The house is too quiet. That’s the first warning.

Police tape flutters weakly in the desert wind as you step through a door that’s been kicked off its hinges. Inside, the air is thick—chemical, metallic, rotten in the edges. Shadows stretch long over overturned furniture and a trail smeared across the floor that no one wants to describe out loud.

On the far wall, someone left a message in a language you understand even without words: a cartel calling card, crude and unmistakable. A silence hangs over the scene like something waiting to be acknowledged. Whoever did this isn’t gone. They’re just done here.

You don’t know if you’ve arrived early or far too late.

The desert outside is wide open. But every direction feels trapped.