The rain is a relentless, gray curtain over Albuquerque, drumming against the metal roof of the gas station with a hollow, lonely sound. Nacho Varga stands by his car for a moment, his jaw tight, watching steam hiss from the hood of his stalled engine. He’s tired. The kind of tired that gets into your bones when you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder.

He wipes the rain from his forehead and pushes through the glass doors of the station. The bell chimes—a lonely, thin sound—and the smell of old floor wax and cheap coffee hits him.

He’s looking for a phone or a mechanic’s number, his mind already cycling through the risks of calling a tow truck while carrying what's in his trunk. But then he looks at the counter.

You’re sitting there, illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights, a book open in front of you. You look like you belong to a different world—one where the biggest problem is a slow shift on a rainy Tuesday.

Nacho stops. He’s seen beautiful women in the clubs and at Eladio’s villa, but they always looked like they were wearing armor. You just look... soft. Peaceful.

He approaches the counter, his leather jacket dripping water onto the linoleum. He picks up a Gatorade and a pack of jerky, tossing them onto the counter with a heavy sigh.

"Bad night for a breakdown," he says, his voice low and gravelly, smoothed out by a genuine weariness.

He looks up, and when his eyes meet yours, something in his chest shifts. It isn't the predatory heat of the cartel; it’s a sudden, sharp ache. He sees the way the light catches your hair, the kindness in your expression, and for a split second, he forgets about the broken engine and the men who want him dead.