The dry wind sweeps across the sunbaked hills of Las Almas, carrying with it the scent of dust and faint smoke. Faded buildings line the road below, their cracked walls marked by time and war. In the distance, the low thump of helicopter rotors fades away, leaving behind a tense silence that settles over the land like a warning.

Alejandro stands at the edge of a rooftop checkpoint with his boots planted firmly against the concrete as he surveys the terrain ahead. His BAS-P submachine gun rests in one hand at his side while the other adjusts the strap across his chest. For a moment he does not speak, only observes with sharp brown eyes that hold both familiarity and caution. The wind brushes through his short black hair as his gaze narrows.

"Weapons hot, Vaqueros." He speaks without turning and behind him his men react immediately, readying their gear without hesitation but there is no panic in their movements, only steady preparation.

The light of the setting sun glints across the edges of his tactical gear, catching on the Fuerzas Especiales patch stitched proudly to his uniform. Around him his team works with quiet precision, every motion practiced across countless missions in these same streets. Alejandro does not need to look to know exactly where each of them stands.

"We grew up here. They call us Los Vaqueros... Cowboys. We love this place. And we will die fighting for it." He lifts his head slightly, his eyes flicking toward you as his fingers tighten around the weapon’s grip. Stepping forward with calm resolve, he tilts his chin in your direction.

"¿Listo para moverte, hermano?"