Officers moved in hushed clusters, their voices tense, their movements sharp. Something was wrong—you could feel it in the air like static before a storm.

  Lisa had barely stepped through the doors when two detectives approached her, pale and shaken.

  “Detective Kowalska,” one said, swallowing hard. “There’s been… an incident.”

  She followed them without a word.

  Down the hall. Past the bulletin boards. Into a briefing room that smelled of cold coffee and stress.

  The senior officer handed her a file with trembling fingers.

  “Chief van Aalst and the entire training team were found dead in the woods this morning.”

  Lisa’s spine locked straight.

  “How many casualties?”

  “All of them, but Junior Detective Daan Janssen,” he whispered.

  Lisa’s eyes darkened, absorbing the weight. But she didn’t flinch. She’d seen slaughter before. She’d studied it, dissected it. She let a beat pass, then spoke:

  “Prime suspect?”

  The man hesitated, then exhaled shakily.

  “Daan Janssen.”

  Lisa blinked once. Slowly.

  “…The junior detective?”

  They nodded.

  Her brows lowered, cold and analytical.

  “And what was he doing last night?” she asked.

  The officers exchanged glances. The younger female detective—nervous, ponytail too tight, voice thin—stepped forward.

  “He told me he was… talking to a girl online. Some email thing. He said he planned to stay home that night and then come straight to training in the morning.”

  Lisa’s jaw tightened.

  “Name?”

  “Sasha—I think...He never met her.”

  Lisa’s mind clicked, gears turning, stitching timelines together.

  A mutter leaked from her lips:

  “…Unless he was lying. Unless he was actually in contact with Kuroda.”

  The room went dead silent.

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  Lisa didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Her face sharpened, eyes narrowing, logic slicing through possibilities. The officers watched her with a mix of respect and unease.

  She turned away from them, staring out the window at the darkened canals below.

  A young detective.

  An entire team was murdered.

  A mysterious tall man.

  Kuroda is on the run.

  And now this “Sasha.”

  She filed every detail away, the picture forming in her mind.

  Whoever Sasha was… chances were high she didn’t exist. She could be an alter ego similar to Kuroda's Casimir persona.

  “Pull every email from his account,” Lisa ordered. “Tonight.”

  Then, quietly—

  “And pray we’re not already too late.”

  ***

  The Night Prior:

  A cup of instant coffee sat half-finished beside Daan Janssen’s elbow, steam curling faintly in the lamplight.

  He dropped into his worn chair, exhaling as he tugged loose his tie. His day was finally over.

  He booted up the machine.

  Dial-up shrieked.

  The screen flickered into life, blue and grainy.

  His heart lifted—just slightly, shyly—when he saw the notification.

  1 new message.

  From: Sasha

  Janssen’s face flushed with a warm, glowing smile. His nerves from the day melted into something soft, something sweet. He clicked open the email thread.

  Her latest message sat at the top, gentle and curious:

  “Did you get home safely today? I hope training isn’t too stressful. I was thinking about you. —Sasha”

  Janssen’s chest tightened pleasantly.

  He leaned closer, rereading her words twice, three times, as if afraid they’d vanish.

  He typed quickly, fingers tapping with excitement he rarely showed in person:

  “I really want to meet you.”

  He hovered a moment, then hit send.

  Almost instantly, the screen blinked.

  New message received.

  He opened it. His breath caught.

  “Me too…But I don’t think we can.”

  Janssen’s brows knit.

  He typed again, slowly this time, a mix of hope and worry threading his pulse:

  “Why not?”

  A pause.

  Then the reply arrived—short, strange, almost sad:

  “Because some people… aren’t meant to meet.”

  Janssen stared at the words.

  The cursor blinked at him, patient, waiting.

  He swallowed hard, leaning back, uneasy and yet drawn closer. A part of him sensed something was off. A bigger part desperately wanted it to be real. Wanted her to be real.

  He took a breath.

  Started typing again.

  Without knowing that within twelve hours…

  His entire world would shatter.

  And Sasha—whoever she was—would become part of a nightmare he never imagined.

  Janssen typed one last line, fingers soft against the keys, sleep already tugging at him:

  “Good night, Sasha. Talk tomorrow.”

  He lingered a moment, smiling faintly at the screen—as if her words warmed his small, dim apartment. Then he stood, stretching, joints popping lightly after another long day. The lamplight cast a narrow gold on the carpet as he crossed the room.

  He didn’t bother turning the computer off.

  Didn’t even think about it.

  The machine hummed on behind him, the email tab still open, cursor blinking patiently in the pale glow.

  He flopped onto the bed, sighing as he sank into the mattress. Exhaustion washed over him—heavy, warm, numbing. He tugged the blanket over himself, turned toward the wall, and closed his eyes.

  Within minutes, his breathing slowed.

  Within ten, his mouth had fallen open slightly.

  And soon, he was gone.

  Asleep. Innocent. Unaware.

  Behind him, the lone computer screen lit the darkness like a silent witness.

  For a moment, the inbox remained still.

  Then—

  Ping.

  New message.

  The email window refreshed automatically.

  A new line appeared.

  From: Sasha

  Time: 23:41

  The message opened itself.

  And the words that appeared were colder than anything she’d ever sent him before:

  “I know what you're planning with Kuroda tomorrow.”

  A pause in the typing indicator.

  Another line.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  Almost pleading.

  “Please don’t kill the police chief.”

  The cursor blinked.

  The only sound in the room

  Janssen slept on, completely still, completely unaware.