Several days had passed since the case was closed.

  The city kept moving, as it always did. The news talked about new crimes, accidents, numbers that rose and fell without faces or names. On a small television hanging in one corner of the precinct, a news anchor reported another incident with a neutral voice, detached from the real weight of the stories she told.

  Volkov stood in front of a wall covered in files. He wasn’t watching the screen. His eyes moved across documents, photographs, dates. Open cases. Forgotten cases. Cases no one wanted to touch again.

  Novak sat a few meters away, reviewing reports. The sound of paper turning was the only thing breaking the silence between them. They didn’t need to speak. Since that day, something had changed—not in the way they worked, but in how they carried the work.

  —Another missing persons case —Novak murmured without looking up—. Sixteen years old. South district.

  Volkov barely nodded.

  —File it for later —he replied—. Let’s finish what’s pending first.

  Novak stood up with a folder under his arm and walked toward the records area. The hallway was long, lit by cold lights that made everything look older than it really was. As he walked, he began to hear voices.

  They weren’t whispers. Nor were they open conversations. They were the kind of comments that appear when people believe no one is listening.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  —…I’m telling you, that guy isn’t normal —said a detective, leaning against a desk—. No one solves cases like that.

  —They say he came from another city —an assistant replied—. That he closed impossible cases there too.

  —He doesn’t talk much —added a police officer—. But when he does, everyone shuts up.

  Novak stopped for a few seconds, unseen.

  —You know what unsettles me the most? —another voice continued—. He always seems to know the truth before anyone else. Like he’s already seen the ending.

  —Or like he’s carrying too many endings with him —someone else said quietly.

  There was a brief silence.

  —Still… —the first detective added— I’d rather have him on our side.

  Novak tightened his grip on the folder. He said nothing. He continued walking to the archives, took the assigned documents, and returned down the same hallway. The voices faded behind him.

  When he returned to the office, Volkov was still in the same spot.

  —Here are the new cases —Novak said, placing the folders on the desk.

  Volkov took one, opened it, and read the header.

  —They talk a lot —he commented suddenly, without looking up.

  Novak stood still for a moment.

  —Yes —he admitted—. They do.

  —What do they say?

  Novak hesitated. Then he sighed.

  —That you’re strange. That you know too much. That you always arrive when everything seems lost.

  Volkov closed the folder calmly.

  —They know nothing —he said—. They only see the results. Not the cost.

  Novak looked at him.

  —Does it bother you?

  Volkov slowly shook his head.

  —No. As long as they’re talking about me… it means they haven’t had to look at themselves yet.

  The news changed topics. Another story. Another tragedy in the making.

  Volkov took his coat and hung it on the chair.

  —Get some rest —he told Novak—. Tomorrow will be long.

  Novak nodded, watching him return his attention to the files.

  In the precinct, the hallways remained full of rumors, incomplete stories, and names that would soon be forgotten. But in the middle of it all, Marek Volkov continued working in silence, like a constant shadow.

  Because while others talked about him,

  he kept listening to the city.

  And the city… never stopped confessing.