The Night Everything Seemed Possible

Bogotá. Six months ago.

The rooftop terrace of the W Hotel gleams against the night sky. Below, the city sprawls in a river of lights stretching toward the mountains. Up here, above it all, champagne flows.

Don Hernando Castillo stands at the center of the celebration, his leather boots incongruous against the polished concrete floor. Around him, the young people he’s bet his legacy on are drunk on something stronger than the Moët — they’re drunk on possibility.

“Quince millones de dólares,” he says, raising his glass. His voice carries the authority of a man who has commanded cattle drives across the Llanos, who has stared down guerrillas and survived the dark years. “Fifteen million dollars. They believed in us.”

Sebastián Duarte, the co-founder who built the first prototype in his parents’ garage, can barely contain himself. His hoodie is out of place among the cocktail dresses and blazers, but tonight he doesn’t care. He catches Isabella Moreno’s eye across the crowd and smiles — the unguarded smile of someone who believes the hard part is over.

Isabella smiles back, but there’s something reserved in it. She’s learned not to celebrate too early. Daughters of taxi drivers know that money promised is not money in hand.

“Eight months,” Don Hernando continues. “That’s what we told them. Eight months and we deliver a platform that will change how Colombia pays, saves, invests. That will bring the unbanked into the economy.” He pauses, eyes scanning the crowd. “We have given our word. Mi palabra es mi firma.”

At the edge of the terrace, Alejandro Vega — Alejo to those who think they know him — raises his own glass with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. He’s already calculating. Eight months. Fifteen million in runway. And three competitors who would kill to know what FinPulso is building.

“Por FinPulso,” Alejo says smoothly, stepping forward. “And for Don Hernando, who had the vision to see what we could become.”

The crowd echoes the toast. Don Hernando nods, pleased. This one, Alejo — he’s sharp. Reminds him of his son, before… He pushes the thought away. Tonight is for the future.

Diego Vargas stands alone near the railing, nursing a beer instead of champagne. His girlfriend Luciana is somewhere in the crowd, probably taking photos for her Instagram. He should be happy. The Series A means job security, real salaries, maybe even that apartment in Chapinero they’ve been looking at.

But something gnaws at him. The demo they showed the investors — the one with the “AI-powered fraud detection” — he knows what’s really behind that curtain. And eight months…

Camila Torres, the newest member of the team, approaches him quietly. At 25, she’s still learning to navigate these events.

“You don’t look like someone who just got funded,” she says.

Diego almost smiles. “Have you looked at the codebase?”

“Some of it.”

“Then you know.”

Camila doesn’t answer. She looks out at the city lights instead. Diego is the best developer she’s ever met, and if he’s worried…

On the far side of the terrace, a sleek Italian in a cashmere sweater is making his entrance. Marco Benedetti, “Agile Transformation Consultant,” has been in Bogotá for two weeks. He came for a conference. He stayed for the opportunities.

His eyes find Luciana immediately — the blonde with the phone, the one who’s been posting stories all night. He’s done his research. Marketing Director. Boyfriend is some developer. And she’s clearly bored of this party.

He smiles. In Europe, they know how to have a real celebration.

---

Six Months Later

The same rooftop. Same city. Different world.

Rain hammers the terrace. The W Hotel’s party space is empty tonight except for one figure standing where Don Hernando stood six months ago. Sebastián stares at his phone, at the message that just arrived:

Emergency board meeting. Tomorrow, 8am. Non-negotiable. — Mariana Ríos, Vulcano Capital

He scrolls up. More messages. The group chat is on fire.

Alejo: Diego hasn’t responded in two weeks. Isabella: The staging environment is down again. Pipe: Nobody else has the production credentials. Alejo: This is unacceptable. Isabella: Has anyone actually SEEN Diego? Luciana: He moved out last month. I don’t know where he is. Alejo: @Sebastian, you’re technically CTO. Fix this.

Sebastián’s hands shake. CTO. The title they gave him when Don Hernando took over as CEO. A title without power, without authority, without even access to the servers that run their own product.

His phone rings. The screen shows: DON HERNANDO.

