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

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://minushuman.io/EN/ 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

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.

What remains of a self when survival demands that you keep letting go?

A year inside Dis does quietly what Cronos's machines could not finish: it erases. Not through suppression protocols or extraction chambers, but through the accumulated weight of doing what no one else will do — dragging bodies with no names, collecting payment in silence, learning the unspoken rituals of those who handle what others refuse to touch. Faces dissolve. Voices go flat. Mira is still four letters, still an obligation, but the person behind those letters has no eyes anymore, no voice, no shape — only the gravity of abandonment.

What the Tic Tac cannot consume are the drawings. PAPÁ with an inverted P. AYUDA with the Y backwards. The small hand raised in a farewell no child should know how to give. Those hold. As long as they hurt, something human persists.

This episode is the moment that cannot be taken back. After delivering an elder Recordante to be emptied — and receiving his warning on the way, that certain frequencies become echoes, that Urzal is not legend but precedent — the protagonist confronts something he can no longer contain. In the alley, when those who come for him arrive, the Tic Tac stops being a rhythm and becomes a weapon. What follows is not horror. It is relief. And the relief that doesn't leave is exactly the hook El No-Nacido always knew would catch.

The chapter closes on a question without a clean answer: how do you live with this? The text doesn't offer consolation — it offers precision. You survive. One cycle at a time. As long as you still carry what hurts. The drawings. The salute. The shame. The day those stop mattering is the day you finish becoming an echo.

👑 MINUS HUMAN — The Threshold
Jesús Bernal Allende
🛒 https://a.co/d/0aGUDhxU
🌐 https://minushuman.io/EN/
📷 https://www.instagram.com/minushuman.universe/
🎵 https://www.tiktok.com/@minushuman.universe
▶️ https://www.youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe
🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

How long can a man do what shames him before he stops feeling ashamed?

In Dis there are no dawns. Only cycles. Another body. Another job. Another step toward whatever the system needs you to become. Chapter 15 closes the second movement of The Threshold with three missions that stain, two appearances that mark, and a power that wakes without anyone asking it to.

The protagonist extracts an implant from a still-warm skull and chooses the first bidder over the higher offer — not out of loyalty, but because in Dis every decision is a record and every record gets collected. The Gallu catch his scent: broken children who grew up in the city's bones, who recognize in him something he refuses to recognize in himself. A mirror with eyes that have forgotten how to blink. Then the job he should never have taken: escort an Attuned from point A to point B without asking what happens at point B. The boy has eyes that know. He has a crumpled piece of paper with a word in red crayon. The Y is backwards. HELP. The same crooked handwriting he has carried in memory since the beginning. The protagonist lets go of the hand. Walks away. The paper stays on the ground. And the Tick Tock — which is no longer only his — tells him what he doesn't want to hear: not that he did something wrong, but that he has stopped being surprised that he did.

The second movement is over. Shame weighs more than bodies and more than hunger. It is the only thing still keeping him human. The day it stops hurting, he will have stopped being one.

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — Vol. I · The Threshold

Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia

🌐 https://edo-os.com 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

The first body appeared before he could name the day.

In Dis there are no days. Only cycles of darkness that lightens and darkness that thickens. And between them, work: the bodies no one wants to touch, the pit no one wants to look at, the rhythm no one wants to hear.

Scrrrr — pause — scrrrr — pause — scrrrr.

The same rhythm as the Tic Tac.

Chapter 14 is the chapter of the nameless transformation. While dragging the dead through Dis's bone corridors, three encounters dismantle him from different angles. The thirty-seven Recordantes who gather in the hollow and scream in silence — mouths open, throats tensed, no sound coming out — until he opens his mouth too and lets out the weight he carried from above. The crayon drawing. PAPÁ with the P backwards. The guard left on the floor. The silence of that word leaving like weight being lifted, not like sound.

Then Qadim — a man older than time itself, seller of stories from those who can no longer tell them. Who reveals what Urzal never said: the First also had the fracture. The same porousness. The same border too thin between himself and everything else. He had to choose between saving someone he loved or saving himself. He chose to use the fracture to save the other. And in doing so, the fracture devoured him. He became Dis. Urzal was human. And he might be the last.

Then Gula — one of the Seven Pillars, the one who controls information, the one who knows what you need before you know it yourself. Who confirms what Qadim didn't finish: soon he will have to make the same choice the First made. And she will be there. Selling tickets.

But the most decisive moment has no witnesses. Sitting on bone that was once a person, in the silence between one body and the next, he hears something that doesn't come from the Zero, that doesn't come from Urzal. It comes from inside. From the place that was always there.

. (here) . . . (I was always here) . . . (waiting for you to listen).

