The ovation didn't end.
Thousands of spectators had lost any trace of civility and in a collective hysteria, they tore off their own ribs, femurs, and skulls to throw them onto the stage.
The platform was under a rain of calcium hail, while the atmosphere burned with a heat that bordered on religious delirium.
In the eye of that hurricane of noise, Lief remained motionless, holding all of Dorothy's weight against his chest.
She hung from his arms completely limp, with her body so lax and malleable that she seemed to have become liquid between his hands, and when he tilted his head, a penetrating wave of her scent hit him full on.
The fragrance of orchids that always surrounded her had shattered, mixing now with something much more... carnal.
He looked at her with curiosity.
Dorothy's white curls stuck to her face due to perspiration. Every trace of her usual playful smile had completely disappeared, leaving exposed a deep daze that deformed her beautiful features.
Her lips, of an intense red that now contrasted with the dryness of her state, remained parted in a vain attempt to inhale oxygen desperately, while her chest rose and fell with violent spasms against Lief's torso.
"You..."
She tried to speak, but the word died in her throat.
Seeing her reduced to that state of absolute vulnerability ignited a pang of satisfaction in Lief that ran through him.
And that satisfaction mixed with the persistent tingling in his hands. In the instant she had transformed, the barrier between them had dissolved.
He could remember clearly how her vital energy flowed through the instrument, like subdued electricity, waiting for him to decide when and how to discharge it.
It had been total domination.
During those minutes, she had been an inert object until he made it scream.
Lief slightly tightened his grip on her waist, noticing how her muscles reacted with a reflex jolt.
He remembered that during the climax of the solo, at the exact moment he strummed the strings with violence to tear out the final note, the guitar had convulsed in his arms, emitting a resonance that went beyond sound, a vibration that seemed to come from Dorothy's very soul.
And seeing her now, trembling and unable to stand, he understood what he had just done.
He hadn't just played music, he had used her, he had groped her in every part of her body.
It was logical that she was wrecked.
"Careful. You have to maintain your posture," he murmured, holding her by the elbows firmly to prevent her knees from giving way, "The audience is still watching."
Inhaling a deep breath of air, Dorothy forced her lungs to expand against the pressure she felt in her chest, while her fingers slowly moved up to touch her lips, which burned and were swollen from the vibration of the music, as if they had just been bitten.
Upon meeting Lief's sky-blue eyes, a mix of emotions swirled inside her, the shame for the loss of control and a damp and dark heat that betrayed her arousal.
She was furious, but also fascinated.
"Little one..." Her voice had recovered its usual languor, but beneath the silk there was a warning, "You really have a talent for... breaking things."
She leaned toward him until her lips brushed Lief's earlobe.
"I'm starting to regret bringing you up here," she whispered, and her nails dug painfully into his forearm through the trench coat, "Or perhaps I regret letting you touch me in that way in front of everyone."
Breaking the intimacy, she separated from him abruptly.
In a single movement she straightened up. The tiredness disappeared from her face as if nothing happened, her chin lifted, her shoulders squared and the glamorous Queen smile returned to its place.
Turning toward the roaring mass, she blew a kiss into the air that provoked a new burst of collective hysteria and, without looking back, walked toward the stage exit with an arrogant step, her hips swaying with hypnotic sensuality.
Lief stood for a second watching her walk away, while a playful smile bloomed on his face, and without thinking twice he started walking to follow her.
He didn't need anyone to tell him.
Things between Dorothy and him had changed.
...
While the stadium was coming down with cheers for Lief and Dorothy, the acoustic chaos served as the perfect cover in the back hallways.
"Now... Move!"
The security team and the technicians had abandoned their posts, magnetically drawn to the screens and stage entrances to witness the morbid spectacle of the human and the demon.
The service corridors were deserted, perfect for the Rivera Family.
Héctor led the way, and despite his limp, he advanced with unusual confidence.
He knew every nook and cranny of the stadium; after all, it had been designed to feed Ernesto's ego.
"It's to the right, past the generators," he grunted, clenching his jaw, "Ernesto loves watching his own replays in real time. The main control room will be there."
Miguel ran behind him, feeling like the guitar on his back weighed a ton. Adrenaline burned in his chest, a toxic mix of fear of being captured and the righteous fury of someone about to expose an incredible lie.
The group stopped dead upon reaching the corner of a corridor.
In front of the armored door of the Central Control Room, two guards blocked the way; however, their attention was not on the perimeter.
Both had their skulls pressed against the small glass window of the door, watching the internal monitors with fascination.
"Did you see that?" murmured one of the guards, "The living guy turned her into an instrument."
"And she seemed to like it," replied the other, shaking his head, "I had never seen her make that face..."
Without the need for words, Imelda made a sharp motion with her chin toward her younger brothers.
Swish
Felipe and Oscar moved like shadows.
Before the guards could turn around, the twins immobilized them with professional chokeholds.
There was a brief struggle, before both guards were dragged, kicking uselessly, toward the adjacent room.
Clear
"Inside," ordered Imelda, pushing the heavy door.
