In the third month, Pablo's presence in the factory had become something different.
He did not hold an official title.
But when Tom was absent for an entire day due to a meeting with the factory owners, the workers turned to Pablo naturally.
"Line two is down."
"Contact maintenance."
"The blue boxes arrived at peak time."
"Move them to line one and slow the belt by ten minutes."
No one asked who gave him the authority.
The orders were logical and they worked.
That was enough.
But at the end of that day, when the workers were leaving, Pablo heard murmurs from a group beside him.
"In two months, he's giving us orders."
"A child."
"We've been working for years and haven't reached what he reached."
Pablo did not turn around.
He did not reply.
Talk changes nothing.
And results speak for themselves.
At the end of the month, payday came.
Pablo opened his envelope.
Thirty-seven thousand.
A seven thousand increase from the previous month.
He looked at the number calmly.
Then he looked at the rest of the workers opening their envelopes. The same number as last month.
Some of them looked at their envelope, then looked at Pablo.
No one said anything.
But the silence said a lot.
In the evening, in the shared bathroom, Pablo stood in front of the mirror.
Three months of good food and daily work.
The difference from the first day was now clear.
The shoulders that had been just protruding bones had become broader. Not exaggeratedly, but genuinely.
His arms were no longer just skin and bone.
His neck was straighter.
His face still had something childish in it. The soft lines had not yet disappeared. But something in it had begun to harden slowly.
A thirty-seven-year-old man saw the body of a fourteen-year-old child beginning to become something else.
Not a warrior yet.
But not the thin child who had arrived in Verona months ago.
At the lunch break in the middle of the month, Pablo noticed Marco.
He was carrying a box of fruit from the storage warehouse to the line. A heavy box that usually required two people.
Marco carried it alone with steady steps, as if it did not strain him.
Pablo stopped.
He looked with different eyes.
Marco in the first month, his body was collapsing under the fish boxes.
Now he carried this with ease.
Not because the box was light.
But because Marco by nature was different.
His body responded to training faster than it should.
Not entirely normal.
In this world, some are born with certain physical gifts.
Above-average strength, exceptional endurance.
Pablo noted it and filed the information away in his head.
A very useful card for the future.
That same evening, they sat eating.
Marco's face was completely different from the first month.
A natural color, lively eyes, and his laugh had returned to its full volume.
"Do you know how much I weighed when I arrived in Naraka?"
"No."
"I felt like I was collapsing from exhaustion every night." He laughed. "Now I sleep well and wake up before the alarm."
Pablo continued eating in silence.
"Thank you, Pablo."
"You said that before."
"I say it again because I mean it." Marco looked at him seriously. "You truly saved my health. If I had continued at the fish factory, I would have fallen ill before the end of the year."
"I know."
Marco looked at him.
"Why do you do these things for me?"
"I told you before. I need people I can rely on."
"And I am one of them?"
"If you want to be."
Marco paused for a second, then extended his hand.
"Alright."
Pablo shook his hand.
At night, Pablo went out as usual.
But this time he did not head directly to the edge of the island.
He first walked through the inner streets.
Over the past two months, he had been observing the drug network in Naraka.
But in recent weeks, he had begun to notice something else.
In one of the alleys, he saw a man pushing a cart covered with cloth, moving quickly in the darkness.
Pablo followed him from a distance.
The man reached a small warehouse at the edge of the industrial district.
He knocked on the door three times slowly, then twice quickly.
The door opened, and he pushed the cart inside.
Pablo approached quietly and stood by a small window.
Sounds from inside.
"The shipment complete?"
"All of it. Goods from the ship coming from the northern island."
"The officer has been dealt with."
"Good. The customers are waiting."
The next night, another night in a different alley.
Two men spoke in low voices.
"The next shipment contains drugs and Powdered Rain."
"How much?"
"Double the usual amount."
"The price?"
A number Pablo did not hear clearly.
But he saw the man nod with satisfaction.
On a third night, he wandered more.
The picture began to become clear.
Naraka is an industrial island that hundreds of ships enter and leave every month.
The Marines cannot inspect everything.
And some officers do not want to inspect everything.
An organized smuggling network exploiting the movement of commercial ships.
Not just drugs: prohibited goods or goods with high taxes, luxury fabrics, rare spices, weapons, and other things.
A network with a head that does not appear on the streets.
And hands moving in the darkness.
Pablo returned to the edge of the island at the end of the night.
He stood before the sea.
Drugs: he had known them before, entered that world, and paid its price.
But smuggling was different.
Goods with real value, an organized network, and profits far greater than street-level drug dealing.
But he was still watching.
He did not know who controlled this network.
Nor did he know how it fully operated.
And entering something you do not fully understand is the fastest way to disaster.
He needed more time.
He looked at the horizon.
Three months in Naraka.
Tom in his pocket.
Marco his first card.
A rising salary.
And a smuggling network whose outlines he was beginning to understand.
Things were moving.
He turned his back to the sea.
The next step would come in its own time.