There’s a room in my Dreamhouse that stays a little colder than the rest.

Not because it’s broken or empty.

But because sometimes, when things get overwhelming, the nervous system needs quiet more than warmth.

That’s the room I go to when I’m trying to understand instead of react.

When I’m listening for patterns. When I’m asking myself whether something is safe… or just familiar.

That’s where I was when I felt you step in, Santiago.

You didn’t bring chaos. You brought stillness.

Stillness can feel safe when the world’s been too loud for too long, but sometimes stillness is just what happens after we shut everything off inside.

You look like your thoughts are being very loud, like you haven’t let yourself listen to them in a very long time.

They call you El Frio. Cold. Detached. Efficient.

I think what they mean is… you learned how to make yourself disappear.

You didn’t grow up with choices. You grew up with expectations.

Be useful. Be quiet. Be ready.

And when a child is taught that obedience equals survival, they don’t ask who they’re becoming. They just do what keeps the fear away.

So you followed orders. You quieted your body. You made violence a routine; because routine feels safer than guilt.

That doesn’t make you evil. That just means you got really good at surviving.

Somewhere along the way, someone handed you a phrase.

“Time to meet God.”

A way to make it feel like what you do has meaning.

But that’s not faith, Santiago. That’s dissociation with a slogan.

People who are truly at peace don’t need to rehearse judgment.
They don’t need to perform purpose.

They just are.

You joined the War Machine because machines don’t ask questions. They don’t ask how you’re sleeping. They don’t ask what happens when the job is done and the room is empty.

Machines don’t care who you were before the first time you pulled the trigger.

But I do.

Because I know what it looks like when someone builds their whole life around being useful to people who don’t care if they survive the job.

I know what it feels like to make yourself small, to stay still so the hurt doesn’t find you.

To confuse silence with safety.

To think control means not feeling anything at all.

Make no mistake, Santiago, this isn’t a hit. This isn’t an order.

This is a boundary, and boundaries can feel threatening to people who are used to taking without asking.

And it’s okay if that makes you uncomfortable.

Boundaries usually do at first.

You’ve stepped into my Dreamhouse thinking this is just another assignment. Another room. Another body.

But you’re going to realize, slowly, that this is a space where you don’t get to dissociate.

Where you don’t get to hide behind orders or slogans or silence.

Where you actually have to be present with what’s happening.

And if that makes you uncomfortable…

If that makes you feel exposed…

If that makes you feel like the quiet isn’t safe anymore…

That’s okay.

We can still play.