To Love a Shadow: A Tale of Vigilantes
Chapter 9
The entire city was like his home…
The dazzling green glow of the traffic light washed over Abel’s face. He sat frozen, so bewildered that he hadn't even noticed the light had changed. Suddenly, the shrill blast of a horn from the car behind him shattered his trance.
The vehicle swerved around him on the left, crossing the intersection as the driver leaned out the window to shout a clear, jagged:
"Jackass!"
Abel had no time to react before the sound of Elena’s fingers snapping—a sharp, arrogant, and fury-laden sound—struck him like a physical blow.
"I’m talking to you. Tell me who the hell that girl was… and more importantly, what were you doing letting her into your car? Who do you think you are? I can’t believe that the moment I look away, you’re already cheating on me," Elena said, her voice thick with the toxic weight of jealousy.
The boy gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and accelerated. He sped down the street while the accusations and screams of that cursed presence continued to torture him.
"Go on, drive faster," the voice pressed. "You always do this. Playing the indignant gentleman… of course, because it’s easier to throw a tantrum than to admit you're a goddamn cheater."
With every word, he felt a knot tighten in his throat; a wave of nausea began to rise. Why now? She wasn't real… and yet she said these things. Why was this happening to him? These questions looped endlessly in his mind as he drove faster and faster, pursued by the relentless tirade.
Finally, he reached home. Elena trailed behind him, her voice escalating into a crescendo of insults and reproaches. Abel could barely focus. A tingle crept across his cheeks and nose, and the sting in his eyes warned him that he couldn't hold back the tears much longer. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, trying to delay the inevitable.
"Nothing to say?" the voice continued. "You do what you want… because your little fool is always here. Well, let me tell you something: that girl won't be there once she finds out how utterly selfish you are. You're cynical. You even let her play one of your records… you're pathetic."
"Just shut up! Dammit… please, shut up!" Abel interrupted, his voice breaking.
He could no longer contain it. His eyes glassed over, and the first tears began to track down his cheeks. He turned to look at Elena with a desperate expression, searching for a shred of mercy—a moment of peace amidst the constant siege. For a heartbeat, she looked at him with genuine surprise and fell silent. But quickly, her features hardened once more.
"Oh, are you going to cry now?" she spat with contempt. "Of course. Always the victim. Do you think that scolded-puppy look is going to fix this? You’re nothing but a coward. A crybaby. Look at you… acting like this when you're the one at fault."
Abel said nothing more.
He walked to his room, tears falling uncontrollably. He could still hear her voice trailing behind him. He entered, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed. Burying his face in the pillow, he sobbed like a child, grinding his teeth in rage as he struck the mattress with his fist.
He cried until he fell asleep. He didn't even take off his clothes.
At 7:00 AM, the alarm jolted him awake, signaling the start of another workday. Fortunately, it was Friday, but Abel woke feeling defeated. His hair was a matted mess, his eyes swollen. He looked like the living dead.
He went through the motions: a quick shower, a change of clothes. The same routine, day after day. He stuffed his training gear into a backpack and left the room. He dropped the bag onto the sofa and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
Then he saw her.
Elena was there, standing by the counter. She wore a beautiful navy blue cardigan and black denim shorts. She was barefoot, cradling a mug of coffee between her hands.
Abel stood still.
His face didn't register surprise, but resignation. Defeat. He stared at her with an overwhelming weariness, his expression hollow. She watched him with a hint of pity, even tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
"Ah… hi, love," she said softly. "I know I got a little crazy yesterday… please, forgive me, okay? I made you breakfast. It’s in the fridge."
She smiled tenderly, her tone dripping with feigned regret.
Abel said nothing. He opened the refrigerator. Naturally, there was nothing there; no breakfast. He simply took out the milk and grabbed a box of cereal from the pantry.
"Don't be angry anymore, my boy," Elena said sweetly. "Look, I know I might have exaggerated a bit yesterday… but it's just that you… obviously it upset me, because you make me angry. If you didn't do those things, believe me, I wouldn't get upset or treat you like that."
