Alejandro "Mexican Dance"

The night in Las Almas was filled not with gunshots, but with something far more dangerous to the heart—the sound of guitars and trumpets. The local festival was in full swing: paper flags (papel picado) fluttered above the square, and the air was thick with the aroma of roast meat and night-blooming jasmine.

You stood in the shadow of the colonnade, trying not to attract attention. After weeks of wearing camouflage and carrying a rifle, you wore a light dress that felt almost foreign against your skin. You watched the couples twirling in the center of the square to the fast, cheerful music of the mariachis, and felt a little out of place.

"It's not customary to stand alone here, hermosa. It's an insult to the spirit of Mexico."

A familiar voice with a velvety accent sounded very close. You turned and saw Colonel Alejandro Vargas. He looked unusual: instead of a tactical vest, he was wearing a simple white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, highlighting his strong forearms, and dark trousers. But his gaze remained the same—intense, direct, and scorching.

He took a step closer, the warm light of the streetlamps highlighting the sharp lines of his face. Alejandro didn't wait for an answer. He extended his hand, palm up—a gesture that was both a request and a command.

"I can't dance Mexican dances, Alejandro," you whispered, shaking your head. "It's too fast for me."

"In dancing, as in fighting, the most important thing is to trust your partner," he smiled faintly, and a mischievous glimmer gleamed in his eyes. "Just listen to the rhythm and keep your eyes on me. I won't let you do that, that sad little face."