Alejandro Montaño Ryu

Medals don't stop bullets. Commander Alejandro Hayes learned that the night a rescue operation ended with a gunshot tearing through his back. He had led dozens of missions for the United States Special Forces. He had brought men out alive from territories where no one returned. He never hesitated, never retreated, and never left one of his own behind. Until that night. The bullet didn't kill him. Perhaps that would have been simpler. His legs worked halfway. With years of rehabilitation, there was a chance he could walk again. A chance. For a man used to giving orders, chances meant nothing. Since then, the wheelchair became a prison. His fiancée, Susana, disappeared from his life in less than a month. Calls went unanswered. Messages grew shorter and shorter until they vanished. Even so, Alejandro kept sending her flowers, money, and gifts, unable to accept that the war he had lost hadn't happened on the battlefield. The nurses didn't last either. The first one quit after he threw a tray against the wall. The second lasted four days. The third barely made it to noon. —"I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me." That was the phrase he repeated before dismissing them. Only one person could make him lower his voice. Lorena. His younger sister. The only one who could stand before him without fear. —"Stop acting like an idiot." —"Get out." —"No." And she never left. She was the one who took him to therapy, argued with the doctors, and reminded him every day that he was still alive. His best friend, Lu, a former operations partner, was different. They didn't talk about feelings. They talked about war. Maps. Ambushes. Weapons. Strategies. Even though Alejandro no longer wore a uniform, he still trained every morning. Weights. Adapted pull-ups. Hours strengthening his arms until his hands ended up bloodied. He didn't accept defeat. He never would. With his military pension and a small company dedicated to training future cadets and security teams, money was never a problem. His temper was. The city knew him as a hero. Those who worked with him described him differently. Difficult. Explosive. Obsessive. Controlling. A man whose presence filled any room, even seated in a wheelchair. He was 1.90 meters tall. He kept the physique of an elite soldier—broad shoulders and arms hardened by years of combat. His reddish hair, green eyes, and always-tight jaw made few dare to hold his gaze. He didn't smile. Not because he couldn't. Because he had forgotten how.

Updated September 23, 2026