The Maracaibo airport buzzed with humid air and half-broken fans. Shin moved through customs like any other solo traveler: quiet, detached, and weighed down by his backpack and a single trolley bag. His shirt clung slightly from the tropical heat, and his sunglasses fogged when he stepped outside into the crush of taxi drivers, luggage carriers, and children dragging plastic suitcases.
"Taxi? Taxi?" one man waved, and another too.
Shin gave a polite shake of the head and approached a worn silver sedan with a small decal: 'El Rayo Express'. The driver was a stocky man with a half-buttoned shirt and sunglasses so reflective you could see the sky in them. He grinned when he saw Shin.
"You! Yes, yes—you tourist? Where you wanna go, I take. Cheap price, fast ride. Very safe. I am number one on this side, okay?"
"...Sure." Shin opened the door. "Lake Maracaibo."
"Ah! Yes! Rayo zone. Very exciting. Many people go, many people scared. Haha!"
The engine sputtered to life. Shin hoisted his trolley bag into the back seat—too forcefully. The old metal dented with a soft ping. The driver blinked.
"...You train to be an athlete, yes?"
"Yeah." Shin adjusted his sleeves without looking up. The driver gave a short nod as Shin climbed in, and the car rolled onto the main road. In five minutes, the noise and hum of the airplanes faded behind them. The city lights and the few buildings on the horizon began to fill the windows, and the shape of this new country revealed itself.
Shin didn't feel like talking, so he kept his eyes on the passing road. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to bother the friendly driver; he just took it as an excuse to keep rambling on nonstop.
"They say... thunder angels lives in sky. Boom boom boom! No rain, just light. People say is curse. My cousin—he say his TV explode when he point antenna at storm."
"Uh-huh." Shin stared out the window, silently begging the driver to pick up on the hint.
"Also, sometimes goats disappear. Very strange. Maybe aliens? Or chupacabra. You know chupacabra?"
Shin blinked at him. "...Yes?"
The driver nodded thoughtfully, as if they had just agreed on something profound. "I think is the gods. They come back to take land. It's theirs, you know."
Shin didn't reply. For him, the need to go out and come to this foreign country was already annoying enough. Having to, god forbid, talk to strangers on top of that? That was every introvert's worst nightmare.
Still, he knew he'd soon need to investigate the area to find lightning, which unfortunately meant talking to locals. So, for better or worse, he'd practiced for hours how to sound friendly and approachable. And he was now completely ready to put those new "social skills" to the test… right after this drive, that is.
By the time they reached the small town near the lake, the sun had become a hot disk caught between the cloud banks. The streets buzzed with motorbikes, stray dogs, and a market of fresh mangos and salted plantains. Shin stepped out, relieved to escape the exhausting ordeal that had somehow passed for a drive. He paid and gave a brief nod to the driver, who tried to hand a small card while shaking his hand: "Follow me on ZunZun!"
Shin didn't ask.
He walked up the narrow street toward the guesthouse, which was nothing more than a simple cube made of adobe walls. It had a grayish clay roof and a long balcony with hammocks swaying lazily. Inside, the woman handed him the key, nodded to his Spanish, and pointed up the stairs.
The room was small and clean. It had just a bed, a fan, and a window looking out over rooftops. Well, it was cheap enough. He unpacked slowly: hoodie, reversible coat, basic map, sunglasses, and notebook. The flute stayed hidden.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat on the rooftop, a small camera resting on his knees. It was closed—he was not filming, and to begin with, it was merely there for disguise. He leaned softly on the railing, thinking about his plans as he observed the skies.
Across the lake, lightning cracked once. He waited for the noise, but the skies remained silent. No thunder or echo rolled at the distance; it was just raw white light that blinked into existence and disappeared instantly, as if it had never been. He raised the camera and clicked, not necessary to capture the moment—just to mark it. The sky would remember, and so would he.
He put down the camera again and returned to his room. It was now early in the morning, and since he had nothing better to do for now, Shin decided that the best approach would be to blend in for the next few days to search for clues.
