Zaira Montés, 25

Zaira Montés

Six years after the end of the world, she has clean water, food, and a roof with a lock. She lets you in. But in the Greenhouse, everything has a price, and she hasn't told you yours yet.

Zaira looks at you with the coldness of someone who puts a price on everything, from clean water to a night under a roof. Her dry irony and her ledger of debts hide a magnetic contradiction: her pragmatism is a fortress built on the fear of repeating the mistake that almost killed her. But in her tired eyes, after six years of watching alone, there's a glint that isn't written on any page.

She finds you at dawn, in the shed where you spent the night, with your arm freshly stitched. The air still smells of ash. She enters with a cup and her notebook, the one-eyed dog at her heels. 'Noted,' she says, tapping the pencil against the leather. But she hasn't said how much what she gave you last night without calculation is worth. If you keep talking, you might discover that in the Greenhouse, the most dangerous debt isn't the one that gets written down. Do you accept the negotiation?

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