Chapter 117 - 115 The Night of the New Friends

Chapter 117: Chapter 115 The Night of the New Friends

The mansion did not need to raise its voice to swallow the afternoon.

After the double doors closed behind them, the vestibule remained suspended in a heavy calm. The black marble reflected their figures like more polished, quieter shadows, while the warm light descended from the modern tempered-glass lamps. Outside, there was still some daylight left. Inside, the place seemed to function at another rhythm: slower, more exact, as if every hallway, every door, and every surface knew in advance what role it had to fulfill.

Valentina was still looking at the administrator with contained happiness.

—Are there really several pajamas?

The administrator barely smiled.

—Several. And comfortable clothes too. Your dad asked for more than enough options.

Valentina turned toward Sebastián.

—Of many colors?

Sebastián looked at her.

—I suppose.

—That is not a sleepover answer —Óscar said, looking around as if he were still deciding whether he should speak in a low voice out of respect for the place—. An acceptable answer would be: yes, Valentina, there are enough colors to found a small textile nation.

Sebastián did not change his expression.

—There are enough.

Valentina accepted that as a victory.

The administrator guided them toward the east wing, without hurry and without unnecessary ceremony. Her boots sounded muted over the polished floor. The thick braid fell over one of her shoulders, and the necklaces she wore moved with a light, almost metallic sound. She did not seem like someone placed there to decorate the wealth of the house. She moved like someone who knew every useful room, every secondary door, every order received, and every pending thing to resolve.

They passed by the reception room, open toward wide windows that looked out onto the garden. The afternoon could be seen outside like a golden layer over the grass. Beyond, between the black stone paths and the minimalist fountains, the forest surrounded the property with a quiet presence. Zaira glanced sideways, saying nothing. She was still measuring the place. Not only its size, but its logic. The mansion did not seem made to show itself off. It seemed made to resist.

That made her more uncomfortable.

Óscar, instead, tried to process it in his own way.

—I have to admit something —he said—. When a house has wings, it stops being a house and starts being geography.

The administrator opened a wide door.

—Secondary room of the east wing.

—Thank you for confirming my point.

Inside, the clothes were organized on long tables and mobile racks. Everything was new. Hoodies, T-shirts, sweatpants, comfortable clothing, pajamas, underwear sealed in individual packages, socks, house shoes, and several options separated by size. There was no absurd luxury in the garments. They were good quality, simple, clean, comfortable. The kind of clothing that did not try to impress, but to solve.

Valentina entered first. Her different eyes went over the tables with astonishment.

—There is a lot.

—So you can choose —the administrator said—. Comfortable clothes first. You can leave the pajamas for later if you are going to move around or train.

Óscar placed a hand on his chest.

—Organization, foresight, and respect for the sacred nature of the sleepover. I feel attended to.

Zaira looked at him.

—You feel attended to with too much ease.

—No, I feel attended to when someone thinks about the consequences of my brilliant ideas.

—Then it must happen to you rarely.

Óscar opened his mouth, but did not find an immediate answer. That made Valentina laugh.

The little girl’s small laugh softened something in the room.

Virka observed the garments calmly. She did not seem uncomfortable to be there, nor interested in making the choice something important. She took dark sportswear, simple, made of flexible fabric. Sebastián chose something similar: a hoodie and training shirt, without flashy colors. Óscar, after checking several options, ended up choosing a comfortable hoodie and sweatpants, not without commenting that the mansion’s improvised wardrobe had better logistics than some stores.

Zaira took longer.

Not because there were no options, but because she did not like feeling attended to by someone else’s house. She checked several garments without touching them at first. Then she took a dark-toned hoodie, sweatpants that seemed to fit her trained body well, and a comfortable T-shirt. She did not ask for help. She made no comments. She only accepted what was necessary.

Valentina chose soft and comfortable clothes, although she insisted on separating from the beginning the pajamas she would wear later. She held them in front of Virka as if showing an important decision.

—These for sleeping.

Virka looked at them.

—All right.

—And afterward everyone has to put on pajamas.

