Chapter 1: Dust and Despair
Mid-March 2026. Torrevieja was suffocating. Not from the heat—it was even chilly for March, the sea breeze carrying salty moisture, bringing the temperature down to a comfortable eighteen degrees—but from something else. From tension. From the silence that hung over the school classrooms like thick fog over the salt flats of La Mata.
Javier Garcia stood at the blackboard. He clutched a small bag in his hand. Pink. A fucking pink bag of shitty, flaky coke.
"Garcia," someone whispered from the back of the class. It was Kiko, the eternally problematic student, the son of a local fisherman, who believed that school was a place to sleep while his father chased tuna out to sea.
"What are you doing?"
Garcia clenched his jaw. His teeth gritted. He looked at the board. Instead of the crisp, snow-white formulas of integral calculus that should have explained the limit of a function to high school students, a greasy, dirty stain was smeared across the green surface. His hand trembled slightly, clutching the pink packet of cocaine he'd saved.
Pink cocaine dust fell onto Garcia's jacket, his shoes, and the floor. It smelled of chemicals. Cheap, Chinese chemicals that clogged his nostrils and made him sneeze nonstop.
"Shut up, Kiko," Garcia said. His voice was as dry as that damn dust.
"And open your textbook to page 112."
"The textbooks ran out in January, Don Javier," Maria responded lazily from the front row.
A girl with intelligent eyes who could have become a doctor if this school hadn't turned into a circus.
"You know. The budget's been cut."
Garcia lowered his hand. The bag of coke cracked and burst in his fingers. The white cocaine, the one so necessary for the cafe, was missing. Inside the dirty pink bag was the same pink, crumbly mass. This wasn't just poor quality. It was criminal.
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He turned to the class.
Thirty pairs of eyes looked at him. There was no respect in them. There was boredom. And understanding. They understood that the teacher was powerless. Without white coke in the body, the board is just a piece of painted metal. Without coke, there is no structure. No hierarchy.
The teacher uses white—the student learns. The teacher uses pink—the student doesn't give a shit about anything, especially Javier.
"Okay," Garcia tossed the rest of the packet into his pants pocket. There were already similar packets there. Multicolored. All colors. Except the most important one—white. Yellow, green, purple. All the same batch. All shit.
"Write your notes. I'll dictate them from the board."
The class rustled. They got out their notebooks. But Garcia knew they wouldn't write them. They would sit and wait for the bell. And the bell wouldn't ring for forty minutes.
He left the classroom, slamming the door so hard that the windows in the hallway shook. The hallway of the Miguel Hernández School was long, paved with old tiles that dated back to the Franco era. The walls were peeling. Posters calling for environmental protection hung on them, 100% written under the same fumes of coke that was now making García's hands tremble.
The teachers' lounge smelled of stale coffee and dust. The principal, Señor Velázquez, sat at his desk, shuffling papers. He looked tired. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his tie was loose.
"Javier," Velázquez said without looking up. "Another complaint from the parents' committee?"
"No," García said, walking to the window. Avenida de la Libertad was visible outside. Tourist buses slowly crept along it. The season hadn't even begun yet, but the first swallows had already arrived, testing the waters, searching for cheap real estate and sun. “There will be a complaint if I don’t find decent coke. By tomorrow.”
Velásquez sighed. The sound was heavy, as if he’d exhaled part of his soul along with it.
“You think I haven’t tried? I called the police department in Alicante. I called suppliers in Madrid. I even called Barcelona. The answer is always the same: ‘Out of stock.’ ‘Supply disruption.’ ‘Logistics collapse.’”
“It’s March, Señor Velásquez,” García turned. His eyes blazed with a feverish glint.
“Do you understand the possibility that I won’t be able to work?”
“I only understand one thing,” Velásquez finally looked up. “We don’t have the money to buy through official distributors.”
“Then what are you and I supposed to use? This crap?” García slammed his palm on the table.
The ashtray jumped.
"Have you seen what it does to people? It turns them into animals, or worse. Zombies. Fucking zombies from American TV shows. People die from it."
"I know, Javier. I know."
Velázquez stood up and walked to the window. He looked out onto Calle Mayor, where old women sat on benches, discussing fish prices.
"Listen," the director said quietly. "There are rumors. In the city."
Garcia became wary. Velasquez's voice had the intonation people use when talking about something illegal but necessary. Like doctors talking about black market organ donors.
"What rumors?"
"They say there's a guy. They call him..." Velasquez hesitated, as if the name burned his tongue. "They call him Señor Dios."
Garcia chuckled.
"Señor Dios? My God? Seriously?"
"Don't laugh. He has a warehouse. And he has coke. The real deal. German. Or Czech.
Never mind. He's fucking awesome. Not colored."
"And why didn't we buy from him?"
"Because he doesn't handle official requests. He doesn't issue invoices. He doesn't pay taxes." And he doesn't like unnecessary questions.
Garcia came closer.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. And I don't want to know. But..." Velasquez looked at Garcia. "Do you have a car?"
"I do. An old Fiat."
"Do you have cash?"
"A little. Enough to live on until the end of the month."
"If you find him... If you can come to an agreement... I'll cover the expenses. As 'business expenses.' I'll sign any paper. But we need that coke, Javier. Tomorrow we have an inspection from the ministry. If they see the state you and I are in, they'll shut us down."
Garcia looked at the director. He saw fear. The fear of a man losing control of his territory. In Torrevieja, control is everything. Whoever controls the water controls the orchards. Whoever controls the salt controls the exports. And whoever controls the coke... controls the minds.
"Give me the number," Garcia said.
"I don't have a number. I just have an address. More precisely, a neighborhood."
Velázquez tore a sheet of paper from his notebook and quickly wrote a few words.
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— Los Altos neighborhood. Paseo Vista Alegre street. There's an old garage there. Ask about "Peace and Love." If they ask who sent it, say it was from Velasquez. But it's best not to mention my name right away.
Garcia took the paper. It felt warm from the director's hands.
"What if it's a trap?"
"Javier," Velasquez smiled, and it was a bitter smile. "Look at this coke." He nodded at the box of torn, colorful packets on the table. "It can't get any worse."