The control room greeted them with the constant hum of servers; it was the stadium's brain: an entire wall covered in monitors, consoles full of illuminated buttons, and audio meters jumping in red.
On the main screen, the skeleton presenter was trying to regain control of the audience after Dorothy's exit, but no one was paying attention to him.
Miguel looked at the huge console full of switches with growing panic.
"This looks like the cockpit of a plane... I don't even know where to start," admitted the boy.
"Leave it to me."
Héctor pounced on the control panel, his hands racing over the dials and faders with desperate urgency, looking for a specific configuration.
"Ernesto was a narcissist..." he murmured bitterly, connecting cables and redirecting signals, "He always insisted on having a 'truth camera' to see himself from every possible angle. He said it was to 'appreciate the art'... but he just wanted to see himself!"
Pressing a large red button and pushing a lever up, the wall screens flickered, static swept away the image of the stage and was replaced by a wide-angle shot of the very control room where they were standing.
A red light turned on over a discreet lens in the upper corner of the room.
"We are in," said Héctor, pointing at the camera. "Everything we say now will be heard."
The family closed ranks around the lens.
Imelda quickly smoothed her dress, cleared her throat, and fixed her gaze directly on the camera, as if she could pierce the glass and stab the man on the other side of the broadcast:
"DE LA CRUZ!!"
...
On stage, the presenter was desperately trying to regain control of the night. Sweating under the spotlights, he waved his arms, shouting over the residual murmur left by Lief's performance.
"But the night doesn't end here! Ladies and gentlemen, the legend continues! Welcome the man who built this stadium with his voice! Ernesto... De la Cruz!"
Ernesto emerged with a smile, adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate white suit.
He walked toward the center of the platform ignoring the strange energy floating in the air.
He opened his arms, bathing in the applause of his loyal fans, projecting that image of a benevolent "god."
"My dear friends!" His warm voice filled the stadium. "What a wonderful night! Music is the bridge that unites us, and tonight–"
Zzzzt
A sharp audio screech cut his speech short, making thousands of people cover their ears.
The giant screen behind Ernesto, which was showing his face in close-up, flickered violently and, in a split second, the image stabilized.
It was no longer Ernesto.
Imelda Rivera's severe and furious face.
"DE LA CRUZ!!"
Her scream resonated with brutal clarity, silencing every last whisper in the stadium.
"..."
Ernesto's smile froze and he quickly turned toward the screen, the color draining from his face.
"What...? Who is in charge there?" He began to lose his composure, "Security! Cut the feed! Turn that off right now!"
But the image didn't cut out.
On the screen, the shot widened to show the Rivera family forming a circle around a figure barely standing.
Héctor stepped forward, leaning on the control console. His bones flickered with an intermittent amber light; he was on the verge of disappearing, but the fury in his eyes kept him anchored to existence.
"Don't you know me anymore, Ernesto?" asked Héctor calmly, "Or is it that you only remember the people who are convenient for you?"
!
Seeing that face, Ernesto recoiled.
"I am Héctor Rivera!" he roared on the screen, pointing a finger at the camera, "Your 'best friend'! The man you served a glass of poison to instead of a farewell!"
"..."
The accusation hit the crowd, sending them into shock.
The legend had just been called a murderer.
"You didn't write anything!" continued Héctor, spitting truths, "You stole my notebook! You stole my songs while I was dying! You stole my life and the chance to see my family again! You are a thief and A MURDERER!"
"HE'S LYING!" shouted Ernesto, turning toward the audience with wide eyes and sweat beading on his forehead, "That man is crazy! I don't know him! He is an impostor who wants fame!"
"Impostor?"
Miguel's childish voice cut through his hysteria.
On the screen, the boy simply settled the guitar on his lap and his fingers played the first chords.
It wasn't the fanfare that Ernesto had popularized.
It was slow... simple.
"Recuérdame..." sang Miguel.
The pure melody floated over the stadium.
"Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor... Recuérdame..."
Ernesto's version had always been a fast anthem and above all... a song without a soul.
But the version coming out of Miguel's throat was an open wound.
It was the desperate plea of a father who knows he won't be able to see his daughter.
"No llores, por favor…"
"Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás..."
Upon hearing his song interpreted with the truth with which it was written, Héctor stopped looking at the camera with anger and tears appeared.
"Coco..." he whispered looking through the lens, ignoring the millions of spectators, speaking only to the little girl waiting for him on the other side of the bridge.
The song ended with a soft chord that remained suspended in the air.
And on stage, Ernesto was alone.
The truth of the music had been so absolute that no lie could cover it, he looked at the crowd, seeking his usual adoration, but he only found a sea of faces looking at him with a mix of horror and disgust.
An idol... had fallen.
"Don't look at me like that!" He shouted pathetically, backing away into the shadows, "I am Ernesto de la Cruz! I am music! You love me! All that is fake! Cut the damn feed!"
But no one moved to help him. His own glory had trapped him under the spotlights, naked before the judgment of the dead.
________
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