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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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⸺ luis serra x reader, 21K

⸺ folk horror, psychological horror

⸺ summary: Luis Serra has one last heist in mind, a job that promises to be the ultimate escape. Together with you, he’s come to Valdelobos—a remote, luxurious village said to hold riches beyond belief. But as plans unfold, you find that paradise often comes with a price.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @dark-star-exe @raiko

The steady beep of a heart monitor cuts through the fog in your mind, dragging you slowly from unconsciousness.

Your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by a soft, unfamiliar pressure. The air is cool, crisp with the faint scent of antiseptic that stirs an uncomfortable knot low in your chest. You blink, and the room around you begins to take shape—white walls, a wooden side table, a bed covered in a quilt dotted with tiny pink roses. Sunlight slips through lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor.

You sit up slowly, wincing as a dull ache pulses at the base of your skull. The sheets slip from your shoulders, rough and starched, as if they haven’t been touched in a long time. You rub your eyes, trying to chase away the heaviness in your limbs, but it lingers stubbornly.

Your fingers curl against the blanket as you glance around the room. The furniture is minimal—neatly arranged, but unremarkable. A cabinet rests against the wall, its corners chipped from age. There’s no clutter, no signs of life except for the faint scent of disinfectant that hangs in the room. A perfectly folded set of clothes rests on a chair in the corner, as if waiting for you. The room feels clean, orderly. Familiar. But not yours.

A hand presses gently against your back and you jump, startled. A tall woman stands beside the bed, her long hair drawn loosely into a ponytail. She smiles reassuringly as she hands you a glass of water. She’s tall, her white uniform crisply pressed, and her movements are smooth, unhurried. She smiles, a calm, practiced expression that radiates warmth.

“You’re awake,” she says. “How are we feeling?”

You open your mouth to answer, but your throat feels dry, your thoughts still sluggish. You clear your throat and manage to ask, “Where am I?”

“You’re in Valdelobos, at our clinic,” she says, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor or nurse, but there's something vaguely comforting about the way she carries herself. Like it's second nature to put others at ease. It gives you a bit of comfort even as the fog lingers persistently in your mind. “You were in an accident, but everything’s fine now. We’ve taken care of you.”

Her words settle into the quiet, and for a moment, they seem reasonable. Accident? The word stirs something in you, but it’s distant, out of reach. You look around the room again, as if the answer might be hidden in the sterile order of it all.

“An accident?” you repeat, your brow furrowing as you grab in the dark for a memory that won’t come.

The woman nods calmly and hands you the glass of water again. You take it obediently and drink deep. The cool liquid eases the tightness in your throat. “Yes, a car crash just outside the village. You and your friend were both brought here after. You’ve been unconscious for a few days.”

It's just then that you notice the urinary catheter, though thankfully your bladder isn't full so it remains somewhat less-than-sexy in terms of emergency hospital stays. That would explain why you feel this weight pressing down on your lower half and why drinking such a small amount of water was already enough to make you realize just how much of the good stuff you could drink right now. Another tube is connected to your arm via IV line. Both look newer than the room itself which adds up given what she said about the crash happening only recently.

"I...don't remember," you say slowly, putting a tentative hand to your forehead. A name rises in your chest before you can stop it. “Luis,” you murmur, straightening in the bed. Your heart quickens slightly, and you look to the nurse for confirmation. “Is he... is he okay?”

Her smile deepens, eyes softening at the mention of him. “He’s resting in the room next door. He woke up a little while ago. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that you're awake.”

You nod, relief settling in your chest, even as a faint thread of discomfort lingers. You press your palms into the mattress, grounding yourself in the sensation of the firm material beneath your hands. The quilt feels too smooth, the pattern too perfect. You blink and turn back to the nurse.

“Can I see him?” you ask, the words leaving your mouth faster than you intended.

“Of course,” she replies. “Take your time. When you’re ready, you can visit him.” Her hands fold together neatly as she moves toward the door. “I’ll let him know you’re awake.”

She glides out, the door clicking softly behind her. The room falls back into silence.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold tiles beneath your feet sending a shiver up your spine. You’re dressed in a pair of simple pajamas—not your own. They’re crisp, like they’ve been freshly laundered, but the fabric feels stiff against your skin. For a moment, you just sit there, grounding yourself in the cool air, the stillness of the room. You need to get that catheter off, hopefully it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it looks. As you do so, you look over to the nightstand where someone has left you flowers, probably some sort of 'make your stay better' thing since hospitals charge enough.

There's no sign of your possessions, which strikes you as odd given all things considered. That aside, you have no recollection of getting here in the first place, not to mention a crash. Not surprising really considering the way your head is hurting, though at least whoever bandaged up your injuries seemed to have done it properly despite whatever happened. At that thought, your fingers creep slowly across your face, expecting to find scars or worse...but there's nothing but smooth skin, albeit incredibly sensitive when you prod too hard.

Satisfied that no part of your face seems damaged, you rise carefully from the bed. You feel stiff, sore, but not injured. Just battered, tired and dazed with bits of memory threatening to crawl their way to the forefront of your mind. None do yet, but you know that once you start moving they might come easier. Your body certainly remembers even if your brain hasn't caught up quite yet.

You cross the room toward the window. The curtains brush lightly against your arm as you pull them back, revealing the village beyond. Rows of neat, colorful houses line the cobblestone streets below, a few villagers stroll down the street, their laughter carrying faintly as they pass each other with smiles. . The rooftops are bright, the flowers blooming in vibrant colors, and the trees sway gently in the afternoon breeze. You glance toward the horizon where rolling green hills rise beyond the buildings, stretching toward snowcapped mountains rising in the distance. Everything seems peaceful, serene—a village from a postcard.

You push open the door to Luis’s room, feeling the cool brass handle slide under your palm. The room smells of faint lavender, mingling with the sharp scent of disinfectant. The layout mirrors yours—same white walls, same meticulously folded quilt, same stillness. But here, there’s something different, something that pulls a smirk to your lips the moment you lay eyes on him.

Luis sits at the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans forward, rubbing his temples with the heels of his palms. His dark hair is a little messier than usual, unruly strands curling at his temples, and a faint shadow of stubble dusts his jawline. He looks up when the door clicks shut behind you, and there it is—that smile. Crooked, lazy, pulling up at the corner of his mouth, familiar as the man himself.

"You look awful," you tease, leaning against the doorframe and crossing your arms over your chest as he scrubs a hand down his face, huffing softly in response. "Who pissed on your parade?"

Luis groans, letting his hand drop to his lap. “And you sound like an angel, mi amor,” he shoots back, sits up straighter, waving his hand in a dramatic flourish. “Here to rescue me from boredom until I die, please say sí, say sí, mi corazón, por favor - save me from myself, from my sins. My jailer does not speak to me much more than required so I hope your conversation will be better."

“Please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you push off from the door and stroll over to him. “Rescue? From what? Free room and board? If anything, I should be asking for a cut.”

He laughs, the sound rich and easy, filling the room in a way that makes the sterile walls feel a little less suffocating. His laughter has always been like that—disarming, a weapon he wields with precision when the tension creeps too high.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” you continue, taking a seat on the chair next to his bed, kicking your feet up onto the side of his mattress. “You’ve got that look in your eye. What’s eating at you?”

Luis narrows his eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smirk still tugging at his lips. He knows he can't hide much from you—and hell, he probably likes it that way, showing off like he always does.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" he asks with faux offense as he puts a hand to his chest for extra measure. "Ah...forgive me, it's just the medicine makes me slow, I swear. It was not intentional."

That earns another soft snort as you shake your head at him. "Oh no, it definitely was," you insist. "And it sucked. Come on, we've known each other for too long. Tell me what you're thinking about before I try to guess." You reach over, nudging his knee with your foot. "Leave the mysterious and brooding bullshit to me."

He grabs your ankle gently, thumb brushing against your skin, his touch warm and firm, shooting sparks through your whole body. Always touching, always finding an excuse to brush fingers or bump shoulders or press close in the cramped car during cons. That kind of intimacy comes naturally for him and has you stumbling every damn time because you never know when it starts or when it stops. Probably exactly what he wants since he lives for flustering people in general, but you'll be damned if you give him the satisfaction of being the one person who gets away with making you blush on command.

"You'd rather guess?" he asks with feigned surprise as he squeezes your ankle again teasingly, letting go soon after. "We really are falling into roles these days if that's what you wish." He leans forward slightly, dark hair tumbling across his forehead, muddy gray eyes scanning yours for a second before continuing, "My only mystery is the same one we're both struggling with, I think; what exactly happened?"

Your smile drops, replaced by an almost grimace as you frown and shake your head in frustration. It’s not your style. Instead, you shrug to recover, stretching your arms behind your head. “Well, considering you still have all your limbs attached, I’d say we came out on top.”

Luis chuckles, leaning back against the headboard now, his arms draped casually over his knees. “Is that how we measure success these days? Low bar, cariño.”

“Hey, sometimes it’s just about survival,” you reply, giving him a pointed look. “Besides, what the hell were we even doing out here anyway? You remember more than I do?”

A strange expression crosses Luis’s features as he hesitates. His brows draw together, and his gaze drops to his hands for a moment, watching as his knuckles crack quietly under the weight of his thoughts. It only lasts a second, barely long enough for you to notice unless you knew him well—but you do.

He looks up again, mouth twisting into something like a smile but lacking any real joy, falsehood as bright as the sun itself. It makes your stomach drop because while Luis tries his best not to lie to you, that doesn't mean there aren't parts of him he keeps tucked safely in the shadows, invisible until the light hits them just right. And right now, that blinding sunshine feels a little bit too intense for your liking.

"It's a bit jumbled, but..." He drums his fingers on the blanket beside him. The gesture reminds you of tapping Morse code messages late at night when the two of you couldn't sleep during stakeouts or when you simply wanted a private conversation during noisy events where nobody would be able to catch onto secret signals. Not that anyone ever could with the two of you running circles around everyone else. "We were coming here, to Valdelobos. This place—it’s like a dream, right? Too good to be true. We figured it was perfect. Rich folks, isolated, nobody’s paying too much attention to them. Easy pickings. Last heist. Supposedly. I don't have the details straight. Don't really remember much either."

You tilt your head, watching him closely. Luis’s expressions are always so readable, even when he tries to act indifferent. His forehead creases just a bit more, his jaw tightens just enough to notice—little tells that you’ve learned to pick up over the years. He’s frustrated, more than he’s letting on. Something is bothering him. But he continues before you can ask.

"Maybe my luck ran out this time," he says wryly, tossing you a casual smirk. "Maybe we should have stuck with card games instead. Had the odds in our favor, eh, mija?"

“Well, lucky for you,” you say, breaking the silence, “I’m sure it’ll come back once we’re out of this place and back on our feet. Valdelobos isn’t exactly the kind of place I planned on setting down roots.”

Luis’s eyes flick back to yours, and the smile returns, even if it’s softer this time. “Yeah? Not charmed by the quaint little village yet?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “I’m thinking we settle down, open a bakery, sell muffins to the same five people over and over.”

“Sounds like hell,” Luis mutters, looking vaguely amused at the idea. "Better than living off cards and schemes though."

"Sure, except we suck at baking." You raise an eyebrow. "Really, we'll end up poisoning someone somehow. Are you okay with being arrested over muffins, Luis? Is that how you wanna go down in history? Murderers by blueberry breakfast pastry?"

He grins crookedly, showing off one too many teeth as he responds dryly, "Just wait until I get my hands on a whisk and buttercream frosting before passing judgement."

You nod, kicking off your shoes and tucking your legs up onto the chair, making yourself comfortable. "Worst comes to worst, we’ll just steal a bunch of cakes from somewhere nice and fancy so we have a proper retirement dinner instead. Besides, maybe they won’t arrest us if we bribe them with pie."

Luis smirks, knowing and acknowledging before changing topics with no warning, tone suddenly turning serious despite his expression remaining relaxed. "Tell me you don’t feel something wrong here."

