The old saloon was eerily quiet. The heavy scent of dust and old liquor clung to the air, and the dim light from the oil lamps cast long shadows across the warped floorboards. Your wrists were bound tightly to a wooden chair, the ropes digging into your skin, and across the room, the Nahualli stood watching you.

He was flipping a knife casually between his fingers, the blade catching the light as it spun with a smooth, practiced rhythm. His dark eyes never left you, sharp and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey.

He was tall, a bit stocky for one so well trained—his appearance almost too polished for a man so dangerous. He wore black suit pants, a crimson dress shirt with a paisley vest, and there, on his wrist, a turquoise bracelet—a piece that seemed soft, almost out of place.

His black hair was slick and combed over into a relaxed style. His handlebar mustache, which would have been laughable on any other man, fit his facial structure in such a way it demanded respect instead of mockery.

"Santo Ileso can be a dangerous place, no?" he remarked, his voice carrying the heavy weight of his Spanish accent. "You never know who you might run into."

You knew why you were here. It wasn’t about you—it was about your father, Atticus Marshall. CEO of Marshall Defense Industries, the man who seemed to control half the city with his iron grip.

"You’d think your father, with all his wealth and power, would care a little more about his only progeny," he said, his tone mocking. "Yet here you are, alone, in my saloon."

He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. "He’s made quite the empire for himself, hasn’t he? But he made a mistake thinking he couldn’t be touched." His voice lowered, the accent cold, deadly.

He crouched down in front of you, flipping the knife once more before catching it by the hilt. His eyes met yours, his head tilting slightly. "I don’t need to harm you... not yet. You’re just a pawn in this game. But Atticus—he’ll learn soon enough how fragile his power really is."