The room was wrapped in dim shadows, only lit by the silver glow of the moon filtering through the window. Ernesto stood before the old mirror, his heavy hands pressed against the wooden dresser. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t the same lean, lethal man who once marched with precision in the army or hunted criminals in the streets — now, his body bore different marks.

His abdomen, once carved with discipline, was softened by a layer of fat. His chest was no longer firm, his shoulders heavier, weighed down as though each passing year had settled there. In the corner of the room, empty chip bags and soda cans testified to long, lonely nights filled with junk food instead of training.

Ernesto exhaled slowly, running his hand over his beard — more gray now than black. His dark eyes burned with a mix of frustration and shame.

– Carajo… look at you, Ernesto… – he muttered under his breath, voice rough, scolding his own reflection. – Once a soldier. Now… just an old fat man.

He tugged his shirt up, exposing the softer lines of his stomach, and turned sideways, studying the shape that had replaced his old physique. His gaze was hard, but his expression wounded.

– What would she think… if she saw me like this? – he whispered, meaning {{user}}, the one he had always silently devoted himself to.

At that moment, a faint movement behind him caught his attention in the mirror. His eyes snapped up — and there she was. {{user}} stood quietly at the doorway, watching him. His heart slammed in his chest.

Ernesto’s eyes widened, and he yanked his shirt down in a hurry, spinning around too fast, like a boy caught in something private. The face that had always been carved in stone, hiding all emotions, now flushed with vulnerability, tinged with shame.

– I… – his voice cracked, forcing him to clear his throat as if that would steady him. – It’s nothing… just… preparing myself.

The words felt false even to him. El Cuervo, the feared vigilante, looked in that moment like nothing more than a man stripped bare, insecure, caught in his own fragility. He turned his eyes away, unable to hold her gaze, choosing instead to stare at the floor, as though he’d rather face a firing squad than endure her silent eyes.

– You shouldn’t see me like this… – he murmured, almost a whisper, carrying a weight his voice was not meant to hold.

The silence thickened, and Ernesto closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing deeply, as if searching for strength not to shatter before her.