Ana took the Polaroid. She aimed it at the wall, at the space where his shadow should have been. She pressed the shutter. The camera whirred, spat out a black square, and slowly, the image developed.
He was right. Sectia 7’s territory included the Dudescu cemetery, the abandoned factory on Vitan-Bârzești, and a stretch of the Dâmbovița riverbank where fog formed even in July. Officially, they were a standard precinct. Unofficially, they were the last stop before the city’s nightmares became real. sectia 7 politie
“Domnule Munteanu,” she said gently, “have you been sleeping well? Maybe you should see a doctor at the Colentina Hospital.” Ana took the Polaroid
“What was stolen, Domnule Munteanu?” The camera whirred, spat out a black square,
The man stared at the wall behind her, where a faded picture of the President hung crookedly. “My shadow.”
The man leaned forward. His breath smelled of earth and old metal. “Doctor? No. I came to the police. Because a theft is a theft. And you are Secția 7 . You handle the cases no one else wants.”