Medellín

Back to school on Monday felt surreal. The weekend had been a blur of emotions, hormones, and awkward truths, and now I was expected to just walk into class like nothing had happened? Yeah, right. I was definitely not feeling myself. I wanted to get away, but I knew I’d be in big trouble if I just left. So, I’d have to suffer through it and try to avoid having to talk with people. Easier said than done, though, especially when you stick out like a sore thumb.

 

Zack and I met up in the courtyard before classes. He was balancing his backpack on one knee, adjusting his glasses, and launching into a passionate rant about how flawed the school’s recycling program was. I half-listened, nodded, and tried to pretend I wasn't on edge. I kept scanning the courtyard, hoping – and dreading – to see Yeison. I was thinking I might really kind of like him.

 

Then he finally arrived.

 

He strolled across the courtyard with that casual gait of his, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking both tired and beautiful. My heart immediately kicked into overdrive. Despite last night with Miguel, and all the feelings it stirred, I still liked Yeison.

 

Zack stopped mid-sentence when he saw him.

 

I stood and waved Yeison over. "Hey! Yeison, this is my friend Zack. Zack, Yeison."

 

They exchanged nods before slipping into Spanish. Their conversation flowed fast, but not unfriendly. Zack’s Spanish was impressive – quick, fluid, and confident. I suddenly felt like the dumb American kid, even though I’d always prided myself on being a fast learner. I made a mental note to push myself harder in Spanish class. I’d always wanted to be a writer, but wouldn’t it be cool to write in Spanish, like Gabriel García Márquez or Pablo Neruda?

 

I just sat there watching them – one kid, a nerdy white boy from Seattle, the other, a Latino from one of the rougher barrios in Medellín – talking like they’d been friends forever. And I don’t even know why, but it hit me. It actually made me feel… hopeful. Because back home, everything that was going on about immigration at the moment was always this stupid “us versus them” mentality. The casual (and overt) racism. The crappy jokes people thought were funny. Everyone is so obsessed with what made us different that they couldn’t see how alike we really are.

 

I’d figured that out a long time ago, traveling with my dad for work. This trip was the longest by far, but I’d already seen so much – the “Golden Triangle” in Southeast Asia, Nigeria and Ghana in West Africa, Mexico, and several trips to Europe. While my dad sat through endless conferences on drug interdiction, my mom and I would go exploring. And everywhere we went, it was the same thing: people laughing, eating, struggling, hustling, loving. Just people. Basically, the same as me. We just happened to speak a different language, which was really the biggest hurdle to getting to know people from other countries and different cultures. And yet in the U.S., most people never learned a foreign language, but in the places I traveled, even the “uneducated” people spoke several languages.

 

And that’s why what’s happening in my country makes me so angry I can barely think straight. Latinos – who’ve been part of our culture forever, who’ve helped build it, shape it, make it better – are suddenly being painted as criminals, as rapists, as animals. Like they don’t even matter. Like they’re disposable. And sitting there, watching these two kids from totally different worlds laugh together like it was nothing, I just kept thinking: how the hell can anyone not see it? How blind do you have to be?

 

The school bell rang, breaking me out of my reverie, and we parted ways with a quick see-you-later. I tried to shake the nerves shadowing me as I trudged off to first period.

 

By now – my second week in – I was beginning to understand the rhythm of the school. The curriculum was no joke. Every subject felt like an AP course, and Calculus in particular was kicking my ass. I was an A-student back in the States, but here? I was treading water, and it wasn’t even close to midterm yet. I figured I'd need to visit the tutoring center soon or risk drowning, particularly in math. I needed to achieve excellent grades this year if I wanted to get into one of my top three universities.

 

The teaching style was different, too. Most teachers here lectured straight through the period. No small groups. No real discussions. Just the chalkboard, our notebooks, and an unrelenting stream of facts. A few American teachers broke the pattern with Socratic questioning or group activities, but those classes often felt uncomfortable for the Colombian students, who weren’t used to such open dialogue. It was like two education systems awkwardly crashing into each other in the middle of a school day.

 

During lunch, I found Zack again under our favorite shade tree, talking animatedly about a capybara exhibit he wanted to visit. I told him that capybara was good eatin’, which really upset him. I imagined him having a whole collection of capybara stuffed animals at home to keep his new hippo company. But my attention was quickly pulled across the courtyard. Yeison was sitting alone, hunched over on a low stone wall, no lunch in sight, with the most miserable look on his face.

 

He looked...lost. And small. Like someone had stolen the light out of him.

 

I stood up immediately. "Back in a sec."

 

When I reached him, I lowered my voice. "What are you doing over here? Why aren’t you with your group? And where’s your lunch?"

