Pi — Belascoarгўn

"Everyone exists, Elisa," Hector muttered, reaching for his worn copy of The Long Goodbye . "They just leave different kinds of footprints."

"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."

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." BelascoarГЎn PI

"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 spent the next three days walking the streets, a ghost among ghosts. He talked to the shoe-shiners in the Zócalo, the taco vendors in Tepito, and the tired clerks in the city archives. He didn't ask for the man’s name; he asked for his habits. He learned the Gray Ghost liked his coffee black at Café La Habana and that he always carried a briefcase that looked heavier than it should. "Everyone exists, Elisa," Hector muttered, reaching for his

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

"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." It wants to be remembered

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