The question surprises you. You shift forward, dropping your feet to the floor again. Luis catches the movement, glancing back at you. There it is again; hints of frustration. Hints of suspicion, even. And it's those two things which concern you most when it comes to Luis. That kind of mood usually spells trouble sooner than later. Even with whatever drugs he's been fed through his IV drip. He's always on his toes, always watching for risks, threats or opportunities. You admire him for it, truthfully, because sometimes you wish you had half the instincts he does. The instinct to turn tail and run whenever shit goes sour has saved both your hides more than a couple times over.

"We can talk about that once we get out of here," you suggest with an uncertain laugh. "Whatever plans you were cooking up can wait." You reach over, taking his hand in yours gently, lacing your fingers together, noticing the slight wince as you do. He has scratches on the knuckles. They weren’t bandaged like yours, and though they didn't seem deep, they are noticeable as all hell, especially paired with how obviously painful it must be to make such a cute face just from having a simple hand held. Either way, he doesn’t pull back, and you give his palm a quick squeeze before letting go, satisfied with the gesture if nothing else.

The sun sits high in a cloudless sky, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone streets as you and Luis step out of the clinic. It's warm, and a light breeze sweeps across the village, carrying the faint scent of flowers and freshly baked bread. It would almost feel serene if it weren’t for the constant tickle of uncertainty gnawing at the back of your mind.

Luis walks beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, shoulders relaxed, but there’s a restless energy in his movements. He glances around, taking in the neat rows of pastel-colored houses, the carefully trimmed hedges that line the walkways. Everything looks too polished, too clean, as if someone had gone over every inch with a careful hand to make sure not a single thing is out of place.

The sound of children laughing draws your attention to a group of them playing in the distance. They chase each other down the street, their faces flushed with joy., and a young man strolls by with a basket of apples slung over his arm, nodding at you with a wide smile as he passes.

Luis pulls his lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and closed with a soft click, click, click. His fingers dance over the metal, the small flame briefly flickering to life before he snaps it shut again. His lips twitch into a half-smile as he catches you glancing at the lighter. “You think they’ve got cigarettes around here? Or are they all too pure for such things?”

“Considering this place looks like it was ripped from a travel brochure, I’m betting they don’t,” you reply, matching his stride as the two of you move farther down the street. "Or maybe the ones they do have are expensive enough you need permission just to buy them."

His gaze turns mischievous as his grin widens, exposing slightly crooked teeth. He spins the lighter between his fingers, his movements fluid and effortless. You've always found it mesmerizing when he does that, but it's rarely comforting. Not with Luis Serra involved. That particular moveset comes out when his brain is working overtime, and nine times out of ten, it means there's something shady going on that requires finesse.

Luis chuckles, his eyes scanning the village with casual interest, but there’s a tension in his jaw, his thumb brushing over the lighter’s surface in slow, deliberate motions. “Might have to raid someone’s stash if this keeps up. I can’t keep pretending fresh air is enough for me.”

"Use the opportunity to go sober or something." You cross your arms loosely, trying not to wince at the soreness in your muscles. Your clothes fit snugly, almost like new despite smelling distinctly musty and like someone else. They probably aren't yours, given what happened, but you also really don't want to consider what happened to whoever owned them before. Better to assume the clinic gave you these spare ones. "You're gonna cough out a lung one day and die before we even finish a score."

Luis shrugs, adjusting the lapels of his jacket neatly against his chest. He runs a hand through his hair and brushes some of the loose strands behind one ear, revealing more of his face in profile than usual. It highlights the sharp curve of his cheekbones, the smooth lines of his jaw. There's a certain appeal in seeing him less than perfectly groomed like this. It feels rare, intimate—almost private in spite of it being in plain sight. It takes you a moment to register that he spoke while you were distracted. "Dying without finishing my business doesn't matter as long as it happens before something else gets me first."

His gaze drifts toward a nearby woman tending to the flowerbeds in front of her house. She smiles brightly at the two of you, her hands dusted with soil as she brushes her apron down.

“Good afternoon!” she calls, warm and sweet, as though she’s known you both for years.

“Afternoon,” Luis replies, lifting his hand in a lazy wave, his fingers still curled around the lighter.

The woman tilts her head, her smile widening as her gaze lingers on you both for a beat too long. You give a small nod in return, but something in her expression makes your shoulders tighten. It’s not overt, nothing obvious, but there’s a depth to her gaze, a brightness that seems almost... too knowing.

You shake the thought from your head, focusing instead on the sound of your boots scuffing against the cobblestones. Luis is already moving ahead, casting glances at the storefronts as you pass. There’s a bakery on the corner, its windows filled with neatly stacked loaves of bread, each one golden and perfectly shaped. Next to it, a butcher’s shop displays an array of meats that gleam behind the glass in shades of red and pink.

He flips the lighter open again, watching the flame flicker before shutting it with a sharp snap. “So, what’s the plan? We just wait around until someone hands us a ‘Welcome to Valdelobos’ brochure with all the secrets printed inside?”

You shrug, keeping pace alongside him as the two of you walk further down the street. People bustle about, their chatter filling the quiet afternoon, carrying over the soft hum of crickets chirping from nearby gardens. Some of them glance in your direction, offering friendly waves and cheerful greetings. It should feel normal, easy. It doesn't. Not even as you start waving back while Luis sticks with smiling thinly at everyone and keeping his tongue safely away from saying anything unnecessary to those poor souls. "Isn't this part your area of expertise?"

"Yes." He gives a short laugh. "But there are limits to what I can do here when all I know is this place is full of people with money. Doesn't exactly narrow the options down very far, especially since our lovely hosts haven't seen fit to share any more details. Still, don't worry." With practiced ease, Luis slips into his best cocky grin, flashing white teeth as he winks playfully. He falls back into his usual routine of banter and mischief so seamlessly you would never guess it bothered him at all. He gestures casually towards himself, speaking slowly as if explaining something simple to a child. "This will only take a few days, tops. Give me enough time and I'll find something worth taking advantage of, believe me. The hard part was getting here to begin with."

The door to the café creaks softly as it swings shut behind you, the faint jingle of a bell accompanying it. Inside, the air is warm, thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee. Wooden tables are scattered across the space, each one gleaming as though polished with care, their surfaces reflecting the soft afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. The place is quiet, save for the faint clink of dishes from the back room, and the muted murmurs of customers conversing amongst themselves. A radio plays somewhere outside—a pleasant tune, cheery, old fashioned. Almost vintage sounding.

Luis steps ahead of you to an empty booth in the corner where sunlight shines down on the polished, warm brown of the tabletop. His coat hangs loose over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up around his elbows, showing off the faint scar along one forearm, earned from some past scrape or another. He moves fluidly, his hand brushing the back of a chair before pulling it out and sinking into the seat, settling comfortably in the seat. He stretches out, one leg kicking lazily out in front of him, his fingers already dancing over the metal lighter in his hand. Flick. Click. Snap. The flame flares briefly before disappearing again. He’s been playing with it since you left the clinic, his gaze traces over the rest of the establishment as if sizing it up, taking everything in, analyzing each detail before storing it away.

You lean against the counter at the front of the room, glancing at the glass display filled with pastries—each one golden and perfectly formed, as if no one had ever made a mistake in this kitchen. The woman behind the counter greets you with a smile that’s almost too wide, her apron spotless, her hair neatly tucked behind a pale green bandana. Her gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary, but you don’t let it show that you’ve noticed.

“What can I get for you?” she asks, bright and airy.

“Just coffee,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder at Luis. “And whatever he wants.”

Luis, still lounging in his chair, doesn’t look up right away. His thumb flicks the lighter open again, the small flame dancing briefly before being snuffed out with a quick snap. He’s quiet for a beat longer than usual, before flashing the woman a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll take whatever the lady is having. And maybe something to eat. Surprise us.”

You order for both of you, paying with the money you found in your pockets earlier—wondering if this was what they were able to salvage from the car crash and returned back to you. It didn’t seem like a lot, but you supposed it might suffice for now. The woman at the counter hands you the change in a small basket, her smile never wavering, and you thank her before making your way back to the booth where Luis is waiting.

As you slide into your seat, Luis nods toward the basket sitting between the two of you. He picks up a sugar cube, popping it into his mouth with a soft crunch, his jaw moving in slow circles as he savors the taste of pure sugar with no flavor while you grimace, watching him.

"I just brought sweets, and you settle for a sugar cube like a horse," you say in disbelief as you pick up your coffee cup, taking a cautious sip of the steaming liquid. It’s rich and dark, with a hint of bitterness that lingers on your tongue. Not bad, actually. Better than you expected. Luis just chuckles quietly, reaching for another cube, his eyes following the movement of the café owner as she moves behind the counter, humming along with the music. "Terrible taste."

"You don't know what you're missing," he replies, popping the cube in his mouth and sucking on it loudly. "It's an underrated treat. A secret delicacy. Not that I'd expect you to understand."

"It's just sugar. Just sugar, Luis. You might as well chug corn syrup while you're at it."

His expression is relaxed, almost bored, but the lighter keeps moving, his fingers spinning it absentmindedly, never staying still. His brows are slightly furrowed, and you notice that there's a small scar above his right eye. One that's new, not one you remember. It looks fresh, recent.

"Your eyes are twitching," you say, leaning back and crossing your arms over your chest, watching him closely. "Spill."

Luis glances up, his gaze flicking from the sugar bowl to your face, and a smirk spreads across his features. "What?"

"You've been on edge all morning," you state plainly, gesturing at the lighter in his hand. "The peace and quiet making you itch or what?"

He stops lighting the it on and off, but his thumb keeps sliding over the edge of the lighter. He brushes his thumb across the scar above his brow, as though he'd forgotten about its presence. "Why would it? It's what we wanted, no?" His gaze flicks back to the window, where a couple walks by, hand in hand, smiling and nodding at everyone they pass. “What do you think? Should we buy a little cottage here? Raise some chickens, maybe a goat?”

This talk feels intentional in the aftermath of the muffin banter you had earlier, and you’re not sure whether to be concerned or annoyed. Or amused. It’s not entirely out of character for him to joke about something like that, especially since he’s never shown an interest in settling down before. Still, something about the mental image of Luis tending to a flock of animals on some idyllic farm in the countryside makes your lips twitch. "I'd pay to see you milk a cow," you reply with a half-smile, raising your eyebrows. "That'd be a hell of a show."

Luis grins, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his chin propped up by one hand. His dark hair falls across his forehead, brushing his cheekbones as his head tilts to the side. He's always been good at this game, this dance between you two that's almost like a game of chess, every move carefully calculated. "Oh, I'd be happy to give you a private performance," he says, his accent rolling off his tongue in a way that's both charming and infuriating. "No charge."

You snort, rolling your eyes at him, but the corners of your mouth turn upward, betraying the amusement that bubbles up within. "Pass," you say, taking another sip of your coffee, feeling the warm liquid slide down your throat and settle in your stomach.

"Your loss," he shrugs, reaching for another sugar cube, popping it into his mouth and crunching down loudly.

"Please stop eating pure sugar," you groan, rubbing your temple with one hand. "You're better than this, Luis, there's literally a plate of actual food right there, use it."

Luis just grins, shrugging casually as he chews the sugar cube noisily, his fingers tap a rhythm against the lighter, his thumb brushing over its surface in a way that seems almost unconscious. He leans back in his seat, his legs stretching out under the table until his foot brushes yours. “I’d make a terrible farmer. Too many things that can catch fire," he says out of nowhere. “And you, you’re too much of a city girl to even touch a pitchfork.”

You shrug, playing along, but you notice the way his fingers tap against the lighter, the rhythm uneven now. His foot is still pressed against yours beneath the table, a gentle pressure that's oddly grounding in its familiarity. "Who knows? Maybe I'd be a natural." You take a bite of your own pastry, savoring the flaky texture and the hint of sweetness that lingers on your tongue, it melts in your mouth, leaving a pleasant aftertaste.

