Lucas Kane sat at his desk in the "Helios Energy" office, staring at his laptop screen. His green eyes, cold and piercing, skimmed the text of a press release: Helios Energy is committed to sustainable development and minimizing its environmental footprint... Words he’d written in half an hour, not believing a single one. His job in the PR department of an oil company didn’t require faith—just skill. And Lucas was a master.

  At twenty-seven, he looked like a man who knew the price of everything: people, words, time. Tall, with neatly styled dark hair and a sharp gaze, he embodied cold professionalism. His eloquence and knack for manipulation made him indispensable. Environmentalists, "Green" activists, journalists, politicians—they all buckled under his pressure. Not because he was right, but because he could make them believe he was. Or, at the very least, shut them up.

  The office was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clack of keys. Most employees had left, but Lucas lingered—not out of love for the job, but because he knew his boss, the vice president of public relations, valued those who didn’t clock out at six sharp. Tomorrow’s press conference in Mexico promised to be heated. A new project near Aztec ruins had sparked protests, and Lucas had to turn chaos into a "constructive dialogue."

  “Lucas, you’re still here?” Anna Laurence’s voice, sharp with a hint of mockery, snapped him out of his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Her blue eyes, cold as a frozen lake, regarded him with a familiar mix of arrogance and professional curiosity. Anna, the daughter of a partner to Helios Energy’s vice president, was no mere "daddy’s girl."

  She worked in the negotiations and major deals department. Colleagues dubbed her "the Shark" for her icy composure and ruthless precision in verbal sparring. Once, a reporter asked about Helios’ emissions, and Anna, without flinching, shot back, “Your articles spew more hot air than our factories. Got data, or just feelings?” The room erupted in laughter, and the reporter fell silent.

  Anna was tall, with impeccable posture honed in elite schools. Her dark hair, pulled into a tight bun, accentuated sharp cheekbones and a cold beauty. A black blazer, a knee-length fitted skirt, and high heels made her look like a model, but her demeanor screamed she wasn’t here for decoration. Her aristocratic air was steely, with edges that cut. Anna loved sharp humor, almost cruel, especially when dismantling opponents.

  “And you, Anna, why aren’t you home?” Lucas replied, not looking up from his screen. “Or are you here to find out who else wants a meteor to hit our office?”

  She smirked, stepping inside. Her heels clicked on the parquet. “Activists? Not a problem. One question about their sponsors, and they’re scrambling. I came to warn you: in Cancun, where you’re headed in two days, it’s not just a press conference. They’re planning a full-on protest against Helios. A crowd of activists, heritage defenders. It’s gonna be a party.”

  Lucas finally looked up, their eyes locking. Her tone carried its usual mockery, but he knew Anna respected him. Not as a person—she respected few in that sense—but as a professional. They were alike: cold, pragmatic, ready to play corporate games to win. But while Lucas was a cynic who saw only profit, Anna was a predator who relished the hunt.

  “Cultural heritage?” Lucas said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought we picked a backwater, far from ruins, to avoid bribing local officials. That was in my reports. How’d you find out?”

  Anna raised an eyebrow. “An old friend deals in artifacts in India and Africa. He tipped me off: his partner in Mexico is freaking out about our well. There are archaeological digs nearby—Aztecs, Maya, something like that.”

  “Too much paperwork,” Lucas sighed, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Easier to bury your friend’s partner in his own excavations.”

  Anna laughed—short but genuine. “You’re insufferable. But I want to see how you’ll squirm when they shove photos of dead fish and sick kids in your face. I might even place bets.”

  “Then bet on me,” Lucas said, closing his laptop. “I don’t lose.”

  She studied him with a slight squint, as if sizing him up. “Not yet. But be careful, Kane. Even people like you fall sometimes.”

  Anna turned and left, leaving a trail of expensive perfume. Lucas watched her go. She was good at her game, but he didn’t trust her. Too ambitious, too ready to step over anyone. He respected that, but stayed wary.