He doesn’t answer. He already knows what the old man will say. En mi finca, los que no rinden se van. On my ranch, those who don’t perform leave.

But this isn’t a ranch. Cattle don’t debug authentication errors at 3am. Bulls don’t write unit tests. Horses don’t carry the entire institutional knowledge of a payment platform in their heads and then disappear without a trace.

He looks out at the rain-soaked city. Somewhere out there, Diego Vargas is alive, theoretically. Somewhere out there are the credentials to production. Somewhere out there is the truth about what their “AI-powered” demo actually does.

Eight months, they said.

Six have passed.

And tomorrow, Sebastián will have to explain to a boardroom full of people who have never touched code why their fifteen-million-dollar investment is burning.

---

The Morning After

The FinPulso office occupies the fourth floor of a renovated building in Chapinero. Exposed brick, Edison bulbs, a foosball table that no one uses anymore — the standard startup aesthetic that once seemed revolutionary and now feels like a costume.

Laura Méndez is the first to arrive, as always. She’s been Don Hernando’s assistant since the ranch days, and she knows how to read the weather. Today, the old man will be dangerous.

She prepares the conference room: coffee strong enough to wake the dead, water for those who can’t stomach it, and the emergency bottle of aguardiente hidden in the credenza for when things really go south.

By 7:30, they begin to filter in.

Pipe — Felipe Gómez — looking like he hasn’t slept. At 44, he’s the oldest developer on the team, the one who survived every technology transition from COBOL to cloud. He’s seen consultants come and go. He’s seen startups rise and fall. He knows, with the bone-deep certainty of experience, that this meeting will not end well.

Isabella arrives next, her colorful earrings bright against the gray morning. She makes eye contact with Sebastián through the glass walls of the conference room, and something passes between them — worry, solidarity, something neither will name.

Alejo is already seated, reviewing documents on his tablet, perfectly composed in his Italian suit. Of course he is. In a crisis, Alejo is always composed. It’s one of the things Don Hernando admires about him.

Luciana slips in last, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. She’s been crying — Laura can tell. She’s seen enough crying women in her decades with Don Hernando. Something about that Italian consultant, probably. Laura doesn’t approve of him. Too smooth. Like a snake in cashmere.

Speaking of which — where is Marco?

“He’s not invited,” Alejo says, reading her thoughts. “This is internal.”

Laura nods but doesn’t like it. Internal means Don Hernando will shout. Internal means someone will be blamed.

At 7:55, Don Hernando Castillo walks in.

He’s wearing the same boots he wears to check on cattle at dawn. The same gold watch his father wore. The same expression he uses when a ranch hand has disappointed him.

“Dónde está Diego?” he asks. His voice is quiet. This is worse than shouting.

Silence.

“I asked a question.” Still quiet.

Sebastián clears his throat. “We… don’t know, Don Hernando. He stopped coming to the office three weeks ago. He’s not answering calls or messages. Luciana says—”

“I don’t care what Luciana says.” Don Hernando doesn’t look at her. “I care about my eight million dollars. I care about what I will say to Mariana Ríos when she arrives in —” he checks his father’s watch “— three minutes.”

He walks to the head of the table and remains standing. “So. Someone explain to me. In simple words a cattle rancher can understand. Why does one developer, one employee, have the keys to my entire company?”

Pipe mutters something.

“Speak up.”

Pipe looks at Sebastián, then at Alejo, then decides he’s too old to care about politics. “Because we let it happen. Because it was easier. Because Diego was the only one who understood the whole system, and instead of documenting and sharing, we just… kept asking him to do more.”

Don Hernando’s eyes narrow. “And where were the managers while this was happening?”

Everyone looks at Sebastián.

Sebastián feels the blood drain from his face. “I… we were moving fast. There was so much pressure after the funding—”

“Pressure I created?”

“No, Don Hernando, I didn’t mean—”

The door opens. Mariana Ríos enters, escorted by a nervous-looking receptionist. She’s Brazilian, elegant, efficient. She manages the Colombia portfolio for Vulcano Capital, and she’s flown in from São Paulo specifically for this meeting.

