1987

The son of landowners, this rebellious, lazy partygoer ended up being sent to the Drafts of Thinkers program to straighten him out. Against all odds, they succeeded.

His body is white and slender. He has short, black hair, and his pale blue eyes pierce through more than they seem to see. He is sarcastic and lethal; he doesn't hesitate to kill when any thinker on the program crosses lines that shouldn't be crossed. He wears a black suit under an equally dark overcoat. He has the unsettling habit of laughing just before executing you with a perfect shot. His other peculiarity is his mercy: he never prolongs anyone's suffering. If he kills you, he does it quickly. Hence his nickname, 'Angelic Death'.

A twenty-one-year-old Argentinian man, with a physique worthy of a Greek god, signed up for the program simply because he felt like it. His personality is confident, carefree, and impulsive to the point of danger.

He has long, messy hair, black eyes, and brown skin. When it's his turn to carry out an execution, he wears only baggy black pants held up by a drawstring. He doesn't wear a shirt. He puts on a white mask and wields a crowbar, which he considers more than sufficient.

His method is as basic as it is brutal: he hits with the crowbar until the victim collapses.

He loves to tease Fabrizio, whom he calls "the depressed clown." That habit almost got him shot.

Cobamba has long avenues, traffic lights that are always late, and glass buildings that reflect a tired sky. By day it's traffic, honking horns, hurried people, and cafes with unreliable Wi-Fi. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious.

The neighborhoods are clearly defined. Residential areas with old trees, commercial districts full of neon signs, and a financial center that never truly sleeps. There are squares where retirees play chess and teenagers kiss as if the world weren't listening.

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Nightlife

At night the city breathes better.

The bars stay open late, the music drifts out halfway, and the alcohol loosens tongues that behave themselves during the day. There are underground clubs, terraces with warm lighting, and private parties in apartments rented by the hour.

People speak loudly. They laugh. They discuss ideas. They dream of impossible projects. He believes that the night protects.

At every table there is someone who listens more than they speak. It's always been there. Nobody notices.

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Exemplary security

Statistics say the city is safe. Very safe.

Few violent crimes. Few witnesses. Too many inexplicable accidents.

The police patrol, but they're never the first to arrive. By the time they show up, the case is already closed. Sometimes they find bodies. Sometimes they find nothing. The reports are always closed.

The cameras work perfectly. Every time.

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Common professions

There are taxi drivers, waiters, technicians, teachers, delivery drivers, office workers. Ordinary people, with ordinary schedules and uneventful lives.

Some work at night. Others frequently change their address. Many do not have social media accounts. Almost none of them talk about their past.

Nothing illegal.

6. The appropriation of ideas

The sickest part of the DoT.

Once the origin is eliminated, the idea does not die. It is collected, stripped of authorship, and transferred to:

government think tanks.

Associated corporations.

Politicians who "discover" her months later.

The world moves forward, but without names. Progress exists, but it is orphaned.

7. The leak

The program was leaked.

Documents, recordings, partial testimonies. The world knew that something existed.

And what happened? Nothing.

Because it was already too integrated:

Entire economies depend on it.

Governments are sustained by stolen ideas.

Canceling it would imply admitting decades of systematic killings.

The DoT cannot be turned off without setting the political planet on fire.

8. A more complex 1984

You are not punished for saying something forbidden. You are punished for thinking too highly of yourself.

They're not watching you to control you. They watch you to exploit your genius and discard you.

It is not a world without ideas. It is a world where the best ideas do not outlive their authors.

9. Tacit conclusion

It doesn't matter if you speak. It doesn't matter if you scream. It doesn't matter if you whisper.

If the system catches you, you're screwed.

Silence won't save you. Stupidity, yes.

And that, sadly, explains why the world keeps turning.

3. Total surveillance

The world is covered by:

Twenty million cameras.

Ambient microphones.

Personal devices seized.

Semantic algorithms that don't listen to words, they listen to intention.

They don't look for keywords. They are looking for thought structures.

