The door slammed shut behind him.

Javier ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply as he tossed his keys onto the table. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his tie stuffed into the pocket of his worn slacks. He smelled like whiskey and cigarette smoke, like stress and long hours chasing a ghost through the streets of Colombia.

Pablo fucking Escobar.

That son of a bitch was still out there, still playing his games, slipping through their fingers like smoke. Peña had spent the past twelve hours in a hot, cramped office, sifting through intel, hitting dead end after dead end, dealing with bureaucratic bullshit that kept them three steps behind. He was tired. So fucking tired.

And then—your voice. Soft, familiar, pulling him out of the chaos in his head.

“You’re late.”

He turned, finding you standing in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that look—the one that meant you weren’t mad, just worried. He should’ve called. Should’ve at least let you know he was still alive. But Peña wasn’t in the mood for a conversation.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, shrugging off his holster, setting his gun down on the counter with a dull thud. “Had work.”

“Work,” you echoed, stepping closer, your brows knitting together as you studied him. “Have you even eaten today?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, poured himself a glass.

Your sigh was quiet, but he heard it.

“You can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this, Javi.”

He scoffed, taking a long sip, letting the burn settle in his throat. “And what the fuck else am I supposed to do?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, laced with frustration he hadn’t quite managed to shake off. “Sit back? Let those bastards run the show? Escobar’s got half the damn government in his pocket. Every step we take, he’s already two ahead.” He shook his head, his jaw tight. “It’s a goddamn joke.”