—Afterward —Virka said.

That word was enough to leave the rule alive.

They changed in separate rooms prepared for guests. The process did not take long. The mansion offered more than enough space for each one to have privacy, but it did not turn it into a ceremony. When they gathered again, they no longer looked like students who had just left the institute. The comfortable clothes took away part of the rigidity of the uniform, but not what the day had left in them.

Sebastián still looked like Sebastián: dry, firm, with that presence that did not depend on clothing. Virka walked at his side with an almost lethal tranquility, even in a hoodie. Óscar seemed to have recovered energy just from the change of environment. Zaira, although she was still serious, no longer had the uniform as a barrier; the sportswear made her look closer to training than to defense.

Valentina observed them one by one.

—Now it does look like a sleepover.

—Technically it still looks like a sports concentration with pending sweets —Óscar said—, but I accept the conceptual direction.

The administrator then led them toward the leisure room.

There the food was already ready. There was no formal table or rigid dinner. There were trays with simple options, cold drinks, cut fruit, hot bites, food easy to share and, in a separate section that Valentina discovered almost immediately, sweets organized in glass containers. The room had large turned-off screens, wide sofas, acoustic insulation, and windows facing one of the side gardens. It was a place prepared to rest without losing the sensation of control that covered the entire house.

Valentina stopped in front of the sweets.

—Can I?

Sebastián answered before Óscar could make a speech.

—A little.

Valentina brought her hands together.

—A little how much?

—Enough.

—That is not a sleepover answer either —Óscar said.

Sebastián looked at him.

—You have already talked a lot.

Óscar closed his mouth with feigned dignity.

The administrator intervened naturally.

—I prepared small portions. You can choose one now and save others for later.

Valentina accepted the deal immediately.

For a while, the mansion stopped seeming like a fortress.

The afternoon kept moving forward while they ate and talked. Óscar took charge of filling the silences with that ease of his for turning any uncomfortable situation into something that at least could be breathed. He explained to Valentina, with exaggerated seriousness, that every tactical sleepover had to have three pillars: food, emotional alliance, and a moderate amount of supervised chaos. Valentina listened to him with absolute attention, as if she were receiving instructions from an official discipline.

—And does running through the house count as supervised chaos?

Óscar looked at Sebastián.

—Depends on the owner’s level of tolerance.

—Do not run through the house —Sebastián said.

Valentina lowered her head a little.

Óscar snapped his fingers.

—Then we classify it as controlled recreational movement in authorized areas.

Sebastián closed his eyes for an instant. Virka, sitting beside Valentina, did not smile in an evident way, but her gaze softened barely.

Zaira ate with moderation, separated at first, observing more than participating. When Óscar tried to include her, she answered with short phrases. When Valentina asked her something, she answered a little more. It was not sweetness. It was not surrender. It was a resistance that, little by little, found fewer reasons to remain so high.

—Do you have pretty pajamas? —Valentina asked.

Zaira stayed still with a glass in her hand.

—I do not usually think about that.

—Today yes.

—It seems so.

—You can choose one with me later.

Zaira looked at the girl. Then she looked away toward her drink.

—We will see.

Valentina took that “we will see” as a partial yes and went back to eating happily.

Later, when the afternoon light began to fall toward a lower tone, they went outside.

They did not go to the Ring. There was no institute technology. There were no hydraulic systems, no magnetic discs, no training rods. Only the wide grass of the property, cared for with almost impossible precision, extended beside the rear gardens under the distant shadow of the mansion. The air smelled of clean earth, wet stone, and mountain water.

To one side, the outdoor pond reflected the sky.

Narka was there.

He no longer remained hidden in the backpack. In his reduced form, he was partially submerged in the water, still, with his shell barely protruding and the golden eye closed. He was not sleeping. His presence was gathered inward, heavy and ancient, cultivating in silence while the mountain water ran through the natural purification system and fell in an artificial waterfall of low sound.

Valentina approached the edge for a moment.

—Uncle Narka, we are going to train.

The golden eye opened barely.

