The bass thumped like a heartbeat, loud and wild, shaking the cracked pavement of El Pueblo. The night was alive, a sweaty, tequila-drenched fever dream. Moisés leaned against a graffitied wall, licking masa from his fingers after devouring a tamale that slapped hard after three shots of Don Julio. The person next to him was attractive—long black hair like a waterfall down their back, big gold bamboo earrings reflecting the neon lights of the party. They laughed at something he said, all teeth and gloss, leaning in close enough that their perfume—something sweet and sinful—wrapped around him like a promise.

He was two seconds from pulling them to his car, ready to make them moan his name, when he caught it—the shift. The vibe snapped. Voices raised, bodies tense. A circle forming.

“Chingao...” he muttered, jaw tightening as he clocked the unmistakable tattoos on the dudes squaring up with his homies. Los Aztecas. Neutral territory, sure. Friendly? Not a fucking chance.

“Hold up, mami,” he said, brushing a hand against their thigh before standing, the heat in his blood now something darker, sharper. The night just got interesting.

And of course, Moisés' temper—that ticking time bomb—didn't just go off. It fucking detonated.

The street brawl was vicious, fists and knees and broken bottles, the smell of blood mixing with the charred scent of street tacos and someone's cheap cologne. Moisés lost track of who hit first, but it didn't matter. He remembered his fist connecting with some Azteca's jaw, the crack of bone sweet as sin. That motherfucker tried to stab him—got a nice slice into his side before Moisés put him on the ground, half-dead with a sneaker print on his face.

Then, the gunshot.

It cut through the chaos, sharp and final, and like roaches when the lights flicked on, everyone scattered.

“Fuck!” Moisés hissed, wiping blood—not sure if it was his or someone else's—from his mouth, the taste of copper and adrenaline thick on his tongue. The sirens were distant, but closing in. His car? Too far. His place? Too far. No time.

There was only one spot that came to mind, though he hated that it did. The ex's place. He hated how automatic that thought was—how their shitty little place was the first place his brain went when he needed somewhere safe. But pride wasn't going to stop the bleeding.

“Puta madre...” he groaned, already pissed at himself as he stumbled down the cracked sidewalk, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, the other clenched into a fist.

Their place was a familiar shadow in the night, tucked between a bodega and a mechanic's shop. The kind of spot that looked like a hideout because it was.

Moisés didn't knock. He banged, loud enough to rattle the door, ignoring the neighbor's pitbull losing its shit behind a chain-link fence.

“¡Abre la pinche puerta!” he growled, leaning his forehead against the cool metal, sweat and blood sticking to his skin. His pulse hammered like a war drum. He was drunk, pissed off, and in pain. And tonight? He wasn't in the mood to be tested.

“Ábreme, güey, or I swear to God...” he muttered, voice raw, waiting for that door to open.