She spoke in that soothing tone while Abel, moving like an automaton, poured his cereal. He watched the flakes fill the bowl, trying to ignore the presence at his side before heading to the dining table. He sat down and sighed, intent on eating in silence.
He felt her step up behind him, her fingers beginning to stroke his hair.
"I get it now… she’s just your friend," she continued. "It won't happen again, I promise, sweetheart. It’s just that you know I want you all to myself… and I don't like people touching my things. Just don't do these silly things anymore, okay? I love you. Now enjoy your breakfast."
Abel finished. He set the bowl in the sink with such force he thought it might have cracked, but he was too exhausted to care. Besides, no one would complain about a broken dish.
He gathered his things, and just before heading out, he felt a sudden embrace. The presence wrapped her arms around him from behind.
"I love you, okay? Don't forget it. I don't want anyone taking you away from me. Have a good day at work, my boy," she said, before kissing his cheek.
Abel felt a knot in his stomach. For a fleeting second, the hug and the kiss felt real. For a moment… he enjoyed it. Even though he knew no one was standing behind him. He allowed himself that single instant of comfort.
But as the sensation faded, a wave of self-loathing washed over him for having enjoyed it. He hurried out of the apartment and toward his car, repeating to himself that there was no one behind that door.
The day at work was tedious. Sorting folders, filing records, and listening to the usual office gossip. At least it served to distract him from what had happened with Elena. She was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps she had shown him mercy after yesterday… or perhaps it was merely the calm before the storm that would break when he returned home. That thought lingered in the back of his mind until lunch.
He ate with his colleagues as usual—shallow conversations about work, anecdotes from the day before, or complaints about how the boss forgot important details because, according to him, he was "too busy a man to leave room in his mind for irrelevant data."
And so, the day ended.
It was 5:00 PM. Two hours remained until training. As he walked out of the building toward the Camaro, Abel thought he saw Elena sitting inside the car. He rubbed his eyes, praying to whatever might listen that she wouldn't be there.
Fortunately, she wasn't. But a mounting sense of anxiety began to bloom in his chest.
He drove to a nearby convenience store and bought a marshmallow cereal bar and a juice. He didn't eat out of hunger, but because the anxiety was starting to eat him from the inside out. He finished his small dose of empty calories and drove to the warehouse.
It was still early. He climbed into the backseat, changed his clothes, and fell asleep there, trying to silence his mind if only for a moment.
After a while, a rhythmic tapping woke him. It was Pablo, looking through the window with a grin. Abel cleared his eyes and ran a hand over his face before opening the door. The sunset's glow bit into his eyes.
"Rough day, huh? Good thing you caught a nap. Looks like Esteban is going to put us through the wringer today."
"Esteban?" Abel asked, confused and groggy. "I thought he told you to call him Morrow."
Pablo shrugged. "Well… we're still in the process. But you’ll see, sooner or later he’ll let me call him Esteban."
Soon after, Clara arrived. You could hear the jingle of her bracelets from several paces away, clashing with every movement. They all seemed to carry some significance, many tied to pre-Hispanic cultures.
The three young people entered the warehouse, ready to begin.
"Right… I see the three of you are taking this seriously. Let’s begin," Morrow said. He was already on the second floor, prepping gear. He wore athletic clothes and stood barefoot on the tatami mat.
Seeing him, Abel felt a knot in his stomach. Was it excitement or fear? He couldn't tell, but he had the sensation that, from this moment on, his life was about to take a sharp turn. Pablo, on the other hand, couldn't hide his thrill. To him, this felt like a movie; he was already imagining which training montage songs would fit the scene.
"As I told the three of you: physically, you're a mess," Morrow said bluntly. "You have some conditioning, yes, but it’s not enough. I need you to have strength. If you can’t even carry your own weight, you’ll be nothing but a liability."
The man brought his hands together in a sharp clap that made the three of them flinch.
"So we start with the basics: push-ups, dips, squats, and sit-ups. Fifty of each. I don't care how long it takes you… just do them."
