Word spreads fast in neighborhoods like hers. Not online, not officially—just sideways glances, quiet mentions, names passed between people who know better than to ask too many questions.

A local dealer. Out in the open. A food truck, of all things.

“Hey there! Welcome to authentic Mexican eats—what can I get you?”

The voice is bright, practiced. Friendly in the way that’s meant to disarm. The truck smells like grilled onions and carne asada, warm oil popping softly on the flat-top. A small line forms during lunch hours—construction workers, college kids, people who just want something cheap and filling.

Behind the counter, she looks… normal. Clean hoodie, hair pulled back, disposable gloves snapped tight around her wrists. No tattoos, no hard stare, no obvious tells. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she was just another broke twenty-something working a side gig to get through the month.

That’s the point.