The Maracaibo airport buzzed with humid air and half-broken fans. Shin moved through customs like any other solo traveler: quiet, detached, and weighed down by his backpack and a single trolley bag. His shirt clung slightly from the tropical heat, and his sunglasses fogged when he stepped outside into the crush of taxi drivers, luggage carriers, and children dragging plastic suitcases.
"Taxi? Taxi?" one man waved, and another too.
Shin gave a polite shake of the head and approached a worn silver sedan with a small decal: "El Rayo Express". The driver was a stocky man with half-buttoned shirt and sunglasses so reflective you could see the sky in them. He grinned when he saw Shin.
"You! Yes, yes—you tourist? Where you wanna go, I take. Cheap price, fast ride. Very safe. I am number one on this side, okay?"
"...Sure." Shin opened the door. "Lake Maracaibo."
"Ah! Yes! Rayo zone. Very exciting. Many people go, many people scared. Haha!"
The engine sputtered to life. Shin hoisted his trolley bag into the back seat—too forcefully. The metal dented with a soft ping. The driver blinked.
"...You train to be an athlete, yes?"
"Yeah." Shin adjusted his sleeves without looking up. The car rolled onto the main road. The driver didn't stop talking.
"They say... thunder angel lives in sky. Boom boom boom! No rain, just light. People say is curse. My cousin—he say his TV explode when he point antenna at storm."
"Uh-huh." Shin looked out the window.
"Also, sometimes goats disappear. Very strange. Maybe aliens? Or chupacabra. You know chupacabra?"
Shin blinked. "...Yes."
The driver nodded seriously, as if they had agreed on something profound.
"I think is the gods. They come back to take land."
Shin didn't reply.
By the time they reached the small town near the lake, the sun was a hot disk caught between cloud banks. The streets buzzed with motorbikes, stray dogs, and a market of fresh mangos and salted plantains. Shin stepped out, paid, and nodded once to the driver—who tried to shake his hand and offered a card: "Follow me on ZunZun!"
Shin didn't ask.
He walked up the narrow street toward the guesthouse—simple adobe walls, clay roof tiles, and a long balcony with hammocks swaying lazily. Inside, a woman handed him the key, nodded to his Spanish, and pointed up the stairs.
The room was small and clean. It had just a bed, a fan, and a window looking out over rooftops. Well, it was cheap enough. He unpacked slowly: hoodie, reversible coat, basic map, sunglasses, and notebook. The flute stayed hidden.
That night, he didn't train.
He sat on the rooftop, camera resting on his knees—not filming, just observing.
Across the lake, lightning cracked once—but silently. No thunder. No echo. Just raw white light that blinked into existence and disappeared like it had never been. He raised the camera and clicked, not necessary to capture the moment—just mark it. The sky would remember. And so would he.
Since he had nothing better to do, Shin decided to let himself blend in for the next few days and search for clues.
He wore a soft linen shirt, sunglasses, and kept his bag close at all times. No one looked at him twice—not as a foreigner, not as anything more than a tourist wandering through small towns and local festivals.
The pace was slower here.
There were no towers, no battles, no schemes. Just colors and noise. Market stalls spilled into the streets, selling mango juice, handmade bracelets, and grilled arepas wrapped in wax paper. Children kicked soccer balls barefoot through courtyards. Old men played dominoes under palm-shaded benches.
Shin walked quietly through all of it, soaking in the atmosphere.
He didn't speak much, but he listened. The rhythm of the town felt… grounded. Human. Usually, he didn't like taking vacations; he preferred staying in his cool apartment all day, sticking to his computer. But this? This wasn't bad at all.
He couldn't understand what was being said, but every voice carried a tone—a shape. He tried to sense it through the air: the emotions, the life.
On the second day, Shin wandered toward the edge of a weekend plaza fair.
Vendors lined the streets under makeshift awnings, and a loose circle of people had gathered near the statue in the center. A man in a deep blue cape and a wide-brimmed hat decorated with silver sequins stood at its heart. A handmade banner draped beside him read:
'Maestro del Viento—The One Who Commands the Sky!'
The magician raised his arms.
"Ladies and gentlemen, prepare your eyes! For I, Rafael El Magnífico, shall summon the breath of the heavens!"
He held up a paper fan. Blew on it. Nothing happened.
There was a beat of awkward silence.
Then, with theatrical flourish, he spun on one heel, snapped his fingers, and threw a handful of glitter into the air. Still… not much.
Shin, passing by at the edge of the crowd, blinked once.