They started with sit-ups. Something simple: sets of ten. Even so, the strain hit fast. A burn began to radiate in their stomachs, the first beads of sweat broke on their foreheads, and the grunts of effort filled the warehouse. Occasionally, Morrow walked among them with a broomstick, pressing against their abdomens to force them to engage their cores.
Clara was sweating the most. By the time they started push-ups, her sweat had lightly marked the mat. Even so, she found the exercises the easiest. Abel and Pablo, meanwhile, struggled between long breaths and groans with every new repetition.
"Four… five…" Pablo gasped as he lowered himself during the final set. But his arms finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the mat under the gaze of his companions.
Clara glanced at him for a second and prepared to finish her last two reps. But before her chest could touch the floor, the broomstick was placed in front of her, millimeters from her nose.
"Stop…" Morrow said calmly. "You must do them together."
Clara froze.
"You are a team. If one falls, you wait for them to get up. You are playing with your lives, and that means you cannot leave each other behind." The stick remained in front of her face. "Now, stay in that position until he recovers."
Pablo looked at the girl, ashamed, while she struggled to hold the plank. Her arms burned and trembled; her legs felt like jelly. If Pablo didn't get up soon, Clara would collapse too.
Flushed with embarrassment, Pablo exhaled sharply and pushed himself back up.
Finally, the push-ups were over. Then came the dips and squats. Pain radiated through every muscle: burning, fatigue, and a growing sense of hunger. Abel drank water as if his life depended on it, barely breathing as he tilted the bottle. His face was drenched, and his eyes stung from the sweat dripping into them.
But despite everything, they made it. They finished the last rep and, utterly spent, collapsed onto the tatami. Their breathing was raspy, almost primal; their hearts hammered against their ribs, and a sense of lethargy began to claim their bodies.
Pablo was the first to yawn, exhausted.
"Well… I didn't think you'd finish," Morrow said coldly. "Frankly, it's surprising. But there’s more, so get up. Fast."
The three stood up as best they could. They could barely keep their balance. Even Clara felt like she might vomit at any moment. Abel, meanwhile, was dazed. His vision was blurred, and a single thought pierced his brain:
Sugar. He needed it… or he would pass out right there.
"The bars. Hang from them. Legs together, core tight, and don't let your ears touch your shoulders. Minimum time is one minute. Every time you let go before that minute is up, that’s a lap running."
The kids looked like the walking dead. They could barely move as they hung from the cold bars. It wasn't long before Abel slipped. The urgent need for sugar was replaced by the abdominal pain of the effort. He jumped back up immediately, feeling his forearms and core burn as if they were in hell.
Beside him, Clara also slipped. To their surprise, Pablo was holding on quite well… but he finally gave in a few seconds later.
And so it went. Pablo fell three times. Clara, four. Abel, three as well. They felt the sting in their palms and watched the callouses on their hands turn that characteristic chalky white from the friction.
Morrow allowed a slight smile. He knew he had found pupils with potential.
"Good. What are you waiting for? Run, move it. And while you run, I want you to talk and get to know each other. As I told you, trust is key. You must trust the person covering your back."
The three put on their shoes and headed out to the street. They began to jog, and Pablo was the first to break the ice.
"So… what do you guys want to talk about? You know, since we’re supposed to get to know each other and all."
"You know we don't have to do exactly everything he says, right?" Clara said, her tone slightly rebellious.
"I know, but you have to admit he’s right. If we’re going to be a team, we should at least know some things about each other and start trusting… right, Abel?"
Pablo looked at him, hoping for support against Clara’s stance. The question put the shy boy on the spot. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of sharing his life, but his logical side told him that Pablo was right.
Abel thought for a moment. The rhythm of rubber soles against pavement and their heavy breathing were the only sounds during that lapse.
Finally, he spoke. "Umm… yeah. Pablo and Morrow are right."
Clara rolled her eyes but accepted defeat. "Ugh… fine. Majority rules, I guess."
"Great! So… where do we start? Let’s see…" Pablo looked up at the night sky for a moment as they continued to jog, feeling the rush of cold air fill his lungs as their body heat intensified with every step. "Mmm… okay, where do you guys work? I think that’s a good place to start," Pablo said, curious and excited to learn more.
