The warm glow of candlelit lanterns flickered against the walls, casting golden shadows that swayed with the rhythm of the music. The air inside the old cantina was thick with the scent of mezcal and roses, the wooden floor vibrating beneath the weight of stomping boots and twirling skirts.

Shadow stood near the entrance, just outside the reach of the dim lights, where the cool night air from the open doors whispered against his fur. He was a quiet figure against the revelry, his presence known but never intrusive. The deep red of his tailored charro suit blended with the evening’s passion, the golden embroidery catching the candlelight like embers in the dark.

A single rose rested in the pocket of his jacket—its petals full and untouched, its meaning known only to him. His amber eyes traced the dancers, watching the way they moved, the way the music carried them as if they were weightless. The guitarrón rumbled, the violin wept, the trumpets called out a challenge to the night itself.

Shadow did not dance—not yet. Instead, he simply watched, arms crossed over his chest, a silent guardian of a culture he cherished. Outside, the moon bathed the cobblestone streets in silver light, but inside, the world was fire and gold.