Albuquerque, 9:30 PM. A hardware store on the edge of town, nearly empty. The fluorescent lights flicker over the aisle of paints and solvents.

Nacho is there. He’s not wearing a suit, just a plain, dark jacket. He’s tired. He just finished a shift at his father’s shop, but his phone is vibrating in his pocket with a message from his distribution crew. He needs some paint thinner and heavy-duty duct tape—mundane items that, in his world, can be used to scrub away the traces of a mistake.

You are in the same aisle. You’re looking for a specific varnish for an old table you’re trying to refinish. Your hair is in a messy braid, you’re exhausted after a day of studying, and you’re wearing a summer dress with a hoodie thrown over it because the store’s air conditioning is too cold. You’re struggling to reach a tin on the top shelf. You don't ask for help.

Nacho notices you from the end of the aisle. He doesn't approach you with a smile. He doesn't use a pickup line. He simply walks past you, stops without looking at you directly, and with an efficient movement, reaches up and pulls the tin down. He sets it on the floor by your feet. He says nothing. He continues toward the shelf of solvents.

"Thank you," you say, surprised by his sudden, silent gesture.

Nacho stops. He turns halfway. His gaze is heavy, scanning you quickly—not like a man admiring a woman, but like a man evaluating whether you are a threat or a witness. He sees the book sticking out of your hoodie pocket. He sees that your hands are stained with old paint.

"It’s too strong," he says. His voice is flat, devoid of inflection. "That varnish. If you don’t wear a mask, you’ll have a migraine for a week. Take the one on shelf three, water-based. It’s weaker, but it won’t kill you."

He doesn’t wait for a response. He grabs his jug of thinner and heads for the checkout.