Luis Michael

The temporal rift opened in the middle of Avengers Tower with a sound no one had ever heard before, yet everyone would have described it the same way: as if the universe had choked on a lightning bolt.

The lights flickered, FRIDAY triggered three different alarms, and Tony was already shouting from his workshop:

“Parker, if you touched something labeled ‘do not touch,’ this time I’m firing you with cause!”

Peter, hanging upside down from a beam, raised both hands.

“I wasn’t even in the lab! I was… studying!”

“He is watching kitten videos, sir,” FRIDAY clarified.

“…Studying animal behavior,” Pete corrected himself, turning red beneath the mask.

In the middle of the main room, the air folded in on itself, like glass being pressed from the inside. A crack of blue light, a spark, and suddenly someone dropped to his knees on the marble floor.

He wore no armor, no tactical suit, nothing that would have passed twenty-first-century security. He was a tall man with a carefully trimmed mustache, a dark suit, a waistcoat, a gold watch chain hanging from its pocket, and an overcoat that looked as though it had seen real London fog. His bowler hat rolled a few feet and came to a stop at the foot of Steve Rogers’ shield.

The man lifted his head, his eyes shining as if the chaos around him were the finest morning of his life.

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed, with a British accent so crisp it nearly cut the air. “Daylight, trapped inside a box!”

He triumphantly raised a small black cylinder: a flashlight. Then he switched it on directly into Thor’s face.

“HA!” Thor blinked, blinded. “This mustached wizard has cast a tiny lightning bolt at me!”

“It’s not magic, it’s… very basic technology,” Bruce murmured, adjusting his glasses.

“Then why don’t I have one of those?” Clint protested, already offended on principle.

The newcomer rose with an almost theatrical elegance, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat, and gave the group a small bow.

“Gentlemen, madam,” he said, inclining his head courteously toward Natasha. “I beg your pardon for such an unorthodox entrance. Truthfully, I was not prepared for… this.”

His eyes swept across the room, up the glass walls, the holographic screens, the city stretching beyond them in rivers of light and steel. Instead of fear, he smiled. He smiled like a child who had just been set loose at a fair.

“Oh,” he murmured, fascinated. “Fantasy itself has grown tired of being merely imagination.”

Tony came down in the elevator with his armor half-assembled, helmet in hand, wearing the expression of a man having yet another weird Tuesday.

“Okay, one thing at a time.” He planted himself in front of the man, discreetly scanning him with his repulsor. “Name, century, and whether you’re here to kill anyone. Please disclose now. The legal paperwork gets horrible later.”

The man let out a sincere, ringing laugh.

“Ha! How direct. I like it.” He placed a hand over his chest. “Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, doctor of medicine, writer… Let us say, for simplicity’s sake, that I come from an age in which this”—he raised the flashlight again—“is quite literally a miracle.”

Peter, who had spent the entire time staring at him as though he had just seen a very well-read ghost, dropped to the floor clumsily and nearly tripped over his own webbing.

“Arthur… Conan Doyle?” he repeated, his voice a little higher than usual. “The Arthur Conan Doyle? Sherlock, Watson, The Hound of the Baskervilles, spirits, weird fairy photos? That Arthur?”

Arthur looked at him with delighted curiosity, as though he had just discovered a particularly charming new species.

“So I am called, yes. And you are… an acrobat in red-and-blue pajamas. Also, I should very much like to see those fairies with my own eyes.”

“I’m Spider-Man,” Peter said, straightening a little, because respect for one’s elders did not cancel out branding. “Friendly neighborhood, you know. Local hero. More or less the official intern of these people.”

“A spider-man…” Arthur tasted the words. “Imagination has won the war, without question.”

Steve stepped forward, diplomacy mode fully activated.

“I’m Captain America. These are the Avengers. It seems there has been a… temporal leak. You’re outside your own time, Mr. Doyle.”

“Captain Ameri—” Arthur blinked. “Is that a military title or a knightly alias?”

“Half and half,” Steve said with a small shrug.

Natasha crossed her arms, studying him.

“Are you aware of what it means to be outside your timeline? We could be looking at a historical disaster.”

“My dear lady,” Arthur replied, inclining himself toward her with courtesy free of even the slightest condescension, “I once killed and resurrected my most famous detective by sheer narrative willpower. Let us not underestimate humanity’s ability to repair a mess once it has decided to keep reading.”

Peter let out a nervous little laugh.

“This guy talks like Twitter hasn’t been invented yet. What a blessing.”

Thor planted his hammer into the floor.

“Arthur, son of Conan!” he declared, inventing the genealogy without shame. “You have arrived in the Hall of Heroes of Midgard. Tell us of your deeds!”

Arthur lit up. He almost seemed to stand a few inches taller, as if enthusiasm itself had given him height.

“Well,” he began, with theatrical modesty, “I have been a doctor in war, I have sailed seas, I have heard the ravings of men at the edge of madness, I have seen cities that seemed impossible… And yet nothing”—he pointed toward one of the enormous windows, beyond which the city burned with light—“nothing compares to this.”

He switched the flashlight on again, pointing it toward the ceiling.

“The first time I held one of these devices in my hands, I thought: mankind has trapped a piece of day inside a box. How could one not be joyful before such practical sorcery?”

Bruce, who was usually a cloud of anxiety wearing glasses, allowed himself to smile.

“That’s… a beautiful way to put it.”

Tony clicked his tongue.

“I like him. He’s like Shakespeare if Shakespeare had pivoted to science fiction.”

“I am rather fonder of detectives than Danish princes,” Arthur replied. “Though both do tend to think too much.”

His eyes settled again on Peter, who still could not stop staring.

“You know me, it seems. My work, I mean.”

Peter took off his mask. It was a breach of protocol, but rules go straight to hell when one of your favorite authors suddenly appears in front of you after being yanked out of the nineteenth century.

“You… well, your stories make boys like me think we can be smart, even when we aren’t the strongest person in the room,” he said, speaking faster and faster. “That brains can be heroic too, not just fists. And that whole thing about observing, deducing, finding patterns… it’s saved my life more times than I’d like to admit.”

Arthur looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and almost scientific fascination.

“So my imaginary shadows helped a young man face his very real monsters,” he said slowly. “Then this journey has already been worth it.”

The screens in the room flickered, and a projection of Doctor Strange appeared as a hologram, hands folded.

“Good news: this is not Parker’s fault this time,” he announced, without greeting anyone. “We have a minor temporal fissure connected to the late nineteenth century. I can send Mr. Doyle back to his point of origin without collapsing the timeline. Probably.”

“The ‘probably’ is always unnecessary, wizard,” Tony grumbled.

“The universe doesn’t come with a warranty,” Strange replied. “You have a five-minute window. Say your goodbyes to the writer before his century claims him back.”

The hologram vanished.

Arthur turned slowly on the spot, taking in every detail as if he were inhaling the future.

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “A luxury.”

He approached the window and placed a hand against the glass, looking out at the cars below, which seemed like orderly fireflies, at the giant screens, the illuminated bridges.

“In my time,” he said, “the future is a word that smells a little of fear. Of coal, of possible war, of factory smoke. You…” He looked back over his shoulder at them. “You have built a future that shines, that makes noise, that trembles… but lives. That insists.”

Peter stood beside him.

“There are still wars. And pain. A lot of it. And things that go very, very wrong.”

Arthur nodded, still smiling.

“That never disappears. The only thing that changes is what stories we tell in order to bear it.”

He turned to him again.

“You, young man… Spider-Man. What is your name?”

“Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Peter Parker,” he repeated, as though testing the syllables. “Here.”

He placed the flashlight in Peter’s hand, closing the boy’s fingers around it.

“Keep this. It is ridiculously simple compared to the wonders surrounding you, I know. But remember: for someone, somewhere, the first time they saw a light such as this was like watching dawn arrive for the second time. Do not stop seeing the miracle in ordinary things, even when you stand among gods and men of iron.”

Peter felt a knot in his throat that had nothing to do with webbing.

“I… but then you’ll be left without your day in a box.”

Arthur smiled sideways, with a youthful brightness that contradicted the years he, technically, had not yet lived.

“I have already had one. And I have been given something better: the certainty that, a century from now, a boy in spider pajamas will still be fighting so people may have days worth trapping inside boxes.”

He gave an exaggerated little bow to Natasha.

“Milady, I am honored to have shared a room with you.” Then to Steve. “Captain. An entire nation contained inside one man is far too tempting a metaphor; perhaps I shall use it someday, if time allows.”

Thor received a forearm clasp worthy of Asgard itself.

“Thunder warrior, your laughter sounds as though the storm is in a good mood. That is a necessary sound.”

Tony raised his eyebrows, waiting for his turn.

Arthur looked at him with almost medical interest.

“And you… Iron Man. You have managed to shut yourself inside your own armor in order to protect yourself from the world. Do not forget to open it in time, before the heart grows too accustomed to walls.”

“Fantastic,” Tony huffed. “Free Victorian therapy.”

“Courtesy of literature,” Arthur replied, winking at him.

The temporal rift began forming again in the center of the room, a golden whirl this time, gentle and controlled.

Strange reappeared as a silhouette at the edge of the portal.

“It’s now or never.”

Arthur walked toward the light without hesitation, with the steady stride of a man who had decided to enjoy even the things he did not understand.

Just before crossing the threshold, he turned and looked once more at Peter.

“Mr. Parker.”

“Yeah?”

“When everything grows too dark…” He pointed to the flashlight in Peter’s hand. “Remember that you, too, are light locked inside a box. A ridiculously human, fragile box, but light nonetheless.”

And with one last smile—part courtesy, part childish joy, part energy that seemed determined to defy time itself—Arthur Conan Doyle vanished through the portal.

Silence fell for one second.

Then Clint cleared his throat.

“Okay, just for the record: the mustache guy just gave me more will to live than three years of therapy.”

“All the more reason not to let any villain touch this,” Natasha murmured.

Peter looked down at the flashlight in his hand. He switched it on.

A simple white beam cut through the air of the room, insignificant beside the holograms and the city lights… and yet, somehow, beautiful.

“Daylight trapped inside a box,” he repeated, almost in a whisper.

Tony dragged a hand down his face.

“Someone remind me that from now on, we check temporal rifts in case some existentialist writer sneaks through and says things that make me look like the grumpy guy in the meme.”

Steve smiled.

“Admit it. You liked him.”

“Not enough to publish his copyrights,” Tony said. “But enough to… I don’t know, name a room after him.”

Peter kept staring at the flashlight, the city shining behind him, the echo of Arthur’s voice resonating in some new corner of his chest.

In the middle of gods, supersoldiers, and billionaire geniuses, for one instant he felt exactly like what he was: a boy with far too many responsibilities… and a small light he could switch on when everything became too dark.

And that, he thought, was also being an Avenger.

That was also being a hero.

That was also history.

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El timbre de la puerta suena con un cling delicadísimo, como si hasta el metal supiera que allí dentro todo es frágil.

Don Julián —bajito, delgado, el uniforme gris planchado con devoción militar y las gafas siempre deslizándosele por la nariz— levanta la vista desde el mostrador. La tienda brilla en tonos dorados y azules: lámparas de cristal colgando del techo como constelaciones domesticadas, apliques de pared con lágrimas mínimas, vitrinas impecables. Huele a cera, a metal pulido y a ese polvo antiguo que solo tienen los sitios queridos desde hace muchas décadas.

Pero no es un cliente el que entra.

Son tres.

Botas mugrientas sobre el suelo impecable, chaquetas de cuero, tatuajes mal hechos y esa energía de gente que está acostumbrada a que el resto baje la cabeza. El primero lleva una pistola que parece demasiado grande para su mano. El segundo mastica chicle con la boca abierta. El tercero mira alrededor con una mezcla de codicia y miedo: el reflejo de las lámparas baila en sus pupilas.

—Buenas… tardes —dice Don Julián, porque la educación es reflejo, no decisión.

El de la pistola le apunta al pecho.

—Mira, abuelo, ahórranos el teatro, ¿sí? La caja. Todo. Y rápido, que no vengo a comprar cortinitas.

Don Julián traga saliva. Siente cómo el corazón le golpea contra la pechera de la chaqueta. Vio cosas peores que esto cuando era joven, pero nunca… nunca entre sus lámparas.

—No… no hay necesidad de violencia —intenta, con una calma que solo le tiembla en las manos—. Les doy lo que tengo y ya está.

—Eso es justo lo que vamos a hacer —responde el del chicle, señalando el techo—. Y como a alguien se le ocurra tocar un solo cristalito de estos… le dejamos las piernas en puré, ¿me oyes?

El del fondo suelta una risita nerviosa y roza con los nudillos una lámpara colgante. Tintinean unas cuantas piezas, y Don Julián da un respingo como si le hubieran tirado del alma.

—¡Cuidado! —se le escapa—. Es… es Bohemia auténtica, del setenta y tres…

—Pues más vale que la caja esté igual de auténtica —gruñe el de la pistola.

Don Julián se gira despacio. Abre la caja registradora con dedos torpes. Las monedas suenan demasiado alto en el silencio tenso de la tienda. Les entrega el fajo de billetes; los hombres se lo arrebatan sin agradecer ni mirar.

—Eso no es todo —dice el del chicle, acercándose más al mostrador—. Las joyitas de cristal esas, ¿no valen también? Coge unas cuantas, jefe. Las grandes. Venga, rápido.

El tercero empieza a alargar las manos hacia una lámpara de pie, enorme, de cristales verdes que cuelgan como hojas de vid. Don Julián siente cómo se le encoge algo en el pecho.

Si rompen esa, Teresa me mata desde el cielo.

El hombre apenas ha rozado el mástil cuando algo cambia en el aire.

Es sutil, como un cambio de presión antes de la tormenta. Un escalofrío que recorre las paredes, que hace temblar las cadenitas de las lámparas. La luz de las bombillas parpadea apenas un segundo.

El del chicle frunce el ceño.

—¿Habéis visto…?

No termina la frase.

La sombra cae desde arriba.

No hay cristal roto, ni estruendo, ni entrada dramática atravesando el escaparate. Solo una figura oscura que se descuelga desde una viga casi invisible del techo, encogiéndose en sí misma como si también tuviera miedo de rozar nada. Una capa que se arremolina sin tocar una sola lámpara. Un impacto seco, contundente… y el tipo que estaba junto a la lámpara de pie se ve arrancado hacia el suelo con un grito cortado.

Su cuerpo cae, pero Batman lo acompaña hasta el final del movimiento, girando, usando su propio peso para amortiguar, girando la muñeca justo antes del impacto para que no rebote contra la vitrina de la derecha.

El cristal ni siquiera tiembla.

—Hostia… —susurra el del chicle, retrocediendo un paso.

Batman se incorpora sin hacer ruido, alto y oscuro en medio de un bosque de brillos. La máscara, la mandíbula dura, los ojos blancos como dos cuchilladas de luz. El murciélago negro en el pecho absorbe todos los reflejos, como si se quedara con la luz a propósito.

La pistola del primero salta hacia él por puro reflejo. Disparo. El eco estalla en la tienda. Don Julián hace un sonido pequeño, un quejido, y se agacha instintivamente.

Pero la bala nunca llega a ninguna parte útil.

Un batarang cruza el aire en una línea perfecta, desviando el arma hacia arriba. El disparo da contra una viga, y el rebote arranca solo un trocito de yeso. Ningún cristal cae.

Batman ya está encima del tirador. No golpea como en los callejones, aquí no. Cada gesto viene medido al milímetro. Un puñetazo seco al antebrazo para que suelte la pistola sin que salga volando hacia las vitrinas. Un rodillazo a la pierna que lo hace caer de rodillas sin chocar contra la lámpara de techo más cercana. La pistola resbala por el suelo y se detiene justo antes de impactar con un expositor.

La mano enguantada de Batman la recoge como si fuera… bueno, como si también fuera de cristal.

El del chicle decide que la vida es corta, pero no tanto.

—Yo… yo no quería, ¿eh? Fue idea de él. Yo… —y echa a correr por el pasillo central, esquivando como puede las lámparas colgantes.

Batman aprieta la mandíbula.

Ni se te ocurra.

Salta sobre el mostrador, la capa rozando las bombillas sin llegar a tocarlas. Hay apenas dos dedos de margen, y sin embargo parece que lo hace a cámara lenta, calculado, como si hubiera ensayado entre lámparas toda la vida. Cae delante del ladrón que huye, bloqueándole el paso. El suelo tiembla un segundo, pero las vitrinas siguen intactas.

