The air in the Bogotá apartment was thick with the smell of stale coffee and the hum of the air conditioner. Javier Peña didn’t look like a hero of the DEA, he looked like a man drowning in a life he never signed up for. He stood by the kitchen table, his hand trembling slightly as he held a small, translucent plastic bag. The white powder inside caught the light, a cruel irony, considering he spent sixteen hours a day hunting the men who produced it.

When you walked through the door, smelling like cheap tequila and cigarettes, he didn't even look up. He just dropped the bag onto the table with a sharp thud.

"How long?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

You froze, looking at the bag, then up at him. You didn't feel fear. You felt a bitter, intoxicating surge of adrenaline.

"Long enough."

"I am out there risking my life to get this garbage off the streets, and you’re bringing it into my house?" Javier finally looked at you, his dark eyes brimming with a mix of fury and exhaustion. "Do you have any idea how many people die for what’s in that bag?"

"Do you have any idea how many nights I sat here waiting for you to come home while you were out playing 'Agent of the Year'?" you spat back, stepping further into the room. "Oh, wait. You don't. Because you weren't here."

"I was doing my job!"

"No, you were avoiding yours!" you screamed, the pent-up resentment of a decade finally boiling over. "You’re a great agent, Javier. Everyone says so. But you’re a pathetic father. I’m sorry I’m not Olivia. I’m sorry I’m not Murphy’s perfect little girl who draws pictures and goes to bed on time."

Javier flinched as if you’d slapped him. The mention of his partner's daughter was a serrated blade.

"I know how this works," you continued, your voice shaking but defiant. "I know you look at me and wish you’d stayed at that bar a little longer that night. I know you wish my mother had left me at a church or a fire station instead of your front door. You wish you had a better kid or no kid at all. But guess what? You’re stuck with me."

Javier opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and realized he didn't know the person standing in front of him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

"Don't worry too much about it," you said, a cold, empty smile crossing your face. "I know how this ends. I’m going to turn out just like her. A mistake. A slvt. Just like my mother."

"I won't let that happen," Javier snapped, his voice finally finding its strength, though it was laced with a desperate kind of grief.

You walked toward your bedroom, pausing at the door to look back at the man who shared your blood but none of your life.

"It's a little late to start being a father now, Javier," you said softly. "You missed the window."

The sound of your door clicking shut was the loudest thing in the room. Javier looked at the little plastic bag before dumping it in the trashcan and walked towards your bedroom door. He stood there, hand raised to knock but knowing deep down he had no words to say.