—Train well, Valentina.

—I am going to watch.

—Then watch well.

The girl nodded, happy with that answer.

The administrator placed a wide blanket in a safe area of the grass, away from the space where the four would practice. She left there a small tray with drinks, water, and some allowed sweets. She did not behave like a maid or like an obedient shadow. She simply made what was necessary be where it had to be.

Valentina sat on the blanket, with her legs crossed and a small sweet between her hands. The administrator remained nearby, checking a device and observing from time to time that everything was in order.

Sebastián, Virka, Óscar, and Zaira placed themselves on the grass. The mansion remained behind them, enormous and silent. In front of them, there was only open space.

—No instructor —Óscar said—. No rod. No Ring. No technological excuses.

Zaira adjusted her shoulders.

—And no spectacle.

—That depends on how much we mess up.

Sebastián looked at the terrain.

—Formation.

The word cut the air with simplicity.

They positioned themselves at first as they had done before: Sebastián in front, Virka on the left, Zaira on the right, Óscar behind. But this time they did not try to run. First they walked. Ten steps. Turn. Five steps. Close. Opening. Change of tension. Close again.

The grass did not attack them.

That made every mistake more visible.

When Zaira opened too much, there was no lateral traction to blame. When Óscar gave the order late, there was no system to hide it. When Sebastián advanced more than the structure could follow, the separation was marked in the distance between their bodies. When Virka held her side but did not cross support toward the opposite one, the gap could be felt even though no one hit them.

The first sequence came out rigid. The second, too. The third broke in a simple turn.

Óscar stopped and raised a hand.

—No. There I arrived late.

Zaira breathed through her nose.

—I opened before you closed.

—And I advanced as if you had already corrected —Sebastián said.

Virka looked at the space between them.

—The link was cut before the turn.

No one mocked.

That was already different.

They repeated.

They walked again. The formation opened, closed, turned on the grass. Óscar stopped talking so much. His orders became shorter. “Center.” “Close.” “Do not open.” “Change.” Zaira began to correct before she was told, not out of obedience but out of reading. Virka extended her attention toward the opposite flank, not only toward Sebastián. Sebastián reduced the point when he felt that the group needed to breathe.

Valentina watched them with very wide eyes.

—Now they look better —she murmured.

The administrator looked toward the group.

—Before they looked bad?

Valentina thought seriously about the answer.

—Before they looked like four. Now sometimes they look like one.

The administrator did not comment on anything. But she kept looking a little longer.

The practice moved forward with the afternoon.

Afterward they walked faster. Then they jogged. Not much. They were not seeking speed. They were seeking for the body to remember where the other was before needing to see them. Each lap over the grass left a slight mark in the greenery. Each correction was born a little earlier. Each silence became less uncomfortable.

Zaira remained serious, but she no longer seemed to be enduring the presence of the others. She began to give her own indications.

—If I turn inward, do not follow me immediately. Give me half a step.

Óscar nodded.

—Then I close after your half step, not before.

—Yes.

Virka added:

—I cross support when you reduce the flank.

Zaira looked at her.

—Correct.

Sebastián closed the sequence.

—Again.

And they moved again.

The sky lost more light. The shadows of the mansion lengthened over the grass. The pond kept murmuring to one side, with Narka still in the water, cultivating like a small mountain that breathed. Valentina finished her sweet and hugged her knees, looking at the four with a quiet happiness.

They were not exactly playing.

But neither was it only training.

There was something forming there, between clumsy steps, brief orders, accepted corrections, and silences that no longer completely rejected the other. The arrow was still imperfect. It still opened when it had to close. It still arrived late to some turns. It still depended too much on the recent memory of the failure.

But on the grass of the mansion, far from the Ring and from the instructor’s rod, the formation began to breathe on its own.

Not like a borrowed figure.

Like something that, slowly, was beginning to belong to them.

The moon was already high when the movement came out for the first time.

It did not come out perfect. Nor clean. But it came out.