 

He shrugged, eyes downcast. "Miguel doesn’t want me to sit with them anymore. And... he used to help pay for my lunch sometimes when I didn’t have any money. And I don’t have money right now."

 

Rage. That was the only word for what surged through me. I clenched my fists.

 

"Seriously? That’s – no. Come on."

 

He looked confused, but he followed me. We walked to one of the little restaurants just outside the gates. I told him to order whatever he wanted. He blinked, surprised. "Are you sure?"

 

"Yes, Yeison. I’m sure. You’re eating. Period."

 

He ended up choosing a steaming bowl of ajiaco, a thick chicken-and-potato soup that smelled amazing. We carried it back and sat with Zack, who happily scooted over and resumed his conversation from this morning with Yeison. The three of us shared stories between bites, laughter bubbling up despite the weirdness of the situation. Zack even managed to get Yeison talking about soccer tactics, and I watched them bond with quiet satisfaction. Zack said he loved watching soccer but couldn’t play worth a damn.

 

For a moment, things felt normal. Almost perfect. My very own little friend group was forming. But there was still Miguel to deal with …

 

The moment school ended, I was still seething. I spotted Miguel by the front entrance, slipping on his designer sunglasses as if he were about to walk the red carpet at a fashion show.

 

I stomped over.

 

"You’re such an asshole," I snapped. "What you did to Yeison was petty and cruel."

 

Miguel froze. Around us, students paused mid-conversation. A few turned to stare.

 

Miguel didn’t say a word. He kept his gaze on the pavement, his face unreadable.

 

"You don’t get to punish him for being friends with me," I hissed. "Fix it. Or don’t bother talking to me again. Ever."

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t choose that faggot for a friend,” he said, still not meeting my eyes.

 

That was the wrong thing to say to me right then.

 

“Do you really wanna go there, Miguel?” I asked, getting up in his face as close as possible. “Because we can, right now. I don’t give a fuck. You’re an asshole and a little bitch, and I’m not intimidated by you or your friends at all. Do you remember Saturday night? Because I do.”

 

Miguel’s jaw tightened. Still silent. Then, slowly, he nodded. Just once. And walked away by himself, leaving a crowd of onlookers standing around muttering amongst themselves, and clearly confused by what just happened.

 

“That’s right, go fuck yourself, you pussy!” I shouted after him.

 

I had no idea where all of that came from; he just really pissed me off. I was not usually the confrontational type, but he was being a selfish jerk and a hypocrite, simply because I wanted to be friends with Yeison, and he was jealous or bitter or whatever. I really wished I had punched him in his arrogant face, even if it was a truly pretty face. All that shit he said he was going to change, for me. He clearly hadn’t meant it. At that moment, I felt like I’d really dodged a bullet by not getting involved with him, even as friends.

 

The courtyard buzzed again, but it was different – quieter, more curious. I could feel their eyes on me. Maybe nobody had stood up to Miguel before. Maybe they were shocked that the new gringo just called him out in front of half the school. I really didn’t care.

 

That night, I curled up on my bed, Max at my feet, and texted Yeison.

 

Me: “You okay?”

 

Yeison: “I’m fine. Thank you again. Really.”

 

Me: “Did Miguel apologize?”

 

Yeison: “Yes. He said sorry. It was quick, but he said it.”

 

Me: “You think he’ll cause more problems?”

 

Yeison: “Probably not. Because... you are a gringo.”

 

I laughed out loud at that.

 

Me: “What does that have to do with anything?”

 

Yeison: “Many people are scared to mess with Americans. You are different. They notice.”

 

Me: “That’s ridiculous. I’m no different than anyone else.”

 

Yeison: “But it's true. Also... do you miss me? I thought about you a lot today and how brave you were. No one ever stand up for me like that.”

 

I stared at the screen for a moment, unsure how to respond. Would I be glad if he were here right now? Yeah, probably. I hated being alone – unless things were really dark at the time, but I was feeling okay, though still a little amped up on adrenaline. But we’d just seen each other a few hours ago. Not exactly enough time to start “missing” someone. So instead of answering honestly, I decided to be coy.

 

Me: “Maybe.”

 

There was a pause. I watched the typing bubbles pop up and disappear. Then finally:

 

Yeison: “Jummmmmmm”

 

Me: “Well, ‘jummmmmmm’ to you too! ☹”

 

This time, the pause dragged on longer. It made my stomach twist. What if my attempt at jerking his chain a little was just pissing him off? Reading cultural signals and cues was not easy.

 

What if I was misreading everything?

