Delfina pressed two fingers to her throat, her intake of air shallow and dry against the sudden chill of the sealed chamber. Bastian's ribcage rose weakly beneath her arm, fragile and uneven against the concrete floor. She stared at the intake vents overhead, waiting for the humming motor to stall. She pressed her ear closer to Bastian’s chest, trying to discern if the air’s sudden scarcity affected him more profoundly. His heartbeat, though no longer a frantic tattoo, still felt too delicate, too easily extinguished. She held her own breath, just for a moment, testing the dread, but the pressure in her chest became unbearable. She couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. Then, a faint sound, like stones grating together, came from beneath her ear. Bastian stirred, a low groan escaping his lips, followed by a shallow, rasping intake of air. His eyelids fluttered, revealing slits of sea-grey, unfocused and distant. Delfina’s relief was immediate, a rush of warmth through her veins that momentarily banished the icy fear of the sealed room. His eyes slowly fixed on hers, a flicker of awareness returning. A weak smile touched his lips, tinged with a familiar, sardonic humor. “Catalina,” he rasped, his voice a dry whisper. “Still so predictable.” He pushed against Delfina’s arm, struggling to sit up. She eased back, supporting his weight. He coughed, a soft, dry sound, then blinked, taking in the stark metal walls of the panic room. His gaze landed on the inert speakers, then returned to her, a hint of amusement entering his eyes. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a series of breathless, weak chuckles, shaking his gaunt frame. “She truly thinks… this works?” he managed, between gasps of mirth. “Oh, Delfina, my dear, she always was terrible at engineering. This room… it has an independent, submarine-grade air supply. Fully sealed, fully self-sufficient. It could withstand a siege for weeks.” Delfina stared, her mouth slightly agape, the dread of moments ago evaporating into a cloud of disbelief and relief. He was laughing. *Laughing* at Catalina’s grand, lethal threat. The air, which had felt so painfully thin, now seemed perfectly normal. A foolish, almost giddy giggle escaped her own lips. The tension that had coiled tight in her stomach for hours finally unspooled, leaving her lightheaded with residual adrenaline. “A submarine?” she repeated, a genuine smile spreading across her face. The word felt absurd, incongruous with the quiet panic room. “So… we aren't going to run out of air?” Bastian shook his head, a wry grin playing on his lips. “Not unless you’re planning on exhaling for the next month without inhaling. She’s just… throwing a tantrum.” He gestured vaguely at the wall, where Catalina’s muffled shouts now began to register, a faint, angry thrumming sound. “A very expensive, very ineffective tantrum.” With the threat of being smothered lifted, a sudden pang of hunger asserted itself. Delfina remembered the small, wax-paper parcels she had stuffed into her apron pockets before the chaos. “Well, if the room isn't sealing us in to choke,” she said, digging them out, “we might as well have a picnic.” She unwrapped a small, flaky empanada, its savory aroma filling the confined space. Churro, who had been curled protectively at Bastian’s feet, immediately lifted his head, tail giving a hopeful thud against the metal floor. Bastian watched her, a soft, unfamiliar expression in his eyes as she offered him a piece of a sweet pastelito. He took a small bite, chewing slowly, the taste of sugar and spiced fruit a startling contrast to the metallic tang of fear that had dominated their senses. “My secret stash,” Delfina confessed, offering a sliver of cheese to Churro, who accepted it with polite reverence. “For midnight cravings.” The absurdity of their situation – a gourmet panic room picnic while a billionaire’s ex-wife raged outside – brought another wave of quiet laughter. It was a shared, intimate moment, a bubble of domesticity in the heart of a crisis. Bastian leaned back against the cool metal, a genuine, relaxed smile gracing his features. He felt stronger, the lingering weakness in his limbs a distant echo. His pulse remained steady beneath his collarbone, rhythmic and calm under Delfina’s watchful eye. Suddenly, a faint *thunk* sounded from the airlock slot near the floor. Both Delfina and Bastian froze, the remnants of their picnic forgotten. Churro let out a low growl. A moment later, the slot slid open a fraction, revealing the tip of a gloved hand. Mrs. Vance. Her movements were swift, almost furtive. A burner phone, sleek and black, was pushed through, followed by a small, unmarked USB drive. The slot clicked shut with silent precision. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear. Mrs. Vance, bought by Delfina’s simple act of kindness, had chosen a side. Bastian’s eyes, now sharp and alert, fixed on the USB drive. “Our ace in the hole, it seems,” he murmured, reaching for it. He fumbled slightly with the phone, then located a data port on one of the panic room’s control panels. The screen, previously dark, flickered to life, displaying a simple menu. He inserted the USB. Crisp 4K audio and video filled the monitors, displaying a scene from Villa Solace’s main office, just hours after Bastian’s initial collapse. Catalina’s perfectly manicured hand gestured imperiously. Dr. Armitage, his face pale and sweating, stood opposite her. The sound was disturbingly clear. “—And you are *certain* this will induce a full cardiac arrest within the week?” Catalina’s voice, devoid of any warmth, cut through the silence. “The maid will be blamed for medical negligence. I have the proxy. The Ferrero fortune will be mine.” Delfina watched, horrified, as the doctor nodded, his words stammering. “Yes, Ms. Vargas. The… the dosage increase will be effective. The new maid’s ‘herbal remedies’ will only make it look worse for her.” A heavy dread settled behind Delfina’s ribs, cold and leaden. It was all there, laid bare: the conspiracy, the calculated malice, the casual disregard for her life. Bastian watched her expression, his jaw tight. He then fast-forwarded through other clips: Mrs. Vance being intimidated, the board discussing their plans to seize assets. It was a comprehensive record of their treachery. The final clip ended abruptly. The screens reverted to their standby display, reflecting Delfina’s stunned face. Before either of them could speak, a new sound pierced the thick walls of the panic room, faint at first, then growing steadily louder: the unmistakable wail of police sirens. Bastian’s head snapped towards the sound. His previous amusement vanished, replaced by a grim, calculating expression. “The Sanmoran constabulary,” he stated, his voice flat. “And knowing my delightful cousin, she’s called Chief Mendez. He’s been in the board’s pocket for years. If we open this door now, Delfina, they’ll ignore all of this.” He tapped the monitor. “They’ll arrest you anyway. We need a massive distraction.”

Tea and Treason