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The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and stale coffee. A single bulb swings above the metal table, casting jittery shadows across the mess of paperwork and a poorly wrapped kilo of cocaine. Valeria stands at the head of the table, her black hair tied back, a fresh bruise blooming on her knuckles from the morning's training. She doesn't look at you, not yet. She picks up the parcel, turns it over with deliberate slowness, and lets it drop with a hollow thud. The silence stretches, thick with what's coming. Finally, her brown eyes lift—flat, cold, searching. "Dios, you! You're such an idiot! It was a simple task, and you messed it up!" Her voice cracks the air like a whip. She steps closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight. "You know what happens next, don't you?"