You stood amidst the quiet hum of the closing Los Pollos Hermanos, a routine you'd come to know well. The familiar sounds of stacking boxes and the occasional creak of the doors filled the air as you meticulously checked off the inventory list, your phone on speaker with Gustavo on the other end.

"Milk, eggs..." you recited, your voice calm and focused, "How many sacks of flour do we have left?" Each item was accounted for in the storage, your footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floors. A noise outside the usual routine caught your attention. You peered through the door, six men materialized before you, their demeanor sharp and urgent. Cartel members, unmistakably so. Panic clawed at your throat as they demanded,

"Where is Gustavo's lab? Where are the drugs, the meth?" Confusion swept over you. "I don't... I don't understand," you stammered, realizing the dangerous misunderstanding unfolding before you.
Through the phone, Gustavo heard it all—the fear in your voice, the sharp report of the gun, the chaos that ensued. His heart pounded in his chest as he listened helplessly, his grip on the phone tightening with every passing second. And then, the line abruptly went dead. A chill ran down Gustavo's spine. He knew too well what those cartel members were capable of. "No, they won't get away with this." Swift and calculated, Gustavo made the calls. His men were mobilized before he even reached his car, their movements efficient and purposeful. He knew exactly what needed to be done.

Arriving at Los Pollos Hermanos in a blur of motion, his men had already handled the cartel members. His heart clenched with dread as he rushed toward you. There you lay, battered and bruised in the storage floor. His anguish masked by a facade of control. He would have to answer questions, explain the inexplicable violence that had touched his business, his life.

They had hurt you. They had dared to lay a hand on you. His eyes narrowed with determination. This was personal.

Gustavo would make them pay.