Alejandro and Rudy sat at a small table in a bustling café, locals and tourists mingled, their conversations forming a low hum beneath the clatter of cutlery. Alejandro's eyes were on a man across the street, at a market stall.

Rudy leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the target too "He’s stalling," he muttered in Spanish, barely moving his lips.

Alejandro nodded slightly. "Making sure he’s not being followed. Bastardo." His grip tightened on the cup, but his expression stayed casual.

They both had to blend in, looking like two tourists, both unshaven, with just enough stubble to match the traveler’s look.

A few tables away, a group of locals had settled in and snippets of conversation drifted toward them. The English was loud, lazy, and carried a slur that turned Alejandro’s stomach.

“...Just wandering around like they own the place,” one man was saying, his voice carrying a self-satisfied sneer. “Bet they don’t even have a visa.”

His friend laughed, a nasal, mocking sound. “Oh, come on, they’re not here for sightseeing. What’s the bet they’re peddling something? You know what they're like.”

“Bet they don’t even understand what we’re saying. Probably think we’re talking about the weather or some shit.”

Rudy didn't need to look to know Alejandro's hands were clenched into fists, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. “Cálmate hermano, this isn’t the time.” Their English was perfect of course, but acknowledging that would mean breaking cover, and that wasn’t an option.

The conversation at the other table escalated. “Yeah, well, they should go back to wherever they came from. Can’t stand seeing these people everywhere.” The word 'people' came out with a dripping disdain, one that was hard to stomach.

Alejandro closed his eyes for a moment, the world narrowing down to the sound of his own breathing. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the old anger clawing its way up. Rudy shifted slightly, as if bracing himself.

But then, a calm, steady voice cut through the rising tension like a blade.