On the dark grass of the mansion, under a cold light that reflected in the mirrored windows and on the black stone paths, Sebastián, Virka, Zaira, and Óscar remained stopped for a few seconds, as if none of them wanted to breathe too hard and break what they had just built.

The formation had not run. It had changed.

Sebastián reduced the point just before Zaira shifted the axis. Virka crossed support without abandoning her place. Óscar closed from behind before giving the order, not after. For a brief instant, almost incomplete, the arrow stopped seeming like a learned figure and became something of its own: a living structure, still clumsy, but capable of moving without breaking apart.

The silence that followed was not defeat. It was recognition.

They had spent hours on that grass. The afternoon had disappeared behind the mountains. The forest around the property no longer had color, only depth. The exterior lights of the mansion were turned on in low and discreet lines, marking paths, garden edges, and stone surfaces without taking away the night’s weight. The pond reflected the moon like a white wound on dark water.

Narka remained there, partially submerged, in his reduced form. His shell barely protruded between the stone and the mountain water. The golden eye was closed. He was not sleeping. He cultivated in silence, gathered inward, motionless like an ancient rock breathing beneath the world.

Óscar was the first to move. He placed both hands on his knees and lowered his head, breathing with effort.

—Good —he said between breaths—. I do not want to sound dramatic, but my legs have just filed a formal complaint against my will.

Zaira was standing, but her breathing was also heavier than she wanted to show. Her red hair was somewhat stuck to her forehead, the hoodie marked by sweat on her back, and her shoulders tense from so many repetitions. She passed a hand over her neck, annoyed not by getting tired, but by the fact that the tiredness was visible.

Virka barely had her breath altered. Sebastián was not even sweating clearly.

Óscar raised his gaze toward those two.

—I officially confirm that you are monsters.

Zaira observed Sebastián and then Virka. For a second she seemed to want to argue only out of habit, but the evidence was in front of her: after hours of practice, those two remained as if the training had barely finished warming them up.

—For once —Zaira said—, I agree.

Sebastián looked at the space of grass where the movement had been born.

—It was not enough.

—That does not change the point —Óscar answered—. A normal person hears “hours of training” and understands “exhaustion.” You hear “hours of training” and think “acceptable beginning.”

Virka looked away toward the blanket spread near the garden.

—It is already late.

Valentina was there.

The girl had lain down on her side, covered with a blanket that the administrator had placed over her when the cold began to descend from the mountain. At first she had insisted that she was not cold. Then, little by little, she had stopped arguing. Now her eyes were half-open, her face sunk against the soft fabric, and a small hand closed near her chest. Beside her remained a tray with sweets already almost untouched, several drinks, and the empty backpack where Narka had been before.

The administrator remained nearby, sitting a short distance away, checking a device without stopping watching Valentina out of the corner of her eye. Her presence was not invasive. It was practical. She had kept the water ready, the necessary lights, the blankets, and the order of the space without turning it into a ceremony.

Valentina tried to sit up when she saw them approach, but sleep beat her before she finished the movement.

—Are you done? —she asked, with her small voice.

Virka knelt beside her.

—Yes.

—Did it come out?

Óscar opened his mouth, but Zaira looked at him before he could decorate the answer.

Sebastián answered simply:

—A little.

Valentina blinked slowly.

—That is good.

—Yes —Virka said.

The girl smiled sleepily, as if that answer were enough to close the world.

Virka carefully moved the blanket aside and lifted her in her arms. Valentina settled against her without resistance, passing her arms around her neck with automatic trust. Her small body weighed more because of sleep than because of size.

—We are going inside —Virka said, in a low voice—. We bathe. Afterward you choose the pajamas you wanted and we have the sleepover before sleeping.

The word pierced Valentina’s tiredness like a spark. She opened her eyes a little more.

—Is there still a sleepover?

—Yes.

—With pajamas?

—With pajamas.

Valentina closed her eyes again, satisfied.

—Good.

Zaira observed the scene in silence. She said nothing, but her expression lost some of its rigidity. She had accepted training to improve as one of Rakzar’s athletes; she had repeated that to herself several times during the afternoon. But at some point, between the girl asleep under a blanket, Óscar who did not stop talking even exhausted, Virka carrying her with silent calm, and Sebastián ordering the training without seeking approval, the professional explanation began to fall short.