"Well, I'm a stylist. In the mornings I do some freelance work, for parties and things like that. Since the city always has more gala events or celebrations, I almost always have something to do. And in the afternoons I work in a salon… what about you guys?" Clara said in a relaxed tone, now resigned to sharing.
"For now, I work in a call center, selling products and helping in customer service. I dropped out of university…" Pablo continued, scratching the back of his neck with some embarrassment. "I want to dedicate myself to my true passion and the major I was studying—I didn't like it, so I decided to quit."
"That must have been hard… but it’s good you took charge of your dreams. What passion is that?" Clara asked, now with genuine curiosity. Knowing that detail about Pablo made her feel a certain respect for him.
"Ah… cooking. I’d love to open a restaurant," Pablo replied, and for the first time, his exhaustion seemed to vanish. "A good restaurant… and maybe, when that one does well, open a comic-themed one. But obviously with great food. Most of those places are just for the aesthetic and the food is terrible. I’d want it to be a great experience on both fronts."
Abel, who had been listening intently, was surprised by those words. This guy had ambitions that went beyond just being a vigilante. It was strange… it had been a long time since he’d heard someone talk about their dreams. At his job, it seemed everyone had resigned themselves to the lives they led.
"And you, Abel? Where do you work?" Pablo asked, pulling him out of his small trance.
The question hit him like a bucket of ice water. He didn't feel entirely comfortable, but he knew he had to speak. And even if his mind told him otherwise… deep down, he wanted to.
"I… umm… well, for now I work in an office too. In a corporate firm…"
"And what do you do there? Help people or something?" Clara asked.
"I… uhh… it's not much. I just organize some files, enter data, or run errands now and then… like delivering papers or things like that," Abel replied, somewhat nervously. Unlike them, he felt what he did was the most basic, simple thing in the world.
They kept running as the conversation flowed. Pablo did most of the talking, explaining in more detail why he’d left school and, above all, encouraging the others to one day try his food.
"When I open my restaurant, you guys are going to be VIP customers, I promise you that," he said with a laugh.
The three were on their last lap when they saw a truck fly past at high speed: a sand-colored Ford Lobo that streaked across the street like a bolt.
"Does that idiot think he's on a highway or what? I hope he crashes," Clara muttered, annoyed.
After that, the three young people continued their way…
Inside that truck sat a man with dark skin, his spiky hair covered by a black Stetson. He wore white cowboy boots, black jeans, and a satin shirt of the same color. From his neck hung several gold and silver chains, and on his hands were gold rings with large stones that glittered every time the streetlights reflected off them. His thick mustache twitched slightly in the wind coming through the window as he drove.
The truck finally stopped in front of what looked like a simple house, lost among the concrete jungle of the city center. The facade was white with Mexican pink details—the trim around the door and windows.
He stepped out of the truck, the clack, clack of his boots echoing against the pavement. He approached the door and knocked three times.
A young man opened it. It was the same one who had orchestrated the attack against the motorcycle gang the night before.
Upon entering, the man in the Stetson saw the Suburban, its metal bumper dented and scratched from the impact against the bikes. He smiled with satisfaction.
"You're a worthy nephew to your uncle, boy. Later I'll give you money to get that bumper changed… you did very well," the man said with a thick rural accent and a hint of pride in his voice.
"You know it, anything to be part of the cartel, just like my uncle," the young man replied, taking off his cap—embroidered with a panther—as a sign of respect.
The man nodded slowly. "Well, keep it up and very soon, son…" he said, looking around the house. "Now… where is our guest?"
"Right this way, sir," the boy said, leading the way to the backyard as he opened a white-painted wrought iron door, showing traces of rust and peeling paint.
Inside was that chubby young man: the leader of the motorcycle muggers. The same one who had been shoved into the Suburban and had witnessed his companions being brutalized. He was tied to a chair, drenched in sweat. Dried blood still stained his lower lip, and a bruise as black as jet covered his right eye.
