Roman watched as Paul moved to the shelf, scanning the open files. Logistics, shipments, encrypted notes.
He flipped through a few pages, absorbing names, supplier codes, and dates. Nothing solid yet. But the patterns were forming.
Then he closed the file and turned, phone already in his hand.
As he walked out, sunlight cut across his face.
He dialed a number.
"I got some business," Paul said quietly. "Are you free to meet?
The person you're trying to reach is unreachable.
"Aghh." Sara slammed the phone down beside her, jaw clenching. "Why the fuck it keeps saying that? Unreachable, unreachable, unreachable. Like I didn't hear it the first damn time."
Julian, half-lying on the sofa, raised an eyebrow. "Maybe 'cause, I don't know, he's out of reach?"
"You shut your ass up, alright?" She snatched the phone and tried again.
Julian smirked. "You thinkin' too much into this, I'm tellin' ya."
"Yeah, yeah, maybe. But still—" she pressed the phone tight against her ear, pacing. The same robotic voice repeated, "The person you're trying to reach is—"
"Fuck off!" she snapped, hanging up. "I just can't, alright?"
Julian whistled low. "You keep that up, and you'll scare the phone company."
Sara exhaled hard, threw the phone back on the couch, and rubbed her temples. "What about Simon? Where's he?"
Julian stretched his legs, yawning. "Don't know."
She shot him a look. "You don't know anything, do you?"
"Oh c'mon, woman." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice half-amused. "Sometimes sittin' still's the only play we got. Always rushin' in, overthinkin'—that's how you end up face-down in a ditch."
Sara stared at him, unimpressed. "You done playin' philosopher?"
Julian grinned. "Just sayin'. Breathe. Take a beat."
"Yeah, yeah." She scoffed, half-listening.
"Why don't you swing by his place? Ain't gonna hurt, right?"
"He'll be at school right now," she muttered.
"So what? At least you'll see somethin' other than that wall. Might help you stop melting your brain."
Sara's eyes flickered. "Outta the box, huh?"
She paused, then."Oh wait, I remember. Simon told me to check into something… damn it, I almost forgot."
"See?" Julian smirked, spreading his hands. "What'd I say?"
Sara was already on her phone, scrolling fast. "You could also try using your brain while I do mine. Don't just sit there gawking at me like a creep. This has nothing to do with ghosts."
Julian closed his eyes. "Got that right."
Silence thickened. The ticking clock filled it. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and shut up. Julian's mind went quiet, then opened like a dark room flickering with memory.
Alright, think. There's a clue somewhere. That son of a bitch doesn't move without leaving a mark. Always wants an audience. Always wants someone to notice.
He rubbed his temple. Simon was already there first. Maybe he found it. Maybe that's why he bailed. But why, man? Why keep us in the dark?
Scenes flickered in his head. The coffin, the blood, the faces.
We're not even chasin' who killed Hector or Raul. This whole circus? Just smoke. It's about Varga. That's where it started. Everything else… filler.
Simon's voice echoed faintly in memory: Two possibilities. Either someone's cutting off the line up top, or it's personal.
Julian muttered under his breath, "Why not both…"
He leaned back, thinking. Someone inside. Someone who knows too much, knows him. Not us.
Him.
The clock ticked again.
Julian's eyes opened wide. "The fucking watch."
He whispered it, then said it again, louder. "The living one in the coffin… the dead one walking around. The ghost's his, not ours."
He stood up fast, scanning the room. "Hey, Sara—wait, where the hell did she go?"
She had already vanished like a ghost. Only the faint smell of her perfume lingered, as the last of her remains.
Julian let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Of course. Leave me talkin' to the furniture again."
He sat back, muttering to himself. "Guess we can do nothin' but wait. Story of my fuckin' life.
"Unlocked?"
Sara's voice came out quieter than she meant. The handle had turned too easily, the door swinging inward with a faint groan.
No resistance. No click.
Her pulse skipped.
Who leaves their door unlocked in this part of town? Then again… maybe he did. The guy barely cared if he came home half-dead. There was nothing here worth stealing anyway. Unless you count ghosts and bad habits.
Still... she hesitated before stepping in.
The hall smelled faintly of detergent and dust. A faint wind blew from inside.
She closed the door behind her slowly.
Or maybe… he knew I'd come.
The thought passed quickly.
No. Stop it, Sara. You ain't some stalker, alright. He knows I've got the keys on me. Just here to check things out.
Her footsteps echoed softly across the narrow floor.
Sofa on the left. The dining table shoved into the far corner. Same as before.
Except. It felt like someone had hit pause on everything.
The towel on the glass table caught her eye.
She stared at it too long, then moved toward the bedroom.
The air changed there.
It smelled like him. Faint lemon mixed with antiseptic, and something else she couldn't name.
The bed was half-made, sheets still creased. Jeans and a white T-shirt tossed on top, like he'd been halfway through dressing before deciding to disappear.
Her gaze drifted to the wardrobe. She opened it slowly, letting the faint creak fill the silence.
A handful of clothes hung inside, colorless. Blacks, greys, whites.
Everything was perfect.
He lived like someone who could pack up and leave at any moment.
Her eyes stopped at the gray pants and red blazer. Saint Anthony's.
She ran her fingers down the fabric. Still stiff, faint smell of starch. Freshly washed.
Then she found the plastic-stripped belt tucked behind it.
"He didn't go to school today," she murmured.
Her reflection in the wardrobe mirror looked back impressively.
"Or he's got extras," she added. "Which I doubt."
She closed the wardrobe, stepped back, and sat on the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight.
Her heel bumped something underneath.
She bent down. Dark shape. A backpack. She pulled it out halfway, recognizing it instantly.
"Where are you…" she whispered, not expecting an answer.
She pushed the bag back under and stood. The silence pressed against her ears.
She needed air, but instead, she turned toward the bathroom.
The light shot up quickly filling everything.
White tiles everywhere. The faint, sterile scent of soap and antiseptic hung in the air.
She turned slowly, scanning. Toothbrush, shampoo bottles, towel on the rack.
Everything looked painfully normal.
Except the small bin behind the door.
She let the door swing shut and crouched. The smell hit her first. Faint metal, dried blood beneath the detergent.
Her hand reached out, fingers brushing the rim before she pulled it forward.
Used bandages.
Still dark in the middle. Stiff, heavy with dried blood. Some even had threads, like they'd peeled away from fresh stitches.
Sara stared for a long moment, then placed them back carefully.
"This was recent," she said under her breath.
Her throat felt dry.
She stood, brushing her knees off, but her gaze had already caught on something else. The washing machine beside her.
"Why are you doing this to me…" she muttered.
She opened it.
Inside were clothes, twisted together. She reached in and started pulling them out one by one.
Black pants. It smelled of iron and sweat.
A black T-shirt, stiff with faint brown stains.
Then the hoodie. Rolled up, heavier than it should be.
She unwrapped it slowly.
Blood. Everywhere. Soaked through the fabric.
Her breath came short. The hoodie slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud.
"What the fuck are you even doing…" she whispered, voice cracking halfway.
For a second, she just stood there, staring at it. The red slowly darkened as the light shifted.
She wanted to leave it, pretending she hadn't seen any of this. But her hands moved anyway, shoving everything back in, closing the lid like sealing a confession.
Sara stepped out, her footsteps quicker this time.
The apartment felt smaller now, air thicker, like the walls knew something she didn't.
At the door, she stopped, turned once, scanning the space again.
The silence didn't feel empty anymore. It felt full.
Like he'd never really left.
She locked the door. The click sound echoed loudly in the hallway.
Her hand lingered on the handle for a moment.