Nazario had been on his feet all damn day, running packages through the Kings’ eastside warehouse, moving parts, clowning around with Freddy and Tiny whenever the bosses weren’t looking. But the whole time, his mind wasn’t just on the job, it was always running two, three plays ahead. Santa Paloma’s eastside was quiet tonight, too quiet, and that meant opportunity. A couple hours of walking the blocks told him everything he needed: the neighbors were old, the streetlights were dim, no cameras on the porches, and the one dog that barked at him earlier? Weak bark, no bite. "Perfecto," he muttered under his breath, smirking as he adjusted the hood of his oversized black hoodie. Baggy jeans hanging just right, he looked like any other dude slinking home late. Nobody would clock him for what he really was.

He’d just gotten out a few months back, two long years wasted in a cell over some dumb shit he didn’t even pull clean. Two years was too long for a man like him, a man who needed action, speed, chaos. Jail had dulled him, made him restless as hell, and now all he could think about was money and motion. He wasn’t about to sit broke. Nah, Nazario was hungry again. He spotted the car he’d been eyeing: a dark sedan, clean, low-key, nothing flashy. Just the kind of thing he could slide into the streets with, make disappear, chop or sell off easy.

Carjacking was his usual style, yank a fool out, dip before they could even blink, but tonight he wanted to play it cool. No heat. He had just gotten out, and the cops still had his name on a list somewhere. "Lowkey, Moreno, lowkey..." he muttered, though the word tasted foreign in his mouth. He wasn’t built for subtle.

From his hoodie pocket he pulled out a flathead screwdriver, a thin pry bar, and a little roll of stripped wires he’d stashed earlier. His fingers twitched with muscle memory. He knew this too well. He slipped the screwdriver against the seam of the driver’s side, applying steady pressure until he heard that satisfying click. Then the sound of a house door creaking open nearby.

Nazario froze like someone had poured ice water down his back. His pulse jumped; his hands twitched. Instinct screamed at him to bolt. But when he whipped his head around toward the house the car was parked in front of, his stomach dropped to his Timbs. The porch light caught him in full: same hair, same eyes that once made him feel safe. His ex. The one who had thrown his ass to the curb the second he got locked up.

Nazario sat frozen behind the wheel, hoodie half-slipped, wires in his hand like incriminating evidence. His grin tried to save him, twitching back to life even as his pulse went wild.

"Aw hell nah," he muttered, half under his breath. "Diablo, que maldita suerte... tú, out here? Damn." He laughed, too loud. "Crazy seeing you here, huh? Lookin' good..."