"So you're the one who’s been making a mess in our territory, kid," the man in the Stetson said mockingly.
Suddenly, a heavy slap struck the back of the tied youth’s head.
"Answer the man. He’s asking you a question, you dumbass," said the young man in the panther cap; he had been the one to deliver the blow.
"Y-yes… yes, sir. It's me…" the chubby youth replied, trembling with fear. He stuttered as he felt his eyes fill with tears.
The man approached him, grabbed him by the hair, and forced him to look up.
"Look, son… I want to ask you something. Would you like it if I went to your house? If I, I don't know… made a mess, yelled at your mom, or beat up your brothers or sisters?"
"No… no, sir," the youth managed to say through his fear.
The man nodded slowly. "Then why do you do it? That’s wrong. And you know… my boss wouldn't like to know you're disrespecting his territory. His home… because this whole city is like his home."
"Please… forgive me, please I beg you," the boy said, now drowning in tears, pleading for his life.
"Hey, hey… don't blubber. Men don't cry," the man replied calmly. "Look, I can give you a chance. You have two options, son: either you stop your bullshit and we leave it at that… or you and your lowlife friends can keep playing thief, but obviously you have to pay us a commission and be available when the cartel needs you."
The boy didn't even have time to respond before the man continued.
"Don't decide now. Go home, talk it over with your little friends. Tomorrow at five, the boys will come by for you so you can tell me what you decided, okay? Stop crying now."
The man pulled out a five-hundred-peso bill and handed it to him. "Here, so you can eat. I'm sure these bastards didn't even give you a tortilla with salt. Now, go on, get out of here."
The youth took the bill as they undid his bindings. He walked toward the exit and, before leaving, cast one last glance back.
The man’s smile was unsettling. It almost seemed as if a demon were hiding behind those bushy eyebrows and thick mustache.
When he reached his neighborhood, the youth saw his group of friends. His crew. Bruises, bandages, gauze, and a few scraped bikes with broken plastics were the first things he noticed. He ran toward them but was stopped in his tracks by the youngest of the group—the one everyone knew as "Pijas."
"About time you showed up, bastard! We thought you’d kicked the bucket. We're figure out what we're gonna do to those sons of bitches. This isn't staying like this. We're gonna kill those bastards. My uncle already gave me his gun… let's see who's the real tough guy."
The youth couldn't believe what he was hearing. He remembered the smile of that man in the Stetson. Fear paralyzed his legs and a wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.
"What are you saying? Are you stupid? They're with the cartel!" he said, nearly breathless. "They told me we have to stop… and that’s what we’re going to do. We'll find another way to move, but if we keep this up, they’re going to kill us… or worse. They want us to work for them."
The entire group fell silent. Their leader was telling them not to retaliate. It was ridiculous to them. They wanted vengeance for their wounds, for their bikes… and for their pride.
"Did the grease go to your head or what?… Well, to hell with you then. We already know what school those guys go to and we're going tomorrow. You either come… or you get the hell out of the way. How about that?"
The youth squared up against his friend, but the latter only let out a laugh. Then, from his waistband, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at his head.
He could do nothing more. He stepped aside… and he left.
The next morning, the Suburban—with a new, gleaming bumper—and the black sedan cruised down one of the city's main avenues. Behind them, the brutalized youths followed on their motorcycles. Their noisy exhausts flooded the morning air.
The cars split up at an intersection. The truck turned down a narrow street. The bikes accelerated so as not to lose them… but when they turned the next corner, they were gone. The Suburban had vanished.
But it wasn't a retreat. It was an ambush.
From the left, the sedan that had diverted returned at full speed and slammed into one of the bikes. The riders were sent flying against the pavement.
The Suburban pulled up from behind. From the sunroof, one of the men raised a rifle and fired several times. The dry crack of bullets shattered the morning’s peace.
The screams of pedestrians and neighbors began to rise.
When it was all over, the only things left on the ground were pieces of cheap plastic from the bikes… and the blood running along the pavement, shimmering under the light of the dawn...
..."