  ###

  Rain poured in buckets as Lucas left the office. Seattle drowned in gray, streetlights reflecting in puddles like shattered mirrors. He adjusted his coat collar and headed to the Rusty Bolt, a bar on the outskirts that smelled of whiskey, cigarettes, and old memories. It was his place—not for comfort, but for Max.

  “Late, Kane,” Max grumbled, slouched at the bar with a beer. His light hair was tousled, his t-shirt stained with oil. Max, an auto mechanic with calloused hands, was the only person Lucas could call a friend, though the word “friendship” felt too sentimental.

  “Work,” Lucas said curtly, sitting and ordering whiskey. “How’s your shop?”

  “Cars break like your eco-freaks,” Max chuckled, raising his bottle. “What’s up with you? Saving oil tycoons from placard-waving mobs again?”

  “Prepping for Mexico,” Lucas said, staring into his glass. “New field, Aztec ruins, activists. Should be fun.”

  Max whistled. “Mexico? Grab some tequila. You’ll need it with that job.”

  Lucas smirked. Max was his opposite: simple, open, unbothered by the future. They’d known each other since childhood—stealing apples, fighting bullies. Back then, Lucas believed in things like honor. Now, he valued Max for not prying into his soul or demanding he be a “good guy.”

  “Why Helios?” Max asked, sipping his beer. “You could work for Exxon or Chevron. Why this outfit?”

  Why Helios Energy? Lucas could have worked for top-tier companies—Exxon and Chevron had invited him to interviews more than once. But he declined. In places like those, as he learned during internships, results no longer mattered. Nepotism, backroom deals, and loyalty ruled, not talent. At Helios, despite its mid-tier reputation, Lucas found what he wanted: resources, connections, and freedom. The company was small enough for his successes to be noticed and ambitious enough to offer opportunities. Here, he could build a network, hone his skills, and pave the way to the top—not in this firm, of course, but in a future where he’d set the rules.

  Lucas gave a sardonic grin. “Because my tongue’s too sharp for them to like how I kiss their ass.”

  “Hah!” Max nearly spilled his beer, laughing. “That’s it! Your tongue’s too sharp for those pampered top execs. Ha ha…”

  “Exactly,” Lucas smirked. “My tongue would poke new holes in them.”

  “What about your games?” Max asked. “Still up all night?”

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  “Baldur’s Gate 3,” Lucas replied, his eyes briefly lighting up. “The ‘Save the Refugees’ quest. Convince the druids and tieflings not to slaughter each other, feed them fake promises, then sell them out to the goblins for a reward. Pure thrill.”

  “You fool everyone in real life,” Max snorted. “Why bother with games?”

  “Games have rules,” Lucas said, twirling his glass. “Life’s just chaos.”

  Games were his escape. In them, he could be a hero, a villain, a wanderer. In reality, he was a pawn in someone else’s game, and it irritated him more than he’d admit. They talked for another hour, jumping from work to schoolyard stories. When Max left in a taxi, Lucas lingered at the bar, staring at his empty glass. The rain didn’t let up, and he decided to head home.

  ###

  Lucas Kane gazed out the plane’s window as it descended toward Veracruz airport. The Gulf of Mexico sparkled under the sun, but Lucas knew a storm lay beneath the beauty. Helios Energy’s new project—a field off the coast, near Aztec ruins—had become a target for environmentalists, heritage defenders, and locals. His task: convince everyone Helios was a partner. Lucas didn’t believe it, but his eloquence was his weapon. He didn’t lose.

  The heat hit Lucas like a fist as he stepped out of the jeep. Dust rose from heavy machinery, and in the distance, Aztec ruins loomed—pyramids overgrown with vines. Oil rigs jutted against the gulf’s horizon like metal skeletons, and Lucas thought: this is a battleground between past and present.

