The lone statue

[Matías]

Matías’s relief came like a tide retreating. Marta’s composure and the calm way she reassured her guardian eased the tension that had crept up his spine the moment he’d seen her surrounded by men in the dark. He’d seen too many bad nights start with less. Least of which for young girls circled by wolves.

He nodded once, the gesture small but genuine. “I’m glad to see you’re well, Marta,” he said, his voice a low baritone softened by their shared language. “And in good company, it seems.”

Turning toward the man she called Ricky, Matías extended a hand. “Matías Amengual,” he offered. His tone was steady and polite, meant to sound like nothing more than a regular introduction. Still, part of him tensed, as he always did when the name left his mouth.