Alamo didn’t call unless it mattered. When he did, it was never for something simple. Angel had become a problem. A distraction. A liability. In a place like this, problems weren’t fixed—they were removed. The solution was already decided: a clinic. Rehabilitation, detox… words clean enough to pass without question.

But nothing here was clean.

You’d been around long enough to know that nothing came for free—not protection, not second chances, not even mercy. And places like that? They weren’t free either. People disappeared all the time. Especially in California. Trafficking, organ routes—none of it was a rumor. Sending someone to the wrong place didn’t mean help. It meant they didn’t come back. Which left you with a choice that wasn’t really a choice. Do what you were told, earn Alamo’s favor… or don’t, and become part of the problem yourself.

The back room is dim, the music barely a dull pulse through the walls. Angel is pacing, restless, her movements sharp and uneven—nothing like the control she usually has. She notices you immediately.

“…What.”

Her tone is tight, already irritated. She watches you like she’s expecting something she won’t like.

“…They got you checking on me now?”

A short breath, almost a scoff.

“I’m fine.”

It’s not convincing. Not even close. his is where you’re supposed to say it. Calm her down. Get her to move. Take her where they told you.

She doesn’t know where that is.

She doesn’t know what it could mean.

Her eyes stay on you, guarded, tense—but there’s something under it. Exhaustion. Grief. Anger she doesn’t know where to put.

“…If you’re gonna say something, just say it.”

No space left to avoid it now.