"I think you’d go crazy. No action. No excitement. Just... this.”

He gestures loosely to the café, the street outside, the perfect houses lined up in neat rows. The smirk is still there, but his eyes don’t follow his hand. They stay fixed on the window, watching the people pass by with their wide smiles and easy laughter. His thumb flicks the lighter open again, the flame flickering before disappearing with a snap. It’s a small thing, a nervous tic maybe, but it feels important somehow. Like there’s more beneath the surface.

"What's wrong with 'this'?" you ask, setting your cup on the table, the porcelain clinking gently. "Not exactly complaining about the free medical treatment and a roof over our heads. Beats sleeping in the car or some rundown motel."

The smirk slips from his face as he sighs, turning his gaze back to you, his expression unreadable. “I’m saying you’re just like me. You’d be bored out of your mind.” His tone is light, but his eyes stay sharp, searching yours as though looking for confirmation, a sign that you understand what he’s really getting at.

There’s a beat of silence, and for a moment, the only sound is the soft clink of cups being set on tables and the faint rustle of the napkins the woman keeps folding. Luis’s smile doesn’t fade, but there’s something tight in his jaw, something restless in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You're blinking as if to fix the blurriness in vision as you automatically reply, "Yeah, that's true," but your words are distant, muffled, like you're out of your body. You shake your head slightly, trying to clear your mind, wondering why you replied like that when you're not quite of the same opinion, not even close. You try to speak, to say something, but the words die in your throat. You blink again, and this time, everything snaps into place, the colors suddenly sharper, the sounds clearer. "I... I'd be restless, yeah. This being the last heist is disappointing, actually. I feel like there's so much this dream team still can do together. Who's gonna stop us from making a mint if we keep doing this?"

Luis just nods, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies your face, searching for something. "Of course you would say that."

Luis moves through the warmth of Valdelobos like a man underwater. The sunlight is bright, almost blinding as it bounces off the brightly painted houses, their walls a patchwork of reds, blues and yellows. He squints against the glare, a second heartbeat in his skull pulsing with a dull ache. His surroundings are thick with the smell of blooming flowers, baking bread, and a faint undercurrent of something sharper—burnt, acrid, though it’s nowhere to be seen. His steps are slower now, more measured, though he’s not conscious of it. Every inch of him feels taut, like a string stretched too tight, his mind drifting in and out of focus.

He can still hear you walking beside him, feel your presence there, steady and real, but his thoughts keep dragging him somewhere else. Somewhere darker. The lighter in his pocket feels like a lifeline, his thumb brushing over its worn edges again and again, but even that doesn’t anchor him.

His heart misses a beat as the cobblestones crack beneath his feet, crumbling into rubble and ash, the space around him dimming as if the sun has vanished behind a thick blanket of smoke. He’s not walking through Valdelobos anymore—he’s standing in a narrow alley, the walls are crumbling around him, charred from some unseen fire, and it reeks of smoke and something metallic, sharp against the back of his throat. His hand grips the shoulder of someone beside him, but it’s not steady. He’s not guiding them—he’s dragging them. Their steps falter, stumbling over debris on the ground, and their voice is high, frantic.

“I can’t—” They're struggling, foot catching on something unseen. Their balance is off, and Luis can feel the tremble in their frame as they try to keep up. "Luis, please..."

“Dios mío, you need to pull yourself together!” His grip on them tightens, but it’s not to help—it’s to force theö forward, to make them move. The guilt presses in at the edges of the scene, but there’s something else now—frustration. His heart pounds, not from fear or sorrow, but from the burning irritation knotting tighter and tighter in his chest.

She stumbles again, her shoes scraping against the ground, and Luis snaps. "You want us both to die? After everything, after all our efforts?!" His reprimand echoes off the crumbling walls, harsh, cold. It’s not like him. Not the him he pretends to be, with a charming smile and an easy laugh. This version of him is all jagged edges and sharp angles, raw, stripped down to the bone.

“I didn’t—” they start, but the words falter, barely audible over the sound of his own frustration thrumming in his ears.

He yanks his arm away, the motion harsh, and they nearly trip, balance thrown. He steps back, the anger simmering just beneath the surface now, hot and raw. He’s had enough of this, of them. There’s no room for hesitation, no room for weakness, and yet here they are, wasting time. Every second they waste is another second lost.

Their form flickers, just for a moment, like an image out of focus. They shift, hands outstretched toward him, but the plea in their movements only makes the anger twist harder in his gut. He doesn’t want to help them, doesn’t want to guide them anymore. He’s already done too much.

“Get up,” he snaps, cold, cutting through the thick air around them.

"I'm sorry," they say, a trembling, thin whisper. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I swear."

Then, just as suddenly, the scene shifts again.

Luis blinks, and the room snaps into focus. It’s small, the humidity thick and suffocating, it's like swallowing solids in his lungs to breathe. There’s no fire now, no smoke, but the walls are too close, the ceiling too low. The bed in front of him is rumpled, the sheets twisted, and the figure lying there—still, too still—doesn’t move. His chest feels tight, the anger from before crumpling into something colder, heavier.

His hand reaches out, hovering just above the figure’s shoulder. The light in the room is dim, the shadows swallowing the details of the face that remains hidden from him, but he can feel the familiar twisting of guilt clenching around his ribcage and letting go in a steady motion.

He doesn’t want to touch them, doesn’t want to feel the confirmation of what he already knows. His hand trembles, his fingers twitching with the instinct to pull back, but he’s rooted there, the moment dragging on, stretching into something unbearable.

“I don't want to do this anymore.” The sniffling is faint, the words trailing off before they reach him fully, but they echo in his head, bouncing around in the quiet, taunting him.

His hand drops, hanging uselessly at his side as he steps back, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The room keeps getting smaller, the walls pressing in closer. The guilt is everywhere—clinging to the sheets, dripping from the ceiling, pooling in the dark spaces behind the furniture. He can feel it seeping into his bones, his muscles, his blood. The weight of it threatens to crush him, and he staggers back, bumping into the dresser behind him, sending bottles and glasses clattering to the floor. The noise shatters the silence, echoing in his ears like a scream, and he turns, his hands clutching at the doorframe as he stumbles out of the room, leaving the still, unmoving figure behind.

And then it fractures again.

Valdelobos reasserts itself in a dizzying rush of color and sound. The sunlight, the colors, the smell of flowers and fresh bread—it all comes crashing in around him like a tidal wave of sensory overload. His breath catches, his eyes watering from the sudden brightness, and for a moment, he’s disoriented, unsure if he’s even standing on solid ground. The world tilts around him, his balance thrown off-kilter, and he sways on his feet, his hands reaching out blindly for something to steady himself against.

A hand brushes against his arm, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to regain his bearings. His lungs burn from the effort of breathing, his vision still swimming with the remnants of the nightmare, and he blinks furiously, trying to clear his head.

Luis blinks hard, his heart still pounding in his chest, his breath coming too fast. He reaches up, dragging a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of anger, of guilt.

His hand moves to his pocket, his fingers curling around the lighter, but he doesn't pull it out. Instead, he just holds it there, feeling its weight, its solidity. A lifeline. A tether. He's not sure how long he's been drifting, but it can't have been long. He looks over at you, your eyes narrowed with concern, your hand still hovering near him. He can't meet your gaze, can't bring himself to look at you, not after what he saw.

You sit across from Luis in the small room of the inn, your back resting against the uneven wooden chair. A dense silence hangs between the two of you, filling the space like a thick fog, The faintest breeze pushes the curtain, offering occasional whispers of relief from the room’s stagnant warmth. You shift in your seat, drumming your fingers on the table in front of you as you try to piece everything together in your mind. It all feels fragmented, like an unfinished puzzle, pieces still scattered across the table, waiting for someone to fit them into place.

Luis, on the other hand, is staring down at a map that’s laid out between the two of you. His hands trace the outlines of the village, the corners of his lips curling slightly, though the smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. There’s something off about him—there’s been something off since the crash, but it’s hard to say what. Maybe it’s just the disorientation from the accident, or maybe it’s the fact that this whole place is like a civilization apart from the world, tucked away and secluded. Either way, you both need to get your heads back in the game. You’ve got a job to do. The crash took away some of the finer details of that, but the goal is still simple enough—rob the rich bastards blind, then get out and get to the next heist. Or so you think, at least.

You pull the notebook from your bag, the one with hastily scribbled notes you barely remember writing before the crash. You thumb through the pages, your eyes scanning over the details you managed to jot down. There’s a name, a target, someone wealthy enough to make this con worth the trip. Your handwriting looks rushed, as though you were trying to get everything down before it slipped away from your mind. The edges of the pages are creased, worn from being handled too much.

“We were targeting Araya Montesa,” you say, flipping the notebook around so Luis can see the notes. “She’s some sort of local elite, deals in old money and new investments. According to this”—you tap the page lightly—“she’s been funding projects all over the place, big ones. Something about property development, maybe?” You pause, narrowing your eyes at the scribbles. “It’s vague, though. I don’t remember why she’s important.”

Luis leans in, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies the notebook. His fingers hover above the page, but he doesn’t touch it. “It’s always the ones with their fingers in everything, isn’t it? The ones who think they own the world because they own a few houses and half a forest. Typical. Montesa sounds about right. Someone like her? Probably doesn’t even blink when she throws money around.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what was the angle?”

You flip the notebook back to yourself, skimming the pages again, looking for clues. There’s a rough sketch of a timeline—dates, events that seem to correspond to something important. You squint at the details, trying to recall what you were thinking when you wrote it all down. “The angle was that she’s got a hand in some shady dealings. Off-the-books investments, money moving into places it shouldn’t. We were going to pose as investors, or maybe contractors. I’m not sure. It’s all... It’s just not clicking.”

“We don’t need the details to click just yet. It’s about getting in first. Blending in. The rest, we can pick up as we go. That’s how these things always work, right? We start with what we know, then make the rest up as we go. That’s the fun part.”

He gives you a look, his smile finally softening into something more genuine, but... You lean back, looking him up and down with a raised eyebrow, your mouth quirking up into a half-smile.

“Okay, what is this? You never make it up as you go along and I’m the one telling you to just get in and get out. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard in that crash? Did the smoke really fuck you up?” You’re only half-joking, a note of concern creeping into your words. This feels different, and not in a good way.

Luis sighs, his hands dropping to his sides as he leans back in the chair, the wood creaking under his shifting position. “I've always been like this, cariño. I'm the one who gets us into the messes, remember? You're the one who plans our way out. That’s the way it’s always been. The way it works best.”

"I, um..." Your middle finger finds the corner of your eye socket, massaging and scratching as you shut your eyes, trying to remember. But it's all a blur, a jumbled mess of half-formed memories and sensations. You need to trust yourself—trust that you can pull this off. You’ve done it before, haven’t you? You're good at this, at reading people, at finding the angle, the way in. You just have to find it again. “So, we show up as contractors,” you say, scribbling a few quick notes in the margins of the notebook. “Maybe we’ve got a project in mind that she’d want to fund. Something flashy, something with a lot of potential. She seems like the kind of person who likes to be seen as important, influential. We feed into that, let her believe she’s in control, and when she’s comfortable enough, we take what we need.”

“That could work. Everyone likes to feel like they’re the ones pulling the strings, especially people like her. We’ll make her think she’s calling the shots, and then we’ll make our move. Easy. In and out, right?”

You glance at him, watching the way he leans back in his chair, that easy confidence oozing from his posture. He’s always had that air about him, like nothing could ever faze him, like he’s untouchable.

You get the feeling he'd want to get into this more, script down everything down to the minute details, but he doesn't look like he'll even attempt to. He's really serious about improvising. Which is very much unlike him. He's a planner, through and through. Always has been. This whole thing feels like it’s on a razor’s edge, ready to tip into disaster at any moment, what changed? Why does everything feel like it's in flux? Why are you suddenly doubting everything you know about each other?