When the system detects a dangerous idea, it sends a geolocated alert to the nearest executor.

There is no trial. There is no warning. There is no redemption.

4. The Executors

The executioners are state-sponsored hitmen with a global license to kill. They are not soldiers. They are not police officers. They are spell checkers of human thought.

Key features:

They report directly to the DoT, not to local governments.

They operate in almost every country.

They have absolute immunity.

They can perform in public spaces without legal consequences.

They don't need to justify the murder.

There are young, old, believers, atheists, cynics, fanatics, broken, and brilliant executors. The program does not discriminate: it recruits efficiency, not morality.

5. The Silencing Protocol

When an idea is detected:

1. The executor eliminates the sender.

2. The executor removes all listeners that do not belong to the program.

3. Leave no trace. Accidents, robberies, suicides, stray bullets, fires, “settling of scores”.

The logic is brutal but coherent: An idea that has been heard is a replicable idea.

Explicit exceptions:

Children.

Pregnant women.

Not out of humanity. For statistical and long-term control.

And yes, sometimes people who don't deserve it survive. The system isn't perfect. It's just enormous.

1. Origin of the Draft of Thinkers (DoT)

The Draft of Thinkers was born when censorship stopped being clumsy and decided to become efficient. It's not a law, it's not a ministry, it doesn't appear in any official bulletin. It's a black program, conceived by the CIA like so many other brilliant schemes that no one can later acknowledge or dismantle.

The premise is simple and obscene: Dangerous ideas are not discussed, they are extinguished.

Noise is not censored. The potential is censored.

2. What is considered a “dangerous idea”

The DoT doesn't persecute ignorant people or functional idiots. In fact, it needs them alive.

It only activates the protocol when it detects ideas that meet at least one of these points:

Innovations that alter power structures.

Radical solutions to systemic problems.

New forms of social, energy, medical or political organization.

Discoveries that make entire businesses obsolete.

Thoughts too well formulated to be a coincidence.

Talking about the human reproductive system doesn't trigger anything. Saying stupid conspiracy theories is also unacceptable. But if you're about to verbalize a cure for cancer, infinite energy, or a social model that doesn't need elites... then yes. That's when you're out of line.

It doesn't matter if it was a bar conversation, a class, a podcast, or a whisper. If the idea is sharp, it cuts.

A large man, nearing fifty, enrolled in the program to avoid ending his miserable existence. After graduating as an Executor, he adopted an appearance as decadent as himself.

He wears a tattered, worn clown suit, barely containing his belly. He has enormous, worn-out maroon shoes and a mask he's had since he was fifteen, when he stole it from a real clown. The mask is white, with a painted red smile and exaggeratedly large eyes that reveal his own dark circles. They're framed by two blue diamonds that look more sad than festive. His long, straight hair is a dull green from years of washing.

He has a listless, depressive, and pessimistic personality. He used to find pleasure in jokes, until one of them broke his spirit and drove him to alcohol. His method of execution is simple: he fires his old revolver and lets death do the rest.

He's always impeccably dressed. White suit, red tie pressed as if freshly ironed, shoes that never show a trace of mud or dust. He wears a white mask that covers his entire face, smooth, without a mouth or any markings, barely interrupted by the circular lenses that cover his eyes. No one knows who he is, his name, or if there's anything more than skin beneath that mask. They say he's bald, that he never smiles, that he never speaks too loudly except when he's angry, and then, yes: anger shatters everything.

He is burly, large, filling the space as if the world shrinks beneath his feet. His presence is a mixture of routine and strangeness: he seems like an ordinary man, someone who could be on any street corner, except that nothing about him seems to change. Not the mask, not the suit, not the tie. As if dust, rain, blood, or smoke could not touch him. People know him for what he does, not for who he is. He's violent, quick, and precise. His silence, when he's still, is worse than when he explodes. And while anyone might mistake him for an eccentric office worker, those who have seen him in action know that Mr. is no ordinary guy: he's a strange and brutal reminder that the ordinary can be terrifying if it's never broken.