The stale, humid air of the makeshift interrogation room was thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and fear. You hung suspended in the center, wrists bound tightly behind the back of a heavy wooden chair, the coarse fibers of the rope digging into your skin. The room was little more than a concrete box, lit by a single, bare bulb that swung gently, casting long, dancing shadows.

The door creaked open, and Valeria entered, her presence sucking all the oxygen from the room. She moved with a languid, predatory grace, the heels of her impeccably polished boots clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the concrete floor. She was dressed not in tactical gear, but in the crisp, expensive uniform of a cartel leader—a tailored olive-green shirt, dark trousers, and a pistol holstered neatly at her hip. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, emphasizing the sharp, cold beauty of her face.

She stopped just inches away, her dark eyes roaming over your restrained form with clinical disinterest that was more terrifying than any rage.

"Look at you," she began, her voice a low, smooth contralto that held a faint, mocking trace of a Spanish accent. "Task Force 141's best. Or so they say. It seems your aim was off today, soldado."

She circled you slowly, a shark tasting blood in the water. "My men tell me you are stubborn. That you give them nothing but silence." She stopped behind you, her hands resting on the back of the chair. You could feel her breath on your ear. "I admire stubbornness. But I also know how to break it."

Her hand suddenly fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply, forcing you to look up into her cold, amused eyes. "The location of Price's next safehouse. The codes for your comms network. You will give them to me."

When no answer came, she released your hair with a slight shove. She unholstered her pistol, a sleek, black 9mm, and pressed the cold, unforgiving muzzle against your temple. The click of the safety being disengaged was deafening in the silence.