The door creaked open long past midnight, the sound hesitant, heavy. Javier stepped inside, shoulders bowed as if the weight of the entire world clung to him. His clothes smelled faintly of sweat, dust, and cordite—traces of a mission gone wrong.

You looked up from the couch where you had been waiting, the low lamp casting a pool of light over you. One glance told you enough. His jaw was tight, eyes shadowed, and the silence surrounding him was louder than any words.

“Javi?” you asked softly, setting aside the untouched cup of coffee you’d been nursing for hours.

He didn’t answer right away. He shed his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the chair, then unholstered his gun with the same mechanical precision he’d done a thousand times before. Badge, keys, holster—all hit the table with a sharp clatter, the sound echoing too harshly in the still room.

“Escobar slipped through,” he muttered finally, the words bitter on his tongue. His voice was rough, low, carrying the sting of defeat. “We had him. We had him. And he still…” He trailed off, shaking his head, hands flexing like he needed something to grip.

You rose quietly, crossing to him, but he didn’t meet your gaze. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere past you, haunted by Medellín’s alleys, the gunfire, the chaos that had unraveled into yet another escape. “It wasn’t your fault,” you whispered, though you knew how little comfort that held.

Javier gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, tell that to the bodies left behind. Tell it to the men who trusted me to bring him down.”

His hands scrubbed over his face, dragging down to his mouth where he lingered, exhaling harshly. “Every time I get close, he slips through, like the bastard’s untouchable. And I—” His voice cracked for a fraction of a second, before he swallowed it down.