Then I heard wheels.

Then steps.

Firm steps.

Someone leaned over the cylinder. Fast, safe hands. The regulator was torn off and the hiss stopped.

I strained my eyes.

It was Leo.

Standing.

No saliva. No twisted neck. With a clear, alert, adult gaze.

“Don’t scream,” he whispered. Hold your breath. Dad wanted to kill us today.

The air returned to my lungs like a brutal blow. I coughed, cried, clung to the ground.

And reality was broken.

The truth is starting to fit

Leo opened the windows, turned on the fans, and calmly gave me water.

“It wasn’t an oversight,” the regulator said, pointing to it. Look at the scratches. They used a screwdriver. The rubber gasket is missing.

I denied, still stunned.

“Dad would never forget something like that. He is meticulous to the point of obsession.

Then he listed everything with unsettling precision: the gate locked from the outside, the windows sealed before leaving, the order not to go out, the recently renewed life insurance.

“If you fainted and I was still ‘paralyzed,’ a spark was enough to make it all seem like a domestic accident.

I was short of breath.

And then he said the unthinkable.

“I was never paralyzed. I pretended.

He told me about his mother’s accident. The brakes cut. His father under the car. His decision to feign disability since then to survive.

Everything began to fall into place.

The camera

The phone rang.