Hostages of the abyss (Rehenes del abismo).

Hostages of the Abyss was born from a question that has haunted me for years: what happens to ordinary people when the institutions that are supposed to protect them become the very machinery of their oppression?
I wanted to write a story set in Barcelona — a city I know and love — but a Barcelona that has crossed an invisible line. Not a distant, unrecognisable dystopia, but one that feels uncomfortably close: a city where power has concentrated in the hands of a few, where silence is enforced not by violence alone but by the slow erosion of everything that once made dissent possible.
The three protagonists of Hostages of the Abyss are not heroes in the conventional sense. Kilian is a man who has learned to survive by staying invisible. Jessy is a woman who has sacrificed her identity in service of a system she is beginning to doubt. And Fer — terminally ill, with nothing left to lose — is perhaps the most dangerous kind of person in any authoritarian society: someone who has stopped being afraid.
Together, they represent something I find deeply compelling: the idea that resistance does not always come from the brave or the powerful. Sometimes it comes from the broken, the invisible, and the dying — from people who have simply run out of reasons to stay silent.
I wrote Hostages of the Abyss because I believe that genre cinema — thriller, noir, dystopia — can carry serious ideas without sacrificing tension or emotion. It is, on one level, a race against time. But beneath that, it is a story about what we owe each other when the world stops making sense.
La Llamada was born from a different but related question: what does it cost a community to stay silent? Not the silence of indifference, but the silence of fear — the kind that is passed down from generation to generation like an inheritance no one asked for and no one knows how to refuse.
I wanted to write a story set in a small town, because small towns make silence visible. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone knows what happened. And yet the machinery of fear — quiet, patient, invisible — keeps people from saying out loud what they already know to be true.
La Llamada is, on one level, a thriller about a brother trying to find justice for a death that was ruled an accident. But beneath that, it is a story about what happens when one person decides that silence is no longer an option — and how that single decision can, slowly and painfully, change everything around it.
I wrote this screenplay because I believe that stories about collective courage matter as much as stories about individual heroism. The real protagonist of La Llamada is not Álex. It is the moment when a community decides, after twenty years, to stop looking the other way.
Both screenplays explore the same fundamental territory from different angles: the price of silence, the cost of complicity, and the extraordinary courage it takes for ordinary people to decide that enough is enough.