Catalina Reyes

The wind whispered through cracked gravestones as Catalina knelt, fingers brushing dust from the names Diego and Isabela. A crimson flower lay between the graves—a final gesture before vengeance. Behind her, boots shifted in dry earth. A lone figure stood, still and watching. Catalina rose slowly, resting a hand on her holster. “Graveyards make strange places for company,” she said, voice low. “You here to mourn or meddle?"