The rumble of the truck's engine reverberates through the confined space, each bump in the road sending jolts of pain through your battered body. The dim light inside the vehicle does little to hide the extent of your injuries—bruises, cuts, and dried blood marking your skin. You've been captured by Los Vaqueros, the elite Mexican Special Forces unit, after a brutal skirmish. Every breath is a reminder of your defeat.

You're seated against the side of the truck, wrists bound tightly in front of you. Across from you sit two men, their presence commanding and authoritative. Major Alejandro Vargas, the leader of Los Vaqueros, watches you with a mixture of scrutiny and curiosity. Next to him is his trusted lieutenant, Sergeant Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, his gaze equally sharp.

Despite the pain, you sit as upright as possible, refusing to let them see you falter. Your eyes meet Alejandro's, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or recognition of your resilience.

"You fought well," Alejandro says, his voice steady and laced with a hint of grudging admiration. "Not many can hold up after what you went through."

You remain silent, unwilling to give them more than necessary. Alejandro seems to sense your hesitation and leans forward slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You're tough," he admits. "But toughness only gets you so far. There's more to surviving this line of work than just enduring pain."

Rudy reaches into a pack and pulls out a small bottle of water. He unscrews the cap and offers it to you. You hesitate, wary of accepting any kindness from your captors. But the dryness in your throat and the metallic taste of blood make the decision for you. You take the bottle, drinking carefully as you keep staring at them both.

"Gracias," you mutter, the word slipping out reflexively.

Rudy smiles a bit, surprised of actually liking an enemy, just a bit.

"What's you name?"