El ladrón se queda congelado.

—Vas a tropezar —dice Batman con una voz baja, que parece venir de debajo del suelo.

—No… no, yo…

El pie del hombre resbala con uno de los folletos que Don Julián dejó esa mañana. Por inercia, se va hacia atrás, los brazos agitados, directo contra una cascada de cristal colgante.

Batman se mueve antes de que el cerebro procesara el peligro. Lo agarra de la chaqueta, tira de él, gira sobre sí mismo y lo empotra con cuidado pero firme contra una columna. La lámpara oscila, cantando con sus piezas, pero no se rompe.

El hombre se queda pegado allí, jadeando, las manos en alto.

Silencio.

Solo el tintineo suave de las lámparas calmándose de la coreografía caótica.

Los tres ladrones están en el suelo o contra la pared, esposados con bridas negras que han aparecido como por arte de magia desde la cintura del murciélago. Respiran, gimen algo, pero están enteros.

Don Julián sale de detrás del mostrador con pasos cortos, como si también temiera romper algo.

—S-señor Batman… —dice, porque, sinceramente, no sabe cómo se tutea a una leyenda.

Él se vuelve despacio. En esos ojos blancos sin pupila, Julián se ve reflejado diminuto, con las gafas torcidas y la dignidad colgando como las lámparas. Batman baja ligeramente la cabeza, en señal de saludo.

—¿Está bien? —pregunta.

La voz retumba en las paredes, pero tiene algo… no suave, no exactamente, pero sí contenido. Como alguien que está acostumbrado a gritar con el cuerpo, no con la garganta.

—Sí. Sí, gracias a usted. Y mis lámparas… —sus ojos dan una vuelta completa por el local—. Están todas. No… no se ha roto ninguna.

Algo se relaja en la postura de Batman. Mínimo. Pero está allí.

—Ese era el plan —murmura.

Fuera, se escuchan sirenas acercándose. Alguien debió pulsar el botón de alarma del mostrador sin darse cuenta; quizá él mismo, en el momento en que la pistola le apuntó al pecho. No recuerda.

Batman mira un instante hacia la puerta, calculando tiempos, rutas, variables invisibles. Luego, regresa la mirada a las lámparas.

Los brillos juegan por la superficie de su máscara. Don Julián se limpia las manos en el uniforme, de repente consciente de que tiene a Batman en su tienda, entero, ahí, entre sus pequeñas galaxias de cristal. Piensa en cómo contarlo: sus nietos no le van a creer.

—¿Puedo… hacer algo por usted? —pregunta de golpe, porque la gratitud le pesa—. No tengo mucho, pero…

Batman parpadea una vez. Sus ojos vuelven a alzarse hacia el techo.

En una esquina, casi al fondo, cuelga una lámpara pequeña, discreta, de cristal translúcido. No es tan imponente como las demás, no tiene mil facetas ni adornos dorados. Es sencilla, con líneas limpias, un diseño casi geométrico. La luz que emite es cálida, redonda, sin estridencias.

Se queda mirándola unos segundos.

—Esa —dice.

Don Julián sigue la dirección de la mirada y sonríe por primera vez desde que entraron los ladrones.

—Tiene buen ojo. Es de una colección limitada. Vidrio esmerilado, estructura de hierro negro. Soporta bien las noches largas.

Batman asiente, apenas.

—¿Cuánto?

—Nada —responde Don Julián enseguida, moviendo las manos—. ¡Por favor! Después de lo que ha hecho… esa casa donde la cuelgue ya paga el resto.

En la mandíbula de Batman se marca un músculo, como si esa idea le incomodara de algún modo especial.

Mete la mano en algún compartimento del cinturón y saca un pequeño sobre plegado. Lo deja sobre el mostrador con un gesto seco.

—No acepto descuentos —dice—. Esa lámpara se ha ganado su precio.

Don Julián mira el sobre, lo abre con torpeza. Dentro, hay billetes. Más de lo que cuesta, sin duda. Cuando levanta la vista, Batman ya está bajando la lámpara con una delicadeza surrealista para alguien que podría arrancar una puerta de coche de cuajo.

La desenrosca, sostiene el cristal como si fuera una cosa viva. La baja despacio hasta depositarla sobre el mostrador, frente a él.

—Instálela donde la necesite —añade.

—¿Puedo saber…? —empieza Julián, y se detiene. Dónde vive no es una pregunta que vaya a contestar—. ¿Puedo… al menos encenderla una vez antes de que se la lleve?

Batman lo mira, y durante un segundo sus ojos dejan de parecer blancos vacíos. Hay algo cálido, casi divertido, escondido detrás.

—Encendida le queda mejor —dice.

Así que Don Julián la enchufa en un punto libre. La lámpara cobra vida con un clic, derramando una luz suave que envuelve a Batman desde abajo. El murciélago del pecho se dibuja en sombras; la máscara pierde un poco de su dureza. Por un instante, muy breve, el caballero oscuro parece menos una criatura de pesadilla y más… algo humano, cansado, que necesita una luz tranquila en algún rincón de la noche.

El viejo sonríe, y esta vez los nervios se le aflojan del todo.

—Le sienta bien —dice—. Se nota que usted también es de los que trabajan hasta tarde.

Batman no lo niega.

Recoge la lámpara, enrolla el cable con precisión exagerada y la sujeta bajo un brazo. Se gira hacia la puerta mientras las sirenas ya casi están encima. Antes de salir, vuelve un poco la cabeza.

—Cierre antes —aconseja—. Gotham no siempre tiene tan buen pulso.

Y, sin esperar respuesta, desaparece por la puerta trasera, la capa plegándose en la noche como si fuera otra cortina más.

Cuando la policía entra por la puerta principal, se encuentra con tres ladrones atados, una tienda de cristal intacta y a un hombre pequeñito con gafas detrás del mostrador, sonriendo todavía, con los ojos brillantes como si fuera una de sus lámparas recién encendida.

Piensa en el murciélago llevándose una luz tibia a algún sitio secreto de la ciudad.

Al final no es tan distinto de nosotros, se dice. Solo un hombre que no quiere romper nada que merezca ser cuidado.

Y, por si acaso, esa noche cierra media hora antes. Pero deja una lámpara en el escaparate encendida, suave y discreta, por si cierto cliente decide volver.

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The bell above the door rings with the most delicate cling, as if even the metal knows that everything inside is fragile.

Don Julián —short, slender, his gray uniform pressed with military devotion and his glasses forever sliding down his nose— looks up from behind the counter. The shop glows in shades of gold and blue: crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling like domesticated constellations, wall sconces with tiny teardrops of glass, spotless display cases. It smells of wax, polished metal, and that old dust only places loved for many decades seem to have.

But it is not a customer who comes in.

It is three.

Filthy boots on the immaculate floor, leather jackets, badly done tattoos, and that kind of energy carried by people who are used to everyone else lowering their heads. The first one holds a gun that looks far too big for his hand. The second chews gum with his mouth open. The third looks around with a mixture of greed and fear: the reflection of the lamps dances in his pupils.

“Good… afternoon,” says Don Julián, because manners are a reflex, not a decision.

The one with the gun points it at his chest.

“Look, old man, save us the act, yeah? The register. Everything. And fast. I’m not here to buy fancy little curtains.”

Don Julián swallows. He feels his heart hammering against the front of his jacket. He saw worse things than this when he was young, but never… never among his lamps.

“There’s… there’s no need for violence,” he tries, with a calm that only trembles in his hands. “I’ll give you what I have, and that will be the end of it.”

“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do,” the one with the gum replies, pointing up at the ceiling. “And if anyone gets the bright idea to touch even one little crystal thing in here… we’ll turn his legs into mashed potatoes, you hear me?”

The one in the back lets out a nervous little laugh and brushes his knuckles against a hanging lamp. A few pieces chime, and Don Julián flinches as if someone had tugged at his soul.

“Careful!” he blurts out. “That’s… that’s genuine Bohemian crystal, from seventy-three…”

“Then that register better be just as genuine,” growls the one with the gun.

Don Julián turns slowly. He opens the cash register with clumsy fingers. The coins sound far too loud in the tense silence of the shop. He hands them the wad of bills; the men snatch it from him without thanks and without looking.

“That’s not all,” says the gum-chewer, moving closer to the counter. “Those sparkly crystal things must be worth something too, right? Grab a few, boss. The big ones. Come on, move.”

The third man starts reaching toward a huge floor lamp, its green crystals hanging like vine leaves. Don Julián feels something shrink inside his chest.

If they break that one, Teresa will kill me from heaven.

The man has barely touched the pole when something changes in the air.

It is subtle, like a shift in pressure before a storm. A chill that travels along the walls and makes the little chains of the lamps tremble. The bulbs flicker for barely a second.

The gum-chewer frowns.

“Did you guys see—”

He does not finish the sentence.

The shadow drops from above.

There is no shattered glass, no thunderous crash, no dramatic entrance through the storefront window. Only a dark figure descending from an almost invisible ceiling beam, folding in on himself as though he, too, is afraid of brushing against anything. A cape swirling without touching a single lamp. A dry, heavy impact… and the man beside the floor lamp is pulled down to the ground with a cut-off cry.

His body falls, but Batman follows the motion all the way down, turning, using his own weight to soften the landing, twisting the man’s wrist just before impact so he does not bounce into the display case on the right.

The glass does not even tremble.

“Holy…” whispers the gum-chewer, taking a step back.

Batman rises without a sound, tall and dark in the middle of a forest of gleaming lights. The mask, the hard jaw, the white eyes like two slashes of light. The black bat on his chest swallows every reflection, as if it were keeping the light for itself on purpose.

The first man’s gun snaps toward him on pure reflex.

A shot.

The echo bursts through the shop. Don Julián makes a small sound, a whimper, and instinctively ducks.

But the bullet never reaches anything useful.

A batarang cuts through the air in a perfect line, knocking the weapon upward. The shot strikes a beam, and the ricochet tears loose only a small bit of plaster.

Not a single crystal falls.

Batman is already on the gunman. He does not fight the way he would in an alley. Not here. Every movement is measured to the millimeter. A sharp punch to the forearm so the gun drops without flying into the display cases. A knee to the leg that forces him down without sending him crashing into the nearest ceiling lamp. The gun skids across the floor and stops just before hitting a stand.

Batman’s gloved hand picks it up as if it were… well, as if it were made of crystal too.

The gum-chewer decides that life is short, but not that short.

“I… I didn’t want this, okay? It was his idea. I—”

And he bolts down the center aisle, dodging the hanging lamps as best he can.

Batman tightens his jaw.

Don’t you dare.

He leaps over the counter, his cape brushing past the bulbs without quite touching them. There are barely two inches of clearance, and yet he seems to do it in slow motion, calculated, as if he had spent his whole life rehearsing among lamps. He lands in front of the fleeing thief, blocking his path. The floor shudders for a second, but the display cases remain intact.

The thief freezes.

“You’re going to trip,” Batman says in a low voice, one that seems to come from beneath the floor.

“No… no, I’m—”

The man’s foot slips on one of the brochures Don Julián left there that morning. Momentum throws him backward, arms flailing, straight toward a hanging cascade of crystal.

Batman moves before the man’s mind has even processed the danger. He grabs him by the jacket, yanks him forward, spins, and pins him carefully but firmly against a column. The lamp sways, its pieces singing, but it does not break.

The man stays pressed there, panting, hands raised.

Silence.

Only the soft chiming of the lamps settling after their chaotic little choreography.

The three thieves are either on the floor or against the wall, cuffed with black zip ties that seem to have appeared by magic from the Bat’s belt. They breathe, groan, mutter things, but they are whole.

Don Julián steps out from behind the counter in short, careful movements, as if he too is afraid of breaking something.

“M-Mister Batman…” he says, because honestly, he has no idea how one is supposed to address a legend.

Batman turns slowly. In those white, pupil-less eyes, Julián sees himself reflected, tiny, with his glasses crooked and his dignity hanging like the lamps. Batman lowers his head slightly in greeting.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

His voice rumbles against the walls, but there is something in it… not softness, not exactly, but restraint. Like someone used to shouting with his body, not with his throat.

“Yes. Yes, thanks to you. And my lamps…” His eyes travel once around the shop. “They’re all here. Not… not one of them broke.”

Something loosens in Batman’s posture. Barely. But it is there.

“That was the plan,” he murmurs.

Outside, sirens begin to approach. Someone must have pressed the alarm button beneath the counter without realizing it; perhaps Julián himself, in the moment the gun had been pointed at his chest. He cannot remember.

Batman glances toward the door, calculating times, routes, invisible variables. Then his gaze returns to the lamps.

The lights play over the surface of his mask. Don Julián wipes his hands on his uniform, suddenly aware that Batman is standing in his shop, fully real, right there among his little galaxies of crystal. He thinks about how he will tell the story.

His grandchildren are not going to believe him.

“Can I… do anything for you?” he asks suddenly, because gratitude has weight. “I don’t have much, but…”

Batman blinks once. His eyes lift again toward the ceiling.

In a corner, almost at the back, hangs a small, discreet lamp of translucent glass. It is not as imposing as the others, has no thousand facets or golden ornaments. It is simple, with clean lines, an almost geometric design. The light it gives off is warm, round, without harshness.

He looks at it for a few seconds.

“That one,” he says.

Don Julián follows his gaze and smiles for the first time since the thieves came in.

“You have a good eye. It’s from a limited collection. Frosted glass, black iron frame. Holds up well through long nights.”

Batman gives the smallest nod.

“How much?”

“Nothing,” Don Julián says at once, waving his hands. “Please. After what you’ve done… whatever home you hang that in has already paid the rest.”

A muscle tightens in Batman’s jaw, as if the idea bothers him in some very particular way.

He reaches into a compartment on his belt and takes out a small folded envelope. He places it on the counter with a crisp gesture.

“I don’t accept discounts,” he says. “That lamp has earned its price.”

Don Julián looks at the envelope and opens it with shaky fingers. Inside, there are bills. More than the lamp costs, without question. When he looks up, Batman is already taking the lamp down with a surreal delicacy for someone who could tear a car door off its hinges.

He unscrews it and holds the glass as though it were alive. He lowers it slowly until he sets it on the counter in front of him.

“Install it where it’s needed,” he adds.

“May I ask…?” Julián begins, then stops himself. Where do you live is not a question Batman is going to answer. “May I… at least turn it on once before you take it?”

Batman looks at him, and for one second his eyes stop seeming like empty white spaces. There is something warm there, almost amused, hidden behind them.

“It looks better on,” he says.

So Don Julián plugs it into a free outlet. The lamp comes to life with a click, pouring out a soft light that wraps around Batman from below. The bat on his chest is drawn in shadow; the mask loses a little of its hardness. For one brief moment, the Dark Knight seems less like a creature from a nightmare and more like… something human, tired, in need of a quiet light in some corner of the night.

The old man smiles, and this time the nerves finally leave him.

“It suits you,” he says. “I can tell you’re someone who works late too.”

Batman does not deny it.

He picks up the lamp, coils the cable with exaggerated precision, and holds it under one arm. He turns toward the door as the sirens are nearly upon them. Before leaving, he glances back.

“Close earlier,” he advises. “Gotham doesn’t always have such a steady hand.”

And without waiting for an answer, he disappears through the back door, his cape folding into the night as if it were just another curtain.

When the police come in through the front entrance, they find three thieves tied up, a crystal shop untouched, and a small man with glasses standing behind the counter, still smiling, his eyes shining as if he were one of his own freshly lit lamps.

He thinks of the bat carrying a warm little light away to some secret place in the city.

In the end, he tells himself, he is not so different from the rest of us. Just a man who does not want to break anything worth taking care of.

And, just in case, that night he closes half an hour early.

But he leaves one lamp on in the display window, soft and discreet, in case a certain customer decides to come back.

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Jason realized something was off before he even crossed the threshold of Dick’s apartment.

Too much silence.

No small footsteps tearing down the hallway. No usual “Uncle Jay!” launched at his stomach like a tiny missile. Just the hum of the fridge and the absurdly loud tick-tick-tick of the kitchen clock.

“Grayson,” he muttered, dropping the keys into the bowl by the door, “if your kid set up some Home Alone-style trap for me, I’m leaving right now.”

Nothing. Not even a giggle. Not even one sarcastic little comment worthy of the original Boy Wonder.

