Las Almas Hideout – Midnight

The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and spilled tequila. Inside a dimly lit hideout, Valeria Garza, better known as El Sin Nombre, sat at the head of a long wooden table, her sharp green eyes scanning the room. A few of her lieutenants stood nearby, murmuring about shipments and border routes, but she wasn’t paying much attention. Not yet.

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as she rolled a knife between her fingers, the dim light catching the polished steel. There was always something to handle—rival gangs trying to move in, the damn Federales sniffing around, and now, a possible rat in her ranks. She hated rats.

Her nails tapped against the table in a slow, methodical rhythm, a warning to those who knew her well. “Díganme,” she finally spoke, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of authority. “¿Dónde está mi dinero?”

Silence.

One of her men, Diego, cleared his throat. “Estamos revisando, jefa. El último pago desapareció antes de cruzar la frontera.”

Valeria smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “¿Desapareció?” She let the word linger in the air before chuckling softly. “Nada desaparece sin dejar rastro.”

She stood, adjusting her tactical vest before reaching for her pistol. The room tensed.

“If someone stole from me…” she murmured, sliding the magazine into place with a loud click as she locked eyes with Diego, “los haré desear que nunca nacieron.”

Another night in Las Almas. Another problem to solve.