December 10th 1977. Provincia de Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Two hours had passed since Antonio left Ciudadela in his yellow Citrøen. The tumultuous buzz of urbanity gradually evaporated into a reproaching silence. It was a dry spring day. The scorching rays of a cloudless sky mercilessly drilled through the windshield, further intensifying the heat in his scheming head. He had driven these roads before: he was used to ignoring the misery of the villas that dotted the third world landscape—and yet their presence was a constant backdrop to his motivation to keep climbing, to carry on with his twisted Darwinian quest to become an uncontested top predator. Professor Litvac had given him an out from the repugnant stench of mediocrity that consumed his life; he was still ignorant of the details, but the clandestine nature of the operation surely foreboded auspicious beginnings.
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