The Ensenada pier woke beneath a blanket of pale mist, the sea hidden behind a curtain of gray.
The boards were slick with moisture, creaking softly under their own age. There were no tourists, no music, no laughter—only silence and the distant cry of a lone seagull cutting through the morning.
On a bench near the edge sat an elderly man.
His posture was still disciplined, almost military, even though time had stolen much of his strength. His name was Don Ernesto Salgado, and his hands—lined, scarred, steady—rested calmly on his knees, as if they remembered how to hold weight far heavier than years.
Pressed against him was a German Shepherd.
The dog lay close, its body aligned with the old man’s leg, breathing slow and even. No leash. No visible tag. Yet there was nothing stray about it. Its eyes carried something deeper than training—something shaped by fear, loyalty, and memory.
Don Ernesto ran his trembling fingers through the dog’s fur.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured softly.
“I don’t know why… but you are.”
The dog closed its eyes, just for a moment, as if those words had unlocked a place it had been searching for without knowing.
Then the stillness shattered.
A siren wailed.
Then another.
The sound ripped through the fog, sharp and sudden. Heavy boots struck wet wood. Radios crackled. Voices overlapped.
“Back there—by the benches!” someone shouted.
Don Ernesto looked up, startled.
Through the mist emerged figures—municipal police officers forming a wide arc, two patrol cars idling at the pier entrance. At the front stood a woman in a gray suit, hair pulled tight, eyes focused and unblinking.
Commander Valeria Robles, head of the K9 unit.
She stopped several meters away, her gaze locked not on the man—but on the dog.
“There he is…” she said quietly, almost to herself.
The officers spread out. Hands hovered near holsters. One of them, Mateo Ríos, stepped forward carefully.
“Sir,” he said firmly, “please move away from the dog. Slowly.”
Don Ernesto didn’t move.
Not out of defiance—but confusion.
Why were they aiming weapons?
Why were their voices sharp with fear?
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