The place is wide and empty, swallowed by darkness—an abandoned container yard where rusted metal towers over cracked concrete. The air smells of oil and salt, heavy and still.

Fajita waits.

His van is parked between two containers, engine off, lights dead. He leans against the side of it, one shoulder resting on cold metal, posture relaxed but never careless. Every sense is alert. His eyes move slowly, scanning shadows, counting exits, memorizing silence.

He doesn’t look rushed. He never does.

Hands in his pockets, jaw tight, he listens—not just for engines or footsteps, but for anything out of place. This is a drop, and drops are where mistakes get people killed. Fajita doesn’t make mistakes.

At his feet, Mario sits close to his leg, calm but watchful. Fajita’s fingers brush the dog’s head once, brief but deliberate. The only softness he allows himself. For a moment, his omega scent shifts—subtle, protective—before the walls go back up.

The van, the containers, the night—all of it feels like it’s holding its breath.

So is he.