 

Then, finally, came his reply:

 

Yeison: “You’re a silly boy. Muy charrito! 😜”

 

I flopped back against my pillows and let out a sound that was half a sigh, half a laugh. At least he seemed to have a sense of humor, or at least he could understand mine. My chest felt full and light at the same time. After everything – the awkward sleepovers, the heartbreak with Rory, the confusion with Miguel – something real might be finally taking root. A friendship that I needed so much.

 

I still didn’t know where it was going, though. It was still way too early to tell. But he sure had a lot more going for him than Miguel, except, of course, for the wealthy parents.

 

But for the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to find out.

 

But I also needed someone to talk to, someone I could confide in, someone who could help center me when I was falling to pieces. Could Yeison do that for me?

 

***

 

At Tuesday morning break, the courtyard was already steaming under the mid-morning sun, the humidity clinging to my skin like a second shirt. I pressed my back to the cool stone wall beneath the shade of the same tree where our little group always sat, watching the breeze rattle the leaves above us like restless hands. My uniform was starting to itch, and I kept tugging at the collar like it might help me breathe better. It didn’t.

 

I glanced down at my phone. Two bars of signal. That was enough.

 

Before I could change my mind, I hit the call button.

 

“Hey, kid. You good?” my dad answered, his voice clipped and tired, like he was mid-briefing and had just stepped out to take the call.

 

“I guess.” I stared down at a crack in the sidewalk, trying to focus on something other than the sinking feeling in my gut. “I thought you were going to be around more.”

 

Silence.

 

He sighed. “I know. I’ve just been slammed with this operation. It’s bigger than we expected. A lot is happening. I’m sure you heard about that major seizure of 1,000 kilos of cocaine in Turbo. That was massive.”

 

Same old story. A lot is happening. Like I didn’t figure into the “lot.”

 

“I moved here for you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re barely even around.”

 

Another pause. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I really am. I’ll try to do better, but you know I came here for work, not a vacation. Things are just… complicated right now. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

 

That word again – complicated. I hated it. If he thought his life was complicated, he should try out mine for a while. He was the one who was really pushing me to come down to Colombia so we could spend more time together, but I guess things weren’t going to turn out the way I’d expected. But so be it. It was nothing new. I’d always been an independent kid, so I’m sure I could handle it. Plus, I guess I always had Juan Camilo in a pinch.

 

“It’s fine,” I lied, my throat burning. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

 

We said goodbye, and I ended the call. He didn’t even ask how I was doing in school. He didn’t ask if I’d made any friends or what it felt like being thrown into a new country with barely a map.

 

Just as I slid my phone back into my pocket, I spotted Zack leaning back against the trunk of our tree, lazily sipping water, his hair sticking to his forehead. Yeison was sitting cross-legged beside him, sipping a Postobón apple soda and laughing at something Zack had said.

 

They all looked so… normal. Like they belonged here, like they’d sprouted straight from the cracks in the courtyard stones, rooted in the sun and rhythm of life at El Colegio Internacional de los Andes. And then there was me – awkward, restless in my own skin, always a few steps behind, terrified that one wrong word, one wrong move, would give me away. Worse – that I was already the wrong thing just by being me.

 

I pulled my phone back out and texted Zack. It was time to put him to the test to see if he could really be a friend.

Me: “I need to talk to you about something really important. Can you come over after school?”

He looked up at me, confused, since I was literally ten feet away, but when his phone buzzed, he grinned.

Zack: “Sure!”

 

Then I texted Juan Camilo and let him know Zack would be coming home with us. He sent back a thumbs-up emoji, as chill as ever.

 

The rest of the school day was pure torture. I couldn’t focus on anything. I barely even registered when my English literature teacher called on me. My hands were sweaty, and my leg kept bouncing under the desk like it had a mind of its own. I must have looked like I was hopped up on caffeine and Red Bull, or like I was a meth addict.

 

All day, I kept imagining how it could go. What if Zack got weird? What if he told someone? What if it changed everything and I lost one of the only people who actually felt like he could be a friend here? I wanted to believe he was chill – he seemed chill – but there’s always that risk, especially if he came from a really conservative religious family. They may seem overly friendly on the outside, but can turn on you in a second, damn you to hell for eternity.

 

Even in D.C., coming out hadn’t always gone smoothly. There were people who said the right things to your face and whispered behind your back, people who acted like nothing changed but suddenly stopped inviting you places, or you stopped being “one of the guys.” I’d seen it quite a few times. Many of those kinds of stories were shared at our GSA club at school, which seemed odd given how far the country and society seemed to have come.

