Francisco Angulo de Lafuente
The sun was setting over Madrid, painting the sky with an intense orange that reflected off the windows of the skyscrapers, as if the entire city were ablaze. In a small, cluttered apartment in the heart of Lavapiés, Daniel Sánchez sat in front of a tangle of cables and flickering screens, his bloodshot eyes fixed on endless lines of code. The constant hum of computer fans was like a distorted lullaby, the only sound in a space that smelled of stale coffee and withered dreams. Daniel, with his disheveled black hair and several days’ worth of stubble, looked more like a castaway than the brilliant programmer he once was. 'There has to be a way,' he muttered to himself, his fingers flying over the keyboard with frantic urgency. 'A way out of this hole.' His gaze drifted for a moment to the pile of unopened letters in the corner of his desk. Bills, eviction notices, threats from creditors. Each envelope was a stinging reminder of how he had reached this point. Daniel closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of weakness. He remembered the excitement, the adrenaline of those not-so-distant days when the world of cryptocurrencies seemed like the promised land. He had invested everything: his savings, loans, even money borrowed from friends and family. And then, in the blink of an eye, it had all vanished. 'Idiot,' he chastised himself, slamming his fist on the desk. 'You should have seen it coming.' The sound of his mobile phone pulled him out of his self-absorption. It was Javier, his best friend and the only person who still hadn’t lost faith in him.
