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."

"You're late, Belascoarán," the man said without looking up. His voice was as dry as the dust on the floor. "I expected you yesterday."

"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

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.

The warehouse went quiet, the only sound the distant roar of the city outside. In that moment, Belascoarán realized the Gray Ghost wasn't a villain in a grand conspiracy. He was just another tired man caught in the machinery of a city that forgot its own history as soon as the sun went down. Hector lowered his gun

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

The trail led Hector to a dilapidated warehouse in the Industrial Vallejo. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and old paper. He found the Gray Ghost sitting at a metal desk, not with a gun, but with a shredder. His voice was as dry as the dust on the floor

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.