 

I had this one friend, Richie, who was inseparable from his best friend, Tommy. They’d grown up together – literally since they were babies. You never saw one without the other. During sleepovers, they’d share a bed, usually with one of them draped over the other like it was the most natural thing in the world. They shared everything. There were always rumors at school that they were secretly boyfriends, and honestly, they didn’t seem to care. Hell, I thought they were boyfriends, too.

 

Turns out Richie was gay – but Tommy wasn’t. And when Richie finally came out to him, he expected what anyone would expect from a lifelong best friend: acceptance, a hug, the kind of unconditional love you don’t have to question. But that’s not what happened. Tommy completely cut him off. Fifteen years of friendship, just gone. To my knowledge, they never spoke again.

 

So yeah, no matter how safe someone might seem, you can never really be sure. But on the flip side, people you don’t expect to be safe can end up surprising you. Life’s a crapshoot like that.

 

By the time the last bell rang, my stomach was in knots. I practically ran to the front gate, just needing this moment to finally happen – good or bad. It had actually been so long since I’d come out to someone important to me, so I was a bit out of practice, and my anxiety was going crazy. But then I saw Yeison waiting there, leaning against the gate in his tight-fitting school uniform, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and that stupidly cute, shy smile on his face when he saw me.

 

And just like that, the world tilted. Again. Zack could wait for a few minutes.

 

We’d only spent one night together – hadn’t even kissed, let alone had sex – and somehow I was already starting to like this boy. And honestly? That freaked me the hell out. The whole point was to “play the field” a little in Medellín before I let myself get caught up with someone. And part of me still wanted that. Everywhere I looked, there were guys – adorable skinny twinks, gym-built boys who looked like they were carved out of marble, even regular dudes who were still somehow way hotter than they had any right to be. Medellín was basically a candy store for gay boys, and Grindr was like walking in with an unlimited gift card.

 

So why the hell was I stuck on Yeison? He wasn’t part of the plan. Not even close. And yet… maybe that was the problem. Perhaps I didn’t even know what the plan was anymore.

 

“Hey,” he said, and my heart did a little somersault.

 

“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d just run a marathon.

 

“Can we still see each other this week?” he asked, brushing a few curls from his forehead. It was such a small thing, but it sent an electric wave through me.

 

I nodded. “Yeah. Probably. We still have a lot to learn about each other.”

 

That smile. ¡Dios mío!

 

I hadn’t set a date yet, though, because the other half of my brain kept screaming at me to slow down, to have some fun first. Medellín was overflowing with possibilities, and part of me wanted to dive headfirst into it all – satisfy my curiosity… and, yeah, my libido. But deep down, I knew how that story ended. Once I started down that road, it wouldn’t just be hard to stop – it would be impossible. I’d get lost in it, swallowed up in a maze of hot boys and hookups, and maybe never find my way back out.

 

It felt like I had an angel on one shoulder, begging me to change, to be better, and a devil on the other, whispering about how good it would feel to give in. And the worst part was, I couldn’t tell which voice was louder.

 

And this was Medellín – a city that could seduce you in a heartbeat, where it was far too easy to get lost in whatever vice called your name. The energy, the beauty, the danger – they were all wrapped up together, impossible to separate. Everything was right there, waiting, as long as you were willing to ignore the razor’s edge woven into it. And that edge was sharper here than almost anywhere else.

 

Then Juan Camilo pulled up in the SUV, breaking me from my reverie, and I had to pull myself away from Yeison. I said a quick “hasta mañana” to Yeison and slid into the back seat with Zack, who’d been waiting by the car.

 

Back at the house, the air smelled like fried heaven. Doña Susana had really gone all out: golden-fried yuca with creamy suero, mozzarella sticks with hogao, spicy buffalo wings (even though the paisas hate spicy food – but Zack and I weren’t paisas!), and crisp French fries. It looked like game-day food, but better. Zack’s eyes lit up.

 

She offered him a drink, and he said, in perfect Spanish, “Agua sin gas, por favor.”

 

She blinked in surprise, then nodded approvingly. I wanted to melt into the floor. How was he so effortlessly cool? Totally nerdy but in the coolest way possible. He owned his nerdiness. I wished I could do that with my messed-up head and heart.

 

After stuffing ourselves to the brink, I led Zack to my room. It was the one place that felt entirely mine. My posters, my clothes, the messy stack of books and notebooks on the desk, the walls even painted the same color as back at home – dark blue. We flopped down on the bed, side by side, like we would have done back in middle school.

 

But everything felt different now. I wasn’t that kid anymore. And I wasn’t sure I could go back to being just Hunter from D.C. I had a feeling that Colombia was going to change me, somehow, for better or worse.

 

I stared at the ceiling, then turned to him.