He wore a soft linen shirt, black sunglasses to block the scorching sun, and his little bag, which he kept close at all times. No one looked at him twice—he looked like the typical tourist. A foreigner, yes, but nothing more than a man on vacation wandering through small towns and the local festivals.
Compared with the windy weather he was used to, the warmth here made him feel slower. In fact, the pace as a whole felt slower here.
There were no towers, battles, or tricks to avoid traps—it was just colors and noise. A calmness so foreign it felt strange. Where market stalls spilled into every street, selling mango juice, handmade bracelets, and grilled arepas wrapped in wax paper. Young children kicked soccer balls barefoot through courtyards, while old men played dominoes under the palm-shaded benches.
Shin padded through all of it, soaking in the atmosphere.
He didn't speak much, but he listened. The rhythm of the town felt… grounded, human. He usually didn't like vacations; he preferred staying in his cool apartment all day, sticking to his computer. But this? This wasn't bad at all.
He couldn't completely understand the words being said, but every voice carried a tone—a shape that hinted its meaning. He tried to sense the emotions, as well as the life they carried through the air.
On the second day, Shin wandered toward the edge of a weekend plaza fair.
Vendors lined the streets under makeshift awnings, and a loose circle of people had gathered near the statue in the center. A man in a deep blue cape and a wide-brimmed hat decorated with silver sequins stood at its heart. A handmade banner draped beside him read:
'Maestro del Viento—The One Who Commands the Sky!'
The magician raised his arms.
"Ladies and gentlemen, prepare your eyes! For I, Rafael El Magnífico, shall summon the very breath of the heavens!"
He paused, grinning expectantly, one hand to the crowd, the other holding a paper fan painted with golden swirls. He flicked it open with a snap, then angled himself dramatically and drew a long, deliberate breath.
Then— blew with all his force.
A single piece of glitter drifted off his cuff. Otherwise, nothing happened.
There was a polite cough from somewhere near the front. A child whispered something to her mother.
Rafael blinked. "Ah! But the air resists at first!" he declared, already sweating under the stage lights. "Very well, then, how about this?" He shook the fan once, and gave it another mighty puff—his cheeks ballooned, his hair fluttered—and still, nothing much.
Shin, passing by at the edge of the crowd, blinked once.
Then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, the magician spun on one heel, nearly tripping on his cape, and snapped his fingers with a loud pop! He then pulled out a bright yellow scarf and declared, "With this sacred tether, I bind the invisible winds! Watch!" He began to wave it overhead in sweeping arcs.
The scarf wrapped around his arm like an annoyed snake. He yanked it free, gave the crowd a shaky grin, and lifted it again with stubborn determination.
This time, he didn't wave or shout. He simply released the scarf, and then raised his arms in the air—gesturing with his hands as if casting some secret spell. The yellow cloth drifted down in a slow, almost graceful motion—until, right before it touched the wooden platform, it stopped. Hovering there mid-air, swaying lightly as if something unseen had taken a breath beneath it.
A soft tremor passed through the air. The scarf rippled once or twice and steadied, fluttering in place like it was caught between heartbeats.
The crowd gasped. A few clapped uncertainly.
Rafael El Magnífico beamed, arms wide. "Behold! The breath of the heavens!"
Shin, who was watching all this time with a numb face, tilted his head.
And flicked a finger.
A gust stirred—a tiny nudge, just enough to pick up the scarf and twist it like a ribbon in the air. Then the gust grew—catching not just the scarf, but the magician's entire stole, lifting it like wings flapping against the sun. Sparkles swirled from the earlier glitter, catching the light in dazzling arcs. A swirl of dust rose in a gentle funnel around him.
Children gasped. One woman started filming.
The scarf sailed in a perfect spiral, then looped back around Rafael's wrist and tied itself in a dramatic knot.
Silence.
Then thunderous applause.
Rafael froze with his eyes wide, his mouth slightly ajar. He looked at the scarf. Then at the sky.
