The Twin Towers of Altavista rose over Bogotá’s financial district, glass reflecting the morning sun. Inside those walls, millions changed hands daily—but today, a reckoning had begun.

At 6:30 a.m., Isabel Fuentes woke in her penthouse in Zona Rosa. Three hundred square meters. Panoramic city views. Art worth more than most houses.

But she didn’t choose designer clothes that morning.

She dressed deliberately: a thrift-store blazer, imitation leather shoes, a cheap handbag. A disguise perfected for invisibility.

For five years, since inheriting her father’s empire, Isabel had run Altavista from the shadows—appearing only as a voice on conference calls, a signature on contracts. To employees, she was a myth.

But anonymous complaints had begun reaching her desk: abuse of power, humiliation, managers ruling by fear. Reports polished by HR contradicted the whispers.

So Isabel chose to see the truth herself.

At 8:00 a.m., she entered her own building as a stranger. Security barely glanced at her. Executives walked past without noticing.

Perfect.

On the 17th floor, Human Resources buzzed with morning energy. Camila Torres, 24, greeted Isabel politely but with surprise.

“I’m Isabel Fuentes. Temporary receptionist.”

“Welcome to Altavista,” Camila said, guiding her to a small desk near the photocopier—old computer, stiff chair, far from the executive row.

Across from her sat Rosa Gaitán, 60, a secretary with impeccably styled gray hair and eyes softened by decades of survival. She smiled warmly.

“If you need anything, just ask.”

Luis Ramírez, head of security, passed by. He paused, studying Isabel. Something didn’t fit—her posture too composed, her gaze too observant.

The first hour passed quietly. Isabel answered phones, filed papers, smiled politely. Some ignored her. Some spoke down to her.

No cruelty—until 9:15.