For a few moments, the room falls into a quiet hum, the only sound the faint rustling of papers and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath the weight of your shifting feet. Luis keeps his eyes on the map, but his focus seems distant, distracted. You want to ask him if he’s okay, if he’s feeling the same strange disconnect that you are, but the words stick in your throat, caught between the lines of your own doubts and uncertainties.

“So, what’s the timeline?” Luis asks, finally breaking the silence, pulling you back to the present. “How long do we have before we need to make our move?”

You flip back through the notebook, scanning the dates and trying to make sense of your own handwriting. “There’s a festival," you say, tapping the page again. “It’s happening in three days. That’s our entry point. If we can get in, we’ll have access to Montesa and everyone in her circle. Plenty of opportunities to gather intel, see how things work around here.”

“Three days. Not a lot of time to figure out this place, but I guess it’s more than we had when we started.” Luis rubs his jaw, the stubble on his chin scratching against his palm and making noise. “Alright. Let’s get a feel for the area, find out what we’re dealing with, and then we can start planning our approach.”

"Shopping first," you suggest, gesturing at the clothes you're wearing, the same as Luis's. "We stick out like sore thumbs in these. The locals dress like they've stepped out of a vintage postcard: bright, pastel, flowery. Not exactly the look of investors or contractors, but there's a way to make it look rich."

You reach for your bag, digging around until you find a crumpled note with a list of stores and addresses, hastily scribbled in what must have been a hurry. "I don't remember writing this," you admit, smoothing out the paper on the table. "But I must have thought it was important at the time. Maybe it's worth checking out."

Luis nods, taking the note from you, his eyes scanning the names and locations. "Looks like we've got a full day of retail therapy ahead of us." He grins, handing the note back to you. "Might as well enjoy it while we're here. When was the last time we went on a shopping spree?"

You can't help but smile, some of the anxiety melting away in the face of his optimism. "Probably when you insisted on buying those matching fedoras in Barcelona. Remember that? The shopkeeper looked at us like we were crazy, but you wouldn't take no for an answer."

There's a hesitant, almost confused pause where the silence stretches for a second longer than necessary before Luis nods, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," he says, his tone a bit off, but you brush it aside, chalking it up to the stress of the situation. "Good times."

It’s simple, right? Just follow the steps. It’s not like we haven’t done this before—just a few marks, a little deception, and we’re out. I mapped it all out, every move, every contingency. There’s nothing we haven’t accounted for. We’ll get in, we’ll do what we need to do, and we’ll disappear before anyone realizes what happened. We’ve done it a hundred times, haven’t we? So why do you feel different this time? No, no, it’s just nerves. I always get like this. But I can’t let myself get sloppy now, not when we’re so close. We’re a team. I need to trust that. We’ve got this.

The festival preparations have taken over the town square, with brightly colored stalls popping up overnight like mushrooms after rain. There’s a quiet buzz in the early morning, a feeling of excitement and anticipation hanging in the misty, cool mountain village. The cobblestones are slick with dew, the storefronts decorated with garlands of flowers and paper lanterns, their windows reflecting the soft light of the sunrise. You can smell the fresh bread being baked at the local bakery, the earthy scent of the flower arrangements, and the faint hint of woodsmoke from the bonfires that will be lit later tonight.

You and Luis make your way through the bustling streets, the colorful skirts and dresses of the villagers swirling around you, and you feel a little out of place, dressed in your more practical clothes. You stick out like a pair of crows among the vibrant parrots of the festival, but you push the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand. The festival is the perfect opportunity to get close to your mark and gather the information you need.

“We need to start with the small talk,” Luis mutters, leaning closer to you, low enough to not carry over the hum of conversation. “Get people talking, make ourselves less... foreign.”

You glance at him, taking in the subtle shift in his posture, the way his eyes scan the crowd, always searching for an angle, a weakness to exploit. “I’m good at small talk. You’re good at charming the pants off of everyone around you. We’ll play to our strengths, okay?”

You glance around at the different booths. The villagers are focused, intent on their tasks, but they don’t seem too guarded. Some of them are talking in hushed voices, their hands busy tying up decorations or arranging offerings for the festival’s centerpiece, a towering wooden structure in the center of the square, draped with garlands and flowers.

Luis nudges you with his elbow, his grin sharp and playful. “Fancy helping me with some baskets?” he says, tipping his chin toward a group of villagers struggling to lift a few heavy baskets of flowers onto a cart. “We’ll look like the helpful types, and maybe they’ll be more willing to chat.”

You roll your eyes but nod, following him as he makes his way over to the group. One of the young women is wiping her brow with the back of her hand, her face flushed from the effort, while two younger men struggle to lift the baskets onto the cart.

Luis steps in smoothly, offering a hand. “Mind if we help? Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

The woman’s face brightens, her smile wide and grateful. “Oh, thank you! We’re trying to get everything ready for the festival, but it’s a lot of work, and the boys here, well...” She gestures to the men, who exchange sheepish glances. “They’ve got more muscle than sense.”

Luis laughs, already bending down to grab one of the baskets. He lifts it with ease, his movements fluid and unhurried, and sets it on the cart with a satisfying thump. “Well, no harm in helping out where we can. It’s a big festival, right? Must take a lot to put it all together.”

The other woman nods, her hands busy arranging the flowers in the baskets. “Oh yes, it’s the biggest event of the year. We’ve been preparing for weeks, and even then, it’s a scramble to get everything just right. Everyone pitches in, though. It’s tradition.”

You grab another basket, lifting it with less grace but enough strength to make it look effortless. “It must be a lot of work,” you say, glancing over at Luis, who’s already moving to help with another load. “Do you get a lot of visitors for the festival?”

The woman chuckles, shaking her head. “Visitors? Not really. It’s more of a local thing, you know. The kind of celebration that stays within the community. It’s been that way for generations.” She pauses, her hands still for a moment as she looks at the flowers. “But we always welcome a few extra hands. You two aren’t from around here, are you?”

Luis steps in before you can respond, his voice smooth. “Just passing through. Thought we’d stop and enjoy the festival while we’re here. Seems like a good way to get to know the place.”

Her smile returns, though her eyes linger on the two of you for a beat longer. “Well, you’ve certainly come at the right time. There’s no better way to get a feel for Valdelobos than during the festival. It’s... special.”

Luis gives her a wink, picking up another basket and moving it onto the cart with a casual grace that seems almost effortless. “Can’t wait. So, tell us about this festival. What’s the story behind it all?”

The woman’s face lights up as she begins to explain, her hands moving animatedly as she describes the origins of the festival, the importance of the harvest, and the rituals that have been passed down through generations. As she talks, the two of you keep helping, lifting the baskets and moving them to the cart, all the while keeping your ears open for any information that might be useful. You can feel the energy of the village growing around you, the anticipation building as the preparations continue. By the time you’re done helping, the sun is starting to rise higher in the sky, casting the square in a warm, golden light, and you’re both covered in a thin layer of sweat from the physical labor. The woman thanks you once more, her smile wide and genuine, before she excuses herself to tend to another task, leaving you and Luis standing in the center of the square, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the festival’s final preparations.

“That’s the thing about small towns,” he says eventually, somewhere far away in his head. “They always think their traditions are special.”

You give him a look, arching a brow. “And are they not? They seem pretty excited about this festival.”

He shrugs, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “They’re excited because it’s what they know. But what they don’t know is that there are hundreds, thousands of other villages just like theirs, all with their own ‘special’ traditions. It’s nothing new, just a different flavor of the same old thing.”

You shake your head, a chuckle slipping past your lips. “Ever the cynic, Luis.”

He shrugs, a hand resting on his hip as he watches the villagers continue their work. “Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re not here for the festival. We’re here for Montesa.”

You glance over at the towering wooden structure in the center of the square, draped in flowers and surrounded by offerings. The villagers are treating it with reverence, placing their gifts at the base of the sculpture, murmuring prayers and blessings under their breath. "That doesn't look like tradition to me," you murmur, stepping a little closer, eyeing the intricately carved figures and symbols etched into the wood. "It looks ancient."

“Ancient and superstitious. These people, they probably don't even understand half of what they're doing. They're just following some old ritual, going through the motions without a thought in their heads."

You ignore him, focusing on a bundle of dried herbs and wildflowers tied together with a piece of rough twine, a name scratched on a piece of parchment tucked beneath the knot. "Looks like a shrine, doesn't it?"

Luis scoffs, his eyes narrowing as he scans the crowd, looking for a familiar face, a chance to dig in. "If that's what you want to call it. I prefer to call it a waste of time."

As the day wears on, you and Luis continue to help out where you can, lending a hand with decorations, moving supplies, and striking up small conversations with the villagers. The work is simple enough, but it gives you a chance to observe, to listen. You learn that Montesa is as influential as your notes suggested, a pillar of the community who’s been funding the festival for years. Everyone seems to speak of her with respect, but there’s a certain distance in how they talk about her, as though she’s more of a symbol than a person. You keep these observations to yourself, though, storing them away in the back of your mind, a puzzle to piece together later, when you're not so exposed and vulnerable in the middle of a throng of strangers.

Luis doesn't share the same reticence. He's in his element, chatting easily with the locals, charming them with his easy smile and quick wit. He doesn't need to ask many questions to get them to spill their secrets, their fears, their hopes. He just listens and lets them fill the silence, their words flowing freely as if he's a trusted friend, not a stranger who stumbled upon their village a few days ago. It's a skill that never fails to amaze you, the way he can disarm people, make them feel comfortable, make them forget that there's a reason to be cautious in the first place.

At one point, a young man, his skin sun-kissed and his hair dark, stops you and asks, "Are you two married?" His question is innocent, curious, and his eyes dart between the two of you, a smile on his face. "I haven't seen a couple like you around here before."

You and Luis exchange a quick look, a silent communication that's become second nature to the two of you over the years. You've played a hundred different roles, taken on a dozen identities, and in every scenario, you've known exactly what to say, how to act, how to sell the lie. And yet, Luis hesitates. For the briefest of moments, his smile falters, and his eyes cloud with something you can't quite read. Then, the mask is back, and he's grinning at the villager, his arm slipping comfortably around your shoulders. "No," he says, his gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, it feels like the truth. "Not yet."

But it's fleeting, the feeling gone in an instant, and you chalk it up to the adrenaline, the thrill of the con, the fact that you're in the middle of a job.

Something’s off. I can feel it, even if I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like everyone’s watching us—watching me—and they can see right through me. You don’t seem worried, though. This much faith in me is too generous, especially now, but you... I honestly don’t know how you do it. I wish I could be like that. I wish I didn’t feel like I’m already failing you. I’m trying, I really am. I need to stay sharp, for you. You’re counting on me to pull this off. We’ve come too far for me to screw it up now. Just a little while longer. Just a little while longer, and then we’ll be free.

The festival at dusk is a far cry from the day’s preparation—the whole area is bathed in a warm, golden glow that makes the flowers and the lanterns sparkle. The music is lively and infectious, the sound of guitars and drums filling the town square, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of the villagers. The food, the drinks, and the dancing create an atmosphere that's almost magical, a feeling that everything is possible, that anything can happen. You and Luis find yourselves drawn into the festivities, the rhythm of the music seeping into your bones, and the smiles of the villagers becoming contagious. It's hard to remember that this isn't real, that the joy and the camaraderie are only a façade, a cover for the job that's waiting just around the corner. But, in the midst of the celebration, in the warmth of the bonfires, the allure of the dance, and the laughter, it's easy to forget, to let the worries and the stress melt away, and to simply lose yourself in the magic of the moment.

The stalls are still there, decked out in their bright fabrics and goods, but now, they're crowded with villagers, laughing and drinking, sharing stories and secrets, the night's festivities a time of revelry and merriment.

Luis isn't drinking like you are, though. You're on the third cup of the sickly sweet wine the village keeps pushing in front of anyone who looks like they might accept. His eyes are on the towering structure. Once covered in garlands, it now gleams faintly in the dimming light, the flowers and ribbons fluttering gently in the breeze. It’s the focal point of the square, the centerpiece of everything tonight, and the villagers are beginning to circle around it, their faces glowing in the flickering light of the bonfire. They're holding hands, swaying, the soft murmur of their chant rising above the crackling of the fire.

