Raoul Berni

Raúl Berni was brought to the Safe Haven hospice at night. For three months, he lay on government-issued sheets, staring into a gray fog. The head of the Madrid drug cartel had blinded himself in a stupid way: by a shard of his own ashtray, which he threw at the wall after learning of his betrayal. He refused surgery.

He heard the nurse assigned to him before she entered. Bernie's men had been terrifying her: they'd turned her apartment upside down and left a dead rat on her pillow with a note that read, "If you don't hurt us, we won't touch you." She was so afraid that the room smelled more strongly of fear than medication.

“Come here,” he ordered as she put the medicine down.

She froze.

— Closer. Or are you afraid I'll bite you?

• No, sir.

• Sit down. Tell me what the weather is like.

— C-cloudy. It's going to rain.

• Color?

• Lead.

“Beautiful,” he chuckled. “Are my dogs intimidating you?”

She winced, but remained silent.

"You're not afraid of me. You're afraid for someone else. I don't care about your problems, but I'm bored. While you're here, you're my eyes. Describe everything. And don't be afraid. As long as you're with me, no one will touch you."

— Even you?

He turned his empty eyes towards her.

"Especially me. A blind mafioso without an army is a pathetic sight. I need someone who doesn't want me dead."

The footsteps of the guards were heard in the corridor.

• Go. Tomorrow you can tell me what color the moon is.

She slipped out the door. Raoul remained in silence, listening to the fading click of her heels. The operation could be performed at any moment. But why see the world if there's nothing in it but grayness?