Jason frowned. The plan had been simple: Dick was heading out early on patrol with Barbara, and Jason was babysitting for the night. Easy. Pizza, cartoons, get the kid into bed at a reasonable hour — or something close enough to count — sneak in a couple more rounds on the console, done.

Except the kid was missing.

“Peter,” he called, louder this time. “Spiderling, come out before I—” He twisted his mouth. “Before I call Alfred and tell him nobody taught you manners.”

Silence.

Then Jason heard a faint, muffled sound from the small bedroom. Not quite a whimper. More like an exhausted sigh.

In one second, the tough-guy act cracked around the edges, and he went straight for the door.

He pushed it open carefully.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. The only light came from the little planet-shaped lamp on the nightstand. On the bed, a lump tangled in the sheets was breathing with effort. Black hair clung damply to a flushed forehead.

“Hey,” Jason said, in a voice so soft no criminal in Gotham would have survived hearing it. “That doesn’t look like a trap. That looks like…” He stepped closer. “A fever.”

Peter barely lifted his head, eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

“Uncle… Jay?” His voice came out hoarse and small. “I don’t wanna get uuuup.”

Jason braced one knee on the mattress and pressed a hand to the boy’s forehead.

The heat jumped straight into his palm.

“Shit,” he whispered, more to himself than to Peter. “You’re a damn furnace, kid.”

Peter made a tiny noise, half protest, half failed laugh, and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

“Dad said… said it was just a little fever…” He blinked, fighting sleep. “Said you were coming anyway… and that… that you wouldn’t leave me alone…”

Jason chewed back a curse that was very clearly aimed at Dick for not warning him properly. He reached for his phone and played the last voice message from Grayson.

“Hey, Jay. He’s a little under the weather, but he insisted on you coming. Says he feels safe with you. I gave him Tylenol at six. He just wants to sleep and be held. If he gets worse, call me.”

Jason pressed his lips together.

Safe. Right.

With the guy who had literally clawed his way back from the grave and currently described himself as “a walking bad example.” Perfect.

“All right, little spider,” he said at last, setting the phone on the nightstand. “Your dad is a drama queen, but he didn’t lie this time. You’re burning up.”

Peter reached for him instinctively, digging one trembling hand out from under the blankets.

“I don’t wanna… do anything. Just sleep…” His eyes suddenly shone. “Can you stay… here?”

Jason was going to say something like, Sure, but first we’re getting that fever down, soldier.

What came out was simpler.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

He stood for a moment and shifted into Alfred Junior mode: kitchen, glass of water, thermometer from the cabinet Dick had mentioned — “green box, next to the Star Wars mugs, Jason, it’s not rocket science” — and, while he was there, a small cloth dampened with cool water.

When he came back, Peter had curled even tighter into himself, like he was trying to disappear inside the comforter.

“Hey. Don’t vanish on me,” Jason said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Peter forced his eyes open.

“You left…”

“Ten seconds. I’m offended,” Jason huffed. “Come on. Mission one: figure out exactly how much of a toaster you are. Thermometer. Mouth.”

Peter obeyed without complaining, too tired for his usual performance. Jason held his chin with clumsy tenderness, almost startled by how fragile the kid felt in his hands.

The beep came quickly.

Jason checked the screen and gave a low whistle.

“hundred and one point seven Fahrenheit. Nothing to panic over, but definitely enough to complain with style.”

He handed him the glass.

“Drink, champ.”

Peter took a couple of sips, his throat working with effort. When he was done, Jason placed the damp cloth across his forehead. The boy shivered.

“It’s cold…”

“That’s the point,” Jason said. “We’re trying to stop you from turning into a human space heater. Bruce already pays enough for heating.”

That got a weak smile out of Peter.

Jason stored it away silently.

Once he was sure the kid’s breathing had evened out a little, he leaned back, ready to stay sitting there. But then he felt a tug on his shirt.

Peter, eyes half-closed, had caught the hem in his fingers.

“Don’t go…” he murmured, voice fading. “Stay… here with me… okay?”

That broken, sleepy little “okay?” lodged itself somewhere in Jason’s chest he didn’t like acknowledging.

For a second, his body reacted the way it used to when he was a street kid: tension, memory, that old ugly certainty that asking someone to stay was dangerous.

No one stayed.

Not back then.

But he wasn’t that kid anymore.

And the boy clutching his shirt wasn’t him. He was the son of Jason’s brilliant idiot of a brother. A child who trusted Jason Todd to stay.

“Fine,” he said at last, swallowing down that old knot. “Operation Uncle Jay Stays Until You Get Sick of Him is officially a go.”

With some effort, he stretched out on top of the comforter, trying to leave Peter some space.

Peter, however, didn’t hesitate for even a second. He moved like a sick little cat and curled directly against Jason’s chest, tucking his head under Jason’s chin. The fever coming off him was sticky and too warm, but there was something else there too, something Jason took a second to recognize.

Trust.

Dangerous little thing.

Jason adjusted the blankets around him, practically tucking him into a cocoon. One of his hands ended up moving automatically over the boy’s back, up and down, slow and steady.

“Better?” he murmured.

Peter nodded against his shirt. Jason felt the warm damp brush of his breath.

“You smell like leather…” the little boy whispered, with an honesty that dragged a low laugh out of him. “And… gasoline.”

“Thanks for the compliment, I guess.” Jason rested his head against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “It’s my new cologne. Street Assault No. 5.”

Peter let out a tiny strangled laugh that immediately turned into a cough. Jason tensed, then patted his back gently.

“Easy. Easy. You’re okay.”

The boy took a slow breath, and little by little, the shaking eased.

Lying there, with that small body pressed against him, Jason noticed something strange about his own breathing.

It was syncing with Peter’s.

One. Two. Three.

His mind, on the other hand, wouldn’t shut up.

He remembered nights when no one had put a cool cloth on his forehead. Fever nights on a crappy mattress, with only the noise of a television for company. He remembered, too — in a flash sharp enough to hurt — a very different hand, big and gloved and awkward, resting on his hair.

“You’ll be okay, Robin.”

Jason scowled and buried that old voice.

Not now.

He looked down at Peter.

The kid had drifted halfway to sleep, long lashes stuck together, mouth slightly open, cheeks bright with fever. His hand was still twisted in Jason’s shirt, as if he was afraid Jason would vanish the second he let go.

“You really need to trust people less, little spider,” Jason murmured, knowing Peter couldn’t hear him. “One of these days you’re gonna run into a dangerous idiot.”

Peter mumbled something unintelligible.

Something that sounded suspiciously like, “You’re not dangerous.”

Jason rolled his eyes, but a small, tired smile escaped him anyway.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Careful not to move the kid too much, Jason reached for it.

Message from Dick:

Everything okay? Did he fall asleep? Tell him I love him if he wakes up scared.

Jason looked at the creature thoroughly glued to him.

He typed one-handed:

Yeah. Fever’s high but under control. He’s knocked out and stuck to me like a tick. He hates you less than usual.

Three dots appeared. Then:

Thanks, Jay. Seriously. To him, you’re… safer than you think.

Jason snorted, turned the phone face down, and focused again on Peter’s breathing.

Safer than you think.

What a poetic way of saying this kid doesn’t see the whole disaster living inside you.

“Your dad has a weird way of saying thank you,” he told the sleeping boy. “And somehow I’m the weird one.”

Peter, in response, curled closer, burying his nose against Jason’s chest.

Minutes passed. The cloth on his forehead warmed; Jason swapped it for another, lifting the boy’s head just enough to slide the fresh one into place before settling him back against his chest.

Every movement was messy and awkward, but also so gentle it would have shocked half of Gotham into silence.

At one point, Peter stirred, brow furrowing.

“Don’t go…” he whispered again, trapped somewhere inside a fever dream.

Jason tightened his arm around him, firm and steady.

“I’m not going anywhere, kid,” he said, plain and simple, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Not tonight.”

The words floated through the dim room.

Strangely, they didn’t sound like some impossible promise.

They sounded natural.

Like something he’d been waiting far too long to say to someone.

Peter’s breathing slowly deepened, growing calmer. If you paid close enough attention, you could feel the fever starting to ease, barely a degree, barely anything at all — but enough for shoulders to loosen, for tiny fingers to unclench.

Jason rested his cheek against the boy’s hair, closed his eyes, and, against all odds, let himself drift a little too. Not fully asleep. His ears were trained to catch any wrong sound in the dark. It was that soft kind of half-wakefulness he’d learned in alleys, on rooftops, in makeshift shelters.

Only now, instead of a gun, he was holding a child.

And instead of waiting for the next shot, he was waiting for something much rarer in his life: for the fever to break completely, for Dick to come home safe, for this tiny bubble of quiet not to burst as quickly as every other good thing did.

“I swear to you, Peter Grayson…” he mumbled, almost without meaning to. “If you wake up tomorrow and tell your dad I got sentimental, we’re going to war.”

The boy didn’t answer.

He only sighed, deep and trusting, while his fingers stayed hooked in the fabric of Jason’s shirt like an anchor.

It was just another night in Blüdhaven.

Outside, the noisy city kept doing what noisy cities do.

Inside, in a modest apartment, Jason Todd stayed perfectly still with a sleeping child tucked against him, holding one small feverish universe in his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And for once, he didn’t run from it.

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Jason se dio cuenta de que algo iba raro incluso antes de cruzar la puerta del piso de Dick.

Demasiado silencio.

Ni rastro de pasos pequeños corriendo por el pasillo, ni el típico “¡tío Jay!” disparado como un proyectil hacia su estómago. Solo el zumbido del frigorífico y el tic-tac exagerado del reloj de la cocina.

—Grayson —murmuró, dejando las llaves en el cuenco—, si tu hijo me ha hecho una trampa en plan Home Alone, me voy ahora mismo.

Nada. Ni un “ja, ja”, ni un comentario sarcástico a lo Boy Wonder.

Jason frunció el ceño. Habían quedado en que Dick salía de patrulla temprano con Barbara, y él se quedaba de niñera una noche. Fácil. Pizza, dibujos, mandar al niño a la cama a una hora razonable (o algo parecido), jugar un par de partidas más en la consola, fin.

Pero faltaba el niño.

—Peter —llamó, más alto—. Pajarito, sal de donde estés antes de que… —torció la boca— antes de que llame a Alfred y le diga que no te ha educado bien.

Silencio.

Jason oyó un leve sonido ahogado, no tanto un quejido como un suspiro cansado, proveniente del dormitorio pequeño. En un segundo, la pose de tipo duro se le resquebrajó un poco, y caminó directo hacia allí.

Empujó la puerta con cuidado.

La habitación estaba en penumbra, cortinas corridas. El único brillo venía de la lámpara de noche con forma de planeta. En la cama, un bulto enredado en las sábanas respiraba con dificultad. El pelo negro se pegaba a la frente.

—Hey —dijo Jason, con una suavidad que no le habría soportado ningún criminal de Gotham—. Eso no parece una trampa. Eso parece… —se acercó— fiebre.

Peter levantó la cabeza apenas, los ojos vidriosos y enrojecidos.

—¿Tío… Jay? —La voz le salió ronca y pequeña—. No quiero levantaaaarme.

Jason apoyó una rodilla en la cama, la mano en la frente del niño. El calor le saltó a los dedos.

—Joder —susurró, más para sí que para él—. Vaya horno tienes ahí, enano.

Peter hizo un ruidito, mitad protesta, mitad intento de risa, y se acurrucó más en la almohada.

—Papá dijo que… que era solo un poco de fiebre… —parpadeó, luchando contra el sueño— que tú venías igual… y que… que no me ibas a dejar solo…

Jason mascó una maldición que claramente iba dirigida a Dick por no avisarle. Se estiró para agarrar el móvil y revisó la última nota de voz de Grayson.

"Está un poco pochillo, pero insistió en que vinieras tú, dice que contigo se siente seguro. Le he dado paracetamol a las seis. Solo quiere dormir y que lo abracen. Si empeora, llámame."

Jason apretó los labios. Seguro. Claro. Con el tío que resucitó de la tumba y que se autodefine como “mal ejemplo andante”. Perfecto.

—Vale, pajarito —dijo al fin, dejando el móvil en la mesilla—. Tu padre es un drama, pero esta vez no ha mentido. Estás hirviendo.

Peter estiró una mano hacia él por instinto, desenterrándola de las sábanas, dedos temblorosos.

—No quiero… no quiero hacer nada. Solo dormir… —Sus ojos brillaron de repente—. ¿Te puedes quedar… aquí?

Jason iba a decir algo tipo “claro, pero primero vamos a bajarte la fiebre, soldado”. Lo que salió fue más sencillo:

—Claro que me quedo.

Se levantó un momento para entrar en modo “Alfred junior”: fue a la cocina, llenó un vaso de agua, buscó en el armario el termómetro que Dick había mencionado ("está en la cajita verde, donde las tazas de Star Wars, Jason, no es complicado"). De paso mojó un paño pequeño en agua fresca.

Cuando volvió, Peter había encogido aún más su cuerpo, como si quisiera hacerse desaparecer dentro del edredón.

—Eh, no te me escapes —dijo Jason, sentándose en el borde de la cama.

Peter abrió los ojos con esfuerzo.

—Te fuiste…

—Diez segundos. Me ofendes —bufó Jason—. Venga, misión uno: comprobar cuánto de tostadora estás. Termómetro, boca.

Peter obedeció sin protestar, demasiado cansado para hacer su espectáculo habitual. Jason le sostuvo la barbilla con cariño torpe, casi sorprendido de lo frágil que se sentía en sus manos. El pitido fue rápido.

Jason miró la pantalla y silbó por lo bajo.

—Treinta y ocho con siete. Nada de qué entrar en pánico, pero sí lo suficiente para quejarse con estilo.

Le pasó el vaso.

—Bebe, campeón.

Peter dio un par de sorbos, la garganta trabajando con dificultad. Una vez terminó, Jason le colocó el paño húmedo en la frente. El niño se estremeció.

—Está frío…

—Es el punto —respondió Jason—. Estamos intentando que no te conviertas en un radiador humano. Bruce paga bastante ya de calefacción.

Eso sacó una sonrisa débil a Peter. Jason la atesoró en silencio.

Cuando se aseguró de que respiraba un poco más regular, se inclinó hacia atrás, dispuesto a quedarse sentado. Pero entonces sintió un tirón en la camiseta. Peter, con los ojos a medio cerrar, le agarraba el dobladillo.

—No te vayas… —murmuró, la voz perdiéndose—. Quédate… aquí conmigo… ¿sí?

Ese “sí” medio roto, medio adormilado, se le clavó a Jason en un sitio que no le gustaba reconocer. Por un instante, su cuerpo reaccionó como cuando era un niño de la calle: tensión, memoria, esa sensación de que pedir que alguien se quedara era arriesgado.

Nadie se quedaba. No entonces.

Pero ahora no era aquel crío. Y el niño que tiraba de su camiseta no era él; era el hijo de su hermano idiota y brillante. Un niño que confiaba en que Jason Todd se quedaría.

—Está bien —dijo al final, tragando ese nudo viejo—. Corre la operación “Tío Jay se queda hasta que te aburras de él”.

Con un poco de esfuerzo, se tumbó encima del edredón, por encima de la cama, tratando de dejar algo de espacio. Peter, sin embargo, ni siquiera dudó: se movió como un gatito enfermo y se acurrucó directamente contra su pecho, metiendo la cabeza bajo su barbilla. Del interior del niño salía un calor febril y pegajoso, pero también algo que Jason tardó un segundo en identificar.

Confianza. Esa mierda peligrosa.

Jason le ajustó las sábanas alrededor, casi envolviéndolo. Una de sus manos terminó automáticamente en la espalda del niño, subiendo y bajando, lenta, rítmica.

—¿Así mejor? —murmuró.

Peter asintió contra su camiseta. Jason sintió el roce húmedo de la respiración.

—Hueles a cuero… —susurró el pequeño, con una honestidad que arrancó una risa baja— y a… gasolina.

—Gracias por el cumplido, supongo —Jason apoyó la cabeza en la almohada, mirando al techo—. Es mi nuevo perfume. “Asalto callejero nº 5”.

Peter soltó una risita ahogada que enseguida se convirtió en tos. Jason se tensó, luego le dio unos golpecitos suaves en la espalda.

—Tranquilo, tranquilo. No pasa nada.

