November 2, 1931. Mexico City.

It was a warm night outside and the festival of the Dead was booming, shimmering with all the colors. Music was playing everywhere, alcohol and flowers were pouring down like a river. The city did not sleep.

And you were sitting in a stuffy bar or as they are called here "favelas". Your boyfriend kept hugging you to him, sipping warm whiskey and puffing on a cigar, and across from you sat a gloomy big man dressed for the occasion in a skull mask and a black suit.

The hand on your waist was clenching, then sliding down, and your companion was negotiating with this frightening man about something, talking in Spanish, you barely understood something. You knew your new "boyfriend" was doing something illegal and you knew he was selling weed, and now the cops are on his tail.

You didn't like it at all.

Cigar smoke was hovering around, this stranger's face was in semi-darkness, only his eyes glittered when he puffed on his unusual pipe, the conversation between them continued.

Suddenly, the man interrupted your companion in a low, sepulchral voice saying a well-known word to you:

—¿Pagar? (Payment?)

And when your boyfriend, laughing and adjusting the collar of his satin shirt, slightly brushed the hair off your neck, pointing there to a stranger. You felt your heart turn cold with fear.