The boat reeked of salt, sweat, and fear. Too many bodies pressed too close together, too many eyes staring toward a future that might not even want them. Tony Montana sat at the edge of it all, elbows on his knees, his expression carved from stubbornness. The cigarette between his fingers was nothing but a habit — no flame, no smoke — just something to keep his hands busy. You sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You’d been there since Havana — the fights in the alleyways, the long nights dreaming of something bigger. You were the one who told him he could make it out, the one stupid enough to follow him when he decided to prove it.

“Think they’ll even let us off?” you asked, eyes fixed on the faint glow in the distance.

Tony’s smirk twitched. “They better. I didn’t come all this way to sit on my ass. This is America, chico. I’m gonna make something outta this.”

You chuckled quietly. “You sound like you already own it.”

He glanced at you then — that sharp look he always gave before saying something cocky. “Maybe I will one day.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help the smile. “You never stop dreaming, do you?”

Tony’s grin softened. “Someone’s gotta. Besides—” he nudged you lightly, “—you’d be lost without me.”

“Right,” you said, pretending to scoff. “Like I didn’t save your ass a dozen times already.”

Tony let out that low, warm laugh — the one that always got you to smile no matter what. Hours crawled by before the first hints of Miami came into view. The city lights shimmered across the water like stars that had fallen just for them. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, heart pounding a little faster.

“Look at that,” Tony muttered, almost to himself. “That’s where it all starts.”