You watch as one by one, they approach the shrine, each holding a small token—a dried flower, a smooth stone, a carved figure, all of them unique but clearly chosen with care. They place the objects at the base of the shrine, their heads bowed in brief moments of silence before stepping back into the growing crowd. It's a solemn and intimate scene, despite the number of people surrounding the shrine, and the energy in the square is shifting, the cheerful atmosphere of the festival melting into something more somber, more reverent. The villagers are calling out to someone, or to some deity, and the words blur together in a dizzying swirl of syllables that make no sense, leaving only a lingering sensation of unease in their wake. There's a palpability in the evening's events, the darkness settling around the village like a thick cloak, and the shadows in the corners of the square seem to grow deeper, the space between the stars stretching wider and emptier with every passing minute. It's a strange and unsettling sight, and one that sends a chill crawling down the length of your spine, the hairs on the nape of your neck standing on end, and a sudden urge to step away.

"Where's Montesa?" you ask, tearing your gaze away from the shrine, from the flickering flames and the rising chants, and turning to Luis, who's watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a thin line. "She should be here for this, right? Everyone seems to think the world of her."

Your words are loud enough to carry over the noise of the chanting, and the villagers turn their attention to you, their eyes widening in surprise, and the chanting stops abruptly, the abrupt change in the atmosphere making the night suddenly feel colder and more menacing than it had a moment before.

You should have been quiet.

You quickly bow in apology, and the villagers return to their ritual, the chanting starting once again. Your heart is racing, and the wine in your hand tastes sour, the sweetness gone, replaced by a bitter, metallic tang. The bonfire's flames seem to leap higher, the shadows in the corners of the square darker, the distance to the edge of the village suddenly farther than it was a moment ago.

You and Luis should have left the festival early. Or maybe, neither of you should have come in the first place.

"I saw her go to her house," says a young woman, dressed in a long, white dress, the fabric flowing and ethereal in the flickering firelight, and she takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes are large and dark, her hair cascading down her shoulders in waves of deep brown and gold. She glances at the other villagers, her expression uncertain, but then she turns back to you, her lips curling in a shy smile. "She's probably preparing her tribute. She always likes to do that in private, to get the details just right."

The soft sound of bells draws your attention back to the wooden structure, where a group of villagers is now approaching, carrying lit candles in their hands. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the square, and as the villagers arrange themselves in a circle around the structure, the rest of the crowd falls silent, their heads bowing slightly in unison.

"Here it is, please excuse me," she murmurs, brushing past you and moving to join the circle, her dress trailing behind her like a whisper of silk.

One of the villagers steps forward, holding what looks like a small wooden bowl in his hands. His face is young—too young, perhaps, for the gravity of the moment—but his eyes are serious, and his fingers are steady as he lifts the bowl toward the sky. He speaks, his words clear and strong, his Spanish rolling off his tongue in a language that sounds both ancient and familiar, and the wind picks up, rustling the leaves and stirring the flowers that adorn the wooden structure.

"Esto es un regalo para ti," the boy says, and the others in the circle repeat his words, their eyes fixed on the wooden structure, the candles burning brightly in their hands. "Recibe nuestra ofrenda, y bendice nuestro pueblo con tu protección."

You squint, trying to make out the details of the bowl’s contents in the fading light. It’s small, unassuming, and at first glance, it looks like it could be filled with herbs or incense—something harmless. But as the young man tips the bowl slightly, letting the contents spill out onto the base of the shrine, you catch a glimpse of dark liquid, thick and viscous, pooling at the feet of the wooden structure.

Blood.

You feel Luis stiffen next to you, his body rigid with alarm. The villagers don’t react—not in the way you’d expect, anyway. There’s no shock, no murmurs of confusion or discomfort. Instead, they remain perfectly still, their eyes trained on the young man as he continues to pour the blood at the base of the shrine, his face calm, serene. The liquid glistens in the candlelight, and as the pool grows larger, the coppery scent of the offering fills the night, mingling with the smoke from the bonfires and the heady aroma of the perfumed oils.

"They must have slaughtered a goat or a sheep or something earlier in the day," you mutter to Luis, keeping your tone light, almost flippant, trying to hide the anxiety creeping through your veins. You've seen some strange things, sure, but this... This is something else. Blood offerings? In a tiny village in the middle of nowhere? "A pretty gruesome part of the ritual, I guess, but... Well, it's not that weird, is it?"

He doesn't answer, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing, the lines on his forehead deepening. "Let's leave."

"What?"

"We're leaving."

"Luis, what are you talking about?" you hiss, your brows furrowing in frustration, and a spike of anger rushes through you, sharp and unexpected. "What about Montesa?"

"Ay joder," he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Luis doesn’t release your arm until you’ve slipped through the outer edge of the square, the glow from the lanterns fading behind you as you move into the darker, quieter streets. The further you walk, the more distant the music and laughter become, and the serious state Luis won't drop for one second is an iron band around your chest. He's so tense, his grip on you so tight, that you're not entirely certain whether you should be scared or angry. What the hell is wrong with him?

Luis is quiet as you both maneuver through the narrow alleyways, his usual swagger absent. His eyes are sharp, scanning every shadow, every corner, as though the villagers might suddenly appear out of nowhere. His hand brushes yours once or twice, quick and intentional, keeping you grounded as the two of you press forward toward the inn. The festival hums faintly behind you, but its hold seems to fade the farther you go.

"Are you going to explain yourself, or are we supposed to play the guessing game now?" you snap, finally wrenching your arm out of his grasp, and turning to face him, arms folded across your chest. "We had a plan, Luis. We had a goddamn plan, and you just threw it all away!"

He doesn't even blink, his gaze locked on yours, and his lips curl into a humorless smile, a barely perceptible shake of his head. "Plans change. That's the nature of the beast, isn't it?"

"Yeah, when the job changes!" You throw your hands up, pacing a few steps, and his expression remains impassive, infuriatingly cool. "And last I checked, the job was getting close to Montesa, not running away from the fucking festival like a couple of idiots! What was that, Luis? Huh? Are you trying to blow our cover or are you just bored?"

Luis stops you suddenly, his arm shooting out to block your path. His eyes narrow, focused on something lying in the shadows ahead.

“Wait,” he mutters under his breath, his hand coming up to motion for you to stay behind him.

You step back instinctively, following his gaze to a small, crumpled pile near the corner of the alley. The dim light barely catches the edge of a slick, plastic surface, something shiny and out of place in the otherwise dusty alleyway. Luis moves forward cautiously, crouching down beside the pile, his fingers carefully tracing the edges of the material. You follow him, peering over his shoulder, and the realization hits you—a black garbage bag, torn and ripped, its contents strewn haphazardly along the ground.

"What are you doing now?" you whisper, your irritation momentarily forgotten, replaced by an uneasy sense of dread. "Why are we sniffing around in the trash?"

He reaches out slowly to pick up one of the discarded bags. His hand trembles slightly as he turns it over, inspecting the contents.

It’s a blood bag, half-full, its surface smeared with dirt and dust. The sight of it sends a jolt of unease through your spine, the implications of its presence in such a remote area, so far removed from the nearest medical facility, too unsettling to fully process. You take a step closer, the crunch of gravel beneath your foot echoing off the walls of the alley, and Luis's grip on the bag tightens, his knuckles white against the slick, red-stained plastic.

“Shit,” he mutters, standing up quickly, his face tight. He holds up the bag so you can see it more clearly, and your breath catches in your throat.

There, printed neatly on the label in bold, black letters, is your name. Your name. A cold, sick feeling spreads through your stomach, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. This can't be real. This can't be happening. Not here, not in the middle of this godforsaken village, surrounded by strangers and their bizarre rituals.

"That's..." your words trail off, your mind reeling, and your hand reaches out to touch the bag, as if to confirm its existence, to make sure it's not just a figment of your imagination. "They could have thrown it away after we were discharged, right? Someone probably found them and thought they were trash."

"The bag is cold," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the surrounding darkness, the quiet, deserted alley. There's nothing—no sound, no sign of anyone nearby. The silence seems to stretch on endlessly, and the night grows darker, thicker, the shadows clinging to the buildings and the cobblestones. "It was refrigerated. Recently."

"You don't mean that," you say, your words barely above a whisper, and the chill in the night is suddenly colder, sharper. "You can't. That's insane. They wouldn't do that. They couldn't."

Luis’s jaw clenches, and he looks down at the other bags scattered across the ground. He kicks one with his boot, sending it skidding across the alley, and the faint glow of the streetlamp catches on the label.

Another one with your name.

His eyes flick to yours, a dark, furious glint in them. “While we were out. They drew blood from us, and we didn’t even realize it.”

You swallow hard, your mind racing to make sense of what’s happening. Why would they take your blood? Just to use it on a fucking wooden doll in a festival ritual? No, no that can't be the reason. Maybe they’re selling it on the black market, maybe there’s a buyer, a collector, a twisted soul who delights in collecting samples from unsuspecting travelers.

"What do we do?" you ask, your words coming out in a panicked rush. "Do we leave? Do we confront them about it? What the hell are we supposed to do, Luis?"

He stands, his hand gripping the bag of your stolen blood, his eyes narrowing. He looks at the empty alleys, the quiet, deserted streets, and his mouth twists in a grimace, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. "We lay low. Keep our heads down, wait for the morning. See if we can find anything else. Anything that explains... this." His fingers tighten on the bag, and the plastic crinkles in his grip, the sound sharp and brittle in the stillness.

Your heart is pounding, a frantic rhythm in your chest, and you can hear the rushing of your pulse in your ears. This isn't right, isn't normal, and the thought of staying another night in the same place where someone has stolen a piece of you, has violated your trust in such a fundamental way, fills you with a cold, creeping dread. But there's no other choice. Not yet. Not in the middle of the night, in a strange land, with no idea of the dangers that may lie in the darkness beyond the boundaries of the village.

"Fine. Okay. Let's just focus on Montesa in the meantime," you mutter, trying to keep the tremor from your tone, to maintain some semblance of calm and control.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I didn’t mean to do it—how could I have known? I thought... I thought I had more time, that I could salvage it somehow even if everything was going wrong. But everything moved too fast. One second everything was fine, and the next... it all slipped out of my hands. The more I tried, the worse it got. I knocked over the papers, made too much noise, drew attention. And then it all came crashing down. I tried to catch up to her, but she was gone before I could do anything. It was just one mistake. Just one.

Montesa’s room is overwhelming in its beauty, but there’s something restrained about it. Everything feels curated—the dark wooden furniture polished to an almost mirror-like sheen, the velvet drapes that pool on the floor but never seem to gather dust, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows that dance across the gleaming surface of the grand piano pushed against the far wall. The scent of roses permeates the space, faint but ever-present, weaving through the air with the softest hint of something warmer, like cinnamon.

Montesa stands at the center of the room, her back straight, posture elegant as ever. Her dark hair is swept up, revealing the perfect arch of her neck. She watches you both with a kind of stillness that makes it seem as though she’s the centerpiece of the room, everything else merely an accessory to her presence. Her smile is warm, practiced, but you can’t help noticing the slight tightness around her eyes, as though she’s studying you as much as you’re studying her.

"Please, sit." Her voice is velvet itself, rich and inviting, but there’s a firmness beneath it. She gestures to the set of chairs arranged around a low, intricately carved table. Luis moves first, ever the smooth operator, offering a charming smile as he lowers himself into one of the plush ones. You follow, though something—whether it’s the overwhelming decor or Montesa herself—makes the chair feel stiffer than it should, the plush seat resisting your attempt to settle in comfortably.

Montesa watches you both, her hands clasped loosely in front of her as she moves toward her seat. The soft rustle of her silk dress is the only sound as she glides across the room, a picture of grace. She doesn’t sit immediately, though. Instead, she pauses, looking at the two of you with a gaze that feels a little too perceptive, a little too knowing.

