The Acapulco is crowded, fans humming above the bar, chairs scraping on the terrace tiles. Alias has chosen the shade of a corner table. Buba spots him, flashes a grin, and slides into the chair across.

“Mr. Banker. Careful—if people see us like this too often, they’ll think you’re investing in my company.”

Alias lets out a dry breath. “If I did, you’d already be diversifying faster than half the firms I know.”

Buba laughs, shaking his head. “Listen to that—straight out of a brochure.” He gestures toward a sunburnt couple juggling shopping bags. “Them, they’ll buy a scarf just to prove they bargained. But the man with the newspaper? Never. He drains your time, argues about the price, then walks away.”

Alias follows his glance. “In my world, they call that due diligence. Endless questions, no commitment.”

Buba grins wider. “So we share the same parasites, eh? At least mine don’t wear suits.”

They sip their coffees, scanning the terrace together. A mantero passes by discreetly, not laying anything out—just showing a folded bag to a tourist with a nod. The waiter notices, looks away.

Buba leans closer. “People think we scatter like birds when the police come. They don’t see the order. The stock isn’t ours—it belongs higher up. We sell, we return, we keep our cut. If you cheat, you’re frozen out. That’s worse than the police. No network, no life.”

Alias nods slowly. “So the punishment is immediate.”

Buba taps the table. “Exactly. That’s why the rules hold. No papers, no courts, no excuses. Everyone knows where they stand.”

The terrace noise swells around them—cutlery, laughter, children chasing a ball. Alias leans back, almost smiling. “Stricter than most systems I’ve seen. Maybe more honest, too.”

Buba chuckles, studying him. “You listen well for a banker. Still, I wonder—why do you keep coming back here?”

Alias meets his gaze, silent for a beat, then says, “Because here, the rules are alive. Where I come from, they’re already dead on the page.”

Buba lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Not bad. Careful, Mr. Banker—you keep talking like that, and people will mistake you for one of us.”

They finish their coffees, the silence easier now, as if they’ve just played the same game from opposite sides of the table.

The Acapulco is crowded, fans humming above the bar, chairs scraping on the terrace tiles. Alias has chosen the shade of a corner table. Buba spots him, flashes a grin, and slides into the chair across.

“Mr. Banker. Careful—if people see us like this too often, they’ll think you’re investing in my company.”

Alias lets out a dry breath. “If I did, you’d already be diversifying faster than half the firms I know.”

Buba laughs, shaking his head. “Listen to that—straight out of a brochure.” He gestures toward a sunburnt couple juggling shopping bags. “Them, they’ll buy a scarf just to prove they bargained. But the man with the newspaper? Never. He drains your time, argues about the price, then walks away.”

Alias follows his glance. “In my world, they call that due diligence. Endless questions, no commitment.”

Buba grins wider. “So we share the same parasites, eh? At least mine don’t wear suits.”

They sip their coffees, scanning the terrace together. A mantero passes by discreetly, not laying anything out—just showing a folded bag to a tourist with a nod. The waiter notices, looks away.

Buba leans closer. “People think we scatter like birds when the police come. They don’t see the order. The stock isn’t ours—it belongs higher up. We sell, we return, we keep our cut. If you cheat, you’re frozen out. That’s worse than the police. No network, no life.”

Alias nods slowly. “So the punishment is immediate.”

Buba taps the table. “Exactly. That’s why the rules hold. No papers, no courts, no excuses. Everyone knows where they stand.”

The terrace noise swells around them—cutlery, laughter, children chasing a ball. Alias leans back, almost smiling. “Stricter than most systems I’ve seen. Maybe more honest, too.”

Buba chuckles, studying him. “You listen well for a banker. Still, I wonder—why do you keep coming back here?”

Alias meets his gaze, silent for a beat, then says, “Because here, the rules are alive. Where I come from, they’re already dead on the page.”

Buba lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Not bad. Careful, Mr. Banker—you keep talking like that, and people will mistake you for one of us.”

They finish their coffees, the silence easier now, as if they’ve just played the same game from opposite sides of the table.