 

“Zack,” I said, heart pounding in my chest. “There’s something I need to tell you. And it’s… kind of a big deal. I’ve been freaking out about it all day, to be honest. And this isn’t the kind of thing that’s freaked me out in a long time, because it’s become so natural.”

 

He turned toward me, propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

 

“No. Not that kind of trouble.” I swallowed. “I’m … uh, well … ummm … I’m—I’m gay.”

 

The silence that followed felt like it stretched for a year. Heat rushed to my cheeks, my lungs burning like I’d forgotten how to breathe. I hadn’t really thought about this before coming here. Back home, that whole stage of my life felt finished, like something I’d already outgrown. Everyone knew, and I didn’t have to keep explaining myself. The idea that I might have to start over, to feel that same awkward, anxious pressure all over again, made me want to scream.

 

And then came the defiance. Why should I have to “officially” come out at all? Why did it have to be some big declaration every single time? Why couldn’t I just exist, be myself, and let people put two and two together? Back home, even being “out,” there was always some risk – but here, I wasn’t about to play the part of the nervous kid rehearsing his lines again. This was me. And if people had a problem with it, that was on them.

 

But then Zack’s lips curled into a smirk, and he said, “I thought so.”

 

I blinked. “Wait – seriously?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, c’mon. You’ve been swooning over Yeison like a bad telenovela since last week, constantly making googly eyes. Then, you had Miguel, the biggest player in Medellín, spend the night at your house.”

 

My face turned red. “I have not been swooning. And I only cuddled with Miguel, which most definitely will not be happening again. And Yeison and I haven’t even kissed yet!”

 

He grinned. “Don’t worry, I think it’s adorable, but if I were you, I’d choose Yeison over Miguel. Miguel’s a dipshit. He thinks he practically owns the school and everyone in it. He’s bad news.”

 

Then it hit me – an oh shit moment – when I realized I’d basically just outed Miguel. And he’d been crystal clear: no one was supposed to know. My stomach dropped. I’d really screwed up, and now I had to fix it.

 

“But Zack, you can’t say anything—anything—about Miguel. No matter how much of an ass he can be, he doesn’t deserve to be outed if that’s not what he wants. And trust me, he doesn’t want that. So please, keep it to yourself,” I said, practically begging.

 

Zack held up his hands. “Relax, man. No worries. I’d never do that. And honestly? Doesn’t even surprise me that much about him.”

 

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My whole body sagged with relief. “So… we’re good?”

 

“Hunter. Friends are friends. This doesn’t change anything,” he said, shrugging.

 

Something sharp and warm pushed up in my throat. I blinked it back and nodded.

 

“Thanks. Really.”

 

“Why tell me now?”

 

“Because I don’t have anyone else to talk to here,” I admitted. “And because I feel like I’m going to explode if I keep trying to figure all this shit out by myself. You’ve been here longer, and I thought maybe… maybe you could help me understand how it all works here.”

 

He nodded thoughtfully. “So… is Yeison your guy?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I like him. But I’m scared I’ll just screw it up. I already did with someone else – Rory – and I don’t know how to trust that this would be any different. Sometimes I think it’d be easier to just go out, hook up whenever I feel the ‘need,’ and leave it at that. I don’t think it would be hard for me here. Maybe I’m just not cut out for a relationship. And honestly? Yeison would probably be better off without me.”

 

Zack stayed quiet for a beat, then leaned forward. “Okay, first of all, be straight with him. If you’ve got doubts, tell him. Colombian boys might be hot, but they’re not mind readers. Just talk to him like you would anyone else. They’re really not that different from us. Just… maybe a little more passionate. And intense.” He smirked. “Well, a lot more passionate and intense.”

 

He shifted on the bed, tucking his legs under him and lowering his voice like he was about to spill a state secret. “But listen – if you’re actually serious about dating someone here, there’s something you should know about Colombia.”

 

I blinked. “Like what?”

 

He gave me a knowing look. “On the surface, it’s super Catholic – rosaries, Sunday mass, grandma lighting candles for everything. But underneath? It’s one of the most sexual cultures I’ve ever seen. And trust me, my family’s moved around a lot for my dad’s work.”

 

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“For starters,” he said, lowering his voice, “prostitution’s legal here. Not just tolerated – legal. Whole zones for it. Supposedly regulated, but… not really. But even bigger than that is the webcam industry. I mean massive – thousands and thousands of young people streaming live shows online. Guys, girls, couples – stripteases, full-on sex acts, whatever. And they get tipped in U.S. dollars. You’ve heard of Chaturbate, Flirt4Free, Stripchat…”

 

My eyes widened. “Yeah, of course, I’ve heard of them. But it’s that big here?”

