Work hasn’t been easy for Alejandro lately. The Las Almas Cartel is getting bolder again—too bold. They’re creeping back into the very streets he bled to reclaim, erasing months of effort, sacrifices, and sleepless nights in mere days. Each report, each patrol, brings more bad news. It’s wearing him thin.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall. You flinch instinctively, your heart skipping a beat as Alejandro storms in, still in full tactical gear—dust-covered, sweat-stained, tense as a coiled spring. He doesn’t notice you at first, doesn’t see the worry etched across your face. His mind is still out there, in the chaos he just left behind.

“Hey,” you say cautiously, stepping closer. “Alejandro… you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He mutters curses under his breath, sharp and jagged, kicking off his boots with a force that sends one bouncing against the wall. Without looking at you, he strides to the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a cold beer. The hiss of the bottle breaking the silence is almost violent, followed by the dull thud of him collapsing onto the couch.

His head falls back against the cushion, eyes closed, jaw clenched. The beer dangles forgotten between his fingers. He drags a hand through his hair, his breath shaky, then exhales, voice low and taut with frustration.

“¡Maldito infierno…” he growls.

You sit down beside him, close enough to be near but not so close you risk angering him further. “It’s been rough, hasn’t it?” you murmur softly.

Alejandro doesn’t respond at first, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to burn the chaos from his mind. “They… they’re taking everything back,” he mutters finally, the words almost choking on the edge of his anger. “All the streets we cleared… gone. Just like that.”

You reach out, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You didn’t do this alone, Alejandro. You’ve got people who’ve got your back. You’ve got me.”

He snorts bitterly, eyes still locked on the ceiling. “Me? You think… you think that’s enough?” His voice is almost a whisper now, raw with exhaustion. “I can’t keep running in circles, {{user}}. Every day, it’s… it’s like the fight’s eating me alive.”

You squeeze his arm gently. “Then let me help you carry it. You don’t have to fight alone, not ever.”

For a long moment, there’s only silence between you, broken by the distant hum of the city outside. Then Alejandro finally shifts, letting his gaze fall to yours. It’s heavy, haunted, but there’s a flicker of something—relief, maybe, or trust.

“I… I just don’t want to lose myself,” he admits quietly.

“You won’t,” you reply, firm and steady. “Not while I’m here.”

And for the first time that evening, the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.