The helicopter cut through the night sky above the industrial complex. Its powerful spotlights illuminated the area with surgical precision. Inside, Captain Sánchez observed the scene through binoculars: every movement of the kidnappers, every shadow, every held breath of the hostages, was accounted for.
"Sir, the hostages have been located," reported one of his officers, pointing to the scattered groups. "All in position for extraction."
Sánchez nodded, his gaze cold and calculating. The clock wasn't an enemy—it was an ally: the orders had been clear, explicit. There was no room for error.
"Remember," he said quietly to Alpha Team, "prioritize the hostages' safety. Targets must be neutralized without casualties. Clean movement. Coordinated. I want perfect results."
From the hotel, Adrián Valmont watched the same scene, reclined in his chair, phone still in hand. There was no need to intervene physically. His family, his influence, had turned what could have been a heroic rescue into a perfectly synchronized military parade.
"Captain Sánchez," said the city mayor, his voice coming through a secure channel, "remember: this operation cannot fail. The Valmonts are watching. Make sure the students return safe and sound."
Sánchez frowned, aware of the pressure. Every movement, every second, was being monitored. Not just by the city, but by someone who could move troops with a single gesture.
As the commandos descended on ropes, Oliver stayed hidden in the shadows of a crumbling wall. His fists still clenched, breathing hard, he watched the soldiers neutralize the kidnappers he had planned to confront. Every silent strike he had delivered, every strategic move, was eclipsed by the military intervention.
Astrid knelt on the cold ground, wrapped in a thermal blanket, her wide, bright eyes taking in the scene. First, fear; then, overwhelming relief. A soldier's hand rested on her shoulder, signaling her to move. The sound of firm footsteps, precise commands, and secured weapons filled the air.
Oliver finally approached, avoiding the soldiers.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice heavy with helplessness.
Astrid took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts still scrambled from fear. Her gaze sought his, but also the landscape illuminated by the helicopter's spotlights, the perfection of the operation.
"Yes… thank you," she said, honestly. "But… this wasn't… it wasn't because of him."
He clenched his fists and lowered his head. He knew he couldn't compete with that. His heroism had been sidelined by the machinery Adrián Valmont could mobilize with a single call.
From the hotel, Adrián barely smiled. He had taken no risks, shed no sweat. His intervention had been invisible and absolute. From his chair, he watched the special forces secure the hostages, neutralize the kidnappers, and evacuate the students. All according to his design.
The bus carrying the students started moving again, escorted by armored vehicles. Sánchez checked that every hostage was accounted for.
"Everyone is safe," he reported over the radio as the last shadow of the kidnappers was subdued. "Extraction complete."
Astrid looked around, finally free, but with the uncomfortable sense that her real savior, Oliver, had fallen short of what all the novels she read promised. Her eyes met his once more: respect, gratitude, and a silent weight in the gaze that said what words could not.
Oliver sighed, aware of the lesson he had just learned: in the real world, heroism does not always translate into victory. And as the soldiers secured the perimeter, escorting the students to safety, the truth was clear: without Adrián moving the pieces, Oliver's rescue would have been impossible.
Sánchez, after receiving final confirmation, mentally took note of everything for the report. Every action, every decision, every hostage accounted for. All would be reported directly to the Valmont heir, who expected flawless results.
And in the small hotel, Adrián lifted his gaze from his cup of coffee. The afternoon breeze drifted in again, mixing with the scent of security and absolute control. For the first time, he understood clearly what no novel ever taught: the villain, when he has power, doesn't need to fight. He just needs to move the right pieces.
The rescue had happened. The students were safe. But the story… no longer belonged to the hero.
Only one question lingered: why hadn't the Adrián of the novel done the same—mobilized his family's power?
Adrián leaned back in the hotel chair, observing the valley spreading beneath the terrace. The cool afternoon breeze flowed through the open windows, mingling with the aroma of untouched freshly brewed coffee. Everything was calm. Perfect.
From there, he could see the students preparing for the outing. Transportation, guides, logistics: all polished, predictable, orderly. Like in the novels. Like any story found on Valenheim's shelves.
And yet… not everything fit.
In those novels, there was always a hero. Always a spectacular rescue. Always someone who, with courage and precise blows, saved the "beauty" and won her heart. In those stories, everything made sense. The villain got in the way, the hero defeated him, and the world applauded.
But he knew the truth.
Oliver could not save anything that truly mattered. Not this time. Not in this story.
The problem wasn't his courage or strength. The problem was that the real world didn't operate on novel clichés. Beauty couldn't be rescued with fists and kicks. Rewards didn't depend on improvised heroism. And the powers moving the board… they didn't sleep.
He knew because he was Adrián Valmont. Because his surname wasn't a plot detail—it was a fact. His family didn't just have wealth; they had influence. Not just power; the ability to mobilize armies, deploy forces, intervene within minutes where others would take hours.
Oliver might have given him a bruise in class. Maybe even forced him to delay his outing by a few hours. Perhaps, in another story, that would have been enough for an epic showdown, a rescue that would be remembered in books.
But in Valenheim's real world, those small victories meant nothing.
The lesson was clear: the heroic rescue of the novel… wouldn't happen. Not because Oliver wasn't brave, or because Astrid wasn't beautiful or intelligent. But because the board wasn't made for them. The hero could act, take risks, silently take down some kidnappers… but he couldn't challenge the real power controlling even the arrival of the special forces.
Adrián barely smiled. The irony was delicious. The clichés of generic novels were clear, predictable, perfect… until someone with true control decided they wouldn't be.
The outing would continue. The students might think Oliver had saved Astrid. They might tell stories about his bravery, his precise strikes, his silent heroism.
But the reality was different. Without his intervention, without his power, the rescue hadn't existed.
And in that small, silent hotel on the outskirts of the city, Adrián Valmont understood something no novel ever taught: the villain, when he holds all the cards, doesn't need to fight.
The hero… couldn't win.
The bus arrived at the hotel quietly, barely lit by the complex's lights. The students disembarked, some hugging, others shaking, all a mix of relief and confusion. The operation had been perfect, surgical: not a single unnecessary shot, not a mistake to regret.
In the hotel pool, Adrián swam slowly, with a calm that contrasted sharply with the chaos that had just unfolded. Each stroke was measured, each movement an absolute command of space and time. No one had touched him, no one had even dared to look at him defiantly. He was untouchable. Even the boldest criminals had understood that he was not part of the rescue story: his surname, his presence, his very existence imposed a power that needed no demonstration.
Captain Sánchez, head of the operation, approached him with impeccable formality:
"All hostages have been secured. No casualties, no serious incidents. The kidnappers have been neutralized."
Adrián barely nodded, turning his head toward the terrace as the humid breeze brushed his skin. No praise, no words of thanks. Only absolute control. Everything had gone exactly as he had decided: without effort, without risk, without any heroism to envy.
Oliver, watching from a distance, felt a sting of helplessness. He had fought, risked everything… and yet the real world reminded him that heroism alone is not enough.
Astrid understood it too, slowly. The lesson was brutal and clear: heroic rescues from novels only work where no one holds real power. In Valenheim, strength, influence, and family decided the outcome. And Adrián Valmont, swimming tranquilly in the pool, knew this better than anyone.
Trembling, her eyes still shining with fear and relief, Astrid approached him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for… everything."
Adrián only glanced at her sideways, nodded slightly, and kept swimming, as if none of it belonged to him.