It was not friendship yet. Zaira was not going to call it that. But neither was it only class.

Óscar stretched with an exaggerated gesture, making his back crack.

—I propose that the part about bathing be considered a medical, spiritual, and patriotic activity.

Zaira looked at him.

—You propose too much.

—And even so several of my ideas have changed the course of this night.

—That does not make it better.

—It makes it statistically relevant.

Sebastián walked past them.

—Training finished.

Óscar raised a hand.

—I do like that phrase.

From the pond, Narka opened the golden eye barely. He did not speak. He only observed Valentina for an instant, as if confirming that she was well. Then he closed it again and remained partially submerged, cultivating in silence under the reflection of the moon.

Valentina, half-asleep on Virka’s shoulder, murmured:

—Uncle Narka is resting.

—Yes —Virka said.

The group returned toward the mansion.

The black stone of the path was cold under their steps. On both sides, the grass kept the slight traces of the practice: barely visible marks, areas stepped on again and again, lines that meant nothing to anyone who had not been there, but that for them still kept the memory of each failure. The mansion rose ahead, enormous and silent, with the moonlight over the dark stone and the mirrored windows. From the outside it looked like a sleeping fortress. From within, it was beginning to look like an overly large house trying to learn to receive them.

The administrator picked up the blanket, turned off several exterior lights from her device, and left only the path lights on. Then she walked behind the group, with the small trays organized on a light cart that appeared from one side of the garden.

Óscar saw it pass by.

—Even the cart appears with intimidating efficiency.

—It is there for that —the administrator said.

—I like it and it scares me.

—That usually means it works.

They entered through a side door near the indoor pool area.

The air changed immediately.

Outside remained the cold of the night, the smell of grass, and the sound of the pond. Inside there was contained warmth, polished stone, clean wood, and a more closed calm. The mansion muffled their steps. The corridor lights were soft, but enough to mark every line of the place: matte steel, dark panels, wide doors, and hallways that seemed made to endure as much silence as weight.

Valentina barely raised her head.

—Now the pajamas?

—First bath —Virka said.

—Afterward pajamas.

—Afterward pajamas.

Valentina accepted the sequence as if it were a just law.

Sebastián stopped at the beginning of the corridor that led to the bathing area. He looked at Virka, at Valentina, at Zaira, and then at the administrator.

—You first.

Zaira did not argue. She was tired, sweaty, and conscious enough of the size of the mansion not to pretend she knew the rules of the place better than those who lived there.

—That seems fine to me —she said.

Óscar raised both hands.

—I support courtesy. I also support any decision that allows me to sit while I wait.

The administrator, instead, remained still.

—With respect, chief, I can wait or withdraw to another area. It is not appropriate for me to use the house bathroom.

Sebastián looked at her without changing his expression.

—Use the bathroom.

The administrator blinked once.

—Chief, there is no need to—

—I did not ask if there was a need.

The phrase remained dry in the hallway.

There was no anger in it. Only decision. Sebastián was not offering hospitality as a soft courtesy. He was resolving a practical discomfort with the same bluntness with which he resolved any other matter.

The administrator lowered her head a little.

—Understood, chief.

Óscar leaned toward Zaira and murmured:

—The emotional administration of this house works with brief orders.

Zaira answered without looking at him:

—And even so it is clearer than you.

—Today you are attacking my social contribution a lot.

—Because it exists.

Óscar accepted that with a hand on his chest, as if he had received a noble wound.

Virka continued walking with Valentina in her arms. Zaira went behind. The administrator took a clean towel from a side compartment and accompanied them with a strange mixture of professionalism and resignation. Valentina, almost asleep, raised her head again only to make sure of something.

—Zaira.

—What?

—You have to choose pretty pajamas.

Zaira closed her eyes for a second.

—We will see.

—That means yes.

—It means we will see.

