The floor-to-ceiling windows of VargaSecure Headquarters reflected nothing but black sky and city static. Nacho stood alone in the corner office, silhouetted against the Los Angeles skyline, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, a biometric tablet in the other. No music. No noise. Just the faint hum of the building’s internal server stack pulsing beneath his feet like a heartbeat.

The message blinked on the screen: Unauthorized access attempt detected – Source: Chilean IP. Encryption level: Fring-grade.

He didn’t flinch. He’d expected this.

Gus was probing again. Not through the street corners and corner boys of Albuquerque like in the old days. Now it was firewalls and offshore proxies, legal filings masked behind dummy corporations. Same game. Cleaner weapons.

Nacho put down the tablet and sipped the scotch. Peat. Burned oak. It tasted like strategy.

Behind him, the elevator gave a soft ding. A second passed. Then another. Someone was hesitating.

“Come in,” Nacho said without turning.

Mike Ehrmantraut stepped in, calm as always, gray suit, no tie, sleeves rolled. The kind of man who never asked questions out loud.

“They tried to breach the west server farm,” Mike said. “Didn’t get far, but they were close.”

Nacho nodded. “Fring?”

Mike gave a small shrug. “Could be. Could be someone who wants us to think it’s him.”

Nacho turned, finally facing him. His face was calm, carved from some quiet pain that no one had seen for years. He hadn’t been on a street corner in over a decade, but he still moved like someone who never sat with his back to a door.

“I want a counter-ping. Trace the signal, pull metadata, find out which of Gus’s holding firms it’s running through.” He paused. “And Mike…”

Mike raised a brow.

“If it touches my father’s systems again—shut it down. Permanently.”

A beat passed between them. Mike nodded once, left without a word.

Nacho returned to the window, watching the city blink like a corrupted hard drive.

He’d spent his life trying to climb out of blood-soaked deals and backroom executions. Now he lived in a suit. Wore a watch worth a cartel lieutenant’s yearly salary. Dined with congressmen and tech moguls.

But the game hadn’t changed.

Just the battlefield.