The room was unremarkable.
A few folding tables, two poorly assembled office chairs, an electric coffee maker in the corner, loose wires running along the walls, and a desk lamp held together with tape. But despite the temporary nature of the space, the atmosphere felt charged with something new.
Damián, tablet in hand, was reviewing the profiles selected by Gaia from the first 800 applicants. Paula already had a notebook open and a clipboard where she had stuck colored Post-its with preliminary notes.
"What are you hoping to find?" she asked him without looking up.
"People who understand that this isn't a sweatshop, or a startup. It's something else."
"And what is that 'something else'?"
"A place where no one will ask you about your grades. Only about what you can do."
"So you're going to have to fight against thirty years of educational trauma," she responded sarcastically. "Welcome."
The door opened.
The logistics manager, who didn't yet have a permanent position, peeked inside.
"First candidate is outside."
"Send him in," Paula said.
The young man who came in was about 22 years old, backpack over his shoulder, gray jacket, sweaty hands. His name was Braulio Segura, from Puebla. He had sent a video of himself soldering a circuit to control the temperature in a rural greenhouse as a "résumé."
"Good morning," he said nervously, looking more at the chair than at his interviewers.
"Braulio, did you make that system you sent us?" Damián asked directly.
"Yeah, well... it's not pretty, but it works."
Paula looked up from her sheet of paper.
"What was the dumbest mistake you made on that project?"
Braulio hesitated.
"I used an inverted-value resistor, and it took me three days to realize it." The heat sensor read 87° when it was at 19°.
"And how did you solve it?"
"I redid it from scratch. I didn't trust that breadboard. It was already grimy."
Damián and Paula exchanged glances.
"Emotional assessment: honest. Technical level: upper-intermediate. Profile: stable."
"Are you willing to move to the Isthmus in 10 days?" Damián asked.
"Does that include a room? Because I don't have family there."
"It includes room, board, and a steady salary. But the job is real. Long hours. No 'I'm new' stuff. Does it scare you?"
"It excites me more than it scares me," Braulio replied, with a half smile for the first time.
"Good," Paula said, jotting something down. "Wait outside."
When the door closed, Paula sighed.
"A good one. Humble. Dirty hands." Nervous but smart.
"It's the first," said Damián. "We're going to need dozens."
"Candidate 1 marked 'Suitable for technical core.'
Awaiting next intake."
And so, the country's most unlikely chip factory began its most critical phase:
filling itself with real people.
The next to enter was a woman with light brown skin, tied-back white hair, and a direct gaze. She was 58 years old, and when she sat down, Paula offered her water. She declined with a faint smile.
"Rosalía Torres, industrial control engineer. Retired. Well... forced to retire."
"Why do you want to get back into the game?" Paula asked.
Rosalía took out a cloth notebook. She opened it and showed handwritten electrical diagrams, with a sharp pencil and clear handwriting.
"Because I'm bored. Because I'm no good at watching soap operas. And because no one's hired someone like me in the last ten years."
Damián flipped through the pages. They weren't pretty diagrams. They were functional.
"What do you think about working with only kids younger than you?"
Rosalía gave a dry laugh.
"Someone needs to teach them not to burn their fingers. And teach them that not everything can be fixed with software."
"Emotional assessment: high level of conviction.
Technical ability: conservative, robust.
Profile: ideal for knowledge transmission."
"Are you willing to move in 15 days?"
"My suitcase was packed last night."
Then came a 17-year-old boy who didn't finish high school, but had sent a mini-drone assembled with recycled parts and open source code as a test.
A Wixárika woman from Nayarit, with a calm voice, who had developed humidity sensors for her community without institutional support.
A young man from Monterrey, with a degree in mechatronics and tattoos up to his neck, who cried during the middle of the interview when he said no one would hire him because of his looks.
And an ex-convict—Ángel, 34—who had learned electronics in prison.
"Why were you in prison?" Damián asked bluntly.
"For sneaking into a store with a fake gun. Hunger." No excuse. But it was hunger.
"And why do you want to work here?"
"Because this... this is another life."
"Emotional assessment: medium risk. Will for redemption: high."
Paula hesitated.
Damián looked at Ángel and thought about the version of himself that might have been broken on other paths.
"Thanks for coming," he said at last. "We'll call you."
Halfway through the day, Paula leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes for a second.
"I'm exhausted. Not from the interviews. From what they're dumping on us."
"We're not building a team," Damián said. "We're lifting lives."
Paula looked at him, serious.
"Then do it right. Don't play the redeemer. Hire whoever earns the spot, not whoever moves you."