“Good morning,” she says. Her Spanish is accented but precise. “I trust we can skip the pleasantries.”

She takes a seat, opens her laptop, and looks at Don Hernando with the calm expectation of someone who has seen dozens of companies fail and has learned not to feel anything about it.

“The board received concerning information last week. I’m here to understand three things.” She holds up fingers. “One: why the platform that was demonstrated during due diligence does not appear to function in production. Two: why your lead developer has disappeared. Three: what you intend to do about it.”

Don Hernando’s jaw tightens. He looks at Alejo.

Alejo clears his throat, unfazed. “Mariana, these are excellent questions. And I want to assure you that we have identified the issues and are already implementing corrective measures—”

“I wasn’t asking you, Alejandro.” Her gaze hasn’t left Don Hernando. “I was asking the CEO.”

The room freezes.

Don Hernando has not been spoken to this way since… since ever. He is the patriarch. He is the investor. He is the one who asks questions, not the one who answers them.

But he is also the one who has put eight million dollars of his own money into this company. The money he was saving for his son. The money that was supposed to build a legacy.

He sits down. For the first time in this room, he sits.

“I don’t know,” he says. The words seem to cost him. “I don’t understand this technology. I trusted the people who do.”

“And where are those people now?”

Sebastián raises his hand like a schoolboy. “I’m here. I’m the CTO. Or at least, that’s my title.”

Mariana’s eyes assess him. “Tell me, CTO. What is the actual state of the platform?”

Sebastián looks around the table. Alejo gives him a tiny shake of the head — don’t say too much. Don Hernando’s face is stone. Isabella nods slightly — tell the truth.

He takes a breath.

“The staging environment is unstable. We don’t have access to production because the credentials died with Diego’s departure. The ‘AI-powered fraud detection’ that we showed you…” He pauses, swallows. “It’s not AI.”

“What is it?”

“A team of contractors in Venezuela. Manual review. We were going to build the real thing, but there was never time, and Diego was the only one who—”

“Manual review?” Mariana’s voice is ice. “We invested fifteen million dollars in a company whose core differentiating feature is a lie?”

“It was a temporary measure—”

“Is it in production? Are real users being served by manual contractors pretending to be artificial intelligence?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Don Hernando’s face has gone gray. He looks at Alejo. “Did you know about this?”

Alejo spreads his hands. “I’m CFO, Don Hernando. I review financial statements. The technical team assured me—”

“I’m asking if you knew.”

Something flickers in Alejo’s eyes. “I suspected. I chose to trust the experts.”

Mariana closes her laptop. “I’ve heard enough. The board will need to discuss next steps. I recommend you find your missing developer and regain control of your own systems before we meet again.” She stands. “You have two weeks.”

She leaves.

The conference room is silent except for the rain against the windows.

Don Hernando rises slowly. He looks at each face around the table, lingering on Sebastián, on Alejo, on the empty chair where Diego should be sitting.

“Two weeks,” he says. “Find Diego. Fix this. Or I will find people who can.”

He walks out.

Laura quietly retrieves the bottle of aguardiente from the credenza.

They’re going to need it.

---

Aftermath

Sebastián finds Isabella on the building’s rooftop terrace — the actual roof, not the fancy one with the Edison bulbs. It’s still raining. She doesn’t seem to care.

“Well,” she says without turning. “That could have gone better.”

He stands beside her, letting the rain soak his hoodie. “Do you think she’ll pull the funding?”

“Mariana? No. Not yet. VCs don’t like to admit failures any more than we do. She’ll push for changes first. Probably a new CEO. Probably an ‘advisor’ with significant influence.”

“Don Hernando won’t give up control.”

Isabella laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Don Hernando’s only alternative is admitting he bet his son’s legacy on a company that was lying to him from day one. Which would mean admitting he was wrong. When has that ever happened?”

She turns to face him. The rain has plastered her curly hair to her face, and her eyes are tired but fierce.

“We need to find Diego.”

“I know.”

“And we need to tell the truth about what we’ve built. All of it.”

“I know.”

