Belascoarгўn Pi -

Hector lowered his gun. "Keep your secrets," he said, turning toward the exit. "But remember: eventually, even the ghosts have to go home."

Hector Belascoarán Shayne sat in his cramped office on Calle Independencia, the smoke from his cigarette curling around the ancient, rotary phone like a ghost. He wasn't just a Private Investigator; he was a "detective independent," a title that in Mexico City often felt like a fancy way of saying "professional target."

"He doesn't exist on paper, Hector," his sister Elisa said, leaning against the doorframe. She was the one who kept him grounded when the city’s chaos threatened to swallow him whole. "No birth certificate, no tax ID, not even a parking ticket." BelascoarГЎn PI

His latest case wasn't about a missing person or a cheating spouse. It was about a shadow.

"The traffic was a nightmare," Hector replied, leaning against a crate. "And I had to stop for a smoke." Hector lowered his gun

"That’s the problem," Hector said, his hand tightening on the grip of his pistol. "The past doesn't like being cleaned. It wants to be remembered."

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the first drops of rain began to fall. His leg throbbed, but for the first time in weeks, the air felt clean. He wasn't just a Private Investigator; he was

Belascoarán rubbed his bad leg, the one that always ached when rain was coming. He looked at the single photo on his desk: a blurry shot of a man in a gray suit standing near the Tlatelolco ruins. The "Gray Ghost," as the papers were calling him, was rumored to be a fixer for the old guard, a man who could make problems disappear with a single phone call.