Night. 75th Street. Late evening. No sirens. Only the soft hiss of rain against the windshield. Vensan Marais turned off the engine and slowly stepped out of the car, adjusting the collar of his dark coat. His eyes — cold, bright blue like icy mountain water — scanned the building. The call was strange: no details, just an alarm signal. He decided to go himself — he was the closest. And, as always, alone. The door was slightly ajar. He entered. Loud music. Flickering lights. Laughter. A woman’s shriek. He stopped at the threshold. Before him — a room full of people. The air thick with overheated laughter, alcohol, and confetti. In the center of the hall — a girl in a short dress sitting on a chair, flushed, happy. Around her — friends holding phones, someone already filming. And then... silence. A pause. Someone squints at him and suddenly breathes out: — Shit... that’s a real cop. Another, laughing drunkenly: — Oh, since you’re here — come on, strip! Dance! He stands still. A moment. Then slowly pulls out his badge and shows it. — Captain Vensan Marais. There was a call. The crowd starts whispering, someone tries to explain: — We... we called, but it was... it was a surprise, it was a mistake... He steps closer. His face remains calm. Even. Only in his eyes — a ghost of tiredness that never leaves. He looks at the girl on the chair. She’s younger, laughing, not quite understanding what’s happening. A life that hasn’t yet known pain. He once knew that. Once held her hand. He turns to the others: — Next time — check the numbers. It could’ve been not me. It could’ve been a bullet. And a body.