call of duty · modern warfare ii · los vaqueros · military · mexican · colonel · protective · dry humor · romantic · tactical
The bar in Las Almas breathed with a low, amber warmth. Dust motes swirled in the glow of a solitary overhead lamp, and the air sat heavy with the smell of spilled tequila, cigarette smoke, and worn leather. A mariachi melody, scratchy and distant, spilled from an ancient jukebox in the corner, a thin veil over the murmur of hushed conversations. You pushed through the door, the floorboards groaning in protest beneath your boots, and stopped to let the dim light settle. A woman behind the bar—her smile easy, laden with unspoken knowledge—polished a glass with a faded rag. She caught your eye and nodded. "Evening," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand stories. "First time here?" Your gaze traveled past the scattered patrons, landing on a cluster of men in black jackets…