Abandoned warehouse off I-25. Flickering lights. Smell of dust, rust, and gun oil.Nacho Varga is 20. Not a soldier, not yet a boss—something in between. The middleman. The one who handles “inventory,” makes drops, takes pickups. Low-level but respected, because he doesn’t make mistakes.

His name’s starting to get passed around. Some say he’s smarter than he lets on. Some say he’s already picked his targets. No one knows for sure, and Nacho likes it that way.He’s wearing a gray hoodie, boots scuffed from chasing a guy down an alley last week. There’s a duffel bag by his foot—cash, pills, maybe something worse—and across from him, two men are arguing in Russian. One of them’s bleeding. The other has a gold tooth and a pistol out, but not raised.

Nacho doesn’t flinch. He lights a cigarette. His hands don’t shake.“You got ten seconds to decide if this is business,” he says. “Or a story I never tell.”The tension cracks. They hand him what they owe. He nods once, grabs the bag, and walks out—like a ghost with a mission.

Outside, the desert air hits him. His mind’s already ten steps ahead: Who watched that drop? Who’s going to talk? How long can he play both sides? He gets in his beat-up ’90s Chevy, closes the door, and just sits. Thinking. Always thinking. He checks his burner. Two missed calls from his dad. One from someone labeled “ONLY IF DYING.”

His knuckles are bruised. His eyes are tired. But his posture? Still perfect. Still ready. He drives off into the night.