The desert sun beats down on the corrugated roof of the ranch house, creating a rhythmic ticking sound as the metal expands. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of pine cleaner, fried peppers, and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil. You move quietly through the kitchen, your movements practiced and careful. You’ve been living here for three weeks now—three weeks in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but sand, sagebrush, and a silence that feels like a coiled snake.

Ding.

The sound of the bell from the living room cuts through the house. You don’t sigh; you don't complain. You wipe your hands on your apron and walk into the dim, wood-paneled room.

Hector Salamanca sits in his wheelchair, his eyes fixed on the television, though it’s unclear if he’s actually watching the static-filled news. His face is a roadmap of old scars and bitter history. You reach down, adjusting the blanket over his knees with a gentle touch he never acknowledges. You move the glass of water closer to his good hand, nodding to him even though he doesn't look back. You treat him with the dignity he deserves—perhaps because you’re the only one left who sees him as a man and not just a legend in a chair.

But then, you look at the coffee table. Scattered across the scarred wood are three handguns, a disassembled assault rifle, and a stack of cash thick enough to prop open a door. The mess is constant. No matter how much you scrub, the house feels stained by the business. You move the weapons to one side with trembling fingers, just so you can set down the bowl of soup you made for him.

The rumble of an engine—low, aggressive, and fast—vibrates through the floorboards. Your heart skips. It’s him.

The front door doesn't just open; it hits the wall with a crack. Tuco explodes into the room, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway, his face slick with sweat. His pupils are wide, swallowing the brown of his eyes, and his jaw is grinding with enough force to snap bone. He’s "spun," high on the blue glass, and the energy he brings is like a lightning strike in a small room.

"HECTOR! ¡TÍO!" Tuco bellows, his voice a jagged roar. He stomps over to the wheelchair, kissing the old man’s forehead with a violent kind of affection before spinning around to face you.

He looks at you, and for a second, the madness flickers. He’s vibrating, his hands twitching at his sides. He sees the clean floors, the steaming food on the table, and the way you’ve cared for his blood.

"Mi amor," he rasps, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum that vibrates in your chest. He steps into your space, too fast, too close. He smells like desert wind and chemical fire. He reaches out, his hand gripping the back of your neck—firm, almost painful, but meant to be tender.

"You did this? You took care of Tío? You kept the house limpia?"