| The Father's Voice — MINUS HUMAN Vol. II |

| The Hands — MINUS HUMAN Vol. II |

What do you do with the hands that used the most intimate thing inside you to kill? The Anomal watches them between containers. Skin regenerated. Memory didn't. Nine years of labor, First Blood, four objects distributed across two pockets in a fixed sequence. The ritual of touching them, letter, medal, mirror, ring, stopped being a gesture long ago. It's the only structure that holds. Chapter 21 moves through three articulations the novel has been building since the Interlude. The first is confession: the Anomal seeks out Gula not for intelligence but to speak aloud what he has kept buried. Gula doesn't forgive, doesn't absolve, doesn't offer comfort. She returns vulnerability with vulnerability, offering her own wound so he can see a shape that might fit. The second is the Tael question: the ease with which escape routes opened, the contacts that connected too cleanly, the doors that should have been locked. Someone helped him reach Dis. The question of why begins to surface. The third is the descent to the Heart of Dis, where two desynchronized rhythms, the Tic Tac and the seventy-two-hour pulse of the city's core, recognize each other without merging. It is there, palm open on warm stone, that the Anomal produces the hardest words of the volume: not those of First Blood, but those of what comes after. «I didn't lose it. I stopped practicing. And I can begin again.» Practice is not linear recovery. It is the moment when shared weight replaces solitary weight, and the hands that killed learn to stay open. 🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Shadow Jesús Bernal Allende https://a.co/d/0bu0xYKq 🌐 https://minushuman.io/EN/ 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795 📷 @minushuman.universe · 🎵 @MinusHuman.Universe · ▶️ @MinusHuman.Universe

| The Father's Voice — MINUS HUMAN Vol. II |

Episode 20 · Season 2 · MINUS HUMAN — The Shadow What weighs more: a father who never walked through the door, or the words he took seventy-two years to write? In Dis, death notices arrive between shifts — no ceremony, no pause. Cian is dead. The notification comes with a messenger whose straight back belongs to someone who still believes the ground beneath him is solid, a medal from a man named Tomás who gave his life for a stranger, and a letter written by hands that learned to speak too late. The Anomal receives all of it. Cold metal. Paper marked by small circles that were never rain. The letter gives the only thing Cian has the right to give: the unvarnished account of a man who loved with cowardice, who kept his distance from a son whose eyes were his mother's eyes, and looking at them meant watching her die again. At the center of that account, the words Ariadne never got to say herself: you were born whole in a way this world does not know how to recognize. The sound you hear is an echo. The door is a door. Doors exist to be crossed. When the letter ends, Dis returns Dren — the version the Gallu sent back after showing him every life he might have lived. Every life except one where the Anomal was absent. One hour. A ring passed from one hand to another. A goodbye that walks away without looking back. The Tic Tac beats three times, slow. It always beats three times. Being human is practice. Keep choosing. Especially when it hurts. 🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Shadow Jesús Bernal Allende https://a.co/d/0aGUDhxU [https://a.co/d/0aGUDhxU] 🌐 https://minushuman.io/EN/ [https://minushuman.io/EN/] 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795 [https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795]

| Qadim — MINUS HUMAN Vol. II |

What kind of archive does a man build when all he keeps is what others have discarded? In the corridors of Dis, where every exchange runs on barter and survival, one man breaks that grammar entirely: he gives away clean water without expecting payment, eats in silence, and keeps — in an archive only he knows — the stories of people no one else would listen to. His name is Qadim. His most persistent gesture: fingers checking an object in his pocket, again and again, as if guarding a relic his identity depends on. This chapter builds out one of the central figures of MINUS HUMAN's second volume: a character who embodies the question of what it means to be classified, sold, reduced to an ontological type, and still retain the capacity to care for another human being. The narrative tracks three threads running through the broader saga: - The archive as resistance: holding someone else's story when the system only recognizes merchandise. - Silence as its own language, distinct from silence imposed by fear or surveillance. - The body as a carrier of memory: the mirror fragment Qadim hands over becomes a vessel of symbolic transmission across the rest of the book. "The heaviest thing we carry," Qadim says, "is what we don't say." That line holds the emotional core of the chapter — the unspoken as physical weight, and the archive as a way of honoring what would otherwise vanish without a witness. 🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Shadow (Volume II) Jesús Bernal Allende 🌐 https://minushuman.io/EN/ 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

| The Economy of Pain — MINUS HUMAN Vol. II |

What survives when a system converts grief into inventory? In Dis, pain has a market rate. Human experiences are extracted, sealed in metal containers, and graded by intensity for sale to colonies that will never set foot in the world where they were produced. The protagonist works as an ontological taster — not with instruments, but with his hands — evaluating the purity of suffering packaged for consumption. Nine years of this work have compressed him into something nearly frictionless: a body that performs without asking whether it wants to. That compression fails across four movements: * Routine: a body that honors its contract with gravity before the mind wakes up to object. * The name: an inventory label — ELIANA — that the Tic Tac reads before consciousness does. * Fragments: memory that doesn't live in scenes but in textures; wool beneath bare feet, the specific blue of a dress on an unmappable day, the weight of a ring traded for clean water. * The ritual: saying a name aloud in an empty warehouse, not as prayer or grief, but as testimony that a person existed. The chapter closes with the Heart of Dis — a pulse rising from the bedrock that beats with unusual frequency tonight, as if something beneath the city remembered it was alive. And with a stranger who does something no one in Dis does: looks at him with uncalculated curiosity, without commercial motive. The one thing the system cannot extract, grade, or sell is the decision that something matters. Made in silence against cold metal, that decision is the only form of resistance this chapter advances. 🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Shadow (Vol. II) Jesús Bernal Allende https://a.co/d/0aGUDhxU [https://a.co/d/0aGUDhxU] 🌐 https://minushuman.io/EN/ [https://minushuman.io/EN/] 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795 [https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795]

| First Blood — MINUS HUMAN Vol. I |

What remains of a man once the only thing anchoring him is no longer what he protects, but what he remembers feeling while destroying? In the bone-built alleys of Dis, twelve attackers emerge from the corridors hunting for the one thing the system still hasn't managed to extract: an Attuned child, one more Recordante for the market. The Anomal — Case 72-T, ENR, the anomaly the system was never built to reflect — confronts the choice he's been deferring since the first uncontrolled break: contain what he carries, or release it with intent. Not for the child. For the relief he tasted once and now wants again. Chapter 17 closes Volume I with the scene that names the threshold crossed: — Killing stops being reaction and becomes deliberate choice. — The Unborn manifests for the first time as presence rather than rumor: a bodiless echo that already knows how this story ends. — The cost of release gets fixed in place: what accumulates isn't guilt, it's forgetting. Each time the Tic Tac falls silent to permit destruction, something disappears and doesn't come back. — Gula offers the way out, toward "where those who can no longer return go," and the Anomal takes it knowing there's no path back to who he was before the alley. The question the first attacker asked without expecting an answer — how do you live with this — finally gets one, and it isn't the answer readers expect. You don't live. You survive: one relief after another, one loss after another, until carrying what little remains — a crooked drawing, a child's parting wave — is the only thing separating a man from becoming what hunts him. This chapter closes the founding arc of The Threshold and opens the door to Volume II: The Shadow, where the weapon will learn to aim.