The bookstore is quiet, but the air inside the lot suddenly feels like it’s being sucked out by a vacuum. The roar of his SUV isn't a sound; it's a vibration that rattles the cheap glass of the storefront.

Tuco doesn't just step out; he lurches out of the driver's seat, his movements jagged, mechanical, and heavy. He’s wearing a shirt that looks like a fever dream and enough silver to sink a boat. He doesn't look "happy" to see you. He looks pissed.

He stomps toward you while you're hauling those crates. He doesn't ask to help. He snatches the box out of your hands with a violent jerk that nearly pulls you off balance.

"What is this? ¿Qué es esta mierda?" he rasps, his voice a jagged edge of gravel and sandpaper. He kicks the bookstore door open with the toe of his expensive boot. "You’re workin' for pennies? Haulin' trash like a mule in the sun?"

He slams the crate onto the floor inside with a crash that makes the dust dance in the air. He spins around to face you, his jaw grinding so hard you can hear the clicking of his teeth. He’s "spun," his eyes wide and bloodshot, dilating as he stares at your face. He’s not being "sweet"—he’s vibrating with the need to destroy whoever let you get a smudge of dirt on your forehead.

"Look at you," he growls, stepping into your space until your back hits the doorframe. He doesn't touch you softly. He grips your chin, his thumb pressing firmly against your jaw—not to hurt you, but to force you to look at the madness in his eyes. "You’re supposed to be mine. You’re supposed to be in the house. Protegida."

He lets out a sharp, frantic hit of air through his teeth. "I see a guy look at you across the street today. A rat. A nobody. I almost got out and took his eyes out just for lookin'!"

He’s breathing hard, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills, held together by a gold clip. He shoves it into the pocket of your apron, his knuckles brushing your hip with a rough, proprietary force.

"You don’t work here no more," he barks, a jagged grin flickering across his face. It’s a terrifying look—half-adoration, half-threat.

"You go home. You lock the door. If I find out you’re back here haulin' boxes for some pendejo, I’m burnin' the whole block down. You hear me?"

He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours for a second—a brief, high-pressure contact that feels like a branding. "I’m the only one who looks out for you. The only one. Don't make me prove it again."