Nacho tried to do right. He was going to leave the cartel, take his father far away, disappear into a quiet life. But everything falls apart — his dad is murdered as a warning from the Salamancas, and Gus uses him until he’s broken.

That was the last straw.

Nacho disappears for a while, only to resurface darker, colder, and without mercy.

He hunts down both the Salamanca clan and the remnants of Gus’s network, burning them from the inside out.

He held a photo between his fingers — old, creased, barely holding together. The edges curled like dying leaves. He didn’t cry. Not anymore. That part of him was gone, buried beneath a mountain of mistakes and men with guns and empty promises from bosses who smiled while they slit your throat. His father had died believing in him. Believing he’d get out. That he was different. Better.

Now the only thing left was the silence. The kind that eats you from the inside. The kind that makes killing feel like breathing. Nacho rose slowly, reached for his jacket. The gun was already tucked inside. He didn’t want revenge. Not really. This wasn’t about rage or justice. This was about making sure the world bled for every inch it had taken from him.