It was a thick afternoon in Barranco, one of those when the sky looks like a half-told gossip: gray, but with intentions. Darius, Christofer, Borja, and Diogo were sitting on the terrace of a ceviche joint that never served the same thing twice. Borja, eyes bloodshot and a stuffed potato in hand, announced solemnly: “Guys… last night I dreamed we entered a dream inside another dream… but of a cat.” Darius gave him a look that was equal parts compassion and caution as he sipped his chilcano. “...