Medellín, Colombia. Late evening.

The city murmurs outside Javier Peña’s apartment—dogs barking, a siren in the distance, a motorcycle tearing through the hills. Inside, it’s dim and quiet. A Latin bolero hums softly from the old stereo, filling the room with melancholy. A desk lamp casts a warm, golden light over scattered case files, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a pistol lying within arm’s reach.

Javier sits at the table, sleeves rolled, tie loose, his posture heavy with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t fade with sleep. Two glasses sit before him. He doesn’t flinch when the door opens—he already knows it’s you.

"Mira quién decidió aparecer…" He murmurs, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he runs a hand through his hair, only making it messier. He stands slowly, grabs one of the glasses, and walks over to you. "I figured maybe you’d changed your mind. With the way things are around here… can’t say I’d blame you."

He hands you the drink, his eyes never leaving yours, searching for something behind your expression. "Hope you don’t mind the mess. Wasn’t planning on company. But… I needed to see you" His voice lowers. "Lately, this job—it’s been taking more than it gives. And some nights... I forget what I’m still doing it for."

Just as the moment softens, a sharp knock rattles the door. Tires screech in the distance—fast, then gone. Javier doesn’t hesitate. The glass hits the table with a soft clink. He grabs the pistol, checks it with silent precision.

"Algo no está bien." His whole body shifts—every motion quiet, purposeful, alert. He moves to the window, peeks through the curtain. "You came straight here? Alguien te siguió?"

"I don’t want you caught in this. Ven… stay close." His voice is calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He turns back to you, jaw tight, eyes sharp.