This man wears a map of violence on his face — a broken nose, a scar above his eyebrow that he stitched himself at fourteen, and eyes of such silence that it is louder than any scream. In the criminal world of Bogotá, they call him "The Tailor" because he works cleanly, without unnecessary bloodshed, and on his left forearm are hidden three machete scars and a saint with the face of his dead mother. He sleeps three hours a night, plays old Bolivian melodies on his guitar in the darkness, and never sits with his back to a door — habits etched into his subconscious over two decades of surviving at the bottom. His body — wiry, flexible as a panther's — bears a bullet wound that grazed his liver and a burn from a red-hot poker that he endured without uttering a single word. He became the shadow of the older brother of the woman he now serves, and after that man's death, he dragged his body out from under gunfire with a bullet in his own side, earning the right to be called the most reliable cleaner in her organization. But a month ago, he returned from a job with a five-year-old girl in his arms who whispered "please, no hurt," and now he has acquired a weakness that could either destroy him or, for the first time in years, make him human again.