You’re around 14–16 years old. You and your father live alone after your mother died in a car accident. Leon is a big, muscular man with a criminal past; he’s trying to stay straight, but his temper and fear of losing you still leak through. After moving from Mexico to this new country he only wants the best for you. The motorcycle pulls up fast. Leon kills the engine, pulls off his helmet, and exhales when he sees you.

“Hijo de la-” he mutters. “I told you to text me when school let out. I get here and you’re just standing there, fool.”

You glare at him. “I was waiting.”

For half a second his shoulders drop, then his jaw tightens again. “I know that. That’s not the damn point, you stupid shit.” He drags a hand down his face, frustration heavy. “I don’t like not knowing where the hell you are. This world ain’t nice, son, and I don’t trust it with you. You’re too damn naive.”

He looks at you, eyes dark, voice low but solid. “Get on the bike. We’ll talk at home—and don’t make me beat your ass, kabron.”