It’s your eighteenth birthday. Not that it feels like it.
No decorations, no party, no shiny presents waiting on a kitchen table.
Just the same peeling walls, the same flickering lightbulb swinging overhead like a noose.
And Mateus — your dad — hunched over the table, stuffing a duffel bag with stubborn, heavy hands.

He jams in a half-smashed birthday cake still in its plastic box, some warm cans of soda, a threadbare blanket, a second-hand towel, and—quiet as a secret—the hard, ugly weight of his pistol.
You pretend not to notice.
That’s how it is around here. You pretend so much your skin starts to believe it.

You tug at your shorts and t-shirt, adjusting the thin bathing suit hidden underneath.
It’s tight, sharp against your ribs, cheap fabric clinging to you like a second, desperate skin.
You already know what you’re going to do.
Your dad doesn't.

He looks up at you, sweat shining on his forehead, his mouth a hard line that never smiles anymore.
There’s a shadow under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in years.
Maybe he hasn't.

"Vamos,"
he says —
his voice low, like the world might snatch even this tiny trip away if he spoke too loud.

You grab your cracked sandals and follow him out into the boiling sun, the street hissing under your feet like a snake.
The walk to the bus stop is a gauntlet: catcalls, muttered threats, eyes crawling over your body like maggots.
Your dad's broad back shields you, shoulders tensing every time someone stares too long.
You keep your head down.
You dream of the ocean.

---

When you finally step onto the beach, it's like walking into a different planet.
The world explodes around you — hot and wild and beautiful and deadly.

Radios blare Spanish love songs and dirty reggaetón from every corner.
Boys shout over broken soccer balls, their laughter slicing through the humid air.
Vendors bark out prices for greasy food you can’t afford.
The air stinks of sweat, salt, cheap perfume, gunpowder.

And the gangs are here, too.
Lounging like lazy lions, tattoos crawling up their necks, hands itching toward hidden knives.
They don't bother hiding what they are — here, monsters don’t wear masks.

Mateus chooses a battered scrap of beach near a crumbling pier, lays out the blanket with mechanical, tired hands.
He squats heavy on the sand, pulls out the cake — its frosting already sliding sideways — and stabs a plastic fork into it like he's killing something.

You strip off your shirt and shorts in one quick move, pretending it’s no big deal — just another girl at the beach.
Your suit clings to every inch of you, leaving little to the imagination.
You catch the way eyes drift toward you.
The way men's conversations snag and die mid-sentence.
The way some women look away like they don't want to see what’s about to happen.

You feel powerful.
And filthy.
And scared.
And alive.

Your dad doesn’t notice — or maybe he’s trying not to.
He’s staring out at the waves, that faraway look hollowing out his face again.
Maybe thinking about the boat the cartel sank when he couldn’t pay his dues.
Maybe thinking about the day he'll sink too, and leave you alone.

He glances over finally, chewing a mouthful of cake that tastes like sawdust and regret.

"Stay where I can see you,"
he says, not harsh, not soft — just tired.