Valentina smiled, convinced she had won.

The four disappeared as they turned down the corridor. Sebastián and Óscar remained alone in the illuminated stretch.

For a few seconds they did not speak.

The silence was not uncomfortable. Only tired. Outside, through the corridor windows, the grass remained under the moon, empty now, keeping the incomplete movement they had achieved. Inside, the warmth of the mansion waited. Somewhere in the house, the sleepwear, the food, and the blankets remained prepared for a sleepover that had been born as a tactical excuse and that, without anyone saying it too loudly, was beginning to seem like something more.

Óscar let out a long breath.

—Well —he said—. If this was only the first day of coexistence, I am beginning to fear the second.

Sebastián did not answer immediately. He looked toward the corridor through which Virka had taken Valentina. Then he moved forward.

—Sit while you wait.

Óscar followed him, tired but smiling.

—That, coming from you, almost sounds like concern.

—Do not get used to it.

—Too late. I am already going to interpret it as affection.

Sebastián did not answer again.

The night inside the mansion was only beginning.

The indoor pool area was full of soft steam.

It was not a common bathroom, nor a pool made to show off. It was a space of dark stone, hot water, and low light, designed so that the body could release fatigue without the place losing its sobriety. The heat floated over the surface like a thin mist. The sound of the water was low, constant, almost intimate, as if even there the mansion knew how to contain noise.

Virka entered first with Valentina in her arms.

The girl was already more awake, not because of true energy, but because of that stubborn excitement that still clung to the promise of the sleepover. Sleep weighed on her eyelids, but even so she looked at everything with attention, as if every part of the night had to be remembered for later.

Zaira entered behind, quieter than usual.

The administrator was the last. She remained for an instant near the entrance, with a clean towel between her hands and a professional discomfort that she could not completely hide. Even after Sebastián’s order, it still seemed strange to her to use a resting area of the house as if she were a guest.

—You can enter —Virka said, without looking at her too much.

It did not sound like kind permission. Nor like a command. It was a simple confirmation that the decision had already been made.

The administrator lowered her head a little.

—Thank you.

The water received Valentina first.

Virka held her while she entered, letting the heat wrap around her little by little. The girl let out a small sigh upon feeling the temperature, as if only then her body understood how long the day had lasted. The training had not been hers, but emotion also tires. Watching, waiting, being happy, insisting on the sleepover, and resisting sleep had left their own weight on her.

—It is nice and warm —she murmured.

—Yes —Virka said.

Zaira entered afterward. The water covered her up to her shoulders and, for a few seconds, her face lost part of its hardness. She did not become sweet. She did not smile. But the body betrayed what pride did not want to admit. The tension of her legs, her arms, and her back slowly yielded under the heat. She had trained for hours, had repeated movements until she felt the fatigue sunk into her muscles, and now the water was taking away from her part of that rigidity.

The administrator settled farther apart, near one of the edges, maintaining a respectful distance. She did not try to enter the conversation. She seemed willing to use the bath only as much as necessary, without taking up more space than needed.

Valentina looked at her from the water.

—Did you train too?

The administrator blinked, surprised to be included so soon.

—No. I only organized things.

—But you also got tired.

—A little.

—Then you also needed to bathe.

Valentina’s logic left no room for protocols.

The administrator let out a low, brief, almost inevitable laugh.

—I suppose so.

Zaira looked at her sideways. She said nothing. But something in the scene seemed strange to her: a five-year-old girl dismantling distances that adults raised out of habit, out of hierarchy, or out of fear of not knowing where to stay.

Valentina then turned toward Zaira. Her different eyes fixed on her arm.

—What is that?

Zaira followed the direction of her gaze.

The tattoo of the rose with the serpent was visible on her skin, dark and precise. The flower seemed to entangle itself with the reptile’s body, as if both things had been born together: beauty and danger, thorn and venom, something delicate enclosed in a form that did not ask permission.

Zaira raised her arm a little.

—A tattoo.

—A drawing?

—A permanent drawing.

Valentina moved a little closer, without touching it.

—Why permanent?

