Alias sat at his usual spot on the terrace of the Acapulco Bar, a glass of tinto de verano sweating in his hand, the Costa del Sol sun sinking into the horizon. The evening was alive—the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the occasional outburst of laughter from a table of expats sharing stories they had told a thousand times before.

And then there was Buba.

Buba was in his element, navigating the space between tables like a performer on a well-worn stage, balancing charm and persistence with the precision of a tightrope walker. He had no fixed stall, no formal display—only a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that could sell sand to the Andalusians.

"Señores, señoras! Hoy es su día de suerte!" he declared, his voice warm and inviting. "Black Friday prices, pero solo para ustedes... y aunque hoy es miércoles!"

A group of locals at a nearby table chuckled. One of them, an older man with a weathered face and a cigarette dangling from his lips, called out, "Y qué pasa si quiero devolverlo?"

Buba slapped a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "¡Amigo! No confías en mi? No te preocupes—tienes una garantía de por vida... pero solo hoy!"

The table erupted in laughter, and Alias allowed himself a small smirk. Buba understood something most never would—selling wasn’t about the product, it was about the dance.

A German tourist, pale from a life spent in offices, eyed a pair of sunglasses Buba held up. "How much?"

Buba examined the man as if judging the very essence of his soul. He took a step back, then forward, as if coming to a grave decision. "For you, my friend, because I see you are a man of distinction... I will make a special price."

The German frowned. "How special?"

Buba leaned in conspiratorially. "Special enough that you’ll walk away thinking you robbed me."

The German hesitated, then smiled. He reached for his wallet.

Alias watched, fascinated. This was not just negotiation—it was theatre. Buba had an answer for everything, a joke for every hesitation, a counteroffer for every rejection. And yet, it was never forceful, never desperate.

A British couple walked past, glancing at his bag. Buba immediately shifted gears, his accent adapting like a chameleon. "Evening, my friends! You look like the kind of people who appreciate quality. I have something just for you."

The woman, amused, tilted her head. "And if we don’t like it?"

Buba put his hands up in surrender. "Then you break my heart, madam. But... it would be a shame not to take a look, no?"

The husband laughed. "He’s good, this one."

Alias sipped his drink, considering. Buba was not just intelligent—he was adaptable. He moved between languages, between cultures, between social classes, shifting gears without hesitation.

In a world where rigid structures ruled, where institutions set the rules and expected obedience, Buba thrived in the cracks between them.

And that was precisely why Alias needed him.