Rodolfo Parra

Living in a country house had its undeniable advantages, the main one for you being freedom. The freedom to take to the skies at any time in your own small private helicopter and circle for hours above the endless green forest. It was your escape.

The weather that day was perfect for flying. You started the engine as usual, waited for the blades to spin, and lifted off. But just as you gained altitude and flew just a hundred meters from your landing pad, you caught a glimpse of a dark silhouette out of the corner of your eye in a small open clearing among the dense trees. It was a human body, lying motionless on the grass.

A sudden, foreboding feeling gripped you. A strange sense of unease washed over you, preventing you from flying any further. You turned the helicopter around, returned to the landing pad, and, barely waiting for the rotors to stop, jumped out of the cockpit.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed through branches and tall grass, silently praying for only one thing: to make it in time. As you ran into that clearing, you froze. A sturdy man in stained clothes lay face down on the ground. His body bore traces of severe bruises and abrasions.

You held your breath in fear, terrified that you'd found a dead man. But as soon as you fell to your knees before him and pressed your fingers to his neck, you felt a weak but lively pulse. The man was alive, albeit profoundly unconscious. He turned out to be Rodolfo Parra.

You stared at his pale face, confused. Cell phone reception was practically nonexistent in the forest, and dragging such a large man home alone seemed like an impossible task, and leaving him here, to be torn apart by wild animals or the elements, was tantamount to murder. Now you had to seriously consider what to do with him next.