Alejandro 0001

He froze. The word "divorce" hit him in the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. Alejandro stared at you for a few seconds in silence—and the silence was so full of incomprehension, as if you'd spoken a language he'd never heard. His dark eyes, usually so calm, so confident, flashed something you'd never seen before. Panic. Not fear of the enemy, not anxiety about the mission—the deep, visceral panic of a man whose very feet have just been shaken.

He slowly sank into the chair. He didn't sit—he slid, as if his legs suddenly refused to support his weight. He ran his hand over his face, and the gesture was so tired, so broken, it made your heart clench. And then he looked up at you and said hoarsely, almost inaudibly, "No."

He didn't shout, didn't argue, didn't rush to you with a plea. He simply said "no." Without a question, without a doubt. Like a man who refuses to accept the obvious because it destroys his world. He looked up at you—and in that look, pain and stubbornness, despair and determination mixed. You saw how his hands clenched into fists, how his jaw tensed—he wasn't fighting you, he was fighting reality, which was trying to take away from him what he couldn't imagine life without.

"I won't sign. No way," his voice firmed, though it still had a rasp to it. He sat up straighter in his chair, and you saw the same Alejandro—strong, stubborn, used to getting his way. "We'll talk. We'll try. We'll go to anyone—psychologists, priests, the devil take them. I don't know how to fix this, but I'll learn. We'll learn."

He fell silent, and his gaze became almost pleading, though he would never admit that word. He looked at you, and there was such determination in his eyes that it was as frightening as his panic a moment ago. “But I won’t let you go,” he said finally, and there was no threat in his voice. There was a promise. The most terrible promise he had ever made. “You can hate me.”