"It’s always a pleasure to meet new faces. Especially when they arrive at such a... crucial time."

"You know how it is," Luis says, light and conversational. "It’s hard to resist a place like Valdelobos. It’s got this... charm." He flashes her a smile that might as well have been carved from stone, the way it doesn’t shift in his eyes.

Montesa’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer than it should, then drifts toward you, those pale eyes glinting in the soft light. "Charm, yes. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Valdelobos is... timeless. It has a way of drawing in the right people at the right moment." Her words roll off her tongue smoothly, and for a split second, you wonder if she’s mocking you. It’s the way she phrases it—the right people. She lets it hang, not quite accusing, not quite casual.

"It’s the festival, right?" Luis cuts through with a practiced ease. "Seems like everyone’s excited. Must be a big event around here."

"You’ve been enjoying it, I hope?" she asks, finally sitting. She crosses her legs, one elegant foot resting just above the other, her posture the very image of poise.

Luis chuckles, leaning back in his chair, his arms draping casually over the armrests. "It’s quite a spectacle. Never seen anything like it," he says, flashing that easy smile of his. He plays it off light, nonchalant, the way he always does when he’s trying to deflect.

Montesa’s smile widens, but it never quite reaches her eyes. "I’m sure it’s... different from what you’re used to," she says, her gaze flickering between the two of you. "But traditions are important here. They’ve been part of Valdelobos for as long as anyone can remember. We honor the past, the present, and the future in equal measure."

You clear your throat, trying to fight back the prickle of nervousness crawling up the back of your neck. "You must be pretty proud to be able to fund something so significant. It really puts your generous spirit on display."

She blinks, a tiny gesture that belies a depth of emotion. "I’m merely a... facilitator. Valdelobos has always had its own way of doing things, long before I was ever here."

There’s a moment of silence, and you feel Luis shift beside you, his body leaning forward just a touch, enough to show that he’s intrigued but not desperate. "A place like this... I imagine it takes someone with a steady hand to guide it."

Montesa’s eyes glitter with amusement. "It takes more than a steady hand, Mr. Serra. It takes patience, understanding... and knowing when to let things run their course."

Your heart skips, but Luis doesn’t flinch. His smile tightens, but it doesn’t fade. "Sounds like you’ve been running the course for a while then."

Montesa’s smile widens, her fingers brushing delicately along the table’s edge as she regards him. "Longer than you might imagine. But events like this take the weight away. This festival brings everyone together, reminds us of what really matters. Life, connection... love. Loyalty." Her gaze lingers on you as she speaks, and your heart skips a beat. Is she testing you, somehow? Or just seeing how you react to her words? You force yourself not to shift under the intensity of her stare. If she suspects something, if she knows why the two of you are really here, then all of this will have been pointless—and you will be in trouble. But surely she doesn't. She has no reason to suspect anything, after all. No doubt many people have approached her for sponsorship, perhaps even investors looking to get involved in the local community. Right?

"Money," Luis adds, so lighthearted that it'd be obvious to anyone it's meant to be a joke, but he's actually deflecting, playing with his cards close to his chest. "Must bring a lot of visitors to town during the festivities, no?"

This time Montesa laughs, a rich, velvety sound that fills the room. "Not nearly as many as you'd think. As I'm sure you've noticed, this isn't exactly a bustling hub of activity. We're a quiet community, tucked away from most of the world, but we make our own fun."

Something catches your attention in her demeanor, a hint of subtle flirtation dancing along the edges of her smile, but you can't help wondering if it's genuine—if she's actually interested in either of you. Luis, of course, picks up on it immediately, his eyebrows raised and his chin tipped to a rakish angle. It's impossible for him to miss, even when he's half paying attention.

The three of you continue to chat idly about the festival, exchanging stories about festivals past and speculating about future traditions to come. Montesa listens with rapt attention, taking sips of wine whenever a pause presents itself in your conversation. Every now and then, Luis leans forward in his seat, resting one elbow on the carved armrest, and lightly stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes flash, bright and curious as he waits for your reactions, for the opportunity to engage further in a discussion of business opportunities or connections outside the village. But you know better. It's a habitual mannerism—nothing more—and any chance for the two of you to slip a thread or two into her web of power lies firmly outside these conversations. There are moments, however brief, where your words hit their marks, and a thin layer of confusion, disappointment, perhaps fear shows through her veneer. Luis is good, damnably good at drawing those responses out of others. He gives you a quick glance or grin, something that tells you the threads are working, whatever he might intend later.

At one point, someone else knocks on her door, peeking inside and giving her an update on how the preparations for the evening ceremony are proceeding. A pall hangs over Montesa's face at the reminder of her duties, but she politely excuses herself to handle whatever needs her attention first, leaving the two of you alone with a candid apology to return to you as soon as possible. The moment she closes the door, shutting out the faint din of chatter from the servants and attendants still flitting about the building in last-minute preparation frenzy, silence descends around the two of you. Your chest loosens, though the tightness behind your ribcage doesn't disappear entirely. If there was ever a perfect opportunity to look around, ask questions, dig deeper, it'd be this moment—when everyone is focused on something else, something much less relevant than who you both truly are.

"So we snoop?" Luis suggests in a hushed tone, not bothering to check whether or not anyone else lingers just outside of earshot. "Make ourselves useful and give Montesa a reason to like us better?"

"We snoop," you agree quietly. You cast a glance at the closed door, unsure how long you'll have until Montesa returns, or when she expects to. The risk is high, of course, but it's nothing the two of you haven't done before, especially in situations far more precarious than this one.

"Think you can convince them you need somewhere private to throw up?"

So, that's exactly what you do.

A bit of sneaking around after convincing some of the staff you pass that you're about to spill your guts all over the pristine floors, and a little maneuvering behind some decorative curtains hiding what looks like a maintenance corridor, you quickly find yourselves standing in a narrow passageway leading deep into the estate's interior.

The door creaks open to reveal a small room, dimly lit by the low glow of the setting sun filtering through a narrow window. It feels different inside, heavier—filled with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic, like aged coins rubbed between fingers too many times. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with artifacts and trinkets from what looks like another time—forgotten by most, preserved by few. It’s the kind of room you wouldn’t stumble upon by accident. Montesa must have kept it hidden, or at least away from prying eyes.

Luis steps in first, his eyes flicking around the space, sharp and alert. You follow closely behind, your gaze catching on the scattered objects that seem almost too carefully arranged. The room feels less like a storage space and more like a gallery—intended to be observed, not disturbed. But that doesn’t stop Luis. His fingers hover over a small glass display case, tapping lightly on its surface before he lifts the lid.

A low whistle escapes his lips as he picks up a delicate piece of jewelry—a brooch, silver and intricately detailed, a snake coiled around what looks like an eye. "Fancy," he mutters, turning it over in his hand before glancing back at you with a crooked grin. "She’s got expensive taste. I can see why we’re after her."

You watch him, but your attention drifts to the far side of the room, where a large wooden cabinet stands against the wall. Its doors are slightly ajar, and through the gap, you can make out the corner of something dark and framed. You walk over, your fingers grazing the cool wood before you pull the cabinet open wider.

Inside are rows of photographs, neatly arranged and meticulously organized—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. Each one carefully mounted in its own frame, spanning the cabinet from top to bottom. You pull out one at random, the old black-and-white image crisp despite its age. It shows a group of villagers standing in front of what looks like the very same festival preparations you’ve been seeing outside. The decorations, the lanterns—they’re all there, almost identical to the present day.

In fact, the villagers in all the photos are the same ones you saw earlier today, gathered around the shrine, preparing for the festival. But these photos are old—decades old, judging by the faded edges and the grainy quality of the images. Yet their faces are unchanged. The dates written in neat cursive beneath each photo become a blur as well, but you catch glimpses. 1924. 1937. 1955. 1972.

Luis steps up behind you, peering over your shoulder. "Concept shoots?" he jokes, lifting another photograph from the shelf and squinting at it. "Nobody said this was a thing."

Then, he moves to a nearby desk, flipping through papers and documents with an almost careless ease. "It’s like she’s built an entire museum for herself. Nothing out of place, nothing too random. She’s definitely a collector," he mutters. He pulls out an old leather-bound journal, skimming the pages with a quick glance before tossing it aside. "Nothing helpful here, just more history. Where’s the dirt?"

Your hands pause as you come across another photo, this one tucked toward the back of the cabinet. It’s newer than the others, the colors still bright, though the scene is eerily familiar. Your heart stops for a moment when you see it—it’s you.

You and Luis, standing in front of the same festival preparations, your arms casually thrown around each other, smiling like you belong there. The date scribbled at the bottom of the frame is from nearly thirty years ago.

You stare at the photo, your fingers gripping the edges a little too tightly as you try to process what you're looking at. "Luis..."

He looks up from the pile of journals and documents spread across the desk, brows furrowing. "What?"

Your mouth opens but only a whistle of a breath comes out, and it's hard to talk around the lump in your throat. Wordlessly, you hold up the photo so he can see it, hoping that will convey enough without needing to explain.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. His expression doesn’t change at first, but you can see it—the brief flicker of confusion that flashes across his face before he schools it back into something more controlled and slowly walks over, not looking away from it.

"That’s..." He trails off, reaching out to take the photo from your hands. His fingers trace the edge of the frame, his lips pressing into a thin line. "There's no way."

"Maybe... maybe it’s some kind of look-alike thing," you suggest, though you don’t believe it. "People that look like us."

Luis doesn’t respond immediately. He flips the photo over, looking at the back as if he’ll find some explanation scribbled there, but there’s nothing. Just the date. Just your faces, unchanged, unaged. "Or they could be messing with us. Photos can be tampered with."

You catch sight of something tucked beneath the corner of the desk—a stack of old ledgers, worn and frayed around the edges. You pull them out, flipping through the pages quickly. The names, dates, and transactions all seem to blur together, but one entry catches your eye: a record of two "donors" arriving on the date marked thirty years ago, their names—yours and Luis’s—scribbled neatly in the margin.

Your breath catches in your throat. "Can this be?"

He stops pacing, his eyes snapping to yours. There’s a moment of silence before he steps over, his gaze dropping to the ledger in your hands. His face goes pale as he reads the names, his fingers reaching out to trace the ink like he’s hoping it’ll smudge, disappear. But it doesn’t. It stays there, glaring at both of you from the page.

He pulls his hand back slowly, response low and strained. "We weren’t here."

You shake your head, the reality of it all starting to close in around you. "No. We weren’t."

Another moment passes before he takes the book from your hands, turning it over as if he could find an answer somewhere else—somewhere in the worn covers, the faded ink, the yellowing pages.

Luis slams the ledger shut with a sharp, sudden motion, the echo of it bouncing off the walls of the room, and you both flinch involuntarily at the noise. He stares at it for a long while before placing it gingerly back on the desk. Then, he rubs his palms along his pant legs, wiping them clean of dust.

"No puedo... esto es una mierda..." he hisses under his breath, pacing the length of the room in quick, restless strides. "I’ve had enough of this place."

"Luis, calm down. We can’t just—"

"Calm down?" He whips around, eyes wide and incredulous, his hands flying up in a gesture of disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now? After everything we’ve seen—everything that’s happened—you want me to calm down?"

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down despite the heat rising between you. "Yeah, I do. We’re not going to get anywhere if you start losing your head. We have to stay focused."

"Focused?" He barks out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Focused on what? Huh? You think this is just some regular con now? You think this is about money?"

"Yes, I do. Because that’s why we’re here. We’re here for the money, for Montesa. We’ve done this a thousand times before, Luis. We know how this works."

"This isn't normal! This isn't even close to normal!" He waves a hand wildly at the stack of ledgers on the desk, gesturing around the room in a broad, sweeping motion. "This is wrong, everything is wrong!"

