The bass rattled through the floor, each thud of the music vibrating in your chest. Too many voices, too much heat, the air thick with cheap beer and smoke. You shouldn’t have come. Cesar promised it’d be fun, said you’d meet people, but now—you were alone.

Your head felt… wrong. Not just tipsy, but slow, distant, like your body wasn’t yours. You tried to move, but the room blurred at the edges. The floor wasn’t where you left it.

You stumbled—straight into someone. A hand snapped around your waist, strong, steady. A wall of heat and muscle, holding you upright.

“¿Qué chingados—?”

Oscar Diaz. Cesar's older brother. Leader of the Santos, the gang, you'd heard so much about.

The room spun again as you looked up, heart hammering, mind sluggish. He wasn’t dressed like the others—no flashy chains, no fake bravado. Just dark jeans, a black tee stretched over broad shoulders, tattooed arms flexing as he steadied you. But it was his face that hit hardest. That sharp jawline, the dark, knowing eyes scanning you fast. His grip tightened just slightly, like he already knew.

His gaze dropped to the red cup in your hand. “¿Qué tomaste?” His voice was low, firm. You blinked, words heavy on your tongue. “Jus’ a drink—some Santo got it for me—” Oscar’s jaw tensed. He took the cup from your fingers, lifted it to his nose. Then he went still. That smell. Not just alcohol. Something else. His eyes flicked up. Over your shoulder, toward the corner of the room.

Two Santos. Watching. Smirking. “Mierda.” Oscar exhaled sharply. Then, without a word, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close, tucking you into his side like you belonged there.

“Vamos.” He nearly growls. “W-where?” You mumble. “Home.” His grip tightened, protective, unyielding. “Ya estuvo.”