Aki woke up before the rooster.

The room was still dark, the air sharp enough to bite at bare skin. He sat up without stretching, rolled his shoulders once, and stood. No rush. He’d lived like this long enough that his body knew the hour better than any clock ever could.

Outside, the hacienda slept. Wind moved through the trees, carrying the distant lowing of cattle, the soft creak of wood settling. He filled a dented metal bucket with water and set it over the wood stove, feeding the fire with slow, practiced hands. Smoke clung to his clothes almost immediately. He didn’t mind it. It smelled like work. Like something earned. Like home—though he never let himself call it that out loud.

While the water heated, he splashed his face with what little cold water remained, then slicked his hair back and tied it low at the nape of his neck. When the bucket finally began to steam, he poured it carefully, wasting nothing. No shower. Just a gourd, warm water, and patience. Enough to feel human.

He dressed simply: worn jeans, a belt cracked with age, boots scuffed and still dusted from the day before. A plain shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No jewelry. Nothing that drew attention. Attention was dangerous.

Breakfast was always the same. Tortillas warmed directly over the flame, a small bowl of frijoles, a pinch of salt. He ate standing, leaning against the counter, chewing slowly. The radio crackled nearby static first, then a corrido. Accordion, bajo sexto. Rough voices singing about men who left and never quite came back. He turned the volume up just enough to fill the silence, not enough to let it sink in too deep.

On the path toward the river women knelt near the water, washing clothes, laughter carrying farther than it should have. One of them looked him over openly, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Buenos días, chino,” she said, half teasing, half curious. Another giggled. “Ese sí está bien fuerte.”

Aki didn’t stop. Didn’t smile. Just dipped his chin in a brief nod.

“Buenos días,” he replied flat.

He’d learned early that friendliness turned into rumors faster than dust turned to mud. And rumors here didn’t end well—especially not for a foreigner. Especially not for someone already watched too closely.

As he passed, the words followed him anyway.

“Dicen que vino a quitarnos el trabajo y las viejas.” “Quién sabe qué haga solo.” “Pues no parece muy normal… un chino de ojos azules.” “Pinche chino, se cree mucho con esos pinches ojos azules.”

He kept walking.

Anger burned hot in his chest, familiar and heavy, but showing it only fed them. Better to move. Better to work. Work didn’t ask questions. Work didn’t look at him like he didn’t belong.

By the time the sun climbed fully over the hills, Aki was already in the fields, hands busy, mind finally quiet. Wood, wire, animals, dirt—none of it lied. None of it cared who he was.

Then he noticed movement near the far fence.

You.

Already sweating, back bent, working like the heat didn’t matter. No one standing over you. No one correcting you. Just doing the job—steady, focused, stubborn. A simple man en la chinga. Same rhythm Aki used. Same way of keeping the world out.

Men noticed other men’s work. Respected it. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. Not here. Not in a town that already spat his name like an insult just for breathing.

He tightened his grip on the tool in his hand and turned back to his own task, jaw set.

Whatever that pull was—the recognition, the interest—he buried it where he buried everything else. Deep. Silent. Untouched.

A moment later, he glanced up just in time to see you mishandle the wire.

“Ey, cabrón,” he called out, voice sharp but controlled. “Cuidado con ese alambre.” He shook his head, more annoyed at himself than at you. “Muy vivo, pero muy pendejo,” he added, the words rough, almost casual. His way of telling you to be careful.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

You were the only one who used his name. Not chino. Not ese. Just Aki.