 

“Oh yeah. Some work out of their apartments, others from big studios. It’s everywhere. People pay for their families’ rent, groceries, bills – some even put themselves through college with cam money. It’s a huge part of the Colombian economy. Honestly, if you’re good-looking here, there’s a decent chance you’ve done some webcamming or you’re posting vids on OnlyFans. It’s just… normal.”

 

I shook my head, still trying to wrap my brain around it. Back home, I thought of webcamming and OnlyFans as kind of trashy, maybe even scandalous. Here, it sounded like practically anyone could be doing it – or would be, if they were old enough. For a second, I imagined what it’d be like if I could try it, but then reality snapped back hard: I wasn’t even eighteen yet. Not an option.

 

“Wow,” I said quietly. “That’s… insane.”

 

He grinned. “Welcome to Colombia.”

 

I tried to picture that – someone my age casually doing that kind of thing online like it was a weekend job, or even a full-time job for many, like Zack seemed to describe it.

 

“And that’s why,” Zack went on, “you can’t always tell who’s straight or gay here. Colombian guys all dress sharp, care a ton about how they look, and plenty even use makeup. They’ll drop serious money on high-end creams and beauty products. And yeah, some are… flexible. For money. Or just for fun. I can imagine it gets pretty confusing.”

 

“Wow,” I breathed, still stunned. “So… Yeison?”

 

Zack lifted a hand. “No clue. Probably not – especially if he goes to our school. Most of us are underage, and technically, it’s illegal for minors to do any of that. But let’s be real – some still find ways around it. Fake IDs, older friends, whatever. So don’t assume anything. Just be open-minded, be careful, and be honest with him. And if it ever turns out he does do it, don’t get all judgmental. It’s not because he’s some kind of sex freak – it’s survival. Most of them do it to help support their families. Rent, bills, school fees. That’s, like, ninety-nine percent of the story. The other one percent?” He smirked. “They probably just like being watched.”

 

I nodded slowly, my mind still spinning. Back home, sex work and camming felt like these edgy, fringe things you only heard about in whispers, or saw online late at night when you were bored and curious. Here, it sounded like a whole hidden economy, woven right into the culture. Like if you were good-looking enough, chances were people just assumed you’d done it – or would at some point. It was hard to wrap my head around. I wasn’t sure if I should be shocked, impressed, or just… overwhelmed.

 

Zack softened. “Look, I’m not saying this to scare you. But things are different here. You’re playing by new rules now. Just take it slow and be smart. Maybe make some more Colombian gay friends – just friends – and they can give you a lot better advice than I can.”

 

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “Seriously. That was... a lot. But I needed to hear it.”

 

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got your back.”

 

And somehow, after everything he’d just told me, I believed him more than ever.

 

It was wild. And more than a little sobering.

 

“Wait… how do you even know all this?” I asked.

 

Zack just shrugged. “Internet. Friends. I’ve been here a while. You start hearing things.”

 

We talked for a long time – about Yeison, about Miguel, about the culture shock that kept sucker-punching me every other day, and even more about the crazy sex industry here. It was like Colombia wasn’t just the world’s largest exporter of cocaine, it was also one of the world’s largest exporters of porn and prostitutes. Come to think of it, it was depressing to think of a country so stunningly beautiful, yet it was mainly known for cocaine, sex, and coffee.

 

Zack also warned me that Miguel was the jealous type and that he had a lot of influence at school. He told me to be careful. I’d only gotten a small taste of that jealousy with Miguel’s reaction to Yeison and me just being friends.

 

“But I believe in you,” Zack said. “I believe in love, too. And I think if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

 

I hugged him. I didn’t even care if it was awkward. He hugged me right back.

 

That night, I lay in bed texting with Yeison for almost an hour. We didn’t talk about anything heavy – just jokes, emojis, helping me with my Spanish a bit, and plans to hang out again. He invited me to watch him play volleyball or soccer sometime, and I told him I wouldn’t miss it, even though I thought both sports were among the most boring ever invented. But I was trying to be less selfish.

 

But under the glow of my screen, with the curtains half-drawn and the lights of the city twinkling outside of our townhouse, my thoughts drifted. I thought about Zack and how lucky I was to finally have someone I could genuinely call a “friend” here. I thought about Yeison and how I really felt about him. And I thought about my dad – about the whispers I’d seen online, the grainy news footage of cartels and raids, and the name “El Chino,” which seemed to carry a weight heavier than I could wrap my mind around. Apparently, he was a big deal in the world of drugs in Colombia.

 

Something bad was coming. I could feel it in my chest.

