again.’”
Cold sweat slid down my spine. The house loomed silent. A curtain twitched upstairs.
“Stay here,” I told him. “Tell Marcos I’m inside. Tell him to use the back entrance.” I tapped Titan’s flank. “With me.”
I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked harder.
“National Police! Consultant Herrera! Anyone inside?”
Then I heard it — a tiny whimper… followed by a woman’s sharp whisper:
“Swallow it. Good girl. Swallow without complaint.”
Every nerve in my body tightened. I tried the knob. It opened.
“Police!” I shouted, stepping into the marble hall.
Lemon polish. Underneath — something chemical. Titan led us straight toward the kitchen. His hackles rose. I drew my Sig Sauer.
And then I saw it.
Lilia. Five years old. Tied to a dining chair with silk cords. Her wrists were raw. Her golden curls stuck to tear-stained cheeks. Her eyes — not just afraid, but betrayed.
And towering over her stood Catalina Blasco. Perfect blouse. Perfect skirt. Hair in a flawless bun. In her hand — a shiny red apple. Punctured. Injected. The word Obey faintly carved into the skin.
“Señora Blasco,” I said, voice like stone, “step away from the child.”
Her mask flickered — surprise, calculation — before sliding back into polite concern.
“Thank goodness,” she said sweetly. “Lilia was resisting her medicine. Sometimes strong discipline is necessary.”
Titan growled — a low, subsonic warning that rattled glassware. I raised my weapon.
“Drop the apple. Back against the wall.”
The apple clattered to the floor.
I knelt beside Lilia. “It’s okay, little one. I’m Damián. I know your father. Titan is here to help.” Her tiny body shook. When the cords fell away, she didn’t move. I saw her forearm — dotted with fresh and healing injection marks.
A cold rage surged through me. I felt Sara whisper inside me: Don’t be late again.
Catalina hissed, “She was chosen. The apple shows the truth.”
I lifted Lilia into my arms — she weighed nothing.
“Catalina Blasco, you’re under arrest.”
Everything after blurred.
At La Paz Hospital, she was admitted to the pediatric ICU. Dangerous levels of benzodiazepines. Through apples. Repeatedly.
“She’ll recover physically,” Dr. Ramírez said. “Psychologically… we can’t predict. She won’t speak. She panics at anything related to apples.”
Titan lay at my feet, refusing to leave. A nurse rushed over. “She’s awake — but she won’t eat. Won’t talk.”
“Can I see her?”
The room was painted blue. Lilia stared at nothing.
“Lilia, it’s me,” I said gently. “And Titan.”
At his name, her eyes flickered. Titan approached, resting his muzzle on her bed. After a moment… her hand slid into his fur. The first crack in her silence.
“That’s the first response we’ve had,” whispered the doctor.
In the hallway, Marcos briefed me:
“Catalina has connections. She’s claiming it was ‘medical treatment.’”
“She tied her up,” I snapped. “She drugged her!”
“We found more,” he said quietly. “Her diaries.”
The chosen one must learn obedience through suffering.
And photographs — staged torment disguised as rituals.
Then another hit.
Old photos. Catalina… ten years younger. Standing with someone I recognized instantly.
Sara. My wife.
Marcos exhaled heavily. “Before her marriage, Catalina pitched a wellness line to your company. Sara blocked it — you flagged her as dangerous. Damian… we’re reopening Sara’s case.”
The room spun.
Later, alarms shrieked — Lilia in full panic, pulling out her IV.
“Sedate her!” a nurse shouted.
“Wait,” I said. “Let Titan try.”
The dog pressed against her. Her breathing slowed. Her terror receded.
The next day: Catalina posted bail.
My fury almost choked me. “She tortured that child!”
“Her family bought time,” Marcos said. “But not for long.”
And then: social services.
“I’ll take her,” I said instantly. “I’m certified. She trusts Titan.”
They approved.
Pedro landed hours later — shattered. “Protect her,” he begged.
“I will,” I promised.
I took her to my lake house — an empty sanctuary since Sara died. We brought in Margarita, a retired pediatric nurse. We built a safe room for Lilia. Purple walls. Moon lamp. A lock she could control.
Small progress: half a sandwich. A tiny victory.
That night, nightmares. Titan soothed her.
Dr. Torres began therapy. Lilia drew a house surrounded by dark scribbles. Only two figures stood outside: a girl and a dog.
Then more danger. Marcos discovered Catalina’s brother, Tadeo — part of the rituals. He’d been scouting my property.
Soon after, we found a red apple hanging from a tree near the fence.
Carved: Soon.
Lilia spiraled. Panic attack. An hour long.
At the visitation hearing, Catalina’s lawyer twisted everything. They won supervised visits.
That night, Lilia drew my house in flames.
Two nights later, the storm came.
2:17 a.m. Alarms. Breaches. Multiple points.
My guards — down.
Power — cut.
Catalina’s voice slithered through the dark:
“Find the girl.”
We escaped toward the tunnel. Tadeo attacked — I neutralized him. Marina and Lilia reached the boat.
Catalina appeared — wild hair, soaked clothes — clutching an apple.
“Lilia! It’s time to complete your purification!”
Then she whispered something that froze every drop of my blood:
“I planned everything. Ask Sara how she screamed your name before the water swallowed her.”
It was a confession.
Titan lunged to protect Lilia. Catalina stabbed him. Lilia shrieked — her first words in months.
“DON’T HURT TITAN!”
I disarmed Catalina. Police swarmed in. Marcos arrested her on everything — including Sara’s murder.
Titan bled heavily.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, as Lilia sobbed into his fur.
He lived. Surgery successful.
Tadeo confessed everything for a lighter sentence. Catalina received multiple life terms.
A month later, in the judge’s chambers, Pedro stood beside me.
“I’ve accepted a position abroad,” he said quietly. “But Lilia… she needs you. And Titan.”
Joint custody. Transitioning to full guardianship.
“Lilia,” the judge said gently, “how do you feel about this?”
She squeezed Titan’s collar. “Safe,” she whispered.
Outside, she asked me, “Can we plant more purple flowers when we get home?”
Home.
“Of course,” I said.
Titan trotted ahead, scarred — but alive.
We weren’t a traditional family. But we were one forged through fire, loss, and fierce loyalty.
And for the first time since Sara’s death, I felt something return to me.
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was living.