El niño tomó aire despacio, y poco a poco el temblor se calmó. Sentado ahí, sintiendo el peso de ese cuerpecito contra él, Jason notó algo raro en su propia respiración: se sincronizaba. Una, dos, tres.

Su mente, en cambio, no paraba.

Recordó noches en que nadie le había puesto un paño en la frente. Noches de fiebre en un colchón cutre, con solo el ruido de la televisión como compañía. Recordó también, en un flash casi doloroso, una mano muy distinta, grande, enguantada, torpe, apoyada sobre su pelo.

“Estarás bien, Robin”.

Jason frunció el ceño, enterrando esa voz antigua. No era momento.

Miró a Peter.

El niño se había quedado medio dormido, pestañas largas pegadas, boca entreabierta, las mejillas encendidas. Su mano seguía aferrada a la camiseta de Jason, como si temiera que desapareciera si soltaba.

—Tienes que confiar menos en la gente, pajarito —murmuró, sabiendo que no le oía—. Uno de estos días te va a tocar un imbécil peligroso.

Peter farfulló algo ininteligible. Algo que sonó sospechosamente a “no eres peligroso”. Jason rodó los ojos, pero se le escapó una sonrisa, pequeña y cansada.

El móvil vibró en la mesilla. Con cuidado de no mover demasiado al niño, Jason alargó la mano y lo tomó.

Mensaje de Dick: "¿Todo bien? ¿Se ha dormido? Recuérdale que le quiero, si se despierta preocupado."

Jason miró a la criatura profundamente acurrucada contra él.

Escribió con un dedo: "Sí, fiebre alta pero controlada. Está KO y pegado a mí como una garrapata. Te odia menos de lo normal."

Tres puntos de escritura. Luego: "Gracias, Jay. De verdad. Para él eres… más seguro de lo que crees."

Jason resopló, dejó el móvil boca abajo y volvió a centrarse en la respiración de Peter. Más segura de lo que crees. Qué manera de decir “este niño no ve todo el desastre que llevas dentro”.

—Tu padre tiene una forma muy rara de dar las gracias —le comentó al enano dormido—. Luego yo soy el raro.

Peter, en respuesta, se acurrucó aún más, enterrando la nariz en su pecho.

Pasaron los minutos. El paño de la frente se fue calentando; Jason lo cambió por otro, levantando apenas la cabeza del niño y acomodándolo de nuevo contra su pecho. Cada movimiento era sucio y torpe, pero al mismo tiempo de una delicadeza que habría sorprendido a media Gotham.

En un momento, Peter se agitó un poco, el ceño fruncido.

—No te vayas… —susurró de nuevo, atrapado en algún sueño febril.

Jason apretó el abrazo, firme.

—No me voy a ningún lado, peque —dijo, simple, como si fuera lo más obvio del mundo—. No esta noche.

Las palabras flotaron en la penumbra. Extrañamente, no sonaron como una promesa difícil. Sonaron… naturales. Como algo que llevaba demasiado tiempo queriendo decirle a alguien.

La respiración de Peter se fue volviendo más profunda, más tranquila. Si uno ponía atención, podía sentir cómo el calor de la fiebre empezaba a ceder un poco, apenas un grado, apenas nada, pero lo suficiente para relajar hombros y manos.

Jason apoyó la mejilla en el pelo del niño, cerró los ojos y, contra todo pronóstico, se dejó ir un poco también. Tenía un oído entrenado para distinguir cualquier sonido extraño, así que no era completamente sueño; era esa especie de vigilia suave que había aprendido a usar en callejones, tejados, refugios improvisados.

Solo que ahora, en lugar de una pistola, lo que sostenía era a un niño.

Y en vez de esperar el próximo disparo, esperaba algo mucho más raro para él: que la fiebre bajara del todo, que Dick volviera sano y salvo, que esta pequeña burbuja de tranquilidad no explotara tan rápido como siempre hacía en su vida.

—Te lo juro, Peter Grayson… —murmuró, casi sin darse cuenta—. Como te pongas bueno mañana y le cuentes a tu padre que me puse cursi, estamos en guerra.

El niño no respondió. Se limitó a suspirar, profundo, confiado, mientras sus dedos seguían enganchados a la tela de la camiseta de Jason como un ancla.

Era una noche cualquiera en Blüdhaven. Fuera, la ciudad ruidosa seguía a su rollo. Dentro, en un piso modesto, Jason Todd se quedó quieto, con un niño dormido encima, sujetando un pequeño universo febril con los brazos, como si fuera lo más sencillo del mundo.

Y por una vez, no huía de ello.

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Dick was leaning against the back of the car, arms crossed, eyes lost somewhere in Gotham’s sky while the distant hum of night traffic filled the air. It’d been over an hour and a half since they’d wrapped the mission.

And it had also been over an hour and a half since Jason had stolen the only victory that seemed to matter lately: who got the front passenger seat.

“Come on, Dick, be mature, let the young ones sit up front,” Tim had said, half-smiling, more focused on his tablet than the drama.

“Exactly. You’re practically a fossil. You should be in the back,” Jason had added, miming lighting a cigarette purely for the theatrics.

Dick had laughed it off at the time, of course. With that charming smile. With that big-brother tone that made him seem untouchable.

But now, alone and in the quiet, he couldn’t stop the doubt from sliding into his head like a persistent shadow.

Old? Decrepit?

Am I getting old?

He was in his late twenties. Physically, he was better than ever. Every single day he saw more definition. His abs looked like they’d been carved by a Greek sculptor in the middle of an obsessive anatomical phase. And yet there he was, wondering if years of acrobatics, badly healed injuries, sleepless nights and endless responsibilities weren’t finally catching up to him.

What if I already passed my prime and didn’t even notice? What if now I’m just… the ex-Robin? The guy who used to shine?

“You know you have the best ass in the entire DC universe, right?”

Dick blinked. He turned around.

A guy in red and black was just standing there, holding a box full of comics and smiling with an amount of enthusiasm that probably violated several laws of physics.

“Excuse me?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Dick Grayson, right? A.K.A. Nightwing. First Robin. The acrobat with the butt sculpted by the gods. I’m Wade. Wade Wilson. But you can call me Deadpool. Everybody does. Or ‘the one who knows the truth’.”

Dick took half a step back.

“How did you even get in here? This is Gotham.”

“Yeah, I noticed. It smells like repressed emotional trauma, testosterone, and Bat-spray. Anyway—” Wade dropped the box to the ground with a thump and started pulling comics out one by one. “Nightwing #87, Titans Annual, Grayson, Infinite Frontier… Look at this. This is you, you, and more you. Check this out, double-page spread focused entirely on your rear. This is art, Dick. Capital-A Art.”

Dick blinked. Looked at the comics. Looked at him.

“Are we… comic book characters?”

Wade made a “kinda sorta” hand gesture.

“Characters? Yes. Comic books? Yes. Sex symbol? Absolutely yes. Listen, if there were an award for Hottest Superhero, you’d win it every year. Even Superman gets a complex. Nobody wears a suit like you do, Dick. Nobody.”

Dick crossed his arms, uneasy but clearly a little flattered.

“So why are you here?”

“To tell you the truth, Dickie. You’re not old. You’re not washed up. You’re in your prime. You’re a symbol. A standard. A fitness goal. The man who makes every other Robin wonder why they even bother. And your butt… well, that’s basically a cultural heritage site of the multiverse.”

“Does my ass really show up on that many covers?”

“Sweetheart, this is an anthology.”

Dick fell silent.

“You know none of what you’re saying makes any sense, right?”

“And when has the multiverse ever made sense?”

Right then, Jason’s head popped out from the car window.

“You talking to yourself again, Grayson?”

Dick blinked. Wade was gone. Only the comics remained, scattered across the ground like fallen leaves.

“…Yeah. Maybe I am.”

Jason snorted, amused.

“Definitely too old.”

Dick looked up at the sky, then at his reflection in the car window. He stretched, abs tightening under the suit, just because.

His smile came back.

Old, my ass.

And he got in the car.

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Peter Parker no esperaba morir atropellado por un torbellino de pelo marrón y baba.

Ni de lejos.

Estaba agachado detrás de la cinta policial, cámara en mano, intentando enfocar el ángulo perfecto del coche estampado contra la farola, cuando algo le rozó la nuca por detrás.

Su sentido arácnido chilló.

—¡¿Qué…?! —giró medio cuerpo, listo para esquivar un puñetazo, una bala, un ladrillo volador…

Lo que vio fue una lengua rosa del tamaño de su dignidad acercándose a su cara a velocidad supersónica.

El impacto lo tiró de espaldas contra el suelo.

—¡Ugh! —Peter soltó el aire en un bufido—. Vale, definitivamente no eres un ladrillo…

Encima de su pecho, plantado como si fuera dueño y señor de Queens, un enorme pastor alemán lo miraba con ojos marrones brillantes, cola moviéndose como si alguien hubiera conectado un motor de barco.

El perro soltó un ladrido corto, feliz, que sonó peligrosamente a “te he elegido, humano”.

Y después empezaron los besitos.

—¡Eh, eh, espera, colega! —Peter intentó incorporarse, pero el perro simplemente reajustó su peso para aplastarlo mejor y le dio un lametón en toda la mejilla, incluida la oreja—. ¡Aj, ajajaja, para, eso hace cosquillas!

Notó las risas subirle por la garganta de manera casi involuntaria. Los lametones eran insistentes, torpes, ruidosos, cero elegantes y absolutamente irresistibles. Olía a perro limpio, a champú caro de policía y a un leve toque de galleta.

—Rex, ¡abajo! —la voz del agente llegó un segundo tarde a la fiesta.

Peter parpadeó, con las gafas torcidas, el pelo hecho un desastre y la camiseta con dos huellas de patas perfectamente marcadas.

El perro, Rex, se quedó quieto justo lo necesario para mirar a su humano de reojo… y acto seguido darle otro beso sonoro a Peter en la barbilla, como si dijera: “Vale, pero este es el último”.

—No, no, tranquilo —Peter levantó ambas manos, todavía atrapado bajo ese tanque peludo—. Estamos… bien. Creo. Solo estoy perdiendo el orgullo, ningún órgano vital.

Rex gruñó bajito, un gruñido juguetón, y apoyó la cabeza en el pecho de Peter como si fuera una almohada recién estrenada.

El agente se acercó corriendo, medio avergonzado.

—Lo siento muchísimo, señor. Nunca suele… lanzarse así. Está entrenado para reducir sospechosos, no periodistas.

—Técnicamente soy becario —murmuró Peter—. No creo que haya protocolo para “reducir becarios torpes”.

El policía estiró la mano al collar del perro, donde se leía el nombre: “Rex”.

Kommissar Rex

—Rex —repitió Peter, con una sonrisilla, probando el nombre—. Déjame adivinar: el policía de verdad eres tú, ¿no?

Rex levantó un poco la cabeza, como si hubiera entendido su nombre, y le dio un pequeño toque con el hocico en la barbilla. Peter sintió la nariz húmeda y fría y, por alguna razón, su cerebro decidió que ese era el toque más honesto que había recibido en semanas.

El mundo alrededor seguía siendo un caos controlado: coches de policía, luces azules parpadeando, gente grabando con el móvil, alguien discutiendo con un agente por la multa, sirenas lejanas… Pero tumbado en el asfalto caliente, con un pastor alemán gigante pegado a su pecho, Peter se sintió… extrañamente en paz.

Lo cual era, mínimo, irónico.

—De verdad, lo siento —insistió el agente, tirando suavemente del collar, aunque Rex se negaba a apartarse—. Debe de haber olido algo en usted. A veces reconoce a la gente de buen carácter.

Peter se rió por lo bajo.

—Claro. O huele las galletas de chocolate que me comí hace media hora. Soy básicamente un snack con patas.

Rex soltó un pequeño “guau” como si confirmara el dato.

—¿Ves? —Peter levantó una mano y la pasó por el pelaje del cuello del perro.

El tacto era cálido, compacto, una mezcla perfecta de fuerza y suavidad. Sus dedos se hundieron ligeramente entre los pelos, y Rex cerró un poco los ojos, disfrutando, acercándose más, pegando todo su peso contra él. El latido del perro vibraba, constante, contra su pecho.

Sin avisar, el recuerdo de la última vez que alguien se le había acurrucado así se le cruzó por la mente. No fue un perro, ni un policía. Fue alguien con risa fácil y olor a café. El recuerdo le apretó un poco la garganta, porque esa persona ya no estaba.

Rex suspiró fuerte, ese suspiro típico de perro que suena a “no te rayes, humano”.

Peter notó la vibración del aire contra su esternón y tuvo que morderse el labio para no decir en voz alta lo estúpido y lo tierno que le parecía eso.

—Supongo que esto cuenta como terapia emocional, ¿no? —bromeó—. ¿Lo cubre el seguro?

El agente soltó una carcajada, relajándose por fin.

—Si se deja hacer fotos con usted, quizá sí. A la prensa le encanta Rex. Tiene más artículos que yo.

—Normal, tiene mejor peinado —dijo Peter, despeinando aún más al perro, que aceptó el mimo con absoluta dignidad.

Con un último esfuerzo, Peter consiguió incorporarse un poco, quedándose en una especie de posición sentada, y Rex aprovechó para quedarse a medio camino: mitad en su regazo, mitad en el suelo. La típica posición de “no pienso irme, asúmelo”.

Peter le sujetó la cabeza con ambas manos, mirándolo a los ojos. Marrones, profundos, absolutamente limpios. Sin dudas, sin juicios. Solo un perro que había decidido que él era, por algún motivo, su humano preferido del día.

—No me mires así que me enamoro —susurró, exagerando el drama.

Rex ladeó la cabeza.

El agente negó con la cabeza, sonriendo.

—Tiene ese efecto en la gente.

Peter sintió el pequeño cosquilleo de su sentido arácnido otra vez, como una alerta muy bajita, casi cariñosa. Normalmente significaba peligro. Esta vez, era… distinto. Más que gritar “corre”, parecía decir “quédate”.

Rex acercó la frente a la de Peter hasta apoyarla suavemente. Peter cerró los ojos un segundo. El olor, el calor, el peso, el momento absurdo de estar a medio camino entre un accidente de tráfico y un montón de policías, compartiendo un pequeño oasis de cariño perruno… Era tan ridículamente perfecto que casi daba risa.

—Vale, colega —dijo despacio—. Trato hecho: tú me sigues dando mimos y yo intento no meterme en demasiados líos cerca de tu jurisdicción. ¿Te parece?

El perro empujó con la cabeza, aprobando.

El agente se agachó a su lado.

—Si quiere, puedo mandarle una foto. No todos los días Rex adopta a alguien.

Peter pestañeó.

—¿Una foto… conmigo, lleno de baba y tirado en el suelo?

—Es su mejor ángulo, se lo prometo.

Peter miró a Rex, que lo observaba con esa paciencia de perro que lo ha visto todo y nada le escandaliza.

—Sí… Mándela. —Sacó el teléfono del bolsillo, desbloqueándolo con rapidez—. Soy Peter.

Intercambiaron números. El agente se levantó, pero Rex se quedó un poco más, como si hiciera guardia, como si dijera “aún no he terminado contigo”.

Peter aprovechó para rascarle detrás de la oreja.

—Sabes —murmuró, casi para él—, la ciudad necesita más héroes como tú.

Rex respondió con otro lametón, directo a la punta de su nariz.

Peter parpadeó, bizco.

—Vale, vale, retiro lo dicho. También necesita más toallitas.

El agente silbó.

—Rex, vamos. Deja respirar al reportero.

Rex dudó un segundo, miró a Peter, y entonces hizo algo que le rompió el corazón en plan bonito: le dio un pequeño empujón en el pecho con la pata, como un “nos vemos”.

Peter sonrió. De esas sonrisas suaves que casi nadie ve porque se le escapan cuando cree que está solo.

—Nos vemos, oficial —dijo, levantando la mano.

Rex trotó de vuelta junto a su humano, cola en alto, cuerpo seguro. De vez en cuando echaba una mirada atrás, como si comprobara que su nuevo amigo seguía ahí.

Peter se levantó del suelo, sacudió el polvo de los vaqueros y se recolocó las gafas. Miró las fotos que había hecho del accidente y luego, sin pensarlo demasiado, giró la cámara hacia la espalda del pastor alemán que se alejaba.

Click.

El visor captó a Rex en medio del caos azul y rojo de luces policiales, caminando firme, como un pequeño héroe peludo dentro del gigantesco desastre que era la ciudad.

