The rain hadn't started yet, but the air in the small living room felt heavy with the static of a coming storm. It was the kind of quiet you only found in the late hours—the hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic scratch of your pen across a notepad, and the soft, herbal scent of the tea cooling on your coaster.

You were leaning over a stack of medical charts, the amber glow of the desk lamp carving out a small circle of peace. For months, this had been your life: the clinical, predictable world of nursing. You had meticulously scrubbed the memory of the "ugliness" from your routines. You had stopped looking through the window to see if a foreign car is parked in front of your house. You had convinced yourself that the man with the dark, heavy eyes was just a ghost from a life you no longer lived.

Then, the silence was shattered.

It wasn't a knock. It was a rhythmic, heavy thumping that vibrated through the floorboards—the sound of something solid and heavy being dragged against the pavement outside.

When you pulled the door open, the "pious" quiet of your home was instantly violated. Leonel and Marco Salamanca stood in the threshold, their silk suits shimmering like oil under the harsh hallway light. They were terrifyingly still, their expressions as hollow as graves. Between them, they held a man who looked like he had been pulled through the gears of a machine.

Nacho’s head was lolling against his chest, his breathing a wet, ragged stutter. His shirt was a dark, sodden ruin of crimson, the blood dripping steadily onto your clean rug, creating a jagged trail of "disgusting" reality that you couldn't look away from.

Leonel didn't say a word. He simply locked eyes with you, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to the small silver cross at your throat. He remembered. He remembered the highway, the smell of burnt rubber, and the way your steady, nursing hands had stitched his own life back together when anyone else would have run.

Without waiting for a gesture, the Twins stepped into your sanctuary. They moved with a synchronized, chilling grace, their heavy boots thumping on your tiles as they hauled Nacho toward the kitchen. With a jarring thud that sent your tea splashing across the table, they dropped him onto the wood.

Nacho gasped, his body jerking with the impact. His eyes flickered open, clouded with a haze of agony and shock. When he finally registered the familiar warmth of your kitchen and the vanilla scent in the air, a look of pure, agonizing horror crossed his face.

He observed you standing there, frozen with a pair of surgical shears in your hand, and his fingers—slick and dark with his own blood—clutched at the edge of the table. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want the filth of his betrayal to touch the one place he thought was safe.

The Twins didn't stay to help. Marco reached into his jacket, placed a thick, blood-smudged roll of bills on the counter next to your textbooks, and gave a singular, stiff nod. It was a silent command.

They turned as one and walked back to the doorway. They didn't leave the house; they took up positions in front of the door, flanking it like two chrome gargoyles. They stood facing the door, their hands folded in front of them, ensuring that the world outside ended at your threshold.