  He was met by Jorge Mendes, the site foreman—a stocky man in his fifties with a weathered face and scarred hands. Jorge solved problems with fists or cash, but Lucas valued his bluntness. They entered a trailer where the air conditioner struggled against the heat.

  “Jorge, how’s it going?” Lucas began, sitting on a creaky chair. “No sugarcoating. What am I covering at the press conference?”

  Jorge grunted, opening a water bottle. “We’re on schedule. Rigs are up, oil’s flowing. But activists… Pickets, yelling about ruins and turtles. They torched a truck yesterday.”

  Lucas nodded, jotting notes. “Why’d we touch the ruins? My reports said to stay clear to avoid protests.”

  Jorge sighed, rubbing his neck. “Geological surveys screwed us. We planned to drill two kilometers from the ruins, but the geologists found a better spot closer—richer deposits, easier to drill. Saved millions. So we had to dig near the pyramids. Now the locals are losing it.”

  Lucas frowned. “Great. Any safety violations or spills? Anything journalists could dig up?”

  “We follow regulations,” Jorge snapped, but his eyes flickered. “Minor leaks, cleaned up. Workers keep quiet.”

  “Make sure they stay that way,” Lucas said, his voice like steel. “If the Greens find oil in the gulf, I can’t shut them up, even with a million.”

  Jorge nodded, but a knock interrupted them. A gaunt worker with nervous eyes entered, clutching something in dirty cloth.

  “Se?or Mendes, we found this in the ground, near the ruins,” he said, trembling. “It’s strange.”

  Jorge unwrapped the cloth, and Lucas leaned forward. It was a statuette of a flying serpent, thirty centimeters long, its scales carved with stunning detail. Red and blue stones gleamed in its eye sockets, shimmering as if alive. Lucas felt a chill.

  “What the hell is this?” Jorge muttered, but Lucas reached out.

  “Let me see.”

  The statuette was heavy, icy. Lucas examined the stones, and a sharp scale sliced his palm. A drop of blood fell on the serpent, and the stones flared brighter. Lucas chalked it up to the light.

  “Careful, se?or!” the worker cried, stepping back. “It’s a bad thing. Quetzalcoatl, evil spirits. Trouble!”

  Lucas rolled his eyes. “Just a statue. Sell it to tourists, make a buck. Buy your kids some toys.”

  The worker mumbled about curses. Jorge frowned. “Locals are scared to dig near the ruins. They say something’s alive there. I don’t like this thing.”

  “Lock it up,” Lucas said, handing it back. “And silence the workers. If journalists hear about ‘cursed ruins,’ we’re screwed.”

  Jorge stashed the statuette in a safe. Lucas wiped the blood with a handkerchief, ignoring the sting. His cynicism dismissed superstitions. The artifact was just stone. His concerns were the press conference, activists, leaks. He bid Jorge farewell and returned to the jeep, ready for battle.

  The municipal hall in Veracruz smelled of dampness and coffee. Lucas stood at the podium, in a dark suit, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The room was packed: journalists, locals with placards, Greens, and heritage defenders, their gazes burning with hatred. Lucas knew crowd psychology and political speechcraft: clarity, emotional stories, repetition, metaphors. High-stakes negotiations taught him to frame issues, manage expectations, project strength, and find common ground. He saw signs of a color revolution in the protests—uniform placards, rehearsed slogans. This was an organized campaign, likely by competitors like Petromex or American giants. The field was rich, and ousting Helios meant billions. The activists were puppets, their anger a flame fueled by others’ money.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice clear, commanding, projecting strength. “Picture a gulf teeming with fish, ruins shining under the sun. That’s the future Helios Energy builds. We create jobs, schools, hospitals. Our experts, top archaeologists, work with UNESCO to protect Aztec ruins. Without us, you’ll lose more—jobs, growth, your future.”

  The room stirred. An elderly fisherman with a weathered face and scruffy beard stood, clutching his hat. “You lie!” his voice trembled. “I fished the gulf for thirty years, fed my wife, three kids. Now the fish are gone! Your oil poisoned the water! My kids are starving!”

