The road wound through the mountains, each turn revealing a little more of Kati, perched above the valleys. Abdul's hands gripped the steering wheel, steady yet tense. Earlier rain had left the asphalt slick, shimmering beneath the faint glow of the headlights.
Beside him, Salif rested his elbow on the edge of the window, his palm against his cheek, quietly observing the steep cliffs and scattered houses of the mountain village. The wind whistled through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and pine. He said nothing. The silence inside the car was heavy, laden with questions he did not dare voice aloud.
What will become of my life after this? he wondered, almost under his breath. His gaze followed the winding road as the town gradually revealed itself, the peaks and valleys shifting with every curve. The streets were deserted, save for a few distant figures moving briskly through the mist.
Abdul remained focused on the road, casting a brief glance at Salif without speaking. The climb was long, and Kati rose before them like a city carved into the mountainside. Its rooftops clung to the slopes—some tiled, others flat—all weathered by time and wind. The car's tires crunched against gravel as they approached the main street, lined with narrow houses and scattered lanterns flickering in the late afternoon light.
Salif's thoughts drifted. He replayed the events of the past few weeks: the strange phenomena, the narrowly avoided accidents, the unexplainable shadows that seemed to follow him. He pressed his palm harder against his face and let the tension wash over him. None of it felt normal—yet the very notion of normalcy was slipping further from his grasp.
The car finally came to a stop in front of a familiar house, nestled against the hillside and offering an unobstructed view of the valleys below. Abdul cut the engine and stepped out, the door creaking as he closed it. Salif followed, his eyes still fixed on the distant mountains, refusing to look at the house. Something stirred within him—a mix of relief, apprehension, and impatience.
January 13, 2022 — 2:30 PM
Komako Police Station, Bamako
Meanwhile, far above the bustling streets of Bamako, in a quiet corner of the Komako police station, Békaye Coulibaly lounged in his office chair, his feet firmly planted on his desk. A thick book concealed his face, hiding the hardened features of his head and his heavy mustache. His broad shoulders filled the chair, as if he carried the weight of the city itself, and even at rest, he exuded an unmistakable sense of authority.
The office smelled of old paper, dust, and something more elusive—the scent of time and memories intertwined. Stacks of files leaned against the walls, some recent, others untouched for years, as though the burden of forgotten investigations lingered within the room.
The door opened softly.
She entered—his secretary. Calm and composed, her glasses reflected the fluorescent light, long braids framing a face that was both stern and familiar. Arms crossed, she paused for a moment, taking in the scene.
"I know you're not sleeping," she said, irritation evident in her voice. "Get up. I have something to tell you."
Békaye slowly lifted the book and let it fall onto the desk with a dull thud. His dark eyes met hers, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"How do you know I'm not asleep? We've worked together long enough…"
She sighed and crossed the room, setting the book aside.
"These past few weeks, the accidents have been happening… more frequently."
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back.
"Oh? Even recently?"
"Yes. And there's a file that might interest you."
He exhaled, anticipation settling heavily in his chest.
"Very well… show me. What is it?"
She placed a thin, blank-looking file on his desk. He picked it up and carefully flipped through the pages. His eyes narrowed when he reached the first entry.
— Salif
A black bar obscured the last name. Békaye traced a finger along the redacted lines, as if trying to feel the absence—the buried secret beneath.
"What happened?" he asked, his tone now sharp and precise.
"A taxi accident," she replied. "The driver… deceased. The passenger… hospitalized. Unconscious."
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on the document.
"And the driver?"
"The car was wide open. The driver's expression… his eyes frozen wide, his mouth stiff. Pure terror. As if he had seen something impossible."
Békaye turned the pages, his focus sharpening with every detail.
"And Salif?"
"Still unconscious. I'm calling the hospital to get updates," she added.
He remained silent, absorbed in the file. Something about the repetition of these accidents—their sheer improbability—unsettled him. A dark, fleeting memory brushed against his thoughts, a bad memory he couldn't quite grasp. A shadow from the past lingered, quietly shaping his perception.
"Prepare everything we have on… Salif," he said, pointing at the masked name. "Every report. Every erased note. Every document. I want everything."
She nodded and quietly left the room. The soft clicking of her heels echoed briefly in the hallway before fading away. Békaye remained alone, eyes locked on the file, weighing the impossible survival rates—less than six percent—and the strange coincidences surrounding the accidents.
He leaned back, allowing the silence to settle, letting the weight of apprehension grow. Outside, the city continued its routine, unaware that an investigation had quietly awakened within these walls.
A single thought crossed his mind, heavy and persistent. The past had an unfortunate tendency to resurface, no matter how deeply buried. A faint memory of loss—of something taken too soon—flickered in his mind. He did not name it, did not give it form. It remained a shadow, a silent warning: what he was about to uncover might affect him far more deeply than he imagined.
Békaye carefully placed the file back on the desk, straightening it.
"Call the hospital," he murmured. "And gather every piece of information on Salif. Every file. Every note. I want the truth."
He leaned back again, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the redacted name. The low hum of the office filled the space, contrasting sharply with the storm of possibilities already forming in his mind, waiting to unravel.
The Komako police station did not yet know that within its walls, a mysterious thread had been pulled—a thread that could reveal not only the truth behind Salif's survival, but also the hidden dangers that had been spreading terror through lives for years. Békaye Coulibaly, silent and unyielding, was about to follow that thread, descending into darkness few would ever dare to face.ais affronter.