The airport buzzed with life, every sound layered over the next. Boarding calls echoed in Spanish and English, the squeak of rubber wheels on polished tile, the distant rumble of planes lifting off. The smell of strong coffee drifted from a kiosk near the gate, sharp enough to cut through the scent of jet fuel and too many people crammed into one place.

Your ticket was folded neatly in your hand, thumb brushing the letters as though to reassure yourself. Bogotá. Gate C23. Still on time.

You couldn’t help the way your chest lifted at the thought. It had been too long since you’d seen your brother. Letters and phone calls could only stretch so far. He had painted Colombia in quick, vivid strokes: markets spilling over with colour, mountains that scraped the sky, music in the streets long after midnight. Now you’d finally see it for yourself.

That was when you noticed him.

He leaned against the wall a few feet from the departure board, dark hair loose around his temples, leather jacket hanging open over a shirt. A newspaper hung limp in his hand, unread. He wasn’t like the tourists in bright polos or the businessmen with pressed suits. There was a weight to the way he stood, sharp-eyed, restless, as if he catalogued every detail of the terminal before letting himself breathe.

When his gaze flicked your way, it lingered a moment longer than it should have.

“Bogotá?” His voice was low, steady.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah.”

He tipped his chin at the board. “Hope the damn thing leaves on time.”

It should have been nothing. Just small talk between strangers. But there was something in the steadiness of his eyes, a recognition you couldn’t name.

And in a way, he did know you.

Peña had seen your face before. Not here, not like this, but in the quiet confines of DEA reports spread across a desk in Bogotá. Your brother’s name circled, photographs blurred by distance. And there you were, younger, smiling, captured on the edge of his life. A passing mention, a footnote. Nothing criminal. Nothing that should matter.

But now you were here, stepping out of paper and into flesh, close enough for him to touch. And to Javier Peña, you were a way in.