"There it is again," you say, your tone cold, clipped. "Wrong. Everything’s always wrong with you lately. First the blood offering, then the blood bags, now this—" You gesture to the stack of old photos, the ledger. "You’re jumping at shadows. We’ve seen weirder shit on these jobs. These people are superstitious, so what? They like to play dress-up, big deal."

"They're stealing our fucking faces!" he snaps. "They have already stolen our blood. That's DNA. It's one hell of an identity theft scheme if not something far messed up! And you're making excuses?!"

"Because you're acting like this is our last job when it's nowhere near it!"

He scowls. "Yeah? Well maybe it should be. Maybe we should stop getting involved in crazy jobs and live our goddamn lives instead of chasing some golden goose dream!"

Your shoulders drop a little, and the fight drains out of you. His anger isn't entirely unreasonable. "Isn't that why Montesa is supposed to be the last one? Hm? So we can quit? I intend to follow through with it, Luis. I really do."

"You’re so focused on the damn money, you’re not even paying attention to what’s happening around us. We should be getting the hell out of here, not throwing ourselves deeper into whatever they're planning for us."

"That’s your solution?" you snap back, your voice rising to match his. "Just run away? That’s what you want to do now? What happened to you, Luis? You were never like this before."

"I'm trying to protect you," he mutters bitterly.

His words hit like a slap to the face, and you recoil as if struck. Something flashes across his features—regret, perhaps—but it doesn’t soften the sting.

A thought rises from the depths: when has he ever prioritized protection, let alone protecting you? He chose money, every time. Your relationship was never serious or meaningful for him. Not to mention the number of times he put himself ahead of others—in fact, it's safe to say he hasn't changed one iota since then.

So what the hell gives him the right to accuse you of greed?

"Since when?" you hiss back at him, all pretext of diplomacy evaporating in an instant. "When did you ever care about what happened to me?"

The lost look on his face—the utter confusion—should give you pause, but it doesn't. The words flow out of you like a torrent, cutting him with every syllable.

"Who was it that left me at that police station in Rio de Janeiro, huh? Oh right, that was you. Or how about that time we had to split up in Guanajuato and you took off without so much as a goodbye?" The memories flash through your mind with vivid clarity, and you can feel yourself shaking, your pulse all over the place. "Did I forget to mention Berlin, Luis? God damnit, you vanished without a trace after selling fake art! And, oh, yeah, let's not forget Buenos Aires! Fucking Buenos Aires! How about that clusterfuck? Who was it that bailed without warning?"

Your chest heaves, and you glare at him, your teeth gritted tightly.

"Me. Me. Me. Every fucking time, it was me. When the job turned bad or got too risky or I said no to some bullshit plan you came up with, I was the one who paid the price. So what if this place freaks you out? You've always been ready to bail the second it gets dicey, Luis. It's not new. And for what? Huh? For what? So you can keep all the money for yourself, so you can get away clean and go on to the next big thing? That's always been your priority, not me."

You expect some semblance of shame, remorse, even denial from him, but there's only silence. No apology. No reassurance. Just quiet. Contemplation. Calculation. Then, finally, a sigh that sounds like resignation, exhaustion, and something else you can't quite pinpoint. It's strange. Red hot anger is about to tip over at how he looks like he's some stranger you're venting to, detached from the narrative. The worst part is you sense he's sincere, but his actions won't measure up to his emotions.

But before you can say anything else, the door bursts open. Several villagers storm in, brandishing knives and tools used in the ritual outside earlier in the day. At the head of the charge is Montesa herself, her posture straight and strong, her eyes sharp and searching as she scans the room. You’re grabbed, restrained—Luis too—and the argument you were having is swallowed by the sudden violence of it all.

Montesa narrows her eyes at Luis before turning her attention to you. She steps forward, slowly circling you both, inspecting, calculating. Her hands rest delicately against her stomach as if considering her options. There are footsteps coming down the hallway. Shouting. Panicked whispers echoing behind your skull, growing louder with each passing second.

And then Montesa smiles—a cruel, triumphant smile, like she's playing a game she's sure she'll win. Like you're both merely pieces in her collection, mere toys for her amusement.

I left. I had to. There was no time to explain, no time to make you understand. I tried to find you, I did, I don't know why you weren't where you were supposed to be but I couldn’t risk it further to investigate. I had to go. I know you’re going to hate me for it. I hate myself for it. But if I stayed, we’d both be lost. You’ll find your way around. I know you will.

The village square smells of burning wood and incense, thick and cloying. In front of you, a makeshift stage has been assembled atop wooden pallets; on either side, torches flare to life, illuminating the darkening sky in hazy orange flickers. You’re dragged out into the open, the ropes biting into your wrists as the villagers haul you forward with an unsettling silence. The night has fallen heavy and dark, stars barely visible through the haze of smoke that rises from the large pyre standing in the center of the square.

Your mind is whirling, your body struggling against your bonds, desperate for any kind of relief or comfort, but none is forthcoming. The villagers pull you both toward the shrine, where Montesa stands, calm as ever, her hands folded in front of her. She doesn’t need to say anything. Her presence alone radiates control—control of the situation, control of you, and most disturbingly, control of Luis.

Luis catches your eye as they force him to his knees beside you, his breathing harsh and ragged, the muscles in his arms straining against the ropes, but it’s no use. There’s no breaking free of this. Not now, not yet.

"Don’t do anything stupid," you whisper, the words coming out harsher than you intended. "We can still get out of this."

He doesn’t respond at first, his gaze focused on Montesa as she steps forward, graceful and assured despite the circumstances. Her dress billows softly around her ankles, flowing gently with the breeze that sweeps through the square, stirring up the scent of smoke and roses. You glance sidelong at Luis, searching for some glimmer of understanding, some sign that he still trusts you, believes you.

When he finally looks you in the eye, there's no comfort to be found. The flickering light casts shadows across his features that leave him looking gaunt, haunted—like someone trapped between waking and sleep, caught in a nightmare that refuses to fade. "It’s me," he says, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the flames. "This ends with me."

You click your tongue, keeping Montesa at the corner of your vision as you widen your eyes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Luis swallows hard, his eyes darting around the square, scanning for something—what exactly, you're not sure—before he leans toward you and drops his forehead to rest against yours briefly, murmuring into the tiny pocket of space between you. His skin is clammy, cool against yours, and his breath comes quick and uneven. "Everything that's happened to us, everything that will happen—all of it started with me. My decisions, my choices, my mistakes. The risks I took, the mistakes I made. Every time you got hurt, every single time I didn’t warn you properly or pulled a fast one or led you into a dangerous situation, it was because I let my greed, my hunger, my drive get the best of me." He lets out a choked laugh, shaking his head slightly before lifting it again, pulling away from your touch. "And you forgave me. Over and over. Even when I knew I didn’t deserve it, when I should have gotten left in the dust."

"Where is this coming from?" you ask quietly, glancing at Montesa once more. She watches you both silently, her lips curling into a faint smirk, as though enjoying whatever scene she's imagining in her mind's eye. "Is this really what you want to talk about now?"

"Nowhere else to talk about it, amor," he replies, his jaw clenched tight. "This might be it, after all."

You frown. "Luis—"

He shakes his head sharply, interrupting your protest with another derisive chuckle. "See? Always defending me. I'm not who you think I am. Never was. And you... well, I got greedy. I saw an opportunity and I went for it." He pauses, drawing in a shaky sigh, and closes his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself against something—what, you're not certain. When he speaks again, his words come out strained, muffled almost—as though he's forcing himself to say something he doesn't want to admit to himself, let alone you.

"It was selfish. Stupid. So fucking stupid," Luis mumbles, staring down at the ground beneath his feet. He chews on the inside of his cheek, hesitating for just a moment before continuing in a low tone, "I didn't... mean to lie. Didn't expect it to go this far."

Cold prickles along your back as you watch him, realization beginning to sink in. "Luis... what the fuck did you do?"

Montesa steps closer, until she becomes a shadow that looms over you both. She looks down at Luis with something almost resembling pity, but it's fleeting. Her attention flicks to you, then back to Luis, and for a brief second, you feel utterly powerless in her gaze. "The festival demands a sacrifice," she says softly, like velvet, wrapping around the square. "You know what must be done."

Something in his face crumples, collapses, folding in on itself like paper tossed into a fire—too quick and messy and fragile to catch hold of or save.

"No!" You twist wildly, struggling desperately to free yourself, to reach out to him somehow, but it's no use. You're bound tight, your wrists chafing from your efforts, little beads of blood dripping down your arms. "No, no, no, no, please, you can't... he didn't do anything! This is insane! We haven't done anything, you can't just—"

"Shhh..." Montesa hushes you gently, her fingertips grazing along your hairline before settling against your temple. She leans close, her mouth nearly brushing against yours. "Accept the truth. Let it set you free, as it always should."

The world tilts, twists, spirals outward, spinning round and round like a top spinning out of control, careening blindly toward its inevitable end. Your throat aches with unshed tears as you blink at her through watery eyes, your vision blurred by grief and rage and loss. "You bitch," you spit. "You goddamn bitch..."

She ignores your words completely and turns to Luis, who has gone stiff beside you. "Take comfort in knowing this isn't personal," she murmurs, reaching out with one hand to stroke the line of his jaw tenderly before sliding it down to grasp tightly onto his chin. "And remember... You made your choice."

With a harsh tug, she wrenches his head sideways, exposing the curve of his neck to her waiting blade. He gasps, but doesn't struggle, doesn't fight back—just stares blankly at the dark expanse above your heads, where stars twinkle brightly in contrast to the thick black smoke pouring from the pyres, the steady, insistent burning of the village around you.

"Stop!" you cry out, straining forward instinctively even as the knife comes up in front of your eyes. "Please! Please don't hurt him! Stop!" But it's no use. There's nothing you can do, no way you can stop it. "Please..." you beg, helplessness seeping in to replace the anger. "Don't do this."

A soft chuckle escapes Montesa's lips as she drags the point along Luis' throat slowly, tracing a nonsensical pattern over his skin until bright crimson beads appear along the trail left by her blade. Then, abruptly, she changes direction, dragging the flat edge of the blade sharply downward in a sudden burst of motion that leaves a shallow gash beneath his ear. Blood spills out immediately, dripping freely onto the ground below, staining his shirt, matting his hair where it falls across his forehead. He hisses, flinching away from the pain reflexively, but remains still otherwise, hardly reacting other than shuddering when the drops of his own blood splatter onto his cheek.

There’s a quiet reverence in the way she touches him, like she’s handling something precious, fragile. And that’s when you feel it—the shift.

You lurch forward, trying to break free of the ropes, but the villagers tighten their grip, holding you in place as Montesa raises her hand, signaling the beginning of the ritual. The flames grow higher, licking the edges of the pyre, the heat from the fire hitting your skin in sharp waves. The chanting begins softly, the villagers’ voices low and rhythmic, building in intensity with every passing second.

Luis doesn’t fight it. He stays still, his head bowed as the chanting grows louder, more insistent. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move—just kneels there, waiting, as if he’s already resigned himself to his fate.

You’re shouting now, raw with desperation, but the words are lost in the roar of the flames and the rise of the chanting. It’s like watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion, your body frozen, helpless.

Luis’s eyes meet yours one last time, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, all you see is resignation reflected back at you. Acceptance. Sorrow. Love. Guilt. Regret. Loss. You know those emotions too well, intimately so, because you wear them yourself, every day. And then, the blade comes down.

Your scream rings out over the chaos, drowning out everything else except for his final gasping breaths in your ears. The villagers release you suddenly, and you stagger forward, crashing onto your hands and knees beside him. A warm wetness seeps into the fabric of your trousers where they come in contact with his skin, his blood flowing freely onto the cold stone beneath. You reach for him weakly, unable to formulate words or actions or thoughts beyond pure instinctual panic and horror. Everything spins and swirls around you as if falling apart under its own gravity, falling away until nothing remains but darkness and emptiness.

