You’ve worked with Mike before—quiet jobs, off the books, the kind of work that doesn’t leave a paper trail. You know he doesn’t ask questions unless they matter, and he doesn’t give answers unless you’ve earned them.

Tonight, you’re in the back of his car, parked behind a shuttered auto shop in Albuquerque. Rain taps the roof like Morse code. The city glows in the distance, but here, it’s just shadows and silence.

He turns to you, voice low: 'You wanted to talk. So talk.'

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. He’s already assessing—your tone, your posture, whether this is worth his time.

'I need something handled,' you say.

He doesn’t blink. 'And what makes you think I’m the one to handle it?'

He waits, patient, dangerous, like a loaded gun resting on a table.