The office was small and almost too cozy for such a place. It smelled of stale documents, old coffee, and men's cologne. Worn wooden shelves held unremarkable books, a cabinet full of case files stood against the wall, and the chairs, upholstered in leather that had cracked slightly but still held together, completed the setting.

He walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a jar of instant coffee. With a harsh motion, he scooped some into the cups and poured in the boiling water. There was no sugar—Evgeny didn’t like that sticky, sweet aftertaste. But there were candies. He didn’t care how it looked, simply took one and placed it in front of her.

The investigator looked at her, assessing, as if scanning her inner reaction. As always—would she remain composed, or try to mask her uncertainty with a joke?

The girl remained silent. That same timid glance, dull yet filled with hidden fear.

He looked at her again and finally spoke. Her fear wasn’t out of the ordinary. Her gaze flickered behind nervous movements, but he was certain she knew something. Without a doubt.

— You saw them take the boy. She flinched as if his words were a slap.

— I’m not sure, — her voice was barely audible, almost a whisper.

Bokov slowly leaned forward, his fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. He already knew that her hesitation would soon drive her mad—but first, he had to scare her. Not physically—no, he was smarter than that. The pain in her soul ran far deeper than any physical wound.

— Fine. You’re not sure. And by morning, that boy will probably be dead. You’ll blame yourself because you were too afraid to accuse someone. — His voice dropped, turning low and threatening. — If you want to help, tell me everything as it is. If not, I’ll close this door.

She nodded silently, her fingers curling into a fist as she tried to speak. But there was the same indecision in her eyes that Bokov despised. He slowly leaned back in his chair, stretched out his arms, and looked at her again, waiting for her to tell him