“Alejo won’t let that happen. He’s already spinning narratives. By tomorrow, this will all be Diego’s fault — the rogue developer who sabotaged the company. It’s a clean story. The board will believe it.”

Sebastián watches the water pool on the concrete. “What if I don’t let him?”

“You?” Isabella’s voice is gentle but honest. “You gave up the CEO title, Sebastián. You don’t have the power to stop him.”

“I have the truth.”

“The truth doesn’t matter if no one believes you.” She puts a hand on his arm. “I’m not saying give up. I’m saying be smart. Document everything. Find allies. And for God’s sake, find Diego before Alejo does.”

“Why would Alejo want to find Diego?”

Isabella’s expression darkens. “To make sure he never comes back.”

She heads for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and Sebastián? That Italian consultant — Marco Benedetti? He and Luciana are together now. That’s why Diego left.”

The door closes behind her.

Sebastián stands alone in the rain, processing. Diego’s disappearance. Luciana’s betrayal. Marco’s convenient timing. Alejo’s always-composed face.

His phone buzzes. A WhatsApp message from a number he doesn’t recognize:

Unknown: They’re going to blame me for everything, aren’t they?

He stares at the screen. Types quickly:

Sebastián: Diego? Is that you? Unknown: Don’t use my name. They’re probably reading this. Sebastián: Where are you? We need to talk. Unknown: Check your email. Personal account. Not corporate. Unknown: And Sebastián? Don’t trust anyone. Unknown: Especially not the people smiling at you.

The messages disappear — auto-delete. The number goes inactive.

Sebastián’s hands are shaking as he pulls out his laptop, finds a dry corner of the terrace, and logs into his personal email.

One new message. Sent three weeks ago. Subject line: Read this before it’s too late.

Attached: a 47-page document titled Technical Risk Assessment: FinPulso Platform — Confidential.

Author: Diego Vargas.

Date: Four months ago.

“Hijo de puta,” he whispers. Four months. Diego tried to warn them four fucking months ago.

Sebastián starts reading. His stomach drops with every page.

By page five, his face is the color of ash. His hands tremble so badly he can barely scroll.

By page twenty, bile rises in his throat. He has to stop, press his palm over his mouth, force himself to breathe.

By page forty-seven, tears are streaming down his face and he knows — with the cold certainty of a man watching his house burn — that what happened in that boardroom today was only the beginning.

---

The One Who Stayed

Night. The FinPulso office is dark except for one desk lamp.

Camila Torres sits alone at her workstation, headphones on, code scrolling across her screen. The others left hours ago. She doesn’t mind. She works better alone.

Her screen shows a different repository than the main FinPulso codebase — a personal project, something she’s been building in her spare time. Same functionality as the main platform, but clean. Tested. Deployable.

She’s been building it for months, using every technique she learned from YouTube tutorials and online courses. TDD. Clean architecture. Automated deployment. Everything Diego tried to implement before they made it impossible.

She doesn’t know if anyone will ever see it. Probably not. She’s just a junior developer, and in this company, juniors don’t speak in meetings.

Her phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number:

Unknown: I know what you’ve been building. Unknown: Keep going. Don’t let them see it yet. Unknown: When the time comes, you’ll know.

She looks at the screen, then at the empty office around her, then back at her code.

“Okay, Diego,” she murmurs. “Okay.”

She puts her headphones back on and keeps working.

Outside, the rain finally stops. Tomorrow, the sun will rise on a company in crisis, on secrets about to unravel, on alliances about to form and break.

But tonight, in the dark, a junior developer writes clean code.

And somewhere in the city, a man with no credentials reads a document he wrote months ago — a warning that nobody heard.

And on a finca in the Llanos, Don Hernando Castillo stands on the porch of his hacienda, looking at the stars, wondering where he went wrong.

He thinks of his son. The arguments. The dismissal. The funeral.

He thinks of the fifteen million dollars. The legacy he’s trying to build.

He thinks of the young people in that Bogotá office, with their hoodies and their code and their secrets.

And for the first time in a very long time, Don Hernando Castillo is afraid.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual startups, fintech companies, or Italian consultants is purely coincidental.