Marek Volkov stood before the corkboard, reviewing notes from old cases that never reached a clear conclusion. Yellowed papers, blurry photographs, forgotten names.
Nothing new.
And that unsettled him more than the chaos.
Novak sat at his desk, typing rapidly, checking databases while sipping on now-cold coffee.
— I don’t know how you manage to work standing up — he muttered. — At this hour, my back would already be begging for mercy.
Volkov didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on a photograph pinned with a rusted thumbtack: a blurred face, a gaze that seemed to ask for something even from the paper itself.
— Cases that don’t move — he said finally — aren’t asleep. They’re waiting.
Before Novak could reply, the sharp notification sound of an incoming message cut through the room. Novak turned his monitor toward him.
— New report — he said, frowning. — Central Hospital. It’s not an official complaint… more like an irregular notice.
Volkov stepped closer.
The report was brief. Too brief.
Male patient, approximate age unknown. Admitted without identification. Deceased during the early morning hours. No record found in civil or prior hospital databases. Verification requested.
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— No name? — Volkov asked.
— No name, no family, no history — Novak replied. — And that doesn’t happen. Everyone exists somewhere.
Volkov grabbed his coat.
— Let’s go to the hospital.
Central Hospital smelled of disinfectant and exhaustion. Long corridors, white lights, hurried footsteps. A place built to save lives… or to hide what should never be seen.
A doctor greeted them, visibly nervous.
— I don’t understand why the police are here — she said. — It was a clinical death.
— Clinical deaths lie too — Volkov replied calmly. — We’d like to see the file.
The patient’s record was a cruel joke: incomplete pages, inconsistent timestamps, signatures that didn’t match.
— He was admitted three days ago — the doctor explained. — Found unconscious near a highway. The injuries… didn’t fully make sense.
— Did he say anything? — Novak asked.
The doctor hesitated.
— He murmured. Said it wasn’t an accident. That he had seen them.
Volkov lifted his gaze.
— Seen who?
— He never said.
A nurse stepped in quietly, glancing around before speaking.
— Last night… he tried to get out of bed. He wanted to leave. Kept saying he wasn’t safe here.
Novak checked the security footage.
— Strange — he muttered. — There’s a twenty-minute gap outside his room. Like someone erased it.
Volkov entered the empty room. The bed was perfectly made, far too clean for someone who had fought to stay alive.
He bent down and found something beneath the mattress: a folded piece of paper, wrinkled by trembling hands.
Only one word was written, with difficulty:
“THEY’RE FOLLOWING.”
Volkov closed his fingers around the paper.
— This case didn’t end here — he said.
Novak looked at him, serious.
— It didn’t even begin.
As they left the hospital, Volkov felt that familiar pressure in his chest. The uncomfortable certainty that someone had died not by chance… but for knowing too much.
And this time, the enemy wasn’t in the streets.
It was watching from within.