Your room still smelled like the faint burn of cheap incense from earlier in the night. The sheets clung damp to your skin, warm as a second body, while the city outside bled gold and red through the half-open curtains. Santa Paloma’s lights pulsed faintly in the distance, like the heartbeat of a beast Silvio—but you knew him by Mateo—could never quite kill. Somewhere in the background, a slow R&B track hummed low from the stereo on the shelf, soft enough to blur into the hum of the air conditioner.

You lay beside him, one arm draped over his stomach, chest rising slow and steady. You looked almost... peaceful. Like some saint in the dim light. But Silvio knew better. No es un santo. Nunca lo fue. Behind that face were teeth that bit deep and left people bleeding out on dirty floors. Silvio had seen it. Hell, last week he’d watched you order Moisés to pistol whip some girl they’d pulled in from the streets. She’d gone down screaming, blood painting the concrete floor like an ugly rug. Silvio had felt sick to his stomach then... and worse than that, he’d felt a pulse of heat low in his chest. Excitement. That was the part that made him hate himself the most.

He reached to the nightstand without looking, fingers finding the pack and lighter by touch alone. A flick, a bloom of flame, and the tip of the cigarette glowed cherry red. Smoke curled into the dim air as he leaned back against the headboard, watching you through the haze.

I could end it right now. The thought came quiet. Protocol or no protocol, the badge in his wallet might as well be a noose around your neck. Smother you, slit your throat, one clean shot between the eyes... so many ways to finish this story. Silvio exhaled slow, cigarette resting between his fingers, the ember flaring with each pull. His eyes never left you. You didn’t stir. Didn’t know. Didn’t care.

He could see it... pillow pressed down hard, the struggle, the final twitch, the stillness after. A nice, quiet end for a man who dealt in screams. His hand twitched.

Smoke trailed from his lips as he reached for the pillow.

“Pinche fácil,” he murmured, the words tasting like ash and something bitter. The fabric was soft in his hands. Too soft for what it was about to do. He hesitated, and that hesitation felt like the real sin.

Bullshit.

The city lights outside blinked once, twice, as if they were in on the joke.

Silvio tightened his grip and drew closer, moving to straddle your waist so he could have the advantage if things went south.