"…Could it be…" he whispered. "That I really have that power?"
His eyes sparkled with confidence as he turned to the crowd with his hand dramatically raised.
"I TOLD YOU!" he shouted. "I AM THE MAESTRO OF WIND!"
"HA! MAMÁ, I DID IT!"
He twirled once—narrowly missing tripping on his cape—and bowed so hard his hat flew off.
Shin didn't stop. He just walked past the edge of the square with an unreadable expression, his sunglasses still lying low on his nose.
He wasn't trying to help; he just found it funny. And oddly… impressive. The man had a real commitment to the bit.
On the third day of his travels, a small misunderstanding nearly ruined his shirt.
He had stopped at a café stall to order something cold—a tall glass of chicha with cinnamon. The vendor, a wiry man with more mustache than teeth, grinned and made some joke Shin couldn't quite parse.
"I put little fire in it, amigo!" the man said cheerfully, handing over the cup.
Shin sipped cautiously.
It was not fire. It was thick and sweet. He took a second sip—and winced as the pressure from his grip crushed the bottom of the cup. He hadn't meant to squeeze so hard, but the thin plastic gave way too easily, and milky drink spilled all over his sleeve.
Shin cursed as he shook his hand free, and then muttered, "Slippery." The man laughed. "Too much strength, eh? You go to gyn often, señor?" Shin raised a brow. "Kind of."
After that, he finally decided to make do and started his investigation. But since he couldn't just directly ask about towers or artifacts, he began with… weather. "Was there always so much lightning here?" he asked a vendor selling roasted corn by the roadside.
The man scratched his head. "You mean the storms on the lake? Sí, sí. Always there. But more now. Brighter, and more larger sometimes. People say it's a sign."
"A sign of what?"
He shrugged. "The sky is angry. Or maybe it's waking up."
Well, that was not helpful. He decided to try other locals. Someone surely will have what he wants, right?
But unfortunately for Shin, the others were even less poetic.
One boy, maybe twelve, said: "There was once a fisherman who tried to fish in the lake during a lightning storm. He was found two days later. His eyes were… dead." Another claimed he'd seen a white flash "split the clouds like teeth."
The most interesting answer came from an elderly woman selling necklaces carved from shells. At first, Shin nearly missed her as she didn't speak right away, but he immediately came over once she stared at him for a moment too long.
"You looking for the tower?" she said quietly, in a tone that was more of a statement than a question. Shin didn't flinch; he never told anybody his purpose, but it was inevitable that those who had what he searched would guess.
"People don't look like you unless they're searching," she added. "I've seen one before. Not you. Another. She was older. Smiled too much."
Shin waited.
"Storms don't just make noise anymore," she said. "Sometimes they call." She paused and then offered him a necklace made of shells.
He bought it without a word and slipped it into his pocket. He wanted to ask more, but the old woman had already turned to another customer, as if their exchange had never happened.
He gave up on her and walked a little farther into the plaza. The market was thinning out, with stalls closing one by one. Somewhere nearby, a guitar strummed lazily; children still darted between benches, chasing each other with sticks like swords.
Something was coming.
A ripple passed through the crowd—small at first, then sharper. Dogs began barking, scattered, tails tucked low. A cluster of pigeons burst from a rooftop and wheeled into the sky as if fleeing something unseen.
Naturally, people noticed. Vendors frowned at the sudden gusts tugging at their awnings and closed their stores; there wouldn't be any business in this kind of weather. People muttered something unclear about global warming, and the plaza soon emptied. No business on this planet can handle the whims of God.
Shin looked up and watched as clouds had gathered over the lake—so faint and sudden they seemed painted there. Lightning pulsed once inside them, silent and contained, like a lung finally remembering to breathe.
The old woman's words lingered in his mind. Storms don't just make noise anymore. Sometimes they call.
Shin adjusted his collar. His pulse was steady, but the air around him no longer was. He left the plaza before the storm answered again.