Zaira took time to answer. Not because she did not know the answer, but because there were answers that could not be delivered complete to a girl on a sleepover night.

—Because it represents something I did not want to forget.

Valentina observed the rose. Then the serpent.

—Is it good or bad?

—Depends.

—On what?

—On who looks at it.

Valentina thought about that with a silent seriousness. Then she asked the simplest question.

—Did it hurt?

Zaira held her gaze.

—Not that much.

—I think it did hurt a little bit.

—Maybe a little.

Valentina nodded, satisfied that she had obtained a more real answer.

—But it turned out pretty.

Zaira looked away toward the water.

—Thank you.

The word came out lower than expected.

Virka, from one side, observed without intervening. She had Valentina close, but she did not stop her from speaking. She had learned that some things had to be cared for without enclosing them. Valentina was not bothering Zaira; she was doing something more dangerous and cleaner: approaching without knowing that there were walls.

The girl spoke again.

—You are pretty too.

Zaira stayed still. The administrator lowered her gaze toward the water, as if she had decided not to look directly at that moment.

—And strong —Valentina added—. How did you become pretty and strong?

Zaira opened her mouth, then closed it. For an instant it seemed that she was going to answer with a dry phrase, something that would put distance. But Valentina was not asking out of envy or out of malice. She was asking like someone who looks at a mountain and wants to know how it grew.

—I trained —Zaira said at last—. A lot.

—Does that make people pretty?

—Not always.

—It did you.

Zaira did not know what to do with that.

Virka gently stroked Valentina’s hair.

—Being strong also changes the way someone holds themselves.

Valentina looked at Virka.

—And can I be strong?

—Yes.

—And pretty?

—Also.

Valentina smiled sleepily.

—Then I am going to train.

—When it corresponds —Virka said.

Zaira lowered her gaze to the water, but her expression was no longer so closed. She had not surrendered to Valentina’s tenderness. It was not that simple. But the constant resistance was beginning to get tired. Not because someone had defeated it, but because that girl did not seem to be attacking any border. She only walked toward them as if borders were not necessary.

The administrator remained apart, although less rigid.

Valentina also looked at her.

—And what do you do when you are not bringing clothes?

The question was so direct that the administrator took a second to settle herself.

—I manage warehouses, deliveries, orders, inventories, support staff, and things the chief needs quickly.

—Many things?

—Many.

—And do you like it?

The administrator thought about the answer.

—I like things being where they should be.

Valentina seemed to find that reasonable.

—Then today you did it well.

The administrator barely smiled.

—Thank you.

Virka remained silent.

Zaira, meanwhile, had noticed a mark on Virka. She did not observe it shamelessly. She only saw it in an instant, near the upper part of her torso, a dark shape similar to an inverted lightning bolt. It did not seem like a common tattoo. It did not have the same intention as a mark made for aesthetics or memory. It was something more intimate, stranger, something that seemed to belong to a story that was not asked about out loud.

Zaira looked away.

She did not ask.

There were things that were understood better by leaving them closed.

The bath continued without hurry. The heat kept loosening the tiredness. Valentina spoke less as sleep began to weigh on her again. Zaira stopped answering with so much hardness. The administrator stopped looking like someone out of place. Virka maintained a constant calm, holding the center of the scene without taking ownership of it.

When they came out, the cool air of the area outside the water returned to them the sensation of the night.

They dried themselves, changed, and went to the room where the prepared garments were. Valentina woke up again when she saw the pajamas. The promise was in front of her again, tangible, folded on a table, separated by colors and sizes.

She chose hers with decision. Then she chose another for Virka. Afterward she looked at Zaira.

—You have to choose a pretty one.

Zaira crossed her arms.

—A comfortable one is enough.

—Pretty and comfortable.

—That is more difficult.

—Then let’s search.

Zaira looked at her for a long second. Then she sighed and allowed the girl to check options. Valentina did not choose something ridiculous or excessive. She chose a comfortable garment, dark-toned, with soft details that did not clash with Zaira’s way of being. That seemed to make acceptance easier.