Damián nodded.
But he didn't answer.
Because he knew that the best team... wasn't the perfect one.
He was the one who wasn't afraid to start with scars.
"No," Paula said firmly, closing the candidate's folder.
"Why not?" Damián replied, incredulous.
"He has no discipline. He didn't answer a single question without going off track. He has talent, yes. But he's not a profile to entrust a plant to."
"What you saw isn't a lack of discipline. It's creative chaos. Do you know how many geniuses companies lose because they don't know how to fill out an Excel spreadsheet?"
"And do you know how many companies go bankrupt because they trust people who "improvise well"?"
The tension was palpable. They were both tired. They had been interviewing for more than nine hours, without a real break. The fan was spinning slowly. The coffee maker was steaming.
Gaia projected a soft line on the secondary screen, without either of them asking:
"I recommend a pause. Critical emotional rhythm detected.
Friction level: 71%."
Damián read the sentence.
Paula ignored her. Or pretended to.
"Shall we move on to the administrative staff?" he finally said.
Paula nodded without speaking.
The administrative profiles were different. More sober, more formal.
But that didn't make them any less interesting.
A young accountant from the capital of Oaxaca, Jazmín López, 25, showed up with an impeccable portfolio and a track record of managing accounts for small mezcal producers.
"Why NovaCore?" Paula asked.
"Because I'm fed up with companies where there are no consequences. Here I saw that there is structure... but also vision. And there aren't many opportunities like that for someone like me."
"And what would you do if I asked you to control the cash flow of a company that's growing three times as much every month?"
"I ask for one thing: the freedom to automate without being questioned about every click."
Paula smiled.
For the first time all afternoon.
"Emotional assessment: high stability.
Analytical ability: notable.
Risk of abandonment: low. Profile: administrative core."
Later, a 40-year-old man walked in, a former bank executive from Mexico City, wearing a wrinkled suit and a tired look.
"Why are you here?" Damián asked.
"I'm fed up with selling debt. I want to work on something that doesn't need a tie to justify its existence."
Paula, for the first time, hesitated.
"And why should we trust someone who comes from the system we want to avoid?"
The man looked her in the eye.
With dignity. Without defense.
"Because I know exactly how that system works. And how to break it."
Silence.
Damián nodded.
"You're in."
Paula didn't respond.
But she didn't contradict him.
By the end of the day, the list already included:
8 preselected technical profiles.
5 administrative profiles.
2 still under discussion.
"Initial staff capacity: 40%.
Human capacity: 25%.
Recommendation: hold a final round with mixed dynamics."
Damián closed his tablet.
Paula stood up, stretching.
"You still seem a bit impulsive to me."
"And you still look like a CEO hiding behind a broken smile."
They both stared at each other.
"So...?" he said.
"Then more tomorrow. And this time, I'll ask the tough questions."
"I promise not to answer nicely."
"Better. You bore me when you're charming."
They both laughed. Without tension. Without strategy.
They were already a team.
With clashes.
But on the same page.
The NovaCore reception room still smelled of paint and sealant. The walls were plain and white. In the center, a recycled metal table. On it, twelve credentials with freshly printed names.
Paula lined them up one by one while Damián adjusted the portable projector. Gaia had generated the access codes and mapped the security profiles. But the faces... that came next.
One by one, those selected entered.
Braulio Segura, wearing the same gray jacket, his eyes even bigger than the first time.
Rosalía Torres, impeccable, serious, with a pen in her shirt pocket.
Jazmín López, with a new notebook and a focused gaze.
Ángel, the ex-convict, wearing a borrowed shirt, standing by the door as if he doubted he was allowed in.
Twelve in total.
Technicians, logisticians, accountants, support. Each one different. All equal in one way: the place they'd never been put before.
Paula stood before them.
"Welcome to NovaCore," she said without ceremony. "This is no ordinary company. There are no perfect manuals. No bosses wearing ties. And there's no room for ego."
Damián let her speak. Not because she didn't have something to say, but because Paula had a voice that spoke volumes.
"Here you're going to build, not fulfill. You're going to make mistakes, and we're going to correct them. No one came here out of compassion. You're here because you've demonstrated something real."
They were handed their credentials one by one. When Rosalía saw hers, she held it with both hands, as if she found it hard to believe. Jasmine caressed her name embroidered on the dark blue jumpsuit.
Angel said nothing. He just hung it up and lowered his gaze.
"Core Squad: formed."
"Human operation: enabled."
Damián guided them to the factory.
