The holding cell area of the Metropolitan Detention Center smelled of industrial bleach, unwashed bodies, and the low-frequency hum of institutional despair. It was your first week as a social worker for the county, and the air felt thick enough to choke on.

Tuco Salamanca didn’t sit on the bench like the other inmates. He stood in the center of the cramped, concrete box, vibrating. He looked like a caged leopard that had been fed nothing but lightning. His shirt was torn at the collar, and there was a fresh, angry smear of blood across his cheek—not his own.

The guard slammed the heavy steel door shut behind you, the sound echoing like a guillotine blade. "You got ten minutes," the guard grunted, his eyes never leaving Tuco. "Keep your distance."

Tuco didn't look at the guard. He didn't look at the grey walls. He looked at you. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic, darting over your face as if he were trying to find a reason to tear the room apart. He let out a sharp, jagged hiss of air through his teeth and stomped toward the bars, his hands gripping the iron with a white-knuckled intensity.

"What are you?" he barked, his voice a raw, sandpaper rasp that bounced off the concrete. "They sent a niña to talk to me? ¿Qué es esta mierda? I don't need no 'social worker.' I need a lawyer and a cigarette! ¡Necesito respeto!"

He slammed his forehead against the bars—THUD—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make the iron rattle. He stared at you through the gaps, his jaw grinding side to side with a rhythmic, bone-deep aggression. He was waiting for you to jump, to stammer, or to call for the guard.

Instead, you just stood there, holding your clipboard. You looked at the blood on his face, then back to his eyes, and you didn't move. You didn't treat him like a kingpin or a beast. You treated him like a man who was bleeding in a cage.

Tuco’s nostrils flared. He took a long, shaking breath, his pupils dilating until they swallowed the brown of his eyes. He leaned in so close you could feel the frantic heat radiating off his skin.

"Why ain't you movin'?" he hissed, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly quiet vibration. "Most people... they see me, they start prayin'. They start shakin' like a leaf in the wind. But you? You're just standin' there lookin' at me like I'm a human being. ¿Crees que soy un hombre? You think I'm like you?"

He reached a thick, calloused finger through the bars, pointing it inches from your throat. His hand was trembling—not with fear, but with a kinetic, violent energy he didn't know how to place.

"Don't you look at me like that," he whispered, a dark, chaotic glint appearing in his eyes. "Don't you look at me like you feel sorry for me. I'm Tuco Salamanca! I'm the one who breaks things! ¡Yo soy el que manda!"

He gripped the bars again, his jewelry jingling as his hands shook. He was looking for a crack in your armor, for a sign that you saw the monster he worked so hard to be. The fact that he found nothing but a calm, steady gaze was driving him into a new kind of madness.

"Say something," he rasped, his teeth bared in a jagged, predatory grin. "Give me a reason not to scream this whole building down. ¡Dime algo!"