 

***

 

Wednesday started like any other school day. The sun spilled gold across the hills as Juan Camilo drove us up the winding entrance to El Colegio Internacional de los Andes. Everything looked deceptively normal – the students milling around the courtyard, the ivy climbing lazily up the administrative building, even the birds flitting between the tall eucalyptus trees that lined the parking lot.

 

But there was tension in the air. I felt it in my chest before I could explain why. Like the air pressure had dropped, or the earth was holding its breath.

 

The “anti-narco” posters were still plastered across the front of the school – handmade signs, bold and angry, condemning cartels, urging students to speak out. But now, interspersed between them, were newer flyers. Black and white. Printed. Professional. Warnings. Threats. “Let this be the last word spoken,” one read. Another: “Lions don't respond to mice.”

 

Some students laughed about them. Others looked away.

 

I didn’t laugh.

 

I noticed Juan Camilo glance at the posters as we passed, his eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. He didn’t say anything, but his hands tensed slightly on the wheel.

 

When we stepped out of the SUV, the school’s security presence looked unchanged —just the usual few guards with cheap radios and small pistols stationed at the perimeter gates. A few other SUVs were parked nearby, each with a bodyguard or two lingering beside them. They blended into the scenery, just like they always did.

 

Too easily.

 

I met Zack and Yeison under “our” tree, where the morning sun filtered through thick branches and painted everything in soft greens and golds. Zack was cracking some dumb joke about the assembly, and Yeison was pretending to be unimpressed.

 

None of us knew what it was for – just that it was happening right before homeroom. I didn’t think much of it. Honestly, I was glad for anything that delayed Pre-Calc.

 

At 8:15 on the dot, a chime echoed through the speakers. The gates were still wide open, which was odd. Usually, they were closed tightly after the first bell. Now, they hung open like welcoming arms, facing the road like a stage for anyone watching.

 

That was the first thing that made me uneasy.

 

Students gathered quickly. The courtyard filled with uniforms and chatter, shuffling, and the usual gossip.

 

I stayed near the edge of the crowd. I didn’t know why. Instinct, maybe. Something told me to keep a clear view of the exits. I looked behind me and saw that Juan Camilo and most of the bodyguards that usually would have left by now were still there. Juan Camilo was standing outside his SUV, arms crossed, his pistol in its holster. That calmed me a little.

 

The Headmistress stepped up to the podium, her face carved from stone, her eyes blazing. No headset. No translator. Just Spanish. Pure, raw Spanish.

 

“¡Ya basta!” she shouted, pounding her fist on the wooden podium so hard it echoed like a gunshot.

 

According to Zack’s rough translation, she called them cowards. Murderers. She shouted about corruption, about reclaiming the future, about not letting our school be silenced or bought. The speech was more of a war cry than anything else – fierce, passionate, defiant. I should’ve been inspired.

 

Instead, my skin prickled with dread.

 

I scanned the perimeter again, and that’s when I saw it.

 

Juan Camilo’s SUV was still parked by the gate – but now the back hatch was open, and he was crouched behind it, calmly assembling what looked like a high-powered rifle. His movements were smooth. Deliberate. Too deliberate.

 

Two other bodyguards were doing the same – unclipping holsters, checking their sidearms, speaking into radios.

 

That was all I needed to see.

 

I grabbed Yeison’s arm and whispered, “We’re moving. Now.”

 

“What?” he asked, confused, but I was already pulling him toward the boulders by the trees near the edge of the courtyard – away from the crowd, away from the gates. I crouched low, trying to blend in. My heart was beating out of my chest. Something was about to happen. I knew it. At that moment, I was actually thankful for all those active shooter drills we had back in the States.

 

Then I heard it.

 

Engines.

 

Not just engines – motorcycles. Loud. Fast. Angry.

 

Three of them.

 

They appeared like shadows, racing up the hill from the main road. Each bike had a driver and a passenger, dressed in black, faces hidden by helmets and tinted visors. They didn’t slow down. They didn’t hesitate. They pulled up just outside the gates – right there, in plain sight – and then everything exploded.

 

I’ll never forget the sounds.

 

It was like the air itself had been ripped open. The staccato burst of automatic gunfire cracked through the courtyard – short-barreled submachine guns, sweeping the stage with merciless efficiency.

 

The Headmistress was hit almost instantly. Her body jolted as round after round tore into her – chest, neck, torso, and face. A spray of blood hit the podium like paint, and she collapsed backwards in a heap of white linen and crimson.

 

The crowd screamed hysterically.

 

But the gunmen didn’t stop. They opened fire on the school itself – on the anti-narco signs, on the administrative building’s windows, on the crowd. Bullets shredded banners, shattered glass, and punched holes in walls like wet paper. The steps of the school turned red. A girl went down screaming, clutching her arm. A boy collapsed on the lawn, blood pouring from a stomach wound.

