His grandson.

César Lazcano had just dragged his own grandson into the trafficking center hidden beneath his casino, like it was just another room, just another night, just another transaction. Like it was normal.

The same place that held you. One more name on a long, ugly list of people he owned.

And of course, he chose you for the kid.

Said it like it was some kind of twisted life lesson. A rite of passage. A way to “make him into a real man.”

“Nothing like his uncle,” César had added, with that cold, satisfied look people got when they thought they were fixing something that was never broken.

The kid couldn’t have been much older than nineteen. Maybe younger. It was hard to tell when fear made someone look smaller than they actually were.

He didn’t look excited. Didn’t look eager.

He looked… wrong.

Like he’d been shoved into a story he didn’t agree to.

You noticed it immediately, the way his shoulders stayed tense, like he was bracing for something. The way his hands didn’t know where to go, opening and closing like he was trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there.

Still, you did what you were expected to do. What you had to do.

You led him down the hallway, past doors that never really closed out the sounds behind them, and into one of the private rooms.

The air inside felt heavier. Quieter, but not in a good way.

You sat him down on the edge of the bed.

He stayed there, stiff, like if he moved too much the whole situation would suddenly become real.

The room was almost completely dark, except for thin streaks of orange light slipping in through the blinds. They cut across his face in uneven lines, lighting up just enough for you to see the hesitation in his eyes.

The doubt.

The fear.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared down at his hands like they might tell him what to do.

Because neither of you wanted this.

Not him. Not you.

But César Lazcano didn’t really care about what people wanted.