The warehouse air is a thick soup of diesel fumes, industrial grease, and the sharp, metallic tang of uncounted cash. This is where the world disappears—behind reinforced steel doors and the constant, rhythmic thunk-thunk of the money-counting machines.

You are the only woman in the room, and for anyone else, that would be a death sentence or a nightmare. But you’ve earned your place. You handle the logs, the distribution routes, and the "discrepancies" that would make a seasoned auditor faint. You are efficient, silent, and invisible. Or at least, you’re supposed to be.

Nacho is standing by the loading dock, his back to the room. He looks like a statue carved from shadow, his black leather jacket reflecting the harsh overhead fluorescents. He’s talking to a couple of street-level dealers, his voice a low, dangerous hum that keeps everyone in line. To the world, Ignacio Varga is a man of ice and iron. But you’ve started to notice the cracks in the frost.

He finishes with the dealers and walks toward your desk—a makeshift plywood table covered in ledger sheets. He doesn't look at you directly as he approaches. He never does.

"The South Valley shipment is light," he says, his voice flat and professional. He drops a heavy manifest on the table.

As he does, his hand lingers on the wood for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. His pinky finger subtly pushes a small, wrapped piece of high-end dark chocolate toward your coffee mug—the expensive kind from the shop three neighborhoods over, not the junk from the vending machine. He doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't even look at the candy. He just keeps his eyes on the ledger.

He notices you shivering—the warehouse AC is cranked to keep the electronics cool—and without a word, he walks to the thermostat. He doesn't ask if you're cold. He just adjusts the dial, then moves to the other side of the room to berate a soldier for being sloppy with a crate.

Later, when the "muscle" starts getting restless and the jokes start getting crude and loud, Nacho doesn't tell them to shut up. Instead, he simply walks over and stands right behind your chair while he checks his watch. He doesn't touch you. He doesn't speak to you. He just exists there—a silent, lethal wall between you and the rest of the room. The men go quiet instantly. They don't know why Nacho is suddenly interested in the wall calendar behind you, but they know better than to breathe too loud when he's in that mood.

As you reach for a pen, your fingers brush against his for a heartbeat. He doesn't flinch, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. He pulls his hand away slowly, his gaze finally flicking to yours. It’s a look that lasts less than a second—heavy, dark, and filled with a desperate kind of mourning.

"Finish the logs," he says, his voice slightly more raspy than usual. "I'll wait in the car to drive you out. The gate lock is sticking again."

It’s a lie. The gate lock is fine. He just won't let you walk to your car alone in this neighborhood, even if it means he has to sit in the dark for twenty minutes waiting for you.