Chapter 1: The Algorithm Doesn't Lie (Usually)

The empanada was still warm in Diego Morales' mouth when his laptop screen exploded with confetti animations and the words "¡FELICITACIONES, SEÑOR PRESIDENTE!" in comic sans font—which should have been his first clue that something had gone catastrophically wrong.

"Mierda," he mumbled through a mouthful of beef and raisins, nearly choking as his coding project for the municipal voting system cheerfully announced that he'd just won the Chilean presidential election with 847,392 votes. Which was impressive, considering he'd never actually registered as a candidate.

Diego's cramped Santiago apartment—decorated in early "unemployed programmer" with towers of energy drink cans and a mattress that served as both bed and office—suddenly felt like the most dangerous place in South America. His phone buzzed. Then again. Then it started ringing nonstop.

"Diego?" The voice belonged to Valentina Herrera, the sharp-tongued systems analyst from the Electoral Commission who'd hired him to debug their voting software. Her usually composed tone cracked like thin ice. "We have a problem."

"Ya think?" Diego scrambled to his feet, still wearing yesterday's Metallica t-shirt and mismatched socks. "Val, I just ran a test simulation to check for vulnerabilities in the system. I wasn't supposed to actually—"

"The announcement went live twenty minutes ago." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Channel 13, CNN Chile, even La Tercera's website. The entire country thinks you're their new president."

Through his second-floor window, Diego could see people gathering on the street below, some holding hastily made signs with his name misspelled in three different ways. A mariachi band had materialized from nowhere, serenading his building with "La Cueca Presidencial."

"This is insane. Can't we just... I don't know, send out a correction? Tweet that it was a glitch?"

"Diego." Valentina's tone shifted, becoming deadly serious. "Eduardo Ramirez won the election. The real election. But he died of a heart attack three hours before the polls closed."

The empanada turned to concrete in Diego's stomach. Eduardo Ramirez—the charismatic businessman whose campaign posters still smiled down from every corner in Santiago, promising prosperity and progress. Dead.

"His team has been stalling for time, trying to figure out how to handle the transition. But your... accident... just solved their problem. Or created a much bigger one."

Diego's doorbell rang. Then someone knocked. Then someone else pounded on his door like they were trying to break it down.

"Who else knows about Ramirez?" Diego whispered into the phone.

"His inner circle. A few government officials. And—"

The line went dead.

Diego stared at his phone, watching the missed call notifications pile up like digital snow. Reporters, politicians, his mother (three times), and numbers he didn't recognize with country codes from places he couldn't pronounce.

The pounding on his door intensified. "¡Señor Presidente! Channel 7 News! Just a few questions!"

But it wasn't the media that made Diego's blood freeze. It was the figure he spotted across the street—a woman in a dark coat, standing perfectly still while chaos swirled around her, watching his building with the patience of a predator. She raised something to her ear. Spoke briefly. Then melted back into the crowd.

Diego's laptop chimed with a new message. His hands trembled as he clicked it open.

FROM: [email protected] TO: [email protected] SUBJECT: You weren't supposed to win

*Diego—*

*The algorithm worked exactly as intended. You were chosen long before today.*

*Eduardo Ramirez left something for you. A letter. Find it before they do.*

*Trust no one. Especially not the beautiful systems analyst who's been watching you for six months.*

*Congratulations, Mr. President. Try not to die in your first week.*

*—A Friend*

Diego's laptop screen went black. Not shut down—black. As if someone had just severed every connection between him and the digital world.

The knocking stopped.

His phone buzzed one last time. A text from Valentina: *"Don't open the door. Meet me at La Moneda in one hour. Service entrance. And Diego? Bring your passport."*

As Diego stuffed clothes into a backpack with shaking hands, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Messy black hair, three-day stubble, eyes wide with terror and disbelief. He looked like a man who'd accidentally started a revolution while trying to fix a bug.

Which, apparently, he had.

The mariachi band below struck up "Viva Chile" with renewed enthusiasm, unaware that their new president was crawling out his bathroom window onto a fire escape, clutching a laptop bag and wondering if this was how all accidental dictatorships began.

But as Diego's feet hit the alley behind his building, one thought cut through the panic like a blade: *You were chosen long before today.*

Someone had planned this. Someone had wanted him in power.

The question was why—and whether they intended for him to survive long enough to find out.

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