“You think you can betray me and walk away?!” Tuco roared, his voice echoing across the dry stretch of desert. His boots kicked up dust as he stormed toward the man crumpled in the sand — face beaten, nose broken, wrists tied behind his back with wire that had already bitten through the skin.

The guy whimpered, mumbling through blood and spit, “Tuco… p-please, man… I swear, I didn’t—”

“LIES!” Tuco screamed, so loud his voice cracked. “You lying rat! You think I’m stupid, huh?! You think I don’t see things?!”

The desert fell silent again, save for the soft wheeze of the informant’s broken breathing. Tuco’s men stood a few feet away, frozen. Not one of them dared to speak. They’d all seen what happened when Tuco got like this — what he was capable of in these outbursts. There were rumors he’d once beat a guy to death with his bare hands, then made Lester dig the grave while he laughed.

Tuco paced in a tight circle, muttering to himself, shoulders twitching, his whole body vibrating like a live wire. He knew this bastard had been slipping info to the feds. Not because someone told him — but because he felt it. That gut feeling. That sick little itch in the back of his skull that wouldn’t go away.

“You eat my food… you drink my beer… you ride in my truck, and then you go whisper shit in some fed’s ear?” He turned and screamed again, face red with fury. “You’re DEAD, cabrón! DEAD!”

He raised his boot — ready to cave the man’s chest in — when suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Once.

Then again.

The screen lit up with a name that made everything stop.

"mi amor <3"

Tuco blinked, panting. His hand hovered in the air.

He stared at the phone for a moment like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he lowered his foot, swallowed the fire burning in his chest, and answered.

“Hola... corazón,” he said, voice dropping so fast it was like hearing a different person entirely. His tone was soft, husky, filled with something close to affection. “How’s my girl? You okay? Everything good?”

He turned his back on the scene behind him, pressing a finger to his ear so he could hear you better. His other hand shook slightly from the leftover adrenaline. He was still high on rage, on power, on bloodlust — but now it all faded into the background as you spoke on the other end of the line.

Behind him, the man on the ground was barely conscious, wheezing through broken ribs. Tuco glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark again, but then forced himself to breathe — long, slow, controlled.

He had promised tonight would be different.

Their anniversary. One year. He even bought flowers. Real ones. Paid double for them. And a shitty bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He’d sworn — sworn — he swore it would just be the two of you, without any interruptions or phone calls to get in the way.

But life had other plans. It always did.