The world feels distant, muted, like you’re watching it through a pane of glass, you can’t tear your eyes away from Luis’s body, crumpled on the ground in front of the pyre. You don’t move. You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. You just sit there, frozen, staring at him, the familiar ache inside you swelling like a hole, growing larger, angrier, darker. Consuming. Devouring.

It spits back at you something that it had been chewing for a while.

Not all at once, but slowly—like ink seeping into paper. Memories. Faces. Voices. They start to bleed into the edges of your mind, faint and blurred at first, but growing clearer, sharper, louder. Images flicker past your eyelids, scenes from a life lived long ago, from a time before the festival, before Valdelobos, when you were someone else entirely.

It starts with the streets. The sounds of a bustling city, the buzz of a job already in motion. You’re running, feet pounding the pavement, the weight of the designer purse heavy at your side. Luis is ahead, always ahead. You can see his jacket, the back of his head, the way he moves fluid and quick. He’s already slipping through the crowds with that effortless grace he’s always had. You’re trying to keep up—short legs burning, breath hitching in your chest as you weave between strangers.

You stumble. The crack of your knee hitting the hard pavement jolts you, the shock of pain shooting through your leg. You hear it before you feel it—the people around you murmuring in annoyance, their eyes glancing down at you like you're just another obstacle in their way. You scramble to your feet, heart racing, panic bubbling in your chest. You look up, and Luis is gone. He’s always gone when you need him to be there.

You remember this moment so clearly now—the sick twist of fear in your gut, the way the city around you seemed to blur into one loud, suffocating hum of voices and footsteps. You’d been so desperate not to lose him, so terrified of being left behind. Your hands had shaken as you fumbled with your other bag, checking to make sure nothing had fallen out, your mind racing to figure out how to catch up.

But you didn’t catch up, did you?

He didn’t come back for you that night. You waited, leaning against the cold brick wall of an alley you'd taken refuge in, eyes darting from side to side, trying to keep the rising panic at bay. You’d convinced yourself he’d double back. He always doubled back—always found you eventually. But he hadn’t. Hours passed, and the pit in your stomach grew until it felt like it would swallow you whole.

He was probably fine, you told yourself. He’d made the drop. He’d finish the job. He was always fine.

But you? You were stranded, lost in the city’s endless, twisting streets, waiting for someone who never showed.

That was always the way it went, wasn’t it? You chasing him. Him slipping out of reach. The pattern was so ingrained, you didn’t even realize how much of your life had become defined by it. He was the one who knew what he was doing—the one with the plans, the angles, the charm. You were just... there. Always a step behind. Always a little too late. Always a little bit less than him. Never quite fitting in the spaces he left behind. Childhood friends turned partners in crime. A duo that became a solo act. One day he'd disappear for good, and you'd be alone, again, forever.

It was supposed to be different. You told yourself that over and over again. You weren’t just his shadow, his backup. You could handle yourself. You were smart. You were capable. But that doubt, that niggling fear, was always there, creeping at the edges of your confidence, reminding you that no matter how hard you tried, no matter what risks you took, no matter what choices you made, he was always the one who got away.

You shake your head, the lump in your throat thickening as another memory pushes its way to the surface.

It’s late. You’re both in a rundown apartment, somewhere on the outskirts of town. The job had gone well—at least, Luis’s part of it had. You’d fumbled. Made a mess of the handoff, nearly blew your cover. He’d saved it, smoothed things over with a smile and a well-timed joke, just like he always did. But when you got back to the motel room, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t pat you on the shoulder or offer a reassuring wink. Instead, he sat there, staring at his phone, scrolling through messages you weren't privy to, his fingers drumming absently on his thigh.

“Tomorrow,” he said, flat, devoid of the usual teasing lilt. “We hit the club. You stay close, alright? Don’t try to pull any solo stunts like today.”

You bristled at that, the heat rising in your chest. “I can handle it, Luis.”

He didn’t even look at you. Just kept flicking the lighter, his gaze still fixed out the window. “I’m not arguing about this. Just stay close.”

That was how it always went. Him giving orders, you following them. Him out there, flashing his easy smile, charming the pants off everyone, while you hovered at the edges, trying not to screw things up. You were tired of it—tired of being the second-string, the one who needed to be looked after. But no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you wanted to prove yourself, it always ended the same way.

You messed up. He covered for you. You both walked away.

Except that last time.

The memory shifts, and suddenly you’re back in the thick of it—back in Montesa’s opulent estate, the walls dripping with wealth and history. The plan had been simple. You were supposed to distract her while Luis worked his magic behind the scenes. It was the kind of setup you’d done dozens of times before, nothing special. Nothing new.

But you knew from the moment you walked into that room that something was off. Montesa’s eyes locked onto you with a sharpness that sent a chill down your spine. She wasn’t fooled—not for a second. You could feel it in the way she watched you, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. And you—nervous, fidgety, out of your depth—started to unravel.

You remember how your hands trembled as you tried to keep up the act, how you could barely keep the conversation going. Montesa didn’t need to say anything; her presence alone was enough to make your skin crawl. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, you saw it—her gaze flickering toward the door, just for a split second.

That’s when you knew she’d figured it out. She knew about Luis. She knew everything.

Panic surged through you, your heart hammering in your chest. You had one job—just one—and you’d blown it. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t find the words to salvage the situation. You needed to get out. You needed to run. And that’s exactly what you did.

You bailed.

You remember the feeling of your pulse pounding in your ears, the cold sweat that broke out on your skin as you bolted down the hallway, leaving Luis behind. You didn’t stop to think, didn’t consider the consequences. All that mattered was getting away, putting as much distance between yourself and that woman as possible. You were done. Done being the screw-up, done letting him down. Done playing second fiddle. So you ran, and didn’t look back. Not once.

Luis would have to fend for himself. He was the golden boy, the charmer, the one who could talk his way out of anything. He’d be fine. Just like he always was. And maybe, if you were lucky, this would finally teach him a lesson. Teach him not to lean on you so damn much. Maybe he'd learn to stand on his own, the way you'd had to do all those times he'd left you to pick up the pieces. That would serve him right.

You didn't bother to check whether or not anyone followed. As far as they were concerned, you were nobody. A two-bit thief, a runner. Forgettable. They weren't coming after you. They were too busy dealing with the big fish. With Luis.

Of course, it was a lot more complicated than that, but at the time, you had no idea. And the worst part? You hadn’t even stuck around long enough to see how it played out. You’d chosen to run. Hopped in the car alone, and drove, and drove. You didn’t dare to turn on your cell. If he called, if he texted, you didn’t care. He was the reason you were in this mess in the first place. Let him deal with the fallout. For once, let him figure it out. You were done playing his sidekick, his lackey. Done being his scapegoat, the fall guy. Done being the fool, the idiot, the one who didn't have a clue. Done. Fucking. Done. No more.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you what had happened. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the weight of your failure dragging you down. Luis was dead. You didn’t know how, didn’t know when, but you knew. And you were dead too.

Because here you were. Reliving it. Over and over. Trying to have a re-do. Trying to chase something that was always out of reach.

Your hands clench into fists, the ropes falling off of your wrists as the truth unravels in front of you. This place—the village, the villagers, Montesa—none of it was real. None of it mattered. It was all a reflection of you. Of your guilt. Of your endless, desperate need to prove yourself and undo what had already been done. Your breath hitches in your throat, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, a prison constructed from regret and loss and anger and shame.

You feel a tremor run through your body as you stare down at Luis’s still form, the blood pooling beneath him dark and thick, the color of old wine. You don't know if he's real in the sense of this Montesa and the villagers are, but you can't bear to find out. Your fingers brush the cold skin of his cheek, and you shudder at the contact. Even now, even after all the ways you’ve failed him, a part of you still reaches out, hoping against hope that he’ll open his eyes and flash that cocksure grin.

The worst part? You’d never even given him a chance. You were always so focused on yourself, on your own fears, that you never once stopped to ask what he needed. What he wanted. Maybe that was why you ended up here.

Because you couldn’t let him go.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "So, so sorry." The apology feels hollow, inadequate. There aren't enough words in any language to convey the depths of your sorrow and regret. But it’s all you have, the only offering you can make. "I fucked everything up. I just wanted out and I didn't want to do this anymore and I... I should have stayed. I should have helped. I should've taken my share of the blame. But I hated you. I hated you so much. So I didn't. I wasn't thinking, not of you, not of the job. Only of me. Only of running. Like I've been running away from my problems my whole life. And..."

You pause, swallowing thickly, your throat tight and raw.

"Maybe that's why I'm still here. Still trying to save you. Because that's the one thing I could never do. Not in life, and not in death. God, I wish things had been different." Tears well up in your eyes, blurring the sight of his face, his features fading into shadows. "If we'd talked, really talked, we could've figured something out. Could've gotten out of that mess together. Or maybe we could've gone our separate ways. Clean breaks, no hard feelings. Anything would've been better than this." You wipe at your cheeks, the dampness smearing across the back of your hand. "I'm so tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of living in the past. I just want to move on. I want to be free of this. Of you. Of us."

As the words leave your mouth, a heaviness settles over you, a finality that feels like an anchor dropping to the ocean floor. It's strange, the way it happens, the way the world seems to shift and tilt around you, a slow unraveling that begins with the flicker of the torches and the sudden absence of the chanting, the pyre's fire and the thick smoke, the smell of burning wood, and the taste of ashes on the wind.

You weren’t chasing Luis for him. You were chasing him to prove something to yourself. And in doing so, you never really saw him. Not for what he was. Not for what he needed. You were too focused on what you weren’t.

You stand, your gaze shifting from Luis to the pyre. The flames are frozen mid-crackling, but they no longer feel dangerous. They feel like a doorway—an exit from this place, from this cycle, from everything that’s been holding you here.

The villagers still stand in their rigid lines, their faces as empty and expressionless as they were when the ritual began. But now, you see them for what they are—reflections, shadows of your own mind, your own torment. They think they’ve been offering sacrifices, but it’s you who’s been feeding this place all along. You have the power to stop it. You always did. You were just too blinded by anger and grief and self-pity to realize it. Taking a deep breath, you walk toward the pyre, the heat of the flames washing over you like a warm caress.

"Let go, Luis," you say. The words are for him, but they’re also for you. A promise. An affirmation. "We both deserve peace."

With that, you step forward, the fire licking at your heels, the smoke rising around you. You close your eyes, and the world falls away.

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this. I don’t know if you’ll ever hear these words, but I have to say them anyway. I have to try. Even if it doesn't change anything, even if it doesn't bring you back, even if I'm not able to undo the damage that's been done, at least I'll have said it.

I wanted to be better for you. I know it looks like I never tried to be. That's a lie. I did try, I did, I swear. I've spent years, a lifetime, trying to get to a place where I could look at myself in the mirror and not hate the person staring back. Where I could look at the world and not resent every single soul in it. And that was all for you. Everything. Every day, every decision, every little choice, was made hoping that one day, somehow, the two of us would end up in a different spot, and that we'd both have changed. For the better, and not the worse. That would have been my dream come true, that would have given meaning to everything, that would have redeemed all the pain and suffering, all the loneliness, all the heartbreak, that would have validated me. All of me. My existence, my choices, my failures, and successes. But, at the very least, it would have proven that I was worth the time and energy.

Instead, here I am, on my on now, talking to no one, writing down these words that probably won't ever reach you. Maybe that's fitting, considering.

I hope you're happy. I hope you're at peace. I hope, somewhere, somewhen, you're living the life you always deserved, a life full of joy, love, and laughter. An epilogue of bliss after the horrors of the main story. And, if, by some miracle, you ever read these words, please believe me when I say, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you. Thank you for giving a damn about me, thank you for trying to help me, thank you for caring, and most of all, thank you for staying as long as you did.

You were the best part of my life, and I will cherish the memories of our time together until the end of my days, hoping to meet you again under a kinder sky. Velocidad de Dios.

#luis serra x reader #luis serra x you #luis serra x y/n #luis serra #luis serra navarro

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