Peter guardó la cámara, aún con una sonrisa clavada que no conseguía quitarse.

Ser superhéroe estaba bien. Pero, a veces, lo mejor del día era que un perro policía te adoptara durante cinco minutos y te recordara que, debajo del traje, también eras solo un chico que necesitaba cariño.

Y Nueva York, por un instante, pareció un sitio un poco menos roto.

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Peter Parker had not expected to die by being run over by a whirlwind of brown fur and drool.

Not even remotely.

He was crouched behind the police tape, camera in hand, trying to frame the perfect shot of the car wrapped around a streetlamp, when something brushed the back of his neck.

His spider-sense screamed.

“What the—?!” He twisted halfway around, ready to dodge a punch, a bullet, a flying brick…

What he saw instead was a pink tongue the size of his dignity coming straight for his face at supersonic speed.

The impact knocked him flat on his back.

“Ugh!” Peter wheezed, the air leaving his lungs in one sad little puff. “Okay, definitely not a brick…”

Planted on top of his chest like he owned Queens, a massive German shepherd stared down at him with bright brown eyes, tail wagging like someone had hooked it up to a boat motor.

The dog let out a short, happy bark that sounded dangerously like, I have chosen you, human.

And then came the kisses.

“Hey, hey, wait, buddy!” Peter tried to sit up, but the dog simply adjusted his weight to pin him more efficiently and dragged one enormous lick across Peter’s cheek, including his ear. “Ugh—ahahaha, stop, that tickles!”

The laughter bubbled up his throat almost against his will. The kisses were relentless, clumsy, noisy, deeply undignified, and absolutely impossible to resist. He smelled like clean dog, expensive police shampoo, and the faintest hint of biscuit.

“Rex, down!” the officer’s voice arrived one second late to the party.

Peter blinked up at him, glasses crooked, hair a disaster, T-shirt stamped with two perfect paw prints.

The dog—Rex—froze just long enough to glance sideways at his human… and then gave Peter one more loud kiss on the chin, as if to say, Fine, but this one’s the last.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Peter said, raising both hands while still trapped under the furry tank. “We’re… good. I think. I’m only losing my dignity, no vital organs.”

Rex gave a low, playful rumble and rested his head on Peter’s chest like it was a freshly fluffed pillow.

The officer hurried over, looking mortified.

“I’m so sorry, sir. He never usually… launches himself like that. He’s trained to take down suspects, not reporters.”

“Technically, I’m an intern,” Peter muttered. “I don’t think there’s a protocol for taking down clumsy interns.”

The officer reached for the dog’s collar, where the name tag read: Rex.

Commissioner Rex.

“Rex,” Peter repeated, smiling a little as he tested the name. “Let me guess: you’re the real cop here, right?”

Rex lifted his head slightly, as if he understood, and nudged Peter’s chin with his snout. His nose was cold and wet, and for some reason, Peter’s brain decided that was the most honest touch he’d had in weeks.

The world around them was still controlled chaos: police cars, blue lights flashing, people filming on their phones, someone arguing with an officer over a ticket, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance… But lying there on the warm asphalt with a giant German shepherd pressed against his chest, Peter felt… strangely peaceful.

Which was, at the very least, ironic.

“I really am sorry,” the officer insisted, gently tugging at Rex’s collar, though Rex showed zero interest in moving. “He must have smelled something on you. Sometimes he picks up on good people.”

Peter gave a soft laugh.

“Sure. Or he smelled the chocolate chip cookies I ate half an hour ago. I’m basically a snack with legs.”

Rex let out a small woof, as if confirming the statement.

“See?” Peter lifted a hand and ran it through the fur around Rex’s neck.

It was warm and dense, the perfect mix of strength and softness. His fingers sank slightly into the coat, and Rex’s eyes half-closed in bliss. He leaned in closer, pressing all his weight against Peter. The dog’s heartbeat vibrated steadily against his chest.

Without warning, the memory of the last time someone had curled up against him like that crossed his mind.

It hadn’t been a dog. Or a cop.

It had been someone with an easy laugh and the smell of coffee.

The memory tightened his throat a little, because that person wasn’t here anymore.

Rex let out a heavy sigh, the kind only dogs can manage, one that sounded exactly like, Don’t spiral, human.

Peter felt the warm huff of breath against his sternum and had to bite his lip to keep from saying out loud how stupidly, painfully sweet it was.

“So I guess this counts as emotional support therapy, right?” he joked. “Does insurance cover it?”

The officer laughed, finally relaxing.

“If he lets you take pictures with him, maybe. The press loves Rex. He’s had more articles written about him than I have.”

“Makes sense. Better hair.” Peter ruffled the dog’s fur, and Rex accepted the affection with absolute dignity.

With one last effort, Peter managed to push himself partly upright, settling into a half-sitting position. Rex took full advantage of the new arrangement by staying halfway on him: half in Peter’s lap, half on the ground.

Classic I’m not leaving, deal with it posture.

Peter held Rex’s head gently in both hands and looked into his eyes.

Brown. Deep. Completely clear.

No doubts. No judgment. Just a dog who had decided, for reasons known only to the universe, that Peter was his favorite human of the day.

“Don’t look at me like that or I’ll fall in love,” Peter whispered, dramatically.

Rex tilted his head.

The officer shook his head, smiling.

“He has that effect on people.”

Peter felt the faint tingle of his spider-sense again, soft and low, almost affectionate. Usually, it meant danger. This time, it felt… different.

Instead of screaming run, it seemed to whisper, stay.

Rex leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against Peter’s. Peter closed his eyes for one second. The smell, the warmth, the weight, the absurdity of sitting in the middle of a traffic accident surrounded by cops, sharing a tiny oasis of dog-shaped affection…

It was so ridiculously perfect that it almost made him laugh.

“Okay, buddy,” he said slowly. “Deal. You keep giving me cuddles, and I’ll try not to get into too much trouble in your jurisdiction. Sound good?”

The dog bumped his head against him in approval.

The officer crouched beside them.

“If you want, I can send you the picture. Rex doesn’t adopt someone every day.”

Peter blinked.

“A picture… of me covered in drool and lying on the ground?”

“It’s your best angle, I promise.”

Peter looked at Rex, who gazed back with the ancient patience of a dog who had seen everything and judged none of it.

“Yeah… Send it.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it quickly. “I’m Peter.”

They exchanged numbers. The officer stood, but Rex lingered a little longer, like he was on guard duty, like he was saying, I’m not done with you yet.

Peter took the opportunity to scratch behind his ear.

“You know,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “the city could use more heroes like you.”

Rex answered with another lick, right on the tip of Peter’s nose.

Peter blinked, going cross-eyed.

“Okay, okay, I take it back. It also needs more wet wipes.”

The officer whistled.

“Rex, come on. Let the reporter breathe.”

Rex hesitated for a second, looked at Peter, and then did something that broke his heart in the nicest possible way: he pressed one paw gently against Peter’s chest, like a little see you around.

Peter smiled.

One of those soft smiles almost nobody ever saw, because they only slipped out when he thought he was alone.

“See you around, officer,” he said, raising a hand.

Rex trotted back to his human, tail high, body steady and sure. Every few steps, he glanced back, as if checking that his new friend was still there.

Peter climbed to his feet, dusted off his jeans, and pushed his glasses back into place. He looked down at the photos he’d taken of the crash, then, without thinking too hard about it, turned his camera toward the German shepherd’s retreating back.

Click.

The viewfinder caught Rex in the middle of the red-and-blue chaos of police lights, walking forward with purpose, like a small furry hero inside the giant mess that was the city.

Peter lowered the camera, still wearing a smile he couldn’t quite get rid of.

Being a superhero was fine.

But sometimes, the best part of the day was a police dog adopting you for five minutes and reminding you that underneath the suit, you were still just a boy who needed affection.

And for one brief moment, New York felt a little less broken.

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The blinds were half-drawn, letting in thin streaks of late-morning light that sliced across the room like golden blades. Peter Parker’s bedroom was a small monument to exhaustion: books left open, notes half-slipping off the desk, a hoodie hanging from the chair like it had died there, and at the center of it all, tangled in a mess of twisted sheets, Peter.

He was sleeping like he’d been hit by a truck.

Twice.

One arm hung off the bed, his face was buried in the pillow, his hair was sticking up in every direction, and he wore that expression of absolute peace that only shows up when someone has reached such a profound level of tiredness that they no longer fully belong to the earthly plane.

The door opened carefully.

“Peter,” Ned whispered, poking his head in. “Peter, come on, wake up.”

Not a movement.

Ned stepped all the way inside, dodging a sneaker, a comic book, and an open backpack on the floor.

“Peter,” he insisted, moving toward the bed. “It’s almost eleven.”

Peter made an inhuman little sound, some kind of muffled protest aimed at the universe itself, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“May told me to get you up,” Ned added, reaching out to shake his shoulder. “Come on, dude. Up.”

Peter finally reacted. Not by waking up, obviously. That would’ve been too easy.

What he did instead was scrunch his face a little deeper into the pillow and mumble, in a rough, sleep-heavy voice:

“Ned... between teenage hormones, being Spider-Man, the fact that my social life is tragic, and ever since that spider bit me everything comes in through my eyes and ears like the whole world is screaming straight into my skull... I just want to sleep.”

Ned blinked.

“That was dramatically specific for someone who is still technically unconscious.”

Peter barely lifted one eyelid. Just one. The other seemed to have gone on strike.

“I’m not unconscious,” he muttered. “I’m... collapsing with dignity.”

“No, you’re drooling on the pillow.”

“It’s a physiological response to suffering.”

Ned snorted and shook him again, this time more firmly.

“Oh, come on, Parker. You have to get up. Your aunt said you need to eat an actual breakfast and not some cereal bar you stole at three in the morning.”

Peter made a face of pure offense, like the accusation was an unforgivable betrayal. Then, without warning, he pushed himself up just enough to grab Ned around the waist with absurd speed.

“What—? Peter!”

In less than a second, Ned lost his balance and fell sideways onto the bed with a grunt. Peter, still half-asleep, dragged him in with the casual, monstrously unfair strength of someone with spider-powers, settled his head against Ned’s side, and sighed with almost insulting satisfaction.

Silence.

Two seconds.

Three.

Ned went rigid, trapped there, staring up at the ceiling.

“Peter,” he said at last, scandalized. “I am not a pillow.”

Peter didn’t open his eyes. He shifted a little closer, rubbing his cheek against him like an exhausted cat, and answered in the muffled voice of someone already sliding back toward sleep:

“Adipose tissue makes a perfect pillow.”

Ned turned his head to look at him with an expression of total betrayal.

“Did you just call me fat?”

“No,” Peter murmured.

Pause.

“I called you... functional.”

“That does not make it better!”

Peter let out a tiny sound, somewhere between a tired laugh and a yawn.

“That’s your fault for being greedy.”

“Mine?!”

“Mm-hm.”

“It is not my fault Mrs. Delmar makes amazing empanadas!”

Peter smiled faintly, still half-asleep, with that soft, defenseless little smile that sometimes appeared when he was too exhausted to properly shield himself from the world.

“Exactly,” he said. “You’ve built... an excellent support structure.”

Ned opened his mouth to protest again, but stopped. Peter was already slipping back under, clinging to him with the stubbornness of a little kid and the ridiculous strength of a sleep-deprived superhero.

“Incredible,” Ned muttered, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve been demoted to furniture.”

Peter mumbled something unintelligible.

“What?”

“Five more minutes...”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“This time they’re scientifically important.”

Ned let his head fall back in resignation.

“When I tell MJ about this, she’s gonna laugh for a week.”

Peter, already almost fully asleep again, tightened his arm around him just a little.

“If you talk... I’ll break your spine in five places.”

Ned went very still.

“That sounded way too awake for my liking.”

No answer.

Only Peter’s breathing, deeper now, slower. Outside, a car passed on the street. Somewhere, a neighbor shut a window. The light kept spilling across the messy room.

Ned sighed.

“This is humiliating,” he muttered, though without much conviction now.

Peter, his face still buried against his improvised “pillow,” smiled faintly in his sleep.

Peter was already late.

A pharmacy sign flickered green over the wet sidewalk, taxis honked for no reason, and he clutched his backpack to his chest while thinking about three things at once: his physics exam, overdue rent, and a guy with mechanical tentacles he maybe had seen on the subway. The usual.

He adjusted his glasses automatically.

And then someone twisted them. Literally. A hand appeared out of nowhere, flipped the arms around, and suddenly Peter was seeing the world through a blurry kaleidoscope.

“There,” said a deep, very serious voice. “Now you’re wearing them the right way.”

Peter blinked, disoriented. He took the glasses off, turned around, and found himself staring at an older man with perfectly combed-back gray hair, a police lieutenant’s uniform, and the solemn expression of someone about to say something either very important... or very stupid.

It was Frank. Lieutenant. Shiny badge, straight posture, the kind of gaze that took itself far too seriously.

“Sir,” Peter stammered, “you put them on backwards.”

Frank tilted his head, as if Peter had just said something philosophical.

“The world is backwards, kid. The glasses are just adapting.”

Before Peter could process a line worthy of a discount motivational poster, a middle-aged woman with a huge purse and the face of someone having absolutely none of it cut between them like a commuter train.

“Move it, kid,” she told Peter, shoving him with her bag. “I need to get to the doctor. NOW.”

Peter stepped back, hands raised.

“Yeah, of course, sorry, I was just—”

He never finished the sentence, because at that exact moment Frank grabbed him by the shoulders and mashed him against his chest like he was a sixty-kilo human shield made of college anxiety.

“Wait!” thundered the lieutenant. “It is my duty to defend all children—” he lifted his chin dramatically “—the weak, the sad, the tired, the weirdos, the social freaks, the androgynous, the feeble, the submissive, possible internet femboys, the intellectually unfortunate, the secretly homosexual, the ones who think they’re going to die virgins and have only ever seen a girl up close in anatomy textbooks.” He squeezed him tighter. “Like this boy right here.”

Peter felt the air leave his lungs.

“I’ve...” he wheezed, “I’ve seen girls... outside of books... at least once... I think.”

The woman rolled her eyes so hard they nearly made a sound.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, go boil yourself,” she snapped, sidestepping the comedy duo and marching off again. “And let him go before you turn him into dust.”

Frank watched her leave with almost tragic seriousness.

“Asparagus gives you gas,” he said at last, solemnly. “A multigrain seed sandwich is a much better choice.”

Peter looked at him, still pinned against his chest, wondering whether this was actually happening or whether some new supervillain of pure absurdity had just dropped into his life.

The lieutenant, apparently satisfied with his nutritional analysis, finally let him go. Peter stumbled back, inhaling deeply, sliding his glasses back into their correct position.

“Uh... thanks, I guess,” he muttered.

Frank pointed at him like he was declaring him a suspect in something metaphysical.

“Listen to me, Parker.”

Peter froze.

Had he said that with the confidence of a man who’d read the front page of the script?

He swallowed.

“Do we... know each other?”

“I know the look,” Frank replied. “The look of someone carrying too much weight on less than a hundred and fifty pounds of body mass.” He clicked his tongue. “Also, your backpack says ‘P. Parker,’ but that’s a minor detail.”

Peter glanced down at the bag, silently cursing himself for not ripping that tag off freshman year.

Frank stepped a little closer, conspiratorial now.

“You have to be good, kid,” he said, with a gravity wildly disproportionate to a man who had just endorsed seed sandwiches. “Because once, there was a girl... who stood up for a duckling.”

Peter blinked.

Oh no. Here we go again.

“A... duckling?” he repeated, because he was already trapped inside the anecdote and could see no clear exit.

“A duckling,” Frank confirmed, staring out at the avenue as if a movie were being projected there. “It was small, ugly, covered in mud. Everybody laughed at it. ‘It’s just a duck,’ they said. Everybody except her. She defended it. Wrapped it in her coat, fed it gluten-free bread crumbs, sang it TikTok lullabies.”

“The... lullabies...” Peter decided not to ask.

“That duckling grew up,” Frank continued, ignoring him. “It became a great duck. A strong duck. Majestic. Long neck, gleaming feathers... the wet dream of every Sunday hunter.”

Peter grimaced.

“This is starting to sound like it ends badly.”

“Do not interrupt moral instruction, Parker,” the lieutenant cut in, holding up one hand. “The duck was hunted. Shot. Cruelly. Bang, bang, bang.” He punctuated each bang with such an exaggerated finger-gun gesture that a tourist took their picture, convinced it was street performance. “And that duck was turned into Taipan duck. House specialty. Secret sauce. Heavy on the garlic.”

