The news that Ivan has appeared again sparks a storm of outrage inside me, as if a furious tempest has ignited within, refusing to calm. It feels like thunder rolling in my head, lightning striking my nerves—every mention of his name pierces me like a hot knife.
But when I learn that he has stolen my daughter, a fire erupts in my chest with such force that I feel I could burn him to ashes, erase him from the face of the earth, all for her safety and her return home. This anger is both wild and deliberate; it fills me with determination and a thirst for justice. It is not blind rage—this is a pure, precise flame aimed at a single goal.
Most of all, fear for Katrin gnaws at me—fear for how she will endure this terrible loss, how she will survive the ordeal this bastard has subjected her to. I am torn by helplessness and pain, feeling the fear for her squeeze my chest, making it hard to breathe. I know that all this time she has been taking pills—medications that calm her nerves and support her heart, fragile and worn from constant tension. Her soul feels like a taut string; one wrong step, one harsh word, and it could snap. Deep down, I hope these pills can at least dull her pain, prevent panic and hysteria that might break her completely. My heart aches at the thought that the one I love might not cope. This is not just fear—it is a shadow over hope, a darkness creeping even into the brightest corners of consciousness.
"Find her and bring her back to me," she says, and it is all she can manage. Her voice is quiet, almost breaking, yet it carries all the boundless love and despair, the desperate wish to reclaim even a fragment of happiness.
There is no request in these words—it is a plea, a cry of a wounded soul. She cries from time to time, especially when she sees Vera and Vi, and then my mother. Each tear strikes like a blow to the heart, a reminder that her life is now split in two. Yet Katrin struggles to hold herself together, fighting the tears and weakness creeping toward her like shadows. Her battle is quiet, unnoticed by others, but I see her clench her fists, freeze to hold back sobs, close her eyes to keep from falling apart.
I do not speak to them. I need to keep control, maintain clarity of thought, and find a way out of this nightmare. The more people involved, the higher the chances we will find her and bring her back to us. My mind holds only one goal—move forward, no stopping, no hesitation. Doubt is the enemy of action, and I have no right to waste time.
I first call David, who works as a prosecutor. His voice on the phone is familiar and reassuring, with a hint of light irony. In his tone, I catch the usual prudence—the same one that once inspired my trust when we worked together on other cases.
"Hey, Max. Long time no see," he replies.
"Hi, I'm calling about a case," I say immediately.
"Oh, come on. Always about business. Call sometimes just to meet and have a beer."
He complains that I always call only for business, suggesting sometimes we could just meet for a beer, but I smile inwardly, knowing it's impossible now. A brief, painful warmth flashes in my chest—a shadow of the old, calm life, nearly forgotten.
"If you help me, it won't be just a beer," I promise.
"That's more interesting. What's needed?" His voice carries genuine curiosity.
Finally, I have his attention. He perks up, like waking from a long slumber, seemingly ready for serious work for the first time in a long while.
"My daughter has been kidnapped. I need your help to find her."
"You have a daughter?" His surprise is genuine, as if I just told him I can fly.
It truly catches him off guard—for real.
"I'll explain later. Will you help or not?" I cut him off sharply.
There is no time for explanations. Every second stretches like a wire under tension, and wasting it on confessions is a luxury I cannot afford.
"Of course. If you know who did it, tell me. I'll check, then issue a search. If needed, send a photo and details of the girl. What else can I do?"
"Yes. It happened near the playground," I speak quickly, trying to keep my voice steady, though anxiety still breaks through. "I'll send you the address. Check for surveillance cameras. And if possible, find where the car that took my daughter is now."
Each word echoes in my chest—between fear and hope that he can really help.
"Okay, send everything by email. I'll help as much as I can."
Half the work is done. The official levers are already in motion—law enforcement, cameras, protocols. Everything by the book. But I know it's not enough. Now I must engage another side—the dark, illegal one. Where questions are not asked, and answers come fast.
I take my phone again and dial Tim's number. My heart beats faster. If anyone can dig deeper—it's him.
"Hey, Tim. Can you help?" I get straight to the point. My voice does not falter—weakness could push him away, and I need his strength.
"Hey," Tim replies. "Yeah… if I can, I'll help," uncertainty in his voice, as if he hasn't fully realized what he's getting into.
I take a breath, holding back agitation.
