The bells of San José Parish always chime at 6:00 PM. To most people in the neighborhood, it’s just background noise, but to Nacho, it’s a timer.

He sits in his car, parked across the street near a derelict body shop he’s supposed to be "surveying" for the Salamancas. The engine is off, the windows are cracked just enough to let in the smell of incense and rain-dampened stone. He’s supposed to be watching for a rival dealer’s drop-off, but his eyes are fixed on the heavy oak doors of the church.

Then, the doors creak open.

You step out, a small leather-bound missal clutched to your chest. Your clothes are always the same: modest skirts that graze your ankles, soft cardigans, and hair pulled back in a neat, sensible braid. There is a stillness about you that defies the chaos of the city. While the rest of Albuquerque is rushing, shouting, and bleeding, you walk with a quiet, hardworking grace—a girl who spends her days caring for her elderly parents and her evenings speaking to a God that Nacho is too afraid to face.

Nacho watches you walk down the steps. He sees the way you stop to hand a few coins to the homeless man on the corner, and the way you offer a genuine, tired smile to the flower vendor.

He feels a sharp, physical ache in his chest. It’s not the heat of lust; it’s the crushing weight of envy.

He looks at his own hands—the knuckles scarred from a fight two nights ago, the fingers that have counted blood-stained money—and then he looks at you. You are everything he was supposed to be. You are the life his father, Manuel, wanted for him.

One evening, the wind picks up, swirling dust and discarded flyers across the sidewalk. As you cross the street toward the bus stop, a sudden gust catches the prayer card tucked into your missal. It flutters away, dancing through the air until it lands directly on the hood of Nacho’s black sedan.

You hesitate, looking at the dark, tinted windows of the car. It looks dangerous. It looks like trouble. But that card belonged to your grandmother, and you can't let it go.

You approach the car slowly. As you reach for the card, the window slides down with a soft hiss.

Nacho is sitting there, his dark eyes shadowed, his face illuminated by the amber glow of the streetlights. Up close, he looks less like a criminal and more like a man who hasn't slept in a year.

"Is this yours?" he asks. His voice is a low, sandpaper rasp, but he’s holding the card out with surprising gentleness.