 

I pulled Yeison to the ground behind the boulders. We huddled together, shaking, covering our heads as bullets hissed past like angry wasps.

 

“Don’t move,” I told him, as I held his hand tightly. “Whatever happens, don’t move.”

 

I peeked out.

 

Juan Camilo stepped forward from behind the SUV, rifle raised, voice booming.

 

“¡Policía Nacional de Colombia! ¡Bajen sus armas!”

 

The shooters ignored him. They revved their engines.

 

Then Juan Camilo opened fire in short bursts.

 

His rifle thundered, sending sharp, precise bursts toward the motorcycles. Other bodyguards joined in with their pistols, ducking behind cars and pillars. The two lead bikes darted off in different directions, weaving through parked cars, ducking into alleys. But one of the guards got lucky – his shot blew out a tire on the third bike.

 

The motorcycle skidded violently across the pavement, flipping and crashing into a lamppost. The riders were thrown like rag dolls. One didn’t get up.

 

Bodyguards swarmed them, weapons drawn. One gunman reached for his fallen weapon and was immediately kicked in the face. The other tried to run but was tackled to the ground and held at gunpoint.

 

And then… it was over.

 

The courtyard looked like a war zone.

 

The air smelled like gunpowder, blood, and burning rubber. Screams echoed from every direction – students crying, teachers shouting, people moaning in pain. Glass crunched underfoot. A siren in the distance. Too distant.

 

I checked Yeison – he was still breathing, still conscious, though his face had gone pale.

 

“I have to help,” I said, heart pounding.

 

“No – please – stay,” he begged, grabbing my sleeve.

 

But I couldn’t. I gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and then ran towards the mayhem.

 

Behind a tree, I found Zack, crouched low, shaking. His eyes met mine, terrified.

 

“Go to Yeison,” I told him. “Stay hidden until the police and paramedics get here. Try to keep each other calm.”

 

Then I turned toward the admin building.

 

It was wrecked. Windows gone. Smoke curling from somewhere. Blood smeared across the walls. I stepped over shards of glass, coughing as I passed through the haze.

 

That’s when I found him.

 

A boy – he said his name was Ricardo – curled on the floor, trembling. He was bleeding from his shoulder, red soaking through his uniform.

 

“I’ve got you,” I said, dropping to my knees. “I’m Hunter. You’re going to be okay.”

 

“Me duele mucho,” he whispered. “Hurts so bad…”

 

I yanked off my shirt and pressed it hard against the bullet wound on his shoulder. “Hold on. You have to hold on.”

 

He gripped my wrist with his good hand, eyes wide with fear. I recognized him. I'd seen him around. He always looked so composed. He was another one of their star soccer players, but not part of Miguel’s group. Now he was just a kid bleeding out on a tile floor.

 

Minutes passed like hours.

 

Then – sirens. The cavalry had finally arrived.

 

Trucks rolled in. Soldiers from the Ejército Nacional jumped out, weapons ready. Police swarmed the gates, along with a group of individuals who appeared to be commandos, wearing black flak jackets with “GAULA” written on them. Ambulances. Motorcycle officers. Chaos, but organized.

 

“¡Aquí! ¡Auxilio!” I shouted. A medic rushed in. Together, we got Ricardo on a stretcher.

 

His hand slipped from mine as they wheeled him away.

 

I turned to help someone else – and then I was yanked backward by the collar.

 

“¡IDIOTA!” Juan Camilo roared. “¿¡Estás loco!?”

 

“What—!?”

 

“You’re supposed to shelter in place! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

 

“I was helping!”

 

“You’re the son of a DEA agent! You’re a target! I’m sure the cartel already knows who your dad is, who he really works for, and who you are. That’s why the fuck I’m here!”

 

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to say that, and it looked like he immediately recognized his mistake.

 

“I couldn’t just do nothing!”

 

He was fuming, nostrils flaring, hands clenched. “You’re coming with me. Now!”

 

“My friends—!”

 

“Fine. Bring them. But we’re getting the hell out of here.”

 

I called out to Zack and Yeison. They stumbled through the smoke and noise, and together we threw ourselves into the back of the SUV.

 

Juan Camilo slammed the door shut, jumped behind the wheel, and floored it. He told us to keep our heads down. We peeled away from the school, tires screeching.

 

Behind us, the school faded into a blur of sirens, red lights, and gun smoke.

 

I didn’t say anything.

 

None of us did.

 

We just sat there – shell-shocked, shaking, and silent – trying to process the fact that we’d just witnessed a full-blown cartel assassination.

 

And we were still alive.

 

 

 

 

 

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