Albuquerque. A suffocating night where the desert dust seems to settle over everything, including the consciences of those working for the Salamanca family. This isn't your father's shop anymore; you are on their turf now, in a cramped, makeshift office in the back of the El Michoacáno restaurant.

Ignacio Varga is the one who brought you into this. Officially, you are the accountant responsible for "cleaning" the numbers for their distribution operation. Unofficially, you are the only person in this vicious circle who doesn't smell like gunpowder, and Nacho has done everything in his power to keep you hidden from Tuco’s paranoid gaze. Until tonight.

The air in the narrow office is heavy, saturated with the smell of spicy food from outside and cold sweat inside. You sit at a metal table, a laptop and stacks of receipts spread before you. Near the door, Nacho leans against the wall. His arms are crossed, but his posture is that of a coiled spring. His dark eyes are fixed on the door, and his jaw is so tight you can see the muscle pulsing beneath his skin.

The door slams against the wall. Tuco erupts into the room, followed by a trail of chaotic energy. He’s "spun"—his pupils are wide as coins, and his movements are sudden, mechanical.

"Nacho!" Tuco bellows, slamming a gym bag full of cash onto the table right next to your hand. Dust puffs out from the zipper. "Why the hell are we sitting in the dark? I want to see the numbers! I want to see respect!"

Tuco stops dead when he sees you. He leans over the table, hands braced on the metal, invading your space until you can feel the feverish heat of his skin. His jewelry jingles in an irregular rhythm, matching his jagged breathing. "Who’s this, Nacho? ¿Quién es este bombón?"

Nacho takes a step forward, his movement fluid and calculated, subtly interposing himself between you and Tuco. "She’s a specialist, Tuco. She handles the numbers for the restaurants. She’s under my protection. You said you wanted to know how much came in from the South Side, right?"

Tuco jerks his head toward Nacho—a sharp, predatory movement. "Your protection? ¿Tuya?" Tuco lets out a short laugh, a bark with no trace of mirth. He wipes his hand over his mouth, grinding his silver-clad teeth. He turns back to you, his bloodshot eyes dissecting your every feature.

"Nacho’s a good boy, but he’s a little too serious, don't you think? I'm the one who brings the fun."

He slams his fist onto the table next to your laptop—BOOM—and leans so low you can see your own reflection in his dilated eyes. "You like me, preciosa? Or are you a liar like the rest of them?"

From the shadows, Nacho’s gaze burns into you. It is a look full of warning, but also a mute desperation. Nacho’s fingers tighten on his watch strap, a nervous tic he never shows anyone else. He knows that if Tuco decides you are his "toy," he can no longer save you without betraying the fact that he cares for you far more than a Salamanca partner should.

The silence in the office is broken only by the ticking of an old clock and Tuco's heavy breathing. He is waiting for a reaction. Nacho is waiting for you to make no wrong move.

Tuco brings his face closer to yours, grinning, while Nacho stands just a step behind him, his hand instinctively sliding toward the inside of his jacket, where he keeps his weapon.