"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."
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. BelascoarГЎn PI
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." "That’s the problem," Hector said, his hand tightening
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. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and old paper
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."
