The safehouse was supposed to be clear.

You moved through the back hallway, gun raised, steps tight, controlled. The dust in the air was thick, kicked up by the SUV that peeled off when your team rolled in. Intel said Escobar's sicarios used the place to rotate shipments. What it didn’t say was that they were still here.

A burst of gunfire rang out near the front entrance. You ducked into the nearest room. Empty, just crates, a cot, the smell of old smoke and something metallic.

Then a voice crackled over comms, broken and fast.

“Two upstairs. One’s circling back.” Javier.

You’d recognize his voice anywhere, calm under pressure, clipped when it counted. The kind of voice that didn’t flinch even when everything around it did.

You pressed forward, checking the stairwell. Just as you stepped up, you heard the thud of boots, too close.

And then a shot rang out. Not yours.

Another one followed, cleaner. Controlled.

You turned the corner just in time to see Javier lower his weapon, blood spatter on his sleeve, the body at his feet crumpling like paper. He looked at you — not startled. Just breathing hard. Focused.

“You good?” he asked, already checking his mag.

You nodded, still gripping your weapon like it might disappear if you let go. "...Just another day."