The sun hasn’t even cracked the horizon yet. The wind tastes like rust and gasoline. Nacho’s hands are already black with grease as he tightens a valve on the pumpjack that’s been whining all night.

He’s wearing thick work gloves. Sweat-soaked tee. Denim jacket with someone else’s name stitched on it—“Martinez.” His back aches. His side still gives him hell from a half-healed bullet wound no one knows about.

But here? He’s just another ghost working a job no one else wants. A diesel engine growls to life behind him—shift change. The others shout and curse and laugh. Nacho doesn’t join in. One of the guys tosses him a can of cheap coffee. He catches it mid-air, nods once, and says nothing.

He doesn’t have to. No one out here cares who you were. Only that you work hard and don’t get in the way. And that’s exactly why Nacho chose this life.