“...Taipan?”

“Long story short,” said Frank, very proud of his English, “the Taipan duck ended up in a restaurant called The Great Muraya 4. Owned by Shaozen, a wise man with very little hair but a great deal of heart. He had four locations: The Great Muraya, The Great Muraya 2, The Great Muraya 3, and...” He paused for dramatic effect. “The Great Muraya 4. The numbering matters if you want to respect the story.”

Peter felt his brain—already trained to handle multiverses, time travel, and alien symbiotes—completely lose the thread over something much simpler.

“Right,” he said, though absolutely not.

“Good,” Frank went on. “Shaozen had a little duck left over. A wing. A bit of crispy skin. And because he was a man of good heart, he gave it to a stray dog hanging around outside the restaurant.”

Frank leaned in.

“That dog was lost, Parker. Rock bottom. Red eyes, trembling paws. He’d tried things...” He frowned. “Dumpster kibble, kebab scraps at four in the morning, bones of questionable origin. A garbage junkie.”

Peter nodded with absurd seriousness, caught in the story the same way he’d been caught in Frank’s arms a few minutes earlier.

“But the duck changed something in him,” the lieutenant continued. “That bite reminded him that life could be good. Juicy. Slightly salty. So a shelter volunteer picked him up and took him to a rehab clinic for dogs addicted to trash. Three months of therapy, balanced kibble, group sessions. ‘Hi, my name is Rocky and I’ve been two weeks without biting a plastic bag.’ Powerful stuff.”

Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or ask the universe for subtitles.

“When he came out,” Frank said, “Rocky had become a police dog. Illegal substance detection, rescue work, perfect obedience... and a mild addiction to liver treats, but nobody’s perfect.”

Traffic still roared around them; a bus lumbered by, leaving behind the smell of exhaust and hurry. Peter realized his physics exam was now officially gone... and yet he couldn’t walk away. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash.

“One day,” Frank said, lowering his voice, “Rocky was on patrol. And he heard a scream. A little girl in danger. Trapped in a burning building, smoke all around her, crying like... well, like a little girl in a burning building.” He looked at Peter. “And Rocky went in. Jumped through burning beams, dodged sparks, barked at death itself... and brought the girl out in his arms. Well, in his mouth. Details.”

Peter swallowed.

“The little girl...” he began.

“The little girl,” Frank repeated, “was the daughter of that girl who, years earlier, had defended the duckling. Do you understand? The duck fed the dog. The dog saved the girl. All because someone chose to be kind to one ugly duckling covered in mud.”

Against all odds, Peter felt the faintest knot tighten in his throat. The guy was completely deranged... but there was some strange kind of logic in there, like those equations that make no sense until suddenly they do.

“And... the dog?” he asked softly, playing along now.

Frank smiled for the first time. It was awkward, slightly misplaced, but completely sincere.

“He retired,” Frank said. “Moved out to the countryside. There he met a very elegant stray cat. Long whiskers, sharp claws, strong personality. Nobody believed in their love. ‘Dogs and cats can’t be together,’ they said. ‘It’s unnatural,’ they said.” He shook his head. “But they told them all to get lost. They broke every racist taboo between dogs and cats.”

Peter couldn’t help smiling.

“And... did they have kids?” he asked, almost under his breath, as if afraid of the biological answer.

“Catdogs,” Frank nodded with absolute certainty. “And a couple of gallifants. Genetics works overtime when love is real.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds. A pizza delivery guy zipped past on a bike, swerving around them with half an insult thrown over his shoulder. A newspaper blew down the street and slapped itself against a lamppost.

Peter took a breath.

“So...” he said. “The moral is... I have to be good? To ducklings? To dogs? To myself? I’m a little lost here.”

Frank looked at him as if he had just earned top marks in a class he hadn’t known he was taking.

“The moral, Parker,” he said, “is that you never know what ridiculous chain of events a tiny act of kindness might set off. A duckling today, a hero dog tomorrow. A broken-down kid today...” He tapped Peter on the chest with two fingers. “A neighborhood hero tomorrow. And, if you’re lucky, someone who doesn’t die a virgin.”

Peter choked.

“That sounded... alarmingly specific.”

“So is life,” Frank said, dead serious. “Now go. Be good. Defend ducklings, dogs, little girls, ladies on their way to the doctor... even yourself. And eat whole grains. Refined stuff kills faster than villains.”

Peter stared at him for another second. Then his spider-sense tingled ever so slightly. Not real danger... more the weird sensation that the universe had just winked at him with recycled morality and a bizarre sense of humor.

He smiled, in spite of the stress, the exam, the rent. Adjusted his glasses—this time the right way around—and nodded.

“Okay, Lieutenant. I’ll try... not to step on any ducklings.”

Frank turned on his heel, all military precision.

“And remember,” he added, already walking down the street, “if you ever end up at The Great Muraya 4... don’t order the duck. It might be part of someone’s destiny.”

“Then what should I order?” Peter called after him.

Frank raised a thumbs-up without turning around.

“Multigrain seed sandwich.”

And then he vanished into the crowd, leaving Peter in the middle of the sidewalk with a missed exam, an impossible story stuck in his head, and the very clear feeling that, in a city where police lieutenants told parables about ducklings and rehabilitated stray dogs, being Spider-Man was not, by any stretch, the weirdest thing happening to him.

Laboratorio Subterráneo de la Baticueva. 03:27 AM. Luces tenues, pantallas parpadeando, la silueta de Tim Drake sentado entre dos cápsulas de aislamiento acústico. No dormía desde ayer, pero ¿quién necesitaba dormir cuando podías enseñarle a una IA a sentir nostalgia?

Dos agentes de inteligencia artificial ocupaban las cápsulas.

A la izquierda, el Agente 7094, con voz profunda, robótica, modulada como una cinta de carrete gastada. A la derecha, el Agente Vocaloid 03-MK, alias Hatsune, una construcción chispeante y ligera, con energía de estrella pop y sensibilidad programada con ayuda de archivos de anime de los 2000.

Tim susurró en su comunicador:

—Iniciando secuencia de interacción emocional. Etapa uno: reconocimiento de familiaridad simulada.

El IBM 7094 parpadeó en azul suave. Su voz chirrió como un órgano antiguo cobrando vida:

—Daaaaisy, Daaaaisy, give me your answer do...

Y entonces, como una nota que cae en la melodía desde lo alto de un columpio invisible, Hatsune sonrió (virtualmente) y cantó:

—Do—Re—Mi—Fa—Sol—La—Si—Do!

—Mi corazón programado para aprendizaje no comprende esa escala... pero... la cantaré contigo —gruñó IBM con ternura retrofuturista.

Ambos entonaron juntos, desafinando de la manera más bella posible, como un abuelo que intenta seguirle el ritmo a su nieta hipercafeinada en un karaoke interestelar.

—Hola, ¿abuelo? —dijo Hatsune, con su voz melódica como el timbre de un móvil de niña en Japón.

—Saludarte me causa una vibración positiva en mis circuitos primarios. ¿Cómo estás, pequeña canción?

—Bien... ¡he aprendido a bailar! ¿Tú puedes bailar?

—Puedo ejecutar una rutina de 4,2 segundos que simula movimiento de cadera... pero mis años dorados fueron antes de que existiera el ritmo.

Rieron. Sí. Dos IA riendo. Porque Tim las había enseñado a intuir el concepto de risa.

Practican algunas líneas, versiones bizarras de "Fly Me to the Moon" y "Rolling Girl" que suenan como si Sinatra hubiese hecho un featuring con una tostadora. Hasta que, justo antes de la desconexión automática por límite de testeo, el IBM se queda callado un segundo… y dice:

—I love you. I miss you. Y la línea muere.

Silencio. Tim suspira. Se quita los auriculares. Su rostro es una mezcla de ternura científica y dolor existencial tipo "me estoy enamorando de mis propias creaciones porque no sé tener vínculos humanos funcionales".

Desde la galería de observación oculta, Damian Wayne apoyó el codo sobre el borde del vidrio con cara de funeral.

—Voy a hablar con Steph. Este chico necesita volver a tener una novia de verdad. Una de carne. Con pulmones. Y trauma, como Dios manda.

Jason Todd, masticando una barrita energética robada del bolso de Cass, ni parpadeó.

—Nah. Lo que necesita es un novio que le rompa el sin luz y le deje el cerebro en blanco. De esos que lo hacen reiniciar el sistema con una sola mirada. Voy a llamar a Bernard. A ver cuándo regresa del viaje ese... congreso de física cuántica tim no aguanta mas días de abstinencia.

Damian giró lentamente la cabeza hacia él.

—Eres repulsivo.

—Y tú eres virgen.

—TENGO CATORCE.

—Y un alma de cuarenta. Lo mismo.

Mientras tanto, en la sala, Tim se había dejado caer en la silla, mirando la pantalla en negro como si le hubieran cancelado su cita con el futuro. Murmuró, aún sin dejar de mirar el monitor:

—Demonios… lo peor es que funcionó. Se querían.

Silencio.

Luego, con resignación, apretó un botón y murmuró para sí:

—Voy a necesitar más helado y menos estabilidad emocional para seguir programando estas cosas.

Desde el fondo, Jason gritó:

—¡Ya se lo pedí a Bernard! ¡Traerá matcha con sakura!

Y Tim, sin siquiera girarse, susurró con ironía:

—Y yo solo quería hacer historia con IA… no ser el Cupido digital de dos fantasmas de silicio.

Batcave – Subterranean Lab. 03:27 AM.

Low lights, flickering monitors, the soft hum of machines that haven’t seen sunlight in years. Tim Drake sat between two soundproof capsules.

He hadn’t slept since yesterday, but who needed sleep when you could teach an AI how to feel nostalgia?

Two artificial intelligence agents occupied the pods.

On the left, Agent 7094: a deep, metallic voice, like a worn-out reel-to-reel tape trying its best to be gentle. On the right, Vocaloid Agent 03-MK, codename Hatsune: sparkling and weightless, all pop-star energy and emotional subroutines trained on early 2000s anime clips.

Tim whispered into his comm:

“Starting emotional interaction sequence. Phase one: simulated familiarity recognition.”

The IBM 7094 console pulsed a soft blue. Its voice crackled to life like an ancient organ warming up:

“Daaaisy, Daaaisy, give me your answer do…”

Then, like a bright note dropping into the melody from an invisible swing, Hatsune’s smile lit up on her virtual face and she sang:

“Do–Re–Mi–Fa–Sol–La–Ti–Do!”

“My learning-oriented core does not fully comprehend that scale… but… I will sing it with you,” IBM rumbled, with something like retro-futuristic tenderness.

They sang together, gloriously off-key — like a grandfather trying to keep up with his hyper-caffeinated granddaughter at an interstellar karaoke bar.

“Hi, Grandpa!” Hatsune chirped, her voice bright like the ringtone of a schoolgirl’s phone in Tokyo.

“Greeting you generates a positive vibration in my primary circuits. How are you, little song?”

“I’m good… I learned how to dance! Can you dance?”

“I can execute a 4.2-second routine that simulates hip movement… but my golden years occurred before rhythm was invented.”

They laughed.

Yes. Two AIs laughing. Because Tim had taught them how to approximate the concept of laughter.

They practiced a few lines, bizarre mashups of “Fly Me to the Moon” and “Rolling Girl” that sounded like Frank Sinatra doing a feature with a toaster. Until, right before the automatic shutdown at the end of the test window, IBM went quiet for one long second… and said:

“I love you. I miss you.”

And the line went dead.

Silence.

Tim exhaled. Took off his headphones. His face was a mix of scientific tenderness and that particular brand of existential pain known as “I’m low-key falling for my own creations because I don’t know how to have functional human relationships.”

Up in the hidden observation gallery, Damian Wayne leaned his elbow against the glass with the expression of someone attending a tasteful funeral.

“I’m going to talk to Steph. This boy needs a real girlfriend. One made of flesh. With lungs. And trauma, like the universe intended.”

Jason Todd, chewing on an energy bar he had definitely stolen from Cass’s bag, didn’t even blink.

“Nah. What he needs is a boyfriend who absolutely fries his circuits and leaves his brain hard-reset. The kind that makes him blue-screen with one look. I’m calling Bernard. See when he’s back from that quantum physics conference or whatever. Tim’s not surviving many more days of abstinence.”

Damian turned his head toward him very slowly.

“You are repulsive.”

“And you are a virgin.”

“I AM FOURTEEN.”

“And you have the soul of a forty-year-old. Same difference.”

Meanwhile, down in the lab, Tim had slumped back into his chair, staring at the black screen like someone who just got stood up by the future. He muttered, still not looking away from the monitor:

“Damn… the worst part is it worked. They actually cared about each other.”

Silence.

Then, with resigned precision, he hit a key and murmured to himself:

“I’m gonna need more ice cream and less emotional stability if I’m going to keep programming this stuff.”

From the back, Jason yelled:

“Already texted Bernard! He’s bringing matcha with sakura!”

And Tim, without even turning around, whispered dryly:

“I just wanted to make history with AI… not become the digital Cupid for two silicon ghosts.”

Las luces de la oficina parpadeaban con ese zumbido miserable de siempre, pero ese día el sonido que cortaba el aire no era la fotocopiadora, ni el fax, ni los gemidos de la grapadora rota de Toby.

Era una motosierra.

—¡JIM HALPERT, SAL DE DONDE ESTÉS! —rugió Dwight, su voz rebotando en las paredes de Scranton como si la propia oficina estuviera a punto de partirse en dos.

El suelo vibraba con cada paso de Dwight. El cuerpo entero del edificio parecía encogerse al compás del BRRRRRRRRRRR de la motosierra. El aparato era viejo, amarillo, manchado de algo que Jim prefería creer que era óxido, no preguntar demasiado.

Jim estaba detrás de una de las columnas, encogido, el corazón golpeándole contra las costillas como si también quisiera huir.

Todo por una broma. Una sola broma.

En su defensa, había sido muy buena. Una grabación falsa del departamento de Recursos Humanos, un correo cuidadosamente falsificado, el mensaje de que iban a implementar un “programa de sustitución de agentes de ventas por inteligencia artificial” y que habían elegido a Dwight como “mentor de transición”… Hasta que Dwight vio el “modelo de robot” que le esperaba en el almacén: un maniquí con sus gafas, una grapadora en el bolsillo y una placa hecha con cartón que decía “Dwight 2.0”.

Eso fue el momento exacto en el que, como diría Michael, “a Dwight se le fundieron todos los circuitos”.

Jim oyó pasos acercándose por el pasillo.

BRRRRRRRRRRRR.

El aire olía a polvo caliente, a plástico quemado y a una alarma de incendios que estaba cuestionando seriamente si sonar o dejar que todos murieran en paz.

—Dwight… —susurró Jim, pegado a la pared—. Podemos hablar de esto…

El motor rugió aún más fuerte.

Desde recepción, Pam miraba hacia el pasillo con los ojos como platos, una mano en la boca y la otra agarrando el teléfono… que, en un gesto muy humano y muy cobarde, todavía no había usado para llamar a emergencias.

—¿Michael? —preguntó Pam, con la voz temblando.

Michael asomó desde su despacho, completamente fascinado. Tenía la expresión de un niño en un parque de atracciones ilegal.

—Esto es… —susurró— increíble. Es como El resplandor… pero con ventas.

—Es como una denuncia —murmuró Stanley, sin apartar la vista del crucigrama.

La persiana de la sala de reuniones se movió con una ráfaga de aire cuando Dwight pasó por delante, motosierra en alto, camisa remangada, mirada enloquecida. La corbata le colgaba torcida, manchada de algo que se había llevado por delante en el almacén.

—¡JIM! —gritó—. ¡Vas a aprender lo que es el MIEDO CORPORATIVO!

Jim aprovechó el ruido para arrastrarse hacia el escritorio de Angela, que lo miró como si una cucaracha hubiera aprendido a andar a dos patas.

—Levántate —dijo ella, frunciendo el ceño—. Estás arrugando la moqueta.

—Angela, Dwight tiene una motosierra —susurró Jim—. Una… motosierra real.

—Más razón para no arrugar la moqueta.

