It was quiet in the department. Zhenya was constantly walking back and forth, looking for something to occupy his hands with. The man was constantly on edge, swearing to himself, drawing conclusions. He looked out the window, thinking and running his hand through his hair. “Every day, it's one solid pile of shit,” he said through clenched teeth, slightly opening his mouth.

Bokov looked at his fingers and sat down at the table, and then went through a stack of papers, securities, which he crumpled under his fingers and roughly threw into the trash. The conclusion is that Fischer cannot be found, a new case has been opened, and the old one has not yet been closed. He should have flown to Moscow, not stuck here, but this fucking village. His ears suddenly strained to catch the sound. “What the fuck?”