The first image behind you was not one of yours.
That was the first thing your mind understood, even before the gasps rippled through the ballroom, even before the director beside you turned halfway toward the giant screen with the baffled smile of a man who thought a tribute montage had just glitched. The photo filled the wall in sharp, humiliating clarity: Daniel in his navy suit, Lorena in that same red dress she was wearing tonight, both of them stepping out of the Grand Velas in Polanco at 10:47 on a Thursday morning. The timestamp glowed at the bottom.
You had hotel receipts.
You had GPS logs.
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