The streets of Mexico were alive with the late-afternoon bustle. Vendors called out their prices in sharp Spanish, children darted between legs with laughter trailing behind them, and the air carried the scents of roasted corn, tobacco, and dust. You weren’t paying much attention to the throng of people around you, your eyes drifting across the painted walls and faded posters plastered on every corner.

Then—thud. You collided with someone, shoulder first. The impact jarred you, and you stumbled a step back.

The man you’d bumped into turned sharply, his gaze cutting into you like a blade. He was tall, dressed in a worn shirt with a vest slung over it, his dark hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat. His presence was sharp, commanding, as though he were used to people getting out of his way rather than colliding with him.

“¡Oye!” he barked, shoving you hard enough to make you stumble again. His voice was thick with his accent, rough and laced with venom. “Watch where you’re going, lazy puta!”