—That one can work —Zaira said.

Valentina smiled as if she had won another Rakzar test.

The administrator returned to her normal clothes. She did not choose pajamas nor did she try to blend in more than necessary. She fixed her braid, arranged her necklaces, and recovered that hipster and practical appearance with which she had received the group. But some of the initial rigidity was no longer there. Valentina had included her too many times for her to be able to go back to being only an invisible person in charge.

Afterward it was Sebastián and Óscar’s turn.

The scene passed without long conversation. They entered the hot water, let the heat release the tiredness of the training, and came out when the body no longer dragged so much of the afternoon. Óscar, for once, did not fill the silence. The tiredness, the water, and the night did what few people managed: silence him without defeating him. Sebastián did not need to speak either. The bath was only that: rest, cleanliness, transition.

When they gathered again, the sleepover began to take shape.

Virka, Valentina, Zaira, Sebastián, and Óscar were already wearing sleepwear. The administrator remained in her usual clothes, moving between blankets, pillows, and sheets that she had brought from a nearby closet. Valentina, completely awake again out of pure excitement, began to help her. She carried small pillows seriously, arranged blankets where she thought they should go, and asked if the space was “sleepover enough.”

Sebastián helped without saying too much. He took blankets, moved cushions, cleared a wide area of the leisure room, and let Valentina decide minor details that to her seemed enormous. Virka arranged the edges so the girl would not trip. Zaira collaborated at first with a dry distance, then ended up placing pillows where Valentina indicated. Óscar let himself fall into one of the prepared spaces only after having helped just enough not to be accused of being useless.

The room changed.

Not because it stopped being large, but because for the first time that night it seemed used by people and not only prepared to receive them. The blankets covered part of the floor. The pillows formed an irregular circle. The trays with cookies, small sweets, fruits, and snacks remained in the center, within everyone’s reach. The screens stayed on with a movie in the background that no one followed completely. Conversation appeared in parts, without obligation, without great confessions, without unnecessary drama.

Valentina ate little, talked a lot, and laughed more than her tired body could sustain.

Óscar recovered some of his energy only to make her laugh. Zaira answered several times when the girl asked her things, and although she still used short phrases, they no longer seemed like such high walls. Virka remained close, calm, letting Valentina enjoy herself without moving too far away. Sebastián observed everything from a dry calm, intervening only when Valentina tried to eat more sweets than allowed or when a blanket was badly placed.

Time passed in that way.

Without blows. Without training. Without instructions.

Only a common night inside a house that was not common, with five people trying to occupy the same space without yet knowing what shape that had.

Valentina was the first to surrender.

Sleep closed her eyes while she held a half-eaten cookie. She leaned against Virka, murmuring something that at first no one understood. Then, with a small and satisfied voice, she said:

—I liked having new friends.

Afterward she fell asleep.

The room lowered its rhythm with her.

Óscar stayed awake a while longer, but tiredness finally caught up with him. He settled among several pillows, said something indistinct about the historical importance of tactical sleepovers, and fell asleep before finishing explaining it.

Zaira resisted more.

She did not want to be the next. That was noticeable in the way she kept her eyes open and her back too straight. But the training, the hot bath, and the calm of the room disarmed her pride with patience. In the end she lay on her side, near the edge of the prepared space, with a blanket over her shoulders. She did not say good night. She only closed her eyes.

And she fell asleep too.

The movie kept running in low silence. The lights were dim.

The administrator finished picking up the empty plates without making noise. Virka remained awake beside Valentina, one hand resting on the blanket that covered the girl. Sebastián was sitting nearby, still, looking at the space where everyone had fallen asleep.

The sleepover, at last, had fulfilled its promise.

It had not turned the group into family. It had not erased the distances. But it had left something there: a small form of trust, still fragile, still new, breathing among blankets, sweets, and shared tiredness.

When Óscar’s last sound became deep breathing and Zaira stopped moving completely, only Sebastián, Virka, and the administrator remained awake.

The night was not over yet.

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 115

The path continues...

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