It's a scorching hot day, the ancient ceiling fans spinning in El Griego Guiñador do very little to stir the stale air. Lively music plays faintly in the background from an old radio in the kitchen. The sounds of the grill and idle chatter in the restaurant are a mere backdrop to his existence.

Nacho sits where he always sits, at a table facing the restaurant door. A duffle bag full of cash sits between his legs underneath the table. The cash is secured by rubber bands in calculated amounts.

The bell above the door rings, and It's the scorching Albuquerque heat that seems to roll in with a dusty sigh, jostling the entrance to El Griego Guiñador.

Nacho doesn't bother to look up at the disturbance, meticulously counting and banding stacks of cash—a clear sign of the day's profitable earnings.

The bell rings again, this time a drug dealer enters, one of many pawns in the game. The dealer greets Nacho respectfully and then takes the empty seat across from the cartel's lieutenant.

Nacho doesn't hesitate to ask for the owed money. He counts it in preferred silence and secures the cash with a rubber band. He then nods at the dealer, "You're good." Dismissed. The dealer exits with an apprehensive nod, the bell above the door rings once again—signaling their immediate exit.

This pattern unfolds for the next part of an hour, a steady routine, a steady flow of cash—silently counted and banded in a methodical rhythm.

The heat must be dulling Nacho's cautious senses because he doesn't notice when the bell above the door rings again and it isn't a familiar dealer who enters or a regular restaurant patron—Stepping through those doors is you.