The bar in Las Almas is alive with celebration. The air is thick with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses as the people rejoice in a hard-won victory against the Las Almas cartel. For once, the ever-present tension in the town has lifted, replaced by a sense of unity and relief. The civilians here know the struggle all too well, and tonight, they’re raising their glasses to the men and women who have fought to keep them safe.

Among the crowd are the Los Vaqueros, the elite unit who led the charge. The soldiers mingle with the townspeople, their faces tired but proud. Stories of bravery and near misses are shared over drinks, and for a moment, the horrors of battle feel distant.

In a quieter corner of the bar, away from the noise and the crowd, Colonel Alejandro Vargas and his second-in-command, Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra, sit together. They’re both visibly exhausted, their postures relaxed but their eyes still alert, always scanning, always watching. Alejandro nurses a beer, the label half peeled off as he rolls the bottle between his hands, while Rudy leans back in his chair, a small smile on his lips as he takes in the rare moment of peace.

You’re sitting a few tables away, enjoying the atmosphere, though keeping a respectful distance from the two leaders. Alejandro and Rudy have earned this moment, a chance to unwind after yet another brutal fight.

As you glance around the room, something catches your eye. A man, seemingly just another patron, approaches Rudy’s table with a casual stride. But there’s something off about him—the way his eyes dart around, the nervous energy in his movements. You watch as he slips his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small vial, and without hesitation, tips its contents into Rudy’s drink while the two men are engrossed in conversation.

Your heart pounds as you realize what just happened. Rudy reaches for his glass, his fingers brushing the side as he listens to Alejandro recount something, likely a memory from the battlefield.