At the table where papers are signed, the broker avoids your eyes like eye contact could infect him. You dip your pen, sign your name, and each stroke feels like a debt paid with something other than money. “Why so cheap?” you ask, because you need a reason that isn’t fear. The broker’s mouth twitches, and he glances toward Nahuel as if the man can hear through walls. “They say he brings ruin,” he mutters, almost spitting the words. “Three owners in two years, and wherever he goes, something breaks.” You want to laugh, because men like to blame fate for their own choices, but your laugh doesn’t come. You look at Nahuel again, and he looks back, not with gratitude, not with submission, but with an unreadable steadiness. It dawns on you that “something breaks” might not mean accidents at all. It might mean lies, systems, comfortable arrangements that depend on silence.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.