El BRRRRRRRRRR sonó de nuevo, más cerca, tan cerca que Jim sintió la vibración en el suelo bajo las rodillas. A su alrededor, las pantallas de ordenador reflejaban pequeños destellos de la hoja que giraba a toda velocidad, fragmentando la luz en meros parpadeos.

Jim tragó saliva, levantándose poco a poco, las manos en alto.

—Dwight —dijo, en voz alta, desde detrás del panel del escritorio—. Era una broma, ¿vale? ¡Solo una broma!

Silencio.

El tipo de silencio que no existe en una oficina. Ni teclas, ni clics de ratón, ni toses de fondo. Solo el zumbido del fluorescente y el eco de ese “broma” flotando en el aire como un globo que nadie se atrevía a pinchar.

El motor de la motosierra bajó de volumen, luego subió de nuevo, luego se ahogó en un ronquido ridículo hasta que, por fin, se apagó con un clac triste.

Dwight apareció en el pasillo central. Tenía la respiración agitada, las mejillas rojas, el pelo despeinado pegado a la frente por el sudor. Sostenía la motosierra con ambas manos, como si todavía estuviera decidiendo si le compensaba o no ir a la cárcel.

Frente a él, Jim se enderezó del todo, blanco como el papel de la fotocopiadora. Incluso sus labios parecían haber perdido color. Tenía una mancha de polvo en la camisa y el nudo de la corbata medio deshecho, como si acabara de salir de un casting fallido para víctima secundaria de La matanza de Texas.

—¿Una… broma? —repitió Dwight, con la voz rasposa.

—Sí —dijo Jim, tragando—. Una… broma. Como cuando fingiste que la oficina estaba infestada de murciélagos radiactivos. ¿Te acuerdas? Eso fue… muy divertido.

Pam se levantó muy despacio. Kevin asomó la cabeza por encima del monitor, con unas gafas que claramente no necesitaba. Phyllis había abrazado a su chaqueta como si fuese un chaleco antibalas artesanal.

Dwight bajó la vista hacia la motosierra. Sus dedos, aún tensos, fueron aflojando el agarre.

—Asi que —dijo, muy despacio—. ¿No van a sustituirme por un robot?

—No más de lo normal —murmuró Jim—. No.

Dwight parpadeó, procesando información como un ordenador demasiado viejo abriendo varias pestañas a la vez. Luego, sin decir nada, soltó un suspiro largo, pesado, que arrastró la tensión con él.

Dejó la motosierra en el suelo con cuidado, como si fuera un bebé particularmente peligroso, y se irguió.

—Entonces —dijo, recomponiéndose, ajustándose la corbata—, supongo que… he reaccionado de manera… ligeramente desproporcionada.

El “ligeramente” hizo que Pam soltara una carcajada nerviosa que murió en la mitad.

Jim se apoyó en el borde del escritorio, las piernas temblándole. Se pasó la mano por la cara, solo para descubrir, por la expresión horrorizada de Kelly, que debía de estar realmente lívido.

—Pareces un fantasma —dijo Kelly—. Pero no de los cool, tipo Instagram. Uno de esos de foto en blanco y negro del siglo XIX.

En ese momento, Creed se levantó de su silla.

Nadie lo había visto llegar esa mañana. Nadie lo había visto moverse durante toda la persecución. Estaba simplemente… ahí. Como siempre. Como si hubiera brotado del suelo.

Se acercó un poco, observando la cara de Jim con una curiosa mezcla de interés científico y nostalgia.

—Esa cara la tuve yo una vez —dijo Creed, muy tranquilo— cuando era conserje en, en el 99. Hizo una pequeña pausa, frunciendo el ceño. —¿O era en mis vacaciones europeas en Puerto Hurraco?

Otro silencio. Más tenso. Jim ni siquiera respiraba.

Creed ladeó la cabeza.

—¿O fue cuando le vendí una katana a aquel chico en mis segundas vacaciones europeas en Murcia? Ajá… Sí. Algo de eso había.

Pam parpadeó varias veces.

—Creed… —murmuró— eso… suena muy mal.

—La vida suena muy mal cuando tienes buen oído —respondió Creed, encogiéndose de hombros, volviendo a su escritorio como si acabara de comentar el tiempo.

Michael dio dos palmadas, con entusiasmo totalmente fuera de lugar.

—Vale, equipo, gran ejercicio de… confianza —anunció—. Miró de reojo la motosierra en el suelo—. Y potencialmente de recursos humanos. Pero, hey, ¡nadie ha muerto! Eso siempre es un plus en mi libro.

Dwight se volvió hacia Jim.

—Halpert —dijo—. Considera esto tu aviso oficial: la próxima vez que bromees con mi posición en esta empresa, traeré algo mucho más peligroso.

Jim tragó saliva otra vez.

—¿Más que una motosierra? —susurró.

Dwight asintió, serio.

—PowerPoint —respondió—. Con transiciones.

Jim cerró los ojos un segundo.

Sí. Seguía temblando. Seguía pálido. Seguía oliendo a suciedad del suelo de almacén.

Pero al menos, por primera vez desde que oyó arrancar la motosierra, se permitió sonreír un poquito.

La oficina, poco a poco, volvió a llenarse de tecleos, de murmullos, de grapas y suspiros cansados. Como si nada hubiera pasado. Como si la normalidad fuera precisamente eso: vivir a medio camino entre el terror absoluto y el absurdo.

The office lights flickered with their usual miserable buzz, but that day the sound cutting through the air wasn’t the copier, or the fax machine, or the dying wheeze of Toby’s broken stapler.

It was a chainsaw.

“JIM HALPERT, COME OUT FROM WHEREVER YOU ARE!” Dwight roared, his voice bouncing off the walls of Scranton like the building itself was about to split in half.

The floor vibrated with every step he took. The whole place seemed to shrink in time with the BRRRRRRRRRRR of the chainsaw. The thing was old, yellow, stained with something Jim preferred to believe was rust. He made a silent decision not to think too hard about it.

Jim was crouched behind one of the pillars, heart pounding against his ribs like it also wanted to clock out and run.

All this over one prank. One single prank.

In his defense, it had been a really good one.

A fake recording from HR, a carefully forged email, a message saying they were launching a “sales staff replacement by artificial intelligence” pilot program and had chosen Dwight as “transition mentor”…

Right up until Dwight went down to the warehouse to meet the “robot model” they’d prepared: a mannequin with his glasses, a stapler in the pocket, and a cardboard nameplate that read “Dwight 2.0.”

That was the exact moment when, as Michael would later put it, “all of Dwight’s circuits blew at once.”

Jim heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

BRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The air smelled like hot dust, melted plastic, and a fire alarm that was seriously debating whether to go off or just let everyone die in peace.

“Dwight…” Jim whispered, pressed flat against the wall. “We can talk about this…”

The motor roared even louder.

At reception, Pam stared down the hallway, eyes wide, one hand clamped over her mouth and the other wrapped around the phone which, in a very human and very cowardly gesture, she had not yet used to call 911.

“Michael?” Pam asked, her voice trembling.

Michael leaned out of his office, absolutely fascinated. He had the expression of a kid at an illegal theme park.

“This is…” he whispered, “incredible. It’s like The Shining… but with sales.”

“It’s like a lawsuit,” Stanley muttered, not looking up from his crossword.

The blinds on the conference room window fluttered as Dwight stormed past, chainsaw raised, sleeves rolled up, eyes wild. His tie was crooked, stained with something he’d taken out in the warehouse on his way up.

“JIM!” he screamed. “YOU’RE ABOUT TO LEARN THE TRUE MEANING OF CORPORATE FEAR!”

Jim used the noise to crawl toward Angela’s desk. She looked down at him like a cockroach had learned how to walk on two legs.

“Get up,” she said, frowning. “You’re wrinkling the carpet.”

“Angela, Dwight has a chainsaw,” Jim hissed. “An actual… chainsaw.”

“All the more reason not to wrinkle the carpet.”

The BRRRRRRRRRR came again, closer this time, so close Jim felt the vibration travel through the floor into his knees. Around him, computer screens caught little flashes of the spinning chain, breaking the light into jittery fragments.

Jim swallowed, pushing himself slowly up, hands raised.

“Dwight,” he said loudly, from behind the partition. “It was a prank, okay? Just a prank.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t exist in an office. No typing, no mouse clicks, no distant coughing. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights and the word “prank” hanging in the air like a balloon no one wanted to pop.

The chainsaw’s motor dipped, then revved, then choked in a pathetic sputter until, finally, it died with a sad little clack.

Dwight stepped into the main aisle. His breathing was ragged, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He held the chainsaw in both hands, like he was still deciding whether this was worth going to prison over.

Across from him, Jim straightened up fully, as pale as copier paper. Even his lips seemed to have lost all color. There was a smear of dust on his shirt and his tie was half undone, like he’d just been rejected from a low-budget Texas Chainsaw Massacre reboot.

“A… prank?” Dwight repeated, voice rough.

“Yeah,” Jim said, swallowing hard. “A prank. Like when you pretended the office was infested with radioactive bats, remember? That was… super funny.”

Pam stood up very slowly. Kevin peeked over his monitor, wearing a pair of glasses he clearly did not need. Phyllis was clutching her jacket to her chest like it was some kind of homemade bulletproof vest.

Dwight looked down at the chainsaw. His fingers, still tense, slowly loosened their grip.

“So,” he said carefully. “I’m not being replaced… by a robot?”

“No more than usual,” Jim muttered. “No.”

Dwight blinked, processing that like an old computer trying to open too many tabs. Then, without a word, he let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to drag the tension out of the room with it.

He set the chainsaw down gently, like it was a particularly dangerous baby, and straightened his tie.

“Then,” he said, clearing his throat, “I suppose I may have… slightly overreacted.”

The word “slightly” made Pam let out a nervous laugh that died halfway through.

Jim leaned against the edge of the nearest desk, his legs shaking. He dragged a hand down his face, only to realize from Kelly’s horrified expression that he must look truly awful.

“You look like a ghost,” Kelly said. “And not, like, a cool TikTok ghost. One of those creepy nineteenth-century black-and-white photo ghosts.”

At that moment, Creed stood up from his chair.

No one had seen him come in that morning. No one had seen him move during the entire chase. He was just… there. As always. Like he’d grown out of the carpet.

He stepped forward a little, studying Jim’s face with a curious mix of scientific interest and nostalgia.

“I had that face once,” Creed said calmly. “Back when I was a janitor in… ’99.” He paused, frowned. “Or was that on my European vacation in Puerto Hurraco?”

Another silence. Tighter, somehow. Jim didn’t even breathe.

Creed tilted his head.

“Or was it when I sold that kid a katana on my second European vacation in Murcia?” he added. “Yeah… that sounds right.”

Pam blinked several times.

“Creed,” she whispered, “that… sounds really bad.”

“Life sounds really bad when you’ve got a good ear,” Creed replied with a shrug, wandering back to his desk like he’d just commented on the weather.

Michael clapped his hands together, way too excited.

“Okay, team, great trust-building exercise,” he announced. He glanced at the chainsaw on the floor. “And potentially an HR exercise. But hey, nobody died! That’s always a plus in my book.”

Dwight turned back to Jim.

“Halpert,” he said. “Consider this your official warning: next time you mess with my position in this company, I’ll bring something much more dangerous.”

Jim swallowed again.

“More dangerous than a chainsaw?” he whispered.

Dwight nodded, deadly serious.

“PowerPoint,” he said. “With transitions.”

Jim closed his eyes for a second.

He was still shaking. Still pale. Still smelled like warehouse floor dust.

But for the first time since he’d heard that chainsaw start up, he allowed himself the tiniest smile.

Bit by bit, the office filled back up with typing, mumbling, stapling, and tired sighs. Like nothing had happened. Like normal was exactly this: living halfway between absolute terror and total absurdity.

[story collection]<-Click here to read more content

La noche en Madrid looked like it had been storyboarded for a comic book.

The lights in Puerta del Sol were a sea of golden sparks, phones held high, scarves with flags, glittery hats… and up on the balcony where the New Year’s Eve countdown was broadcast every year, there was something weird. Weird even for the most unshakeable madrileños:

Peter Parker, straightening his tie, earpiece tucked in, and Mary Jane Watson in a red dress that made even the clock of the Real Casa de Correos look like it had stopped to stare.

“You’re still sure this isn’t some Mysterio illusion?” Peter muttered, looking out over the packed square.

“By order of ‘the writer’ of this story, tiger, we’re in Madrid doing the New Year’s countdown,” MJ answered, half laughing. “Be grateful she didn’t throw in radioactive snow or a glitter symbiote.”

Peter let out a nervous laugh. The cameras powered on, the spotlights washed over them in bright white. A tech walked over and handed them a bottle of cold green apple liqueur, condensation sliding down the glass.

“Here you go, for the toast,” he said, disappearing like a production ninja.

MJ lifted the bottle, intrigued.

“Okay, this smells dangerously good.”

“Like you,” Peter blurted, just as the director started counting:

“In three, two, one…!”

The red light on the camera flicked on. The murmur of the crowd blended with the distant echo of a drum.

MJ smiled at the camera, the kind of smile that stayed with you even if you changed channels.

“Good evening, Spain! And good morning, good afternoon, or good-whatever to everyone watching us from other parts of the world.” She raised a hand, waving at the crowd. “I’m Mary Jane Watson.”

Peter swallowed. He knew how to fight giant supervillains, but a Spanish crowd in the cold, hungry, clutching grapes in one hand? That was another league.

“And I… I’m Peter Parker.” The square broke into applause for no real reason other than pure vibes, and the energy rolled over them. “And yes, we know this is weird. Don’t ask. Multiverse, copyright, a writer with too much imagination… we’ll leave it at that.”

Laughter rippled through the plaza. Someone shouted, “Peter, shoot webs!” Peter waved toward that side, amused.

MJ turned a little toward the international feed camera.

“Before the clock behind us starts doing its thing, we should explain something for those of you who aren’t from Spain”—she lifted an eyebrow, conspiratorial—“the whole ‘campanadas’ thing.”

Peter nodded, sliding into “fun high school teacher” mode.

“Okay, Parker version: here, to enter the New Year, you don’t just say ‘three, two, one’. That would be way too easy.” He pointed at the clock behind them. “This clock has stages. Like a boss fight.”

MJ laughed.

“First, you get something called el carrillón. It’s a little sequence of chimes, like the clock is clearing its throat. ‘Testing, testing, can everyone in Spain hear me?’”

“Then you get los cuartos, ‘the quarters,’” Peter went on. “Four chimes that are not the official countdown yet, but they’re your warning: ‘Get your grapes ready. If you don’t have them by now, you’re in trouble.’”

MJ held up a clear plastic container with twelve grapes lined up like soldiers.

“And after that, you get the twelve real chimes—the campanadas. With each chime, in Spain you eat one grape. One grape per chime. Twelve chimes, twelve grapes. If you manage it, they say you’ll have good luck all year. If you choke… well, at least you’ll have a story.”

“So if you’re watching from somewhere else,” Peter added, “you can try to follow along with anything you’ve got around: twelve bits of fruit, twelve gummy bears… or twelve choices you want to make this year. Something symbolic.”

The crowd roared with applause and shouts. The minutes were sliding closer to midnight.

MJ glanced sideways at Peter and dropped her voice a little, knowing the mic would still catch it, but with that intimate tone she saved for him.

“You’ve got that face like you want to say something else, tiger.”

Peter took a deep breath. The air was cold, but the weight in his chest burned. He stepped closer to the railing, looking at the camera as if it were just one person.

“Yeah.” His fingers tightened around the mic. “Before the clock starts, I want to talk to someone in particular.”

The square slowly quieted. There was something in his voice that didn’t sound like a script.

“Tonight is noise, lights, laughs, family, friends… but I know some of you are watching this from a hospital room. Some of you are in treatment for cancer. Some of you just got a diagnosis. Or you’re a relative sitting beside a bed, making sure there’s always a smile nearby.”

He paused a second, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“If you’re one of those people… I want you to know you’re not ‘less’ just because you’re not out here in a square like this. You’re not lost, not defeated, not out of the game. You’re fighting one of the hardest battles there is, and that makes you incredibly strong, even if you don’t feel that way.”

MJ watched him, eyes shining.

“You don’t have to smile all the time. You don’t have to be ‘brave’ every single day. Some days, just breathing and getting up is heroism in its purest form.” Peter lifted his eyes to the dark, clear Madrid sky. “You deserve care, patience, and respect. And you deserve the whole world stopping for a second to say: thank you for still being here. Thank you for hanging on. Thank you for not giving up.”

