—Pick up your things, you may leave —the security guard exclaimed, monotonously.
One came in, one went out. Like that, all day long.
The young man who was now leaving his interview was like any other. Joel had worked for years at the Peruvian Embassy and had seen countless young people enter full of hope, only to be cruelly torn apart afterward. Their dreams, their goals, the expectations they carried, shattered without mercy.
It had been a long time since Joel had grown used to those expressions. He could tell them apart instinctively.
The poor boy this time wanted to cry.
Was he trying to stay strong?
Well, it wasn't as if his life was over. He shouldn't be so dramatic, Joel thought.
However, despite often telling his new coworkers that they needed to get used to the different reactions of candidates and develop their emotional intelligence, Joel had a secret. Sometimes, when the applicant was handsome, male, and perhaps resembled him just a little—someone he could identify with, a parallel version of what his future might have been—he couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction when he watched them break.
When he closed the door, leaving the young man outside, a faint smile formed on his face for barely a second. It was natural, a product of the human malice that lived in his heart. But Joel wasn't foolish, nor could he allow anyone to see that side of him. That expression only surfaced in front of the door, where the security camera couldn't see him and where his back shielded him from any curious eyes among his coworkers.
However, when he turned around, the last current of air left behind by the door brushed lightly against his back.
An unnatural chill ran through Joel's body. His hand moved uneasily toward his neck, and with disbelief, he felt a stream of icy moisture.
Sweat?
It was strange. Outside, the weather was hot, and inside the control room the air conditioning was working perfectly. Suddenly, he looked at his arms: the hairs stood fully on end, and his skin was covered in small, uniform bumps, as if something invisible were crawling beneath it.
—J-Joel? Hey, are you okay? —his coworker asked when she noticed him.
Joel wanted to say yes, trying to drive away whatever bad omen his body was beginning to announce, but he couldn't manage to speak.
—Joel, you're pale —said his other coworker—. Are you alright?
—Uh-h… Joel is bleeding from his nose, bring the first aid kit —the woman exclaimed.
—T-the eyes! Call an ambulance!
——
Outside the embassy, Yana walked quickly. His eyes, filled with tears, struggled not to let them fall.
Clumsily, he tried to call his girlfriend, but she didn't answer.
Although he knew that any electronic device was confiscated upon entering the interview and that, therefore, there was no point in expecting her call, Yana needed her. His heart tightened with anguish and sorrow.
He stopped after the sixth failed attempt. He looked around. People were passing by, cars moved along the street, animals wandered nearby, trees everywhere—he was surrounded by life.
And yet, Yana felt alone.
Terribly alone.
What had he done wrong?, he wondered.
In his hands lay the small file he had brought with him. On the front page, a blue stamp marked a single word: "Observed."
Perhaps, if it had been something truly serious, the reaction would have been different. Though it might not seem so, Yana was genuinely intelligent.
He had obtained a scholarship for an internship abroad. His grades, his command of Spanish and English, his constant effort—everything had led him there. And yet, a basic requirement like the visa rose before him like an immense wall, blocking every step forward.
It was his seventh interview. For some reason, something always went wrong. Yana wanted to believe he had been irresponsible, but something inside him swore that wasn't the case.
—That woman… —he whispered, clenching his fists.
Was it anger he felt?
Hatred?
No, he shouldn't feel that way. It wasn't her fault.
But the feeling didn't fade. Little by little, despair began to turn into a dense, heavy anger that spilled over into a pure, silent hatred.
How could she have forgotten? The last time, she herself had asked for a screenshot of his bank statements. She herself had written, in her own handwriting, what he needed to bring to the next appointment. And now?
She had claimed that someone else must have attended him, that it wasn't a screenshot but a certificate, the correct document, and that he had to fix it.
Why would she do that?
Her smile. Her false kindness. The carefully rehearsed condescension.
It was a mockery aimed at him.
What had he done to her?
Why would she do something like that?
Was it her miserable life that found pleasure and meaning in destroying the dreams of others?
Not just her. The security guard, the people in the waiting line, those in the entrance queue. All of them. Their gazes filled with contempt. They wanted him to fail.
Why couldn't they let him be happy?
Why couldn't anyone leave him alone?
What would he do now? His money had already been exchanged into soles; converting it back to euros would mean losing a considerable amount due to the exchange rate. He had already quit his job, where he had been happy for a long time. Could he go back? He didn't think so. Yana remembered the looks on his coworkers' faces when they found out about his scholarship—painted with happiness and pride, yet stained beneath with envy, greed, and disdain.
Without thinking, he began biting the cuticles of his nails, tearing them off one by one.
What would his parents say?
His girlfriend?
Their love for him wasn't in doubt, but how would they look at him after his failure?
It was all her fault.
He was afraid.
Why would she do it?
He couldn't understand it.
Desperation wrapped around him like a dark tide.
A whisper escaped his lips:
—I hate you.
And then it happened.
The small bundle of papers Yana was holding, stained by the blood from his wounded fingers, began to emit a crimson flame. It didn't burn like ordinary fire; it danced, twisted, throbbed like a living heart. The flame fluttered violently, a profane mixture of hatred and pure, unfiltered rage.