The streets of Medellín were chaos—smoke curling from shattered windows, sirens wailing in the distance, and the acrid tang of gunpowder filling every breath. You and Javier had moved as a single unit, covering each other like you always did, but this time, things had unraveled. Pablo Escobar had slipped through your hands once again, and the cost had been high.

Back in the safehouse, silence had settled over the room like a leaden blanket. Javier’s face was taut, jaw clenched, eyes darkened from adrenaline and disappointment. You leaned against the table, bruised and bloodied from the gunfight, your own hands still trembling.

“We should’ve got him,” Javier muttered, voice rough, almost breaking. “We were right there…”

You stepped closer, pressing your hand to his arm. “We did everything we could. You did everything you could.” Your words felt fragile even as you spoke them, but you hoped they carried some weight. “We’ll regroup,” you murmured. “We plan. We rest. And we go again. Together.”