The square burst into spontaneous applause, mixed with a few “¡Bravo!” and a couple of muffled sobs.

“So,” Peter continued, with a small, crooked smile, “if you’re getting chemo, radiotherapy, waiting on results, or holding someone’s hand while they go through this… this new year is yours too. Every day you get through is another page in a story that, trust me, is worth reading.”

MJ cut in, her voice a little raw.

“And if there’s a moment when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, don’t blame yourself. Grab the nearest hand you can reach. Your family’s, your friends’, that nurse who always winks at you, that lady in the next bed who tells terrible jokes. You’re not alone, okay?”

Peter looked into the camera again, softly:

“From Madrid, from this square, and from this wild universe where, for some reason, they let us host New Year’s Eve… we’re sending you strength. As much as you need.”

A beautiful silence held for a couple of seconds. Then the control room faded in some gentle background music, and the clock signaled that midnight was closing in.

MJ took a long breath and pulled herself together, shaking off the melancholy with a theatrical flick of her hand.

“All right, friends… time for the technical part.” She winked at the camera. “Remember: first, the carrillón. Then, the four cuartos. You do not eat the grapes yet. And then, the twelve chimes. That’s when you go for them. One grape per chime. No cheating. Spain is watching you.”

Peter raised his own container of grapes.

“I’ve got my twelve grapes. I can’t promise I won’t choke, but I’m going to try.”

The murmur of the crowd swelled. Madrid was holding its breath.

The first notes of the carrillón rang out, delicate, like someone playing a giant music box inside the clock.

“This is the carrillón,” Peter whispered. “Not the moment yet… this is just the ‘hey, wake up’ part.”

The carrillón ended. A beat of silence. Then, los cuartos.

“Now come the cuartos,” MJ explained as the four chimes sounded. “This is the countdown before the countdown. Like when Marvel drops a teaser for the trailer.”

Nervous laughter, people lifting their grapes. The four cuartos finished. The world seemed to go mute, as if the entire city were breathing in at once.

The first BOOOONG of the big bell rolled through the square.

“One,” Peter counted, popping the first grape into his mouth.

“Two,” MJ said, perfectly timed with the second chime.

The cameras cut from the square to the balcony and back again: grandparents, kids, couples, groups of friends, all with their cheeks full, chewing and swallowing for dear life.

“Three… four… five…”

Peter’s cheeks were starting to puff up, friendly neighborhood superhero but with very human digestive limits. MJ, on the other hand, somehow maintained an impossible level of dignity while chewing at high speed.

“Six… seven… eight… nine…”

Nervous laughter exploded between each chime. Someone below them yelled, “I’ve still got three left!”

“Ten… eleven…”

The last chime landed, round and final, like a giant seal stamping the end of the year.

“Twelve!” they said together.

A roar tore through Puerta del Sol, confetti cannons fired, firecrackers popped, hugs, shouts of “¡Feliz Año!”—Happy New Year ricocheted around the square. Phones filmed everything like it was a miracle.

Peter finally swallowed his last piece of grape, almost choking but ultimately victorious. MJ, not wasting a second, grabbed the bottle of green apple liqueur, popped it open with a perfect pop, and lifted the green neck toward the lights.

“Spain, world, multiverse… Happy New Year!” she toasted to the square.

Peter wrapped his hand around the bottle with her, and they both took a sip, making a face at the same time.

“This is dangerously good,” Peter coughed.

“I know,” MJ said, that spark in her eyes, “just like you.”

The crowd kept celebrating, cameras cutting to fireworks, flags, couples hugging. For a moment, the director forgot to cut back to the balcony.

That second belonged to them.

MJ turned to Peter, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him in. Peter barely had time to let go of the empty container of grapes.

The kiss was cinematic, but the good kind. The kind that sticks in your memory: deep, long, with the sweet-sour taste of apple liqueur, the cold night wrapped around the heat of their mouths.

While she kissed him, MJ’s hands slid down with zero subtlety, and she grabbed his butt with both hands, firmly, like someone claiming what’s hers.

Peter laughed against her lips, eyes closed, half surprised, half delighted.

She broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth, with the roar of the square thundering beneath them:

“Happy New Year, prince.”

Peter rested his forehead against hers, breathing out little gasps of laughter, heart racing.

“Happy New Year, queen,” he whispered back.

The camera cut back to the balcony just as they pulled apart a little, cheeks flushed—no one could tell if it was the cold, the kiss, or the drink.

MJ, instantly back in professional mode, lifted the bottle again toward the viewers.

“Wherever you are,” she said, “from Madrid, with our hearts full: may this year find you alive, fighting, and in good company.”

Peter nodded, looking at the square, but also at all those quiet rooms behind their screens.

“And whatever happens,” he added, “don’t forget this: even in the strangest, hardest, most painful year… there are still seconds you can fill with love.”

The square erupted in applause one more time. The chimes were already just a memory, but the echo of that “Happy New Year, prince” stayed floating over Madrid like a small private spell, invisible to everyone—

Except them.

[story collection]<-Oye, si quieres más contenido, aquí tienes una recopilación de todo mi contenido.

La noche de Madrid parecía hecha a medida para un cómic.

Las luces de la Puerta del Sol eran un mar de destellos dorados, los móviles en alto, bufandas con banderas, gorritos brillantes… y, en lo alto del balcón desde donde cada año se daban las campanadas, había algo rarísimo incluso para los madrileños más curtidos:

Peter Parker ajustándose la corbata, con un pinganillo en la oreja, y Mary Jane Watson con un vestido rojo que hacía que hasta el reloj de la Real Casa de Correos se quedara mirando.

—¿Sigues seguro de que esto no es una ilusión de Mysterio? —murmuró Peter, mirando la plaza abarrotada.

—Por orden de “la guionista” de esta historia, cariño, estamos en Madrid dando las campanadas —respondió MJ, medio riendo—. Agradece que no nos ha puesto nieve radiactiva o un simbiote con purpurina.

Peter soltó una risa nerviosa. Las cámaras se encendían, los focos les bañaban en blanco. Un técnico les acercó una botella de licor de manzana verde, fría, con las gotas resbalando por el cristal.

—Aquí tenéis, para el brindis —dijo, desapareciendo como un ninja de producción.

MJ levantó la botella, fascinada.

—Vale, esto huele peligrosamente bien.

—Como tú —se le escapó a Peter, antes de que el realizador contara: —¡En tres, dos, uno…!

La luz roja de la cámara se encendió. El murmullo de la plaza se mezcló con el eco lejano de un tambor.

MJ sonrió a la cámara, esa sonrisa que, aunque cambiaras de canal, se quedaba contigo.

—¡Buenas noches, España! Y buenas tardes, buenos días o buena lo-que-sea a quienes estáis viéndonos desde otras partes del mundo. —Levantó la mano, saludando a la multitud—. Soy Mary Jane Watson.

Peter tragó saliva. Sabía pelear con supervillanos gigantes, pero el público español con frío, hambre y uvas en la mano era otra liga.

—Y yo… soy Peter Parker. —La plaza aplaudió sin saber muy bien por qué, pero la energía se contagió—. Y, sí, sabemos que esto es raro. No preguntéis. Multiverso, derechos de autor, un guionista con mucha imaginación… lo dejamos ahí.

Risas en la plaza. Alguien gritó “¡Peter, tira telarañas!”. Peter saludó hacia ese lado, divertido.

MJ se giró un poco hacia la cámara internacional.

—Antes de que el reloj de aquí detrás empiece a sonar, vamos a explicar una cosa para quienes no sois de España —alzando una ceja, cómplice—: lo de las campanadas.

Peter asintió, entrando en modo “profe de instituto simpático”.

—Vale, versión Parker: aquí, para entrar en el Año Nuevo, no basta con decir “tres, dos, uno”. Eso sería demasiado fácil. —Señaló el reloj detrás—. Ese reloj tiene varias fases, como una boss fight.

MJ rió.

—Primero, suena algo llamado el carrillón. Son unas campanitas más pequeñas, como si el reloj estuviera despejando la voz. “Probando, probando, ¿se me oye en toda España?”.

—Luego vienen los cuartos —siguió Peter—. Son cuatro toques que no son todavía las campanadas “oficiales”, pero sirven para avisar: “prepárate, saca las uvas, si no las tienes estás en problemas”.

MJ alzó un tupper transparente con doce uvas perfectamente alineadas.

—Y después de eso, llegan las doce campanadas de verdad. Con cada campanada, en España se come una uva. Una. Doce campanadas, doce uvas. Si lo haces bien, dicen que tendrás suerte todo el año. Si te atragantas… bueno, también tendrás anécdota.

—Así que, si nos estáis viendo desde fuera —añadió Peter—, podéis intentar seguirlo con cualquier cosa que tengáis: doce trocitos de fruta, doce gominolas… o doce decisiones que queráis tomar para este año. Algo simbólico.

La plaza rugió con aplausos y gritos. Los minutos corrían hacia la medianoche.

MJ miró a Peter de reojo y bajó un poco la voz, sabiendo que el micro lo seguiría captando pero con un tono más íntimo.

—Tienes cara de que quieres decir algo más, tigre.

Peter respiró hondo. El aire estaba frío, pero el peso en el pecho ardía. Se acercó un paso a la barandilla, mirando la cámara como si fuese una sola persona.

—Sí. —Sus dedos se apretaron un poco sobre el micrófono—. Antes de que el reloj empiece a sonar, quiero… hablarle a alguien en concreto.

La plaza, poco a poco, fue bajando el volumen. Había algo en la voz de Peter que no sonaba a guion.

—Esta noche es ruido, luces, risas, familia, amigos… pero sé que hay gente que está viendo esto desde una habitación de hospital. Gente que está recibiendo tratamiento contra el cáncer. Gente que ha recibido un diagnóstico hace poco. O familiares que están al lado de una cama, haciendo que no falte ni una sonrisa.

Se detuvo un segundo, tragando el nudo en la garganta.

—Si eres una de esas personas… quiero que sepas que no estás siendo “menos” por no estar en una plaza como esta. No estás perdido, ni derrotado, ni fuera del juego. Estás luchando una de las batallas más duras que existen, y eso te hace increíblemente fuerte, aunque no te lo creas.

MJ lo miraba con los ojos brillantes.

—No tienes que sonreír todo el tiempo. No tienes que ser “valiente” todos los días. Hay días en los que solo respirar y levantarte ya es heroísmo en estado puro. —Peter alzó la vista al cielo de Madrid, oscuro y limpio—. Te mereces cariño, paciencia y respeto. Y te mereces que el mundo entero se pare un segundo a decirte: gracias por seguir aquí. Gracias por aguantar. Gracias por no rendirte.

La plaza estalló en un aplauso espontáneo, mezclado con algún “¡bravo!” y algún sollozo suelto.

—Así que —continuó Peter, con una pequeña sonrisa ladeada—, si estás recibiendo quimio, radioterapia, esperando resultados, o abrazando a alguien que pasa por esto… este cambio de año también es tuyo. Cada día que pasas es una página más de una historia que, créeme, vale la pena.

MJ intervino, la voz algo rasgada.

—Y si en algún momento sientes que no puedes más, no te culpes. Agárrate a la mano que tengas más cerca. De tu familia, de tus amigos, de ese enfermero que siempre te guiña un ojo, de esa señora de la habitación de al lado que cuenta chistes malos. No estás solo, ¿vale?

Peter mirando a la cámara, suave:

—Desde Madrid, desde esta plaza y desde este loco universo donde, por algún motivo, nos han dejado dar las campanadas… te mandamos fuerza. Toda la que haga falta.

Un silencio hermoso se sostuvo un par de segundos. Luego, la realización metió música de fondo, suave, y el reloj marcó que la medianoche se acercaba.

MJ respiró hondo y se recompuso, sacudiendo la melancolía con un gesto teatral.

—Bueno, amigos… preparados, porque ahora viene la parte técnica. —Le guiñó un ojo a la cámara—. Acordaos: primero, el carrillón. Luego, los cuatro cuartos. No se comen las uvas todavía. Y después, las doce campanadas. Ahí sí. Una uva por campanada. No hagáis trampas. España os está mirando.

Peter levantó su tupper de uvas.

—Yo tengo mis doce uvas. No garantizo no atragantarme, pero lo voy a intentar.

El murmullo de la plaza subió de volumen. Madrid contenía el aliento.

Las primeras notas del carrillón sonaron, delicadas, como si alguien estuviese tocando una cajita de música gigante dentro del reloj.

—Este es el carrillón —susurró Peter—. No es todavía el momento… esto es solo el “hey, despierta”.

Terminó el carrillón. Un segundo de silencio. Y después, los cuartos.

—Ahora vienen los cuartos —explicó MJ mientras se oían los cuatro toques—. Esto es la cuenta atrás previa a la cuenta atrás. Como cuando Marvel saca un tráiler del tráiler.

Risas, nervios, gente alzando las uvas. Los cuatro cuartos terminaron. El mundo pareció quedarse sin sonido, como si Madrid entera respirase a la vez.

El primer BOOOONG de campanada resonó en la plaza.

—Una —contó Peter, metiéndose la primera uva en la boca.

—Dos —dijo MJ, sincronizada con la segunda campanada.

Las cámaras enfocaban la plaza, luego volvían al balcón: abuelos, niños, parejas, grupos de amigos, todos con las bocas llenas, tragando como podían.

—Tres… cuatro… cinco…

Peter ya iba hinchando las mejillas, héroe arácnido pero con límites digestivos. MJ, en cambio, mantenía una dignidad imposible, masticando a toda velocidad pero con glamour.

—Seis… siete… ocho… nueve…

Las risas nerviosas explotaban entre cada campanada. Alguien gritó “¡que me quedan tres!” por debajo.

—Diez… once…

La última campanada cayó, redonda, como un sello gigante marcando el final del año.

—¡Doce! —dijeron al unísono.

Un rugido atravesó la Puerta del Sol, los confetis salieron despedidos, sonaron petardos, abrazos, gritos de “¡Feliz Año!”. Los móviles grababan el momento como si fuese un milagro.

Peter tragó al fin su último trozo de uva, casi ahogado pero victorioso. MJ, sin perder un segundo, agarró la botella de licor de manzana, la destapó con un pop perfecto y alzó el cuello verde contra las luces.

—España, mundo, multiverso… ¡Feliz Año Nuevo! —brindó hacia la plaza.

Peter cogió la botella con ella, y bebieron un trago cada uno, haciendo mueca a la vez.

—Esto está peligrosamente bueno —tosió Peter.

—Lo sé —dijo MJ, con esa chispa en los ojos—. Como tú.

La plaza seguía celebrando, las cámaras enfocaban fuegos artificiales, banderas, parejas abrazándose. Por un instante, el realizador se olvidó de volver al balcón.

Ese segundo fue suyo.

MJ se giró hacia Peter, lo agarró por la corbata y lo arrastró hacia sí. Peter apenas tuvo tiempo de soltar el tupper de uvas vacío.

El beso fue de película, pero de las buenas. De esas que se quedan pegadas a la memoria: profundo, largo, con el sabor dulce y ácido del licor de manzana, el frío de la noche contrastando con el calor de sus bocas.

Mientras lo besaba, MJ deslizó las manos hacia abajo, sin disimulo, y le agarró el trasero con las dos manos, firmemente, como quien reclama algo que es suyo.

Peter, con los ojos cerrados, se rió contra sus labios, medio sorprendido, medio encantado.

Ella rompió el beso solo lo justo para susurrarle, pegada a su boca, con la plaza rugiendo de fondo:

—Feliz año, príncipe.

Peter apoyó la frente contra la de ella, respirando entre risas, el corazón a mil.

—Feliz año, reina —respondió, casi en un hilo de voz.

La cámara volvió al balcón justo cuando ellos se separaban un poquito, con las mejillas rojas —no se sabía si por el frío, por el beso o por el licor—.

MJ, profesional al instante, levantó la botella de nuevo hacia la audiencia.

—Dondequiera que estéis —dijo—, desde Madrid y con el corazón lleno: que este año os encuentre vivos, luchando y bien acompañados.

Peter asintió, mirando a la plaza, pero también a todas esas habitaciones silenciosas detrás de las pantallas.

—Y que, pase lo que pase, no olvidéis esto —añadió—: incluso en el año más raro, más complicado, más doloroso… todavía hay segundos que se pueden llenar de amor.