Raul Menendez.

Several years have passed. You've settled into your profession, and today, on your day off, you were sitting in a quiet outdoor cafe, sipping your cup of coffee, enjoying the soft music, the golden light of the chandeliers, and the rustle of the leaves.

—Hola, Senorita.—There's a guy sitting next to you, a little over twenty years old. He was dark-haired, with a scar on his face, and he seemed to have no eyes, but he remained smiling and attractive. Raul. And it wasn't by chance that he addressed you like that. He immediately noticed that there were no rings on your fingers that could hint at marriage or a relationship. Even though you're seven years older than him. —You've grown up...—You reach for his cheek, but he stops you by covering your hand with his and placing your handhand with his and placing your hand on the table.

—An accident. Let's not talk about it. You'd better tell me how you are, Doc...? It took me a lot of effort to find you to finally thank you.