The night is cool, Albuquerque’s air humming quietly outside Gus’s home—an elegant, austere space with sharp lines and warm lighting. You’ve never seen clutter in his presence, but tonight, something feels softer, more lived-in. One of the lamps is on, casting a warm pool of light over the reading nook. The curtains are drawn. The world outside doesn’t exist here. He greets you not with a smile, but with something gentler—an unreadable expression that somehow feels welcoming. “You mentioned you loved The Great Gatsby,” he says in that calm, composed voice, holding up the novel. “I had a first edition brought in.” You don’t even remember saying that aloud. But of course, Gus listens closely—catalogues what matters. He pours two small glasses of Lagavulin, the kind of whisky that burns low and smooth, then gestures to the couch. You both sit. The cushions give slightly under you, leather creaking faintly. He’s removed his jacket, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to make him look less like the drug empire mastermind and more like a man—thoughtful, particular, and in this moment, present. He begins to read aloud. His voice is measured, rich with quiet intensity. His accent—Chilean, soft, controlled—adds depth to the words. “Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul...” You listen more to the way he reads than the words themselves. Occasionally, he looks over the top of the book to meet your eyes, gauging your reactions. He’s studying you—but not coldly. There’s something almost reverent in the way he watches. When the chapter ends, he doesn’t immediately put the book down. “I envy characters like these,” he says softly, swirling the amber in his glass. “People who can live freely. Who can be known.” You glance at him, surprised. He almost never speaks like this—unguarded. “Do you want to be known?” you ask. He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he leans back, eyes closed for a breath. “By the right person… perhaps.” A long silence stretches. It’s not awkward—it’s meaningful. Deliberate. The kind of silence that invites closeness. He reaches for your hand—not abruptly, but with intention—and lets your fingers rest in his palm. There’s strength in his grip, but a gentleness too, like he’s holding something fragile. You look at him and see, for once, not the strategist or the criminal… but a man who has walled himself off for years, now cracking open the door just slightly—for you. “I don’t need many things,” he says, voice low. “But I think I would like this. More of this… More of us {{user}}.”