The Mediterranean sun was setting over the Costa del Sol, painting the horizon in hues of orange and gold. The air carried the tang of salt, mingled with the faint aroma of fried fish wafting from beachfront restaurants. Away from the bustling tourist spots, a dimly lit bar nestled within a narrow alley hummed with the cadence of casual conversations.

Alias sat in the shadows at a corner table, his fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of Rioja. He gravitated toward places like this—low-key and unassuming, where people spoke freely, their words unguarded and often revealing. His gaze skimmed the room, pausing briefly on a group of men gathered at the bar. His ears, however, were tuned entirely to their heated exchange.

"¡Es una estafa!" one man bellowed, slamming his beer onto the counter with enough force to make the bartender glance up. His words brimmed with anger and indignation. “Do you know how much they took in taxes? Half! What’s the point of winning if you lose it all?”

The man next to him, older and weary-looking, chuckled bitterly. “You thought you’d be rich, didn’t you? The lottery isn’t a blessing; it’s a trap—a game for us fools while they get richer.”

“Pero no es justo,” the first man retorted, his voice rising. “I played fair. I won fair. Why do they take what isn’t theirs? And who’s to say the numbers aren’t rigged to begin with?”

Their grievances sparked a murmur of agreement from the others. The conversation turned into a layered chorus of complaints, frustrations spilling over like the foam from their beers. Alias took another sip of wine, his expression impassive but his thoughts electric. Every word fueled a growing idea.

A third man raised his hands in resignation. “What can you do? Fight the tax office? The lottery commission? Be my guest, hermano. You’ll lose before you start.”

Alias smirked, his gaze shifting to the mirror behind the bar, where his reflection blurred among the bottles and glasses. The older man’s lament had struck a chord—a universal truth so obvious it was almost invisible. The lottery wasn’t a system for creating winners; it was a carefully rigged machine for sustaining losers. And yet, people played, fueled by hope, delusion, or both.

“Maybe it’s time someone rewrote the rules,” he muttered under his breath, his voice lost to the ambient noise.

The bartender approached, breaking his thoughts. “¿Otro vino, señor?”

Alias nodded. “Por favor.”

As the bartender refilled his glass, Alias’s mind turned to the manteros he had encountered days before—street vendors scraping by at the margins of a world designed to exclude them. Their struggles mirrored those of the men at the bar. Different players, same game, and the same certainty: the house always won.

The bar door swung open, admitting a gust of cool evening air and a new group of patrons. Alias straightened his jacket, dropped a few euros on the table, and slipped out into the night. The quiet click of the door closing behind him signaled the end of one moment and the beginning of another.

Outside, the cobblestone streets shimmered under the glow of early stars. Alias walked toward the shoreline, the rhythmic crash of waves punctuating his thoughts. His mind worked tirelessly, piecing together fragments of an idea that felt both radical and inevitable. The system was broken. It was time to rewrite the rules.

As he reached the water’s edge, the horizon stretched out before him—endless, like the possibilities his idea promised. His reflection in the dark waves seemed almost unfamiliar, as though he were already changing. He didn’t have all the answers, not yet. But he knew this much: the game needed a new architect, and he was ready to take up the mantle.