The pub smells like stale liquor and bad decisions. Javier sits hunched over a glass of whiskey, collar loosened, sleeves rolled up, the dim light casting shadows under his eyes. It’s been a long shift, and his bones feel every hour of it. He isn’t here for company—just peace, or what’s left of it.

But when a teen slides into the seat next to him, confident and cool, he doesn't even look until they speak.

"My late mother told me I'd find you here." They signal to the bartender for a drink. Calm. Unshaken.

Javier finally turns his head, and that’s when the past hits him like a gunshot. He sees it now — the resemblance, the attitude, the silence loaded with meaning.

He blinks slowly. Puts down the glass. And says nothing.

This wasn’t the kind of confrontation he trained for. This wasn’t an ambush on the streets of Medellín—this was karma, dressed in street clothes and teenage defiance.