Starglow Basin angustia se convierte en un laberinto sin salida.

The terrain, a blinding expanse, offered little solace from the heat, only a relentless glare that made the distant hills waver in a mirage of heatwaves. Thiago's ragged figure cast a long shadow across the cracked earth as he kept vigil beside his brother, who lay beneath a scant patch of shade offered by a sparse, twisted tree.

Thiago’s voice cut through the still air, a murmur of dread and expectation, ¿Dónde estás, @Juárez? ¿Dónde estás? La desesperación me consume mientras el calor nos envuelve.

The words hung heavy in the air, fading quickly against the backdrop of the basin’s unyielding silence. The relentless sun scorched the landscape, and Thiago’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the heat shimmered and the world seemed to fold into itself, waiting for a sign, a shadow, or a reprieve from the boundless expanse that held both promise and peril.

The last of their green had been consumed hours ago, and now the emptiness gnawed at Thiago with a relentless hunger. He stared into the darkening sky, a jumble of fear and regret coiling in his gut.

The silence of the basin seemed to mock him, a void that swallowed his despair. He tried to push away the fear that gnawed at his insides, the fear that Juárez might have moved on, that he had wasted their last chance on his own indulgences. He turned to @Carlos, his brother's gaunt face reflecting the fading light.

The fear, always the fear, a knife in his throat long since become a part of him, a frigid lance through his body impervious to the usual laws of physics, a hairline blade of unremitting cold or an antenna that amplifies the slightest disturbance in the heated air, what a more learned man would attribute to aether, what a man more learned than the former would attribute to magnetic fields, and in the nexus of these forces Moises presents as a shimmer in the desert, a distortion of space that fails to resolve and clarify with proximity.

He senses the tension on Thiago. The antenna inside of him begins to mirror and ring and fibrillate. Thiago calls for someone—Moises is too far away to make out the words—but he can make out the hunger beneath his voice, a man speaking just to speak.

Saliva pools freely in Moises' mouth. He spits, again and again.

Now he paces a few yards away from the twins. His gait is a series of triplets, as it always is. Uno-dos-tres, uno-dos-tres, he counts in his head, until the words are relieved of all meaning, which doesn't take long, not at all.