John Hagen’s office was exactly as the reports had described it: clean, orderly, silent. Too silent.

  Marek Volkov lingered for a few seconds at the entrance, not fully crossing the threshold. He surveyed the space like someone stepping into a sacred—or cursed—place. The top floor of the building offered a wide view of the city, but the blinds were half-closed, letting in a grayish light that failed to fully illuminate the room.

  “This is where we found him,” one of the police officers said, pointing toward the center of the room.

  Volkov moved forward slowly. Every step was measured, almost calculated. The body was no longer there, but its absence still weighed heavily. He could picture it easily: a man who believed he had control over everything, reduced to a final silence.

  The desk was large, made of dark wood, perfectly organized. There were no papers out of place, no broken objects, no signs of a struggle. A wine glass rested to one side, still marked by the dry ring along the rim of a drink no one had finished.

  Volkov leaned slightly to examine it more closely.

  “Was this analyzed?” he asked.

  “Yes. No traces of poison,” the officer replied. “Just wine.”

  Volkov didn’t respond. His eyes moved across the room, taking in every detail: the wall clock stopped at twelve minutes past nine, a lamp left on unnecessarily, an armchair facing the desk that looked as though it hadn’t been used that night.

  “Was the door locked?” Volkov asked.

  “From the inside. No signs of forced entry.”

  Volkov straightened slowly.

  “Then whoever was here was someone he trusted,” he murmured. “Or someone who knew how to make him believe that.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  He walked over to the window. From there, the city looked small, insignificant. Thousands of people going about their routines, unaware that in that very place, someone had lost their life without a sound.

  “Calm. Powerful. Untouchable,” Volkov said quietly. “And yet, dead.”

  The officer watched him in silence.

  “The secretary was the last person to see him alive,” he added. “She claims she left at eight thirty. That he stayed behind working.”

  Volkov turned his head slightly.

  “And no one else came in after that?”

  “According to the cameras, no.”

  Volkov frowned. He walked back to the desk and ran his fingers just above the surface, careful not to touch anything directly. He noticed a faint mark, almost imperceptible, near the edge.

  “Here,” he said. “Do you see this?”

  The officer stepped closer.

  “It looks like… nothing.”

  “Exactly,” Volkov replied. “It looks like nothing. But it shouldn’t be there.”

  He straightened and took a