Sectia 8 Politie -

Tonight, the silence was broken by a frantic, high-pitched wail from the holding cell.

Agentul principal Andrei Munteanu didn't need a clock. He could feel the weight of the hour in his bones. He was on his third coffee, a thick, bitter sludge from a machine that had been old when he joined the force a decade ago. The station smelled of bleach, old cigarette smoke, and the faint, sour tang of fear. sectia 8 politie

The skin was cold. No pulse. The man was dead. Tonight, the silence was broken by a frantic,

A long pause. Then: “Touch nothing. Seal the cell. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And Munteanu… keep your gun on your lap.” old cigarette smoke