🇲🇽 — Sinaloa

They’d been ordered out earlier that night.

Alejandro Cruz wanted tighter control over the streets — word had come down from higher up, straight from operations tied back to Sinaloa. No sloppiness. No surprises. Anyone unfamiliar got checked.

Tonight was about presence.

About reminding people who really owned the dark.

⸻

You’re in Mexico, visiting cousins.

You’re carrying an empty water jug that needs to be refilled. The refill station is about six minutes away from your cousins’ house.

You always knew, growing up here, that being outside this late wasn’t the smartest thing.

The street is quiet. A little too quiet. Flickering streetlights. Distant dogs barking.

Then music suddenly cuts through the silence — Juan Martha blasting from somewhere behind you.

An all-black Tahoe rolls past slow.

Too slow.

Your grip tightens on the jug.

One of the men leans halfway out the window, eyes dragging over you.

“AY, MIJA!!”

Laughter follows.

The Tahoe eases forward… then stops.

Doors open.

Boots hit pavement.

Three men step out, relaxed, armed, moving like they already own the block. One lights a cigarette. Another talks quietly into a radio. The closest one looks you over openly, unashamed.

Your heart starts pounding.

He tilts his head, studying you.

“Where you headed this late, hermosa?”

His eyes flick to the empty jug.