"Remember Ivan?" I begin carefully, keeping my voice steady.
"Yeah. Why are you suddenly thinking about him?" he says, clearly missing the gravity of the moment.
I clench my teeth so hard that pain thuds in my temples. These words still don't fit—they seem alien, poisoning reality. Saying them is almost physically painful, like ripping skin off the soul.
"He stole my daughter today," I rasp out, hoarsely, with strain.
The phrase strikes like a gunshot—sharp, irrevocable. Every time I say it, something inside tightens into a cold, convulsive lump. I want to erase these words, make them vanish like a pencil mistake. Return to the morning when everything was still normal. When she was home. Nearby.
But it happened. And now—no rewind, no redo, no waking up.
"You're not just calling to inform, right?" His voice on the other end is calm, almost lazy, but I know he already understands.
"Yes. Will you help?" I force myself to speak evenly.
Tim goes silent. I imagine him slowly inhaling a cigarette, as if drawing in all the weight of unspoken words. His gaze is unfocused—staring at a ceiling marked by time, or sinking into a half-empty glass where ice sways, melting like the last remnants of hope. This silence is thick, almost tangible—like dense smoke wrapping thoughts and choking a breath.
"I don't usually meddle in other people's conflicts," he finally speaks, and I tense. "Especially if it involves a former member of my gang…"
I think he will refuse. My insides tighten.
"But… since you're a good friend, and also… I still owe you… I'll help," he says with a faint smile, as if giving me a head start before a storm.
"You didn't need to mention the debt if you're a 'good friend,'" I retort, masking relief with irony.
He hums:
"We'll see how it goes. If it's straightforward—we'll return her quietly, no losses, no fuss—then I won't recall the debt. But if it's murky… I'll remember. And maybe recalculate."
He doesn't impose conditions—he just states reality. Harsh, unadorned. As always.
"I don't care if you do this out of friendship or debt. I just want my daughter back," I answer firmly.
I feel the words burst from my soul like a vow, as if I give a part of myself for her rescue.
"I'll send my guys right away—let them comb everything, find even a scrap of info about this bastard," he says through gritted teeth, gripping the phone tight. His voice is low, metallic—how anger sounds before it becomes fury.
"I also called David. He'll review the surveillance. As soon as he finds something, I'll send you the car number of this scum," I say, feeling rage simmer in my chest.
David and Tim… to say they don't get along is an understatement. Between them rages a real feud—the prosecutor, with icy determination and ruthless principles, cannot tolerate gangsters, while Tim is not just part of a gang—he is their face, their voice in this city, especially when gangs boldly mock the law. There is no trust between them: loud arguments echo through narrow alleys, bitter fights flare up, even shadows of suspicion loom over every arrest, breeding more mistrust and hatred.
But now, at this moment, all that feels distant—like a past that never existed. Because when revenge is at stake, when pain and loss tear the soul, even sworn enemies can forget disputes and focus on one goal. Even on opposite sides of the street, even with heavy hearts, they must work on the same task.
For my daughter—for the little girl whose light in this dark world seems the last hope—I genuinely hope they find the strength to cooperate, each in his own way, for a shared goal. Deep down, I understand: sometimes the purest flame is born in the darkest stories.
"Alright, I'll call as soon as the guys find something. I'm sure Ivan won't hide for long and will show up somewhere."
"Thanks, friend," I reply. And these words are not a routine "thanks"—it is genuine gratitude for hope.
"You'll say thanks when your little girl is with you," he says, then hangs up.
At that moment, I feel determination strengthen inside me—not quiet, rational, but furious, like a flame bursting from within. The flash of anger and icy fear for my family merge into something new, irreversible, like molten metal solidifying into a blade. My heart beats dully, like an alarm, echoing in my ears. I am ready to fight to the end—not for glory, not for pride, but to reclaim what is most precious in the world to me.
I feel a cold, steel core of will straighten within me—strong, like tempered iron. Thoughts sharpen, honed. Everything unnecessary, weak, anything that could distract or shake me—disappears, dissolves, as if it never existed. Only the goal remains. Singular, clear, shining ahead like a guiding star in a black sky.
And I move toward it. Not looking back. Not doubting. With each step growing stronger, as if the air itself fills me with new strength. The world around may collapse, but inside reigns crystal clarity. I know who I am and what I can do. And I know what I fight for.