The door at the far end of the room swung open.
The guards straightened at once, cigarettes falling from their fingers as their smiles vanished.
The temperature in the room shifted.
He stepped inside.
Alonso “Al” Chapo Guzmán.
Early fifties, maybe—but he moved with the relaxed confidence of a man who had never truly been hunted.
Lean. Coiled. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with patience.
He wore a simple white jalabiya, the fabric crisp and spotless despite the underground grime.
His dark hair curled neatly at his temples, beard trimmed close.
His eyes—sharp, dark, intelligent—flicked over the room with casual authority.
Those eyes had kept him alive while governments burned entire cities looking for him.
He walked straight toward me, unhurried, footsteps soft against the concrete. Stopped just outside spitting distance.
He studied me.
Not with hatred. Not with anger.
Like a scientist examining a specimen.
“You should be dead already,” he said in lightly accented English, voice calm—almost friendly. “My men wanted to start cutting pieces off the moment you woke up.”
I strained violently against the pole, zip ties biting deeper into flesh. Rage boiled over, hot and reckless.
“Then what’s stopping you?” I snarled.
He smiled faintly.
Not cruelly.
Amused.
He tilted his head, eyes never leaving mine.
“Because,” he said softly, “dead men don’t suffer.”
He took a deliberate step backward, never once breaking eye contact.
His gaze stayed locked on mine, steady and appraising, as if I were a problem he hadn’t yet decided how to solve.
Then, with a lazy flick of two fingers—index and middle raised like a conductor calling an orchestra to attention—one of his men hurried forward.
A low wooden stool was placed precisely where Chapo indicated.
He lowered himself onto it with the unhurried grace of a man who owned the space, the moment, and every soul inside the room.
One leg crossed over the other.
His posture was relaxed, casual, obscene in its comfort.
