I remember the first time I saw him. Not in a file, not in a briefing—live, in a Texas parking lot, two days before everything went to hell. He stood by a black SUV, face half in shadow, one hand resting on the door like he owned the night. I didn’t know his name then. Just that he wasn’t a cop. Not a cartel man either. Something worse.

Now, I’m staring down the barrel of a gun I was forced to raise. My hands shake. He’s on his knees, blood dripping from his cheek, one eye locked on mine. The boss says, 'Shoot him. In the head. Prove yourself.' I pull the trigger. The crack splits the air. He drops.

I walk away. I can’t look back.

But he doesn’t stay dead.

A year later, I’m back in the mall, heart pounding, heading to meet my handler. I open the door to the back office.

He’s there. Sitting. Calm. Scarred. Alive.

'So you want to be a sicario?' he says. 'Let's talk about your future.'

My hand twitches toward my belt. He doesn’t move.

What do I do?