  Lucas smiled, using sympathy. “Se?or, I see your pain,” he said, lowering his voice to draw the crowd in. “My father was a worker; I know what it means to fight for family. Helios is investing two million dollars to clean the gulf. Fish will return, and we’re launching a special program for fishermen. Together, we’ll rebuild a gulf full of life.”

  The fisherman sat, doubtful, but some clapped. A young woman, about thirty, with a long braid and a teacher’s sternness, stood. “You’re destroying the ruins!” her voice rang. “I teach kids our history, our pride. These pyramids are our soul! You dig like thieves, stealing our past!”

  Cries of “Save the ruins!” grew louder. Lucas kept his smile. “Your passion inspires,” he said, radiating sympathy. “The ruins are a bridge between past and future. We fund archaeologists, local experts. I personally met with UNESCO to affirm our commitment to your heritage. Without Helios, the ruins are defenseless—tomb raiders are the real threat, and in 10–15 years, your heritage could be reduced to barren stones.”

  The crowd murmured, but a stocky man in his forties, in a faded shirt, stood. “You killed my business!” he roared. “I take tourists to the ruins, but your rigs scare them off! The stench and dust stretch ten miles! My family’s on the edge!”

  The room erupted: “Helios—vandals!” Lucas raised a hand, projecting strength. “Se?or, your business is Veracruz’s heart,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’re creating a new tourist route, funded by Helios. Our co-founders allocated twenty million dollars for tourism and Veracruz preserves. Tourists will return, your income will soar. This is a chance you won’t get without us.”

  Applause mixed with boos. Lucas spotted a man in the front row—tall, with long hair and an eagle tattoo. His eyes blazed with rage. A heritage defender, likely the instigator. “You lie!” he said, trembling. “You dig at the ruins, disturb sacred lands. This is our history!”

  Lucas nodded, tapping into the crowd’s emotions. “We’re not enemies, se?or. We’ve hired experts, including religious ones. Helios understands the importance of preserving your beliefs. We’re ready to work with the spiritual community and respect traditions.”

  “You’ve awakened spirits!” the man shouted, stepping closer. “The ancients see your greed! Your sweet words won’t fool them!”

  Lucas suppressed an eye-roll—superstitions were a cover. “Spirits don’t pay for hospitals,” he said with a smile, drawing chuckles. “We do. Let’s talk reality.”

  The man flushed, his eagle tattoo seeming to pulse. “Enough! You defile our land! Money won’t silence us!”

  The crowd roared louder. Lucas raised a hand. “Calm down. We’re here to talk. I see how much you care for your homeland. Let’s schedule you for a meeting…”

  “I’m Raul,” the man growled, his eyes wild. “I don’t need your promises. Blood will spill!”

  Lucas recalled the serpent statuette but pushed the thought aside. Raul was a competitors’ pawn. “We’ve found opportunities for Mexico,” Lucas said, pressing harder. “We’re not enemies, Raul.”

  Raul trembled. “You don’t know what you’ve done!” he screamed, losing control. “Quetzalcoatl will punish you!”

  The tension was palpable. Lucas thought: the competitors overplayed their emotional charge. He saw guards tense but tried to hold the crowd. “Raul, sit. We’ll solve this peacefully,” he said, but his words drowned in shouts.

  Raul reached under his jacket. “For Quetzalcoatl!” he bellowed, pulling a pistol. The first shot missed, shattering a water bottle. Women screamed. Lucas tried to duck, but the second bullet hit his chest. Pain seared like a molten blade. He collapsed, blood soaking his shirt. A third shot hit the wall. The room filled with screams as guards tackled Raul.

  Lucas lay, feeling life drain away. His green eyes dimmed, weakness crashing in waves. The world dissolved into cold, consuming darkness. He tried to cling to a thought—competitors, the statuette, Anna’s warning—but the darkness closed over him.

  Lucas Kane left this world.