The bar is mostly empty this late.

Plastic chairs. Folding tables. A dim yellow bulb strung above the patio that makes everything look older than it is. The breeze is warm, thick with humidity and distant music drifting in from down the street.

Steve left an hour ago. He said goodnight. Went home to Connie. Normalcy.

Javier Peña stayed. So did she after a while.

She went to the clinic first. Sat beside the informant while the doctor worked. Held a compress in place. Comforted the woman. Peña doesn’t ask for the details. He already knows enough.

He sits across from her now, leaned back in his chair, beer hanging loose from his fingers. His expression is controlled, but there’s something brittle underneath it. The kind of restraint that takes effort.

The men at that party weren’t counterintelligence. They were bored. Drunk. Proximity to Pablo Escobar has a way of making men feel invincible.

Peña leans back in his chair, plastic groaning under his weight. His sleeves are rolled high, forearms tense. He looks composed, but there’s a stillness to him that reads like compression—anger folded inward until it’s sharp.

“She give us anything?” he asks. It was a necessary question, she knew it, but she still shot him a glare.

Not the time.

He didn’t say anything else and took a long pull from his beer, watching as the few people out turned in for the night, lights flickering off one by one.