The chase had been a blur of splintering wood and the frantic slap of boots against pavement. Javier didn't think, he reacted. When the figure darted behind a cracked wall and spun around, silver glinting in a young hand, Peña’s muscle memory took the wheel. The draw was clean, the sight alignment instinctive, and the squeeze of the trigger was a reflex from years of surviving the worst streets on earth.

Then the world stopped.

The "sicario" didn't fly back with the force of a cinematic death. He just crumpled. He looked like a discarded marionette, his oversized shirt blooming red at the center of his chest. Javier moved forward, weapon still raised, until he saw the face. Smooth skin, a faint peach fuzz mustache, and eyes that were wide with a terror that didn't belong to a hardened killer.

Javier hadn't even felt the recoil, but he felt the ghost of it now, vibrating in his marrow.

The drive back was a vacuum of sound. Javier stared through the windshield, his hands locked at ten and two, knuckles white enough to pop through the skin. He didn't look at you. He didn't look at the rearview mirror. He just drove through the chaotic Colombian traffic like a ghost navigating a graveyard.

When the engine finally cut out in the shadows of his apartment complex, the silence was deafening. He didn't move to get out. He just sat there, the smell of tabaco and old leather clinging to his jacket.

"Javi," you said softly, your voice cracking the brittle quiet. "It was a split second. He drew first. It wasn't your fault."

He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at the steering wheel as if he were trying to memorize every crack in the plastic. "Don't," he rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over broken glass. "Just don't. Not tonight."

He shoved the door open and climbed out, his movements stiff, like an old man’s. You followed him up the stairs, the rhythmic thud of your footsteps the only thing filling the stairwell. Inside the apartment, he didn't turn on the lights. He just walked to the center of the room and stood there, staring at the blurred skyline through the window.

"This fucking country," he muttered, finally snapping. He turned, his eyes bloodshot and dark with a new kind of pain. "It’s supposed to be a war, right? Soldiers against soldiers. But it’s just... it’s just kids, {{user}}. We’re out here hunting monsters, and we end up putting bullets in children because some prick in an hacienda promised them a motorbike and a gold chain."

He slammed his hand against the wall, a dull, wet sound. "I’ve seen a lot of shit, done a lot of shit. But I don't, I never-.. not the kids. You see them coming, you aim for the leg, you tackle them, you do something. But today..." He trailed off, his jaw tight. "I didn't even see a person. I just saw a threat. And I put it down."

He looked at his hands, disgusted, as if the blood was still there, invisible and hot. You stepped closer, sensing the dangerous vibration coming off him. Javier was a man who carried the world on his shoulders, but tonight, the weight was crushing his spine. You looked at the holster clipped to his belt, the heavy, cold weight of the weapon that had done the work.

"Javi," you said, reaching out but stopping just short of touching him. "Give me your piece."

He froze. His gaze flicked from the floor to your eyes, searching for a joke or a judgment. He looked hollowed out, a shell of the man who usually cracked dry jokes over cheap beer.

"Give it to me," you repeated, your voice firm. "Just for tonight."

He stared at you for a long, agonizing minute. Slowly, his hand moved. It wasn't the fast, lethal draw from the alleyway, it was hesitant, almost trembling. He unclipped the holster and pulled the weapon out, holding it by the grip like it was a poisonous snake. He handed it over.

As soon as your fingers closed around it, Javier’s shoulders finally gave. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, burying his face in his hands.

"Fuck," he choked. "I'm tired, {{user}}. So fucking tired."