They entered through the automated door. The lights turned on by themselves. Some stopped, stunned. Others smiled without realizing it. Braulio murmured:
"This... they don't teach this anywhere."
"That's why you're here," Paula replied.
During the tour, they showed the key areas: assembly area, power module, break area, technical dining room, monitoring. The walls were still empty. But that would soon change.
At the end of the walk, they stopped in front of the production core.
The nanotechnology line wasn't on, but it glowed dimly. Like a sleeping heart.
Rosalía was the only one who dared to ask:
"What is that?"
Damián turned to them.
"That's the core. What no one else has. What we're going to protect together."
Silence.
Paula looked at them.
—Ready to start?
Some nodded. Others said nothing.
But no one backed down.
The morning began with the sound of engines.
Light trucks, three-ton units, pickups with metal cages. Some with erased logos, others with new paint. None of them were part of an official fleet.
All were local.
Damián had insisted: NovaCore's transportation had to start from within, not with outsourced companies. So they opened a call for applications in Juchitán, Matías Romero, and neighboring towns. More than 40 drivers applied.
At 3:00 p.m., they all arrived together.
Two rented buses, one red, one white, packed with people who didn't look like they were at a tech fair... and that was perfect.
"Is that all of them?" Paula asked, looking at the sheet.
"Thirty-six confirmed," Jasmine replied, "but forty showed up. Four brought their own helpers and signed up as a group."
"Did you tell them we're not Uber Eats?" Paula said, with a barely visible smile.
"I told them. And yet, they came. Because they want to be part of the system. Of one that actually listens to them."
The new recruits got off with backpacks, caps, cargo straps, and water bottles.
Drivers from Veracruz, Oaxaca, Chiapas, Puebla, Tabasco.
Many didn't know how to use a computer. But all knew how to navigate roads that even GPS couldn't reach.
Gerardo, now general supervisor, spoke:
"NovaCore isn't just going to be built here.
It's going to be moved in its trucks.
In its own time.
With its experience."
A 19-year-old boy with acne raised his hand.
"What if I've never carried more than two tons?"
"Then you're going to start with one. And if you don't break anything, we'll give you two later," Ulises responded from the sidelines.
Laughter eased the tension.
The contracts were simple: base salary + efficiency incentive + housing.
But what most people signed... was dignity.
Jazmín handed out the reflective vests with the NovaCore logo. One by one.
"Have you seen this?" said one, pointing to his embroidered name. "I thought it would just be a label."
Paula answered from behind:
"Things aren't glued here. They're sewn."
In the materials receiving area, Jasmine organized inventory on makeshift sheets that she would later upload to the system. Gaia was still integrating logistics software that could adapt to the local reality: slow suppliers, unstable routes, constant unforeseen events.
"Resources acquired: polymers, substrates, base circuitry, standard electrical modules.
Inventory: 31% full. Sufficient capacity for initial production."
"Critical shortage: thermal encapsulation components. Recommended action: direct purchase via a national supplier."
Paula managed that order from her tablet while walking with two cell phones in hand.
"Yes, I need delivery confirmation this month; otherwise, the line won't start."
"No, we can't wait for a bid. Yes, immediate invoice."
—(pause)
—Yes, the company name is NovaCore. Does that sound familiar? Perfect. I'll wait for your email."
She hung up.
"So?"
"They're looking at us with respect… now that they've seen the logo on social media."
Damián looked at her. She raised an eyebrow.
"That's also a strategy," she said.
By mid-afternoon, the plant was vibrating. Not with deafening noise, but with real activity.
Rosalía was giving Braulio instructions on how to avoid leaving bare wires on the monitoring nodes. Ángel was sitting at a table with two new apprentices, teaching them how to solder without the solder smelling burnt. Gerardo was testing the hydraulic loading platform. Jazmín was talking on the phone in a firm but polite voice. Paula passed between them all without disturbing them, but still taking mental notes.
Damián walked in silence.
The factory no longer sounded like a machine.
It sounded like a community.
"Operating staff: established."
"Initial production phase enabled."
"Do you wish to start actual production?"
Damián didn't respond immediately.
He walked to the highest point in the plant, a metal walkway over the central nave. From there he could see every station, every person, every detail.
Braulio's stained overalls.
Rosalía's gray hair tied back with a rubber band.
Ulises's truck, badly parked.
The first batch of supplies, stacked in boxes without labels yet.
It was imperfect.
Messy.
But alive.
"Yes," he said finally. "Start."
"Initial production: activated.
Welcome to industrial reality."
The centerline light blinked.
A robotic arm rotated. A part slid down a belt.
And NovaCore, finally, began to produce.