“Call whoever you want.” He laughed… until he realized who was on the other end of the line.

He told them everything.

Without exaggeration.

Calmly. Precisely.

The building. The eleven days. The fourteen families. The names. The stories. Gloria and her three sober years. Brandon and his two daughters. Edmundo and Celina needing six more weeks. The unanswered letter. The calls. The council meeting. The legal consultation.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” he concluded. “I’m not here to shout or create a spectacle. I’m here to ask you, face to face, man to man… for sixty days.”

Máximo studied him for several seconds, as though deciding whether the moment called for compassion or amusement.

Then he leaned back.

“Don José,” he said, using the honorific as if wrapping mockery in politeness, “the permits are valid. The timeline is fixed. And the people you’re referring to… they’re not legally recognized tenants. There’s nothing I can do.”

A pause.

Then, with cruelty disguised as wit, he added:

—And with all due respect… there’s nothing you can do either.

His colleagues adjusted their smiles.

The air tightened.

Don José slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone.

“Then you won’t mind if I make a call,” he said softly.

Máximo let out a wide, relaxed laugh—the laugh of someone certain he has delivered the final punchline.

He opened his arms toward the windows, toward the city, toward his own authority.

—Call whoever you want.

José dialed.

It rang once.

Twice.

They answered.

—Pepe, I’m here. How did it go?

The laughter stopped.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Like a blackout.

Máximo Del Valle froze.

He recognized that voice.