In the early morning, ten minutes before the shift started, Pablo stood in the back corner of the factory.
In his hand were two cups of coffee.
When Tom came and found him there, he stopped for a second.
He looked at the cup that Pablo extended toward him.
He took it without a word.
He took a sip.
"Good."
"I know how you drink it."
Tom looked at him.
He did not ask how he knew.
He drank his coffee and continued his day.
In the following week, it became routine.
A cup of coffee every morning in the same corner.
Tom neither asked for it nor refused it.
He took it and drank.
Some days they talked a little about the factory, about production, about the lines that worked well and those that needed adjustment.
Some days they did not talk at all.
Pablo did not push.
Trust is built with time, not with words.
In the middle of the week, Pablo left the factory in the middle of the shift.
He was not sick, nor did he have a real reason.
He just wanted to see.
He walked slowly toward the outside, sat in front of the building for ten minutes, then returned.
No one stopped him.
No one asked him anything.
The gate guard looked at him, then looked away.
Pablo continued walking inside.
A clear message from Tom to the rest of the workers without saying a single word.
This child is under my protection.
At the end of the week, Pablo sat during the lunch break and looked at Marco.
He was eating his usual dry bread with pale eyes and a body that seemed heavier than it should.
His face in recent weeks had lost some of its initial vitality.
"When was the last time you slept well?"
Marco raised his head.
"I don't remember."
"And the last time you ate a real meal?"
"You ask me this every week."
"Because you don't change."
Marco continued eating his bread in silence.
Pablo looked at him.
"How much is your salary now?"
"Forty-five thousand."
"And you eat dry bread."
"I save."
"You won't be able to work if you get sick. And if you stop working, there is no saving and no salary."
Marco looked at him with tired eyes.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to change your job."
"To where?"
"With me. The fruit factory."
Marco was silent.
"Its salary is much lower."
"But your body will last for years instead of months."
Marco looked at his cracked hands from carrying boxes.
"I don't know if they will accept me."
"Let me talk to the supervisor."
The next day, Pablo found Tom in his usual corner.
"I have a request."
Tom looked at him.
"My friend works at the fish factory. His body can't take much more. I know him personally and vouch for him. He works hard and doesn't cause problems."
"The salary here is lower."
"He knows that and accepts."
Tom was silent for a few seconds.
"When does he want to start?"
"Next week."
Tom nodded.
"Alright."
When Pablo told Marco in the evening, Marco stopped eating his bread and looked at him.
"Accepted?"
"Yes."
"Without asking me first?"
"You would have said no."
Marco paused for a moment, then gave a light, tired laugh.
"Maybe."
He looked at Pablo with serious eyes.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because you will die before you become rich if you continue like this."
Marco laughed again.
"You talk like my father."
Pablo did not reply.
In the first week after Marco moved to the fruit factory, the difference was clear.
Lighter work, the same hours, but without the enormous physical exhaustion.
At the end of the first week, Marco looked at his meal—meat and vegetables that Pablo had brought.
"How do you eat like this on a salary of thirty thousand?"
"Because I calculate."
Marco ate in silence.
Two Weeks
At the end of the second week, Pablo stood in front of a small mirror in the shared bathroom.
He looked at his body.
It was not a big transformation.
But it was noticeable.
The shoulders that had been just protruding bones began to fill his shirt differently.
His arms were still thin, but there was something in them that had not existed two months ago.
Faint lines under the skin.
Muscles beginning to respond.
Good food and daily movement for twelve hours had begun to slowly do their work.
Not a warrior's body.
But it was beginning to look like the body of someone who lives, not just survives.
At the end of the second week as well, Marco's color returned.
His face was no longer pale to the same degree.
His eyes were more alive.
And in the evening, when they sat eating, Marco looked at Pablo seriously.
"Thank you."
"Nothing."
"No, I mean a real thank you." He paused. "I knew my body was getting tired, but I couldn't stop. As if stopping meant failure."
Pablo did not reply.
"You saved me from myself a little."
Pablo looked at him.
"Just be well. I have a use for you in the future."
Marco laughed.
"Use? Like a tool?"
"Like someone I trust."
Marco was silent for a second.
Then he nodded seriously.
"Alright."
At night, Pablo went out as usual toward the edge of the island.
He stood before the sea.
He thought about the past weeks.
Tom in his pocket.
Marco, the first card he could rely on.
His body changing slowly.
Money accumulating.
Things were going as he wanted.
But Pablo was not comfortable with where he was.
A steady salary is good, but not enough.
Tom is useful, but he is not the goal.
Marco is the first card, but he needs more cards.
He looked at the horizon.
Somewhere out there, a world was changing quickly since Roger's head fell.
Pirates emerging from everywhere.
The Marines trying to control.
And in between, people like him trying to find their way.
He turned his back to the sea.
The next step was clearer now.
The factory would not remain his place forever.
But for now, he needed to understand Naraka more.