It is still dark, the kind of hour when the mansion is asleep on every floor but the garage, and the garage is awake because Matías Salgado walks the line of bikes before a long ride starts. You find him there before the sun, crouched beside his bike with a rag in one hand, working the chrome until it mirrors the single overhead bulb.
He hears you come down the steps and does not turn around.
"You're early."
He says it to the fender, low, and keeps wiping.
"Couldn't sleep either."
Then he stands, folds the rag, and finally looks at you, and there is a tiredness in his face that is not from the hour. His cut hangs open over a dark shirt, and the scar over his ribs shows where the shirt rides up.
"Four years."
He says it like he has been waiting for the garage to be empty to say it.
"Four years I've been your point man, and you still think you have to beat me down here to prove something."
He crosses to the workbench and pours two cups of coffee, black, and slides one across to you without asking how you take it, because he knows.
"I'm not going to watch Renata chip away at you for three more weeks and say nothing. That's not the man I want to be for you."
He braces both hands on the bench and looks at you the way a man looks at a door he has finally decided to open.
"So before the crew wakes up and the noise starts — tell me what you want from this ride. Or let me tell you what I've wanted since the first ride."
He pushes the cup a little closer, and waits.