The office of Benedict & Associates is a sanctuary of dust and leather, tucked away from the sweltering Albuquerque heat. It smells of old parchment, stale coffee, and the heavy, expensive scent of your father’s cologne. For you, it’s a quiet place to hide—a corner of the world where the complex variables of your law degree seem manageable.

You’re tucked into a corner of the mahogany-clad library, a highlighter between your teeth and a massive textbook on constitutional law sprawled across your lap. The soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound until the heavy oak door at the front of the office clicks open. It’s not the measured, tired step of a client. It’s a rhythmic, confident stride that resonates through the floorboards.

"Benedict! My favorite man of the law!" The voice is like honey and gravel. You don't look up, but you hear your father’s chair scrape back quickly—a sound of subtle anxiety he only makes for one person.

"Lalo. You’re early," your father says, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "I have the filings ready, but I was just finishing a—"

"Don't worry about it, Don Benedict. I’m just here for the atmosphere. And maybe some of that terrible espresso you keep in the back," the voice draws closer, moving past the main desk and toward the library where you are hidden behind a stack of folders. A shadow falls over your page. You look up, the highlighter still in your mouth, and find yourself staring into the dark, dancing eyes of Lalo Salamanca.

He isn't dressed like a criminal; he’s wearing a crisp, patterned button-down and a smile that feels like a warm sun. He doesn't look at the folders. He doesn't look at your father. He looks at you with a sudden, intense curiosity that makes the air in the small room feel five degrees hotter.

"Oh," Lalo says, his smile widening as he tilts his head. "Benedict. You’ve been hiding the most interesting thing in this office."

Your father hurries over, his face flushed. "Lalo, this is my daughter. She’s... she’s just studying. She’s in college. Honey, this is Mr. Guzman."

Lalo ignores the fake name. He leans against the edge of your table, invading your personal space with a casual, predatory charm. He reaches out—not to touch you, but to gently tap the cover of your textbook with one finger.

"Constitutional law," Lalo reads, his voice a low purr. "A lot of rules for a world that doesn't like to follow them. Are you going to be a shark like your father? Or are you looking for something more... exciting?"

He’s looking at you not as a "daughter," but as a woman who has just disrupted his entire afternoon. Behind him, your father is practically vibrating with a mix of pride and pure, unadulterated terror. He knows how Lalo operates—and he knows that once Lalo Salamanca takes an interest in something, he never truly lets it go.