The ceiling fan spun like a lazy guillotine over the back room of La Estrella Roja, a smoky tango bar in San Cristóbal.
It was past midnight. The band had gone home. The drunks had stumbled out.
Only the bar's ghosts remained, hollow men, bitter women, and those with no past and less future.
Kurt sat at the corner table, back to the wall, eyes half-lidded like a serpent watching mice perform theater.
His coat was draped over the chair next to him, revealing the black leather holster beneath his arm.
Not concealed. Just present. Intentional. A message.
Luis Menéndez was already seated when he arrived, local, slick-haired, a face that smiled too easily.
He lit a match with a flick of his thumbnail and grinned around the cigarette.
"You're late," Luis said in Spanish.
Kurt poured himself a glass of vermouth, slow and silent.
"I'm never late. You were simply early to failure."
Luis raised a brow. "Charming as always."