The magician pulled out a bright yellow scarf and declared, "With this sacred tether, I bind the invisible winds! Watch!" He began to wave it overhead in sweeping arcs. It fluttered lazily, barely reacting.
Shin tilted his head.
And flicked a finger.
A gust stirred—a tiny nudge, just enough to pick up the scarf and twist it like a ribbon in the air. Then the gust grew—catching not just the scarf, but the magician's entire stole, lifting it like wings flapping against the sun. Sparkles swirled from the earlier glitter, catching the light in dazzling arcs. A swirl of dust rose in a gentle funnel around him.
Children gasped. One woman started filming.
The scarf sailed in a perfect spiral, then looped back around Rafael's wrist and tied itself in a dramatic knot.
Silence.
Then thunderous applause.
Rafael froze with his eyes wide, his mouth slightly ajar. He looked at the scarf. Then at the sky.
"…Could it be…" he whispered. "That I really have that power?"
His eyes sparkled with confidence as he turned to the crowd with his hand dramatically raised in the air.
"I TOLD YOU!" he shouted. "I AM THE MAESTRO OF WIND!"
"HA! MAMÁ, I DID IT!"
He twirled once—narrowly missing tripping on his cape—and bowed so hard his hat flew off.
Shin didn't stop. He walked past the edge of the square, sunglasses low on his nose, expression unreadable.
He wasn't trying to help; he just found it funny. And oddly… impressive. The man had a real commitment to the bit.
On the third day, a small misunderstanding nearly ruined his shirt.
He had stopped at a café stall to order something cold—a tall glass of chicha with cinnamon. The vendor, a wiry man with more mustache than teeth, grinned and made some joke Shin couldn't quite parse.
"I put little fire in it, amigo!" the man said cheerfully, handing over the cup.
Shin sipped cautiously.
It was not fire. It was thick and sweet. He took a second sip—and winced as the pressure from his grip crushed the bottom of the cup. He hadn't meant to squeeze so hard, but the thin plastic gave way too easily, and milky drink spilled all over his sleeve.
Shin blinked, shook his hand free, and muttered, "Slippery." The man laughed. "Too much strength! Eh, you go to gyn often, señor?" Shin raised a brow. "A bit."
He started his investigation later that evening. Not directly about towers or artifacts, just… weather. "Was there always so much lightning here?" he asked a vendor selling roasted corn by the roadside.
The man scratched his head. "You mean the storms on the lake? Sí, sí. Always there. But more now. Brighter, and more larger sometimes. People say it's a sign."
"A sign of what?"
He shrugged. "The sky is angry. Or maybe it's waking up."
Others were less poetic.
One boy, maybe twelve, said: "There was once a fisherman who tried to fish in the lake during a lightning storm. He was found two days later. His eyes were… dead." Another claimed he'd seen a white flash "split the clouds like teeth."
The most interesting answer came from an elderly woman selling necklaces carved from shells. At first, Shin nearly missed her as she didn't speak right away, but he immediately came over once she stared at him for a moment too long.
"You looking for the tower?" she said quietly, in a tone that was more of a statement than a question. Shin didn't flinch; he never told anybody his purpose, but it was inevitable that those who had what he searched would guess.
"People don't look like you unless they're searching," she added. "I've seen one before. Not you. Another. She was older. Smiled too much."
Shin waited.
"Storms don't just make noise anymore," she said. "Sometimes they call." Then she offered him a necklace.
He bought it without a word and slipped the shell necklace into his pocket. The old woman had already turned to another customer, as if their exchange had never happened.
He walked a little farther into the plaza. The market was thinning out, stalls closing one by one. Somewhere nearby, a guitar strummed lazily; children still darted between benches, chasing each other with sticks like swords.
Something was coming.
A ripple passed through the crowd—small at first, then sharper. Dogs began barking, scattered, tails tucked low. A cluster of pigeons burst from a rooftop and wheeled into the sky as if fleeing something unseen.
Naturally, people noticed. Vendors frowned at the sudden gusts tugging at their awnings and closed their stores; there wouldn't be any business in this kind of weather. People muttered something unclear about global warming, and the plaza soon emptied. No business can handle the whims of God.
Shin looked up and watched as clouds had gathered over the lake—so faint and sudden they seemed painted there. Lightning pulsed once inside them, silent and contained, like a lung remembering to breathe.
The old woman's words lingered in his mind. Storms don't just make noise anymore. Sometimes they call.
Shin adjusted his collar. His pulse was steady. But the air around him no longer was. He left the plaza before the storm answered again.