The next morning, Volkov's office smelled of freshly brewed coffee and old papers.

  The city seemed normal. Too normal.

  Novak stood in front of two lit screens, surrounded by open files, underlined dates, and incomplete names. Volkov stood looking out the window as a light rain coated the buildings.

  "Let's start from scratch," Volkov said. "Not from the hospital. From what the hospital reports."

  Novak nodded and began filtering data into the police system.

  "I'm reviewing all the deaths reported by St. Elias Hospital in the last three years. Natural causes, no relatives claiming the body."

  The silence was filled with the sound of rapid keystrokes.

  "There's something here," Novak murmured. "Twelve cases without official identification."

  Volkov turned slowly.

  "Twelve?"

  —Twelve dead, no identification, no emergency contact, no active civil registry. All reported as “simple cases.” No mandatory autopsies.

  Volkov approached.

  “Cause of death?”

  Novak enlarged one of the files.

  “Cardiac arrest. Respiratory failure. Medical complications… always ambiguous.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Minimal. Only those required for internal records.”

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  Volkov looked at the dates.

  “Irregular distribution… but consistent.”

  Novak frowned.

  “Not only that. Look at this.”

  He opened another panel.

  “Four of those twelve were transferred from other hospitals. Exactly the same as the patient at Central.”

  Volkov placed both hands on the desk.

  “And the police accepted the report without question.”

  Novak lowered his voice.

  “Because they’re classified as ‘unidentified.’ No family members to press for answers. No formal complaint. The hospital notifies, it’s filed, it’s closed.”

  Volkov picked up one of the digital files and reviewed the oldest details.

  “What happens to the bodies?”

  Novak took a few seconds to answer.

  “State cremation. Standard procedure when there’s no claim within 72 hours.”

  The air in the office grew thick.

  “Fast,” Volkov said.

  “Too fast.”

  Novak opened another file, one that wasn’t in the main system.

  “Marek… I found something strange. Two of the deceased appear in previous databases. Industrial accidents. One survived a collapse. The other an explosion at a chemical plant.”

  Volkov didn’t need to hear the rest.

  “Helix.”

  Novak nodded.

  “They’re not listed as official witnesses. But they were there.”

  Volkov walked to the board and began placing printed names, connecting them with red lines.

  "It's not a coincidence. These aren't random patients."

  Novak took a deep breath.

  "So St. Elias isn't just a hospital. It's the final stop on the route."

  Volkov watched the lines crisscrossing the board.

  "Accident. Survivor. Transfer. Sedation. Death without identity."

  Novak slowly looked up.

  "It's a perfect system. No one claims someone who officially doesn't exist."

  At that moment, the office landline rang.

  It wasn't a payphone.

  Novak and Volkov exchanged glances.

  Volkov answered.

  "Detective Volkov."

  Silence.

  Then a calm voice, this time without distortion:

  "You're reviewing files you shouldn't be."

  Volkov didn't respond.

  "The cases were reported correctly. You know that. There's no crime."

  "Twelve people died without names," Volkov said calmly. "That in itself is a crime."

  The voice sighed.

  "Some truths are more dangerous when they survive."

  The call ended.

  Novak looked at the screen.

  "I traced the number. Internal."

  "From the hospital?"

  Novak shook his head slowly.

  "From the municipal administrative headquarters."

  The silence was heavier than any confirmation.

  Volkov looked again at the board full of faceless names.

  They weren't just investigating a hospital anymore.

  Someone was making sure that certain people didn't exist, not in life... not after death.

  And now they knew they were being watched.