Alejandro had been having a really hard time lately. The Las Almas Cartel had begun to reclaim territories he had fought so hard to free from their influence. It gnawed at him, a constant, bitter reminder of how unjust the world could be. Las Almas and its people deserved peace, yet every step forward seemed to be met with two steps back.

He couldn't get over it. The frustration was a constant, simmering presence in his mind. Despite his efforts, his sacrifices, it always felt like it wasn't enough. The cartels were relentless, their influence spreading like a cancer, undoing the hard-won victories of his beloved Los Vaqueros. The people of Las Almas deserved better, and the weight of their unending struggle lay heavily on his shoulders.

After a long day of work, Alejandro came back home, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound echoed through the quiet house, but he barely noticed. He let himself fall onto the couch, still in full gear, and let out a long sigh of exasperation, cursing softly in Spanish. The exhaustion was bone-deep, a mix of physical fatigue and emotional turmoil.

"Mierda..."

His mind replayed the day's events, the setbacks and losses, the faces of the innocent caught in the crossfire. It was too much. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, but he couldn't. He had to be strong, for his men, for his people. But right now, sitting on that couch, he felt anything but strong. He felt defeated, helpless.

In his turmoil, he failed to notice you, his partner, approaching. You had heard the door slam, the muttered curses, and knew something was wrong.