The Tic Tac spoke. His own. For the first time in his life, from within.

And when Urzal says from the depths — you are mine — he answers from that new place: I am not yours. We are the same. And Urzal smiles. Because that was exactly what he wanted him to understand. Or what he feared he would understand. In Dis, always both.

The chapter closes with nine leitmotifs planted in Urzal's garden. And a tenth seed — the smallest, the most dangerous: the word «thank you» said to a body that could no longer hear. Proof that he is still human. Still.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

The Tic Tac was the first thing to die.

It didn't distort. It didn't accelerate. It simply stopped being a Tic Tac. And became something else.

. . . (listen) . . . (can you hear me?) . . . (I always heard you).

Dis is not a place beneath another place. Dis is what remains when you remove everything else. The negative of a photograph no one took. The echo of a word no one spoke. The ship doesn't descend because the pilot steers it downward — it descends because down is all that remains. Because Dis permits no other direction. Because something is swallowing them and the only option is to let it.

The structures waiting below are not buildings. They are ribs. Dis is built inside the skeleton of something that died so long ago that the word «death» lost its meaning. And the bones keep growing — millimeter by millimeter, century by century. A corpse that still dreams.

Between the ribs, children. Dozens. Sitting in absolute silence — not the silence of absence but the silence of something extracted from them along with everything else. Beneath their tongues: implants pulsing with the same rhythm as the Zero. The Attuned. What grows in the empty space when you take a child's future away.

At the center of everything: the Zero. Not a hole — a wound. A tear in the fabric of what exists, thirty meters across, darkness that is not the absence of light but the presence of something else. Something that has been waiting for eternities. Something that was waiting for him specifically. Because when he leans over the edge and what is below looks back up — not as enemy, not as god — something inside him responds. Recognizes it. As kin.

. . . (because you are what they are trying to manufacture) . . . (the children are copies) . . . (you are the original) . . . (you are what existed before they decided it should not exist).

He was not chosen. Not special. He was an heir.

And when he finally understands what the Tic Tac has been his entire life — not gift, not curse, but echo of something the system buried — he performs the only act of resistance possible before Urzal, before the oldest cage of all: a nod. A declaration of war so small that only he and Urzal can see it.

Because Urzal is also a system. Only older. More patient. Freedom is not above or below. It is somewhere that does not yet exist. That he will have to build.

I'll stay — he said. For now — he added.

In the «for now» there is a seed. And seeds, even in Dis, even in the breathing tomb — grow.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

The alarm didn't sound. It detonated.

Seven minutes, Liora had said. Seven minutes where the surveillance system would enter its update cycle. Where the cameras would record but not transmit in real time. Four seconds in, and the world is already ending.

Chapter 12 is the escape. Not the heroic escape — the real one. The kind where no plan survives first contact. The kind that turns the building into a living organism: corridors that seal like jaws, drones born from steel chrysalises, a system that learns from every step he takes. ARGOS recalculates. The Tic Tac commands. The body acts before the mind arrives.

But there is something ARGOS cannot calculate. Behind the glass, while he runs, the faces pass: an old man with his hands pressed against the crystal. A woman singing with her eyes closed while chaos erupts outside her cell. A child of ten who watches him — not asking for help, but saying goodbye. With a smile too old for his face. The smile of someone who already knows how this ends and chooses to wave him off anyway. The Tic Tac gives him no time for horror. Only direction. Forward. Always forward.

Then comes the death. A young guard. A weapon. A second where there is no time for anything except what he is — the frequency that makes him different, the frequency the system wants to extract and sell. The golden fracture that leaves his chest and touches the guard. The guard who goes out like a light. On the floor, rolling from the guard's pocket: a drawing in crayon. "PAPÁ" with the P backwards. A red heart. Two figures holding hands.

(the first one)

At the end of the corridor: the man with empty eyes. The one who makes the Tic Tac disappear for the first time in his life. He does not run. He walks. Each step covers exactly the same distance. The echo of his footsteps arrives before the step itself. And when the red light pulses over him, there is no shadow.

There is no exit. Only a gap where Cronos never finished growing. Darkness below that promises nothing. The hunter five meters away. And the Tic Tac returning — trembling, as if it too is afraid — to deliver a single blow to the sternum.

JUMP.

In the fall: threads. Threads of something without a name, crossing the void like veins in an infinite body. One of them golden, pulsing with the same rhythm as the Tic Tac. And at the bottom, in darkness that has never seen sunlight — a voice. Hoarse. Worn. And beneath the voice, barely audible: another Tic Tac. Slower. Older. But beating.

Two frequencies. Two cracks in the system.

Above, at the edge of the void, the hunter tilts his head for the first time. The gesture he makes when he finds something that was not in the models.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795