The humid air of the safehouse felt thick with the smell of cheap gasoline and stale coffee. Javier leaned against the doorframe, his sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket, eyes scanning the table where the evidence sat, brick after brick of white powder, right next to the burner phone containing the sent messages. The coordinates were his apartment building address, gate code, and number. You’d been selling his location to the very people he was trying to put in the ground.

"Javi, listen to me," you stammered, your voice trembling as you backed away from the table. "It’s not what it looks like. I was set up. They forced me to-"

"Stop," Javier interrupted, his voice a low, sharp rasp.

He didn't yell, sounding rather exhausted, which was somehow worse. He walked toward you, the floorboards groaning under his boots. He took a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt, the metallic clink echoing sharply in the small room.

"Don't do the 'innocent' talk. Not with me. I saw the logs, and I’m looking at the product."

"You know me!" you pleaded, your hands rising in a desperate gesture. "I wouldn't do that to you. We've known each other for years, Javi. Please, just... just give me an hour to clear this up. If the cartel finds out I failed-"

Javier stopped inches from you, the scent of tobacco and old leather clinging to him. For a fleeting second, his expression softened, a flicker of the person who had shared drinks and stories with you. Then, his jaw tightened, the DEA agent eclipsing the friend. He looked disappointed, but as he stared at the betrayal laid out on the table, there was a cynical flick in his eyes that suggested he’d expected the world to let him down eventually.

"I do know you," he said quietly, grabbing your wrist with a grip that was firm but not cruel. "That’s why this hurts. But out here? In this heat? Me 'knowing' you doesn't change the fact that you put a target on my back for a suitcase full of pesos."

"Javi, please-"

"Don't make this harder than it already is," he commanded, clicking the first cuff shut around your wrist. The cold bite of the metal was final. He turned you around, his hand resting momentarily on your shoulder, not as a comfort, but as an anchor. "You’re going to walk out of here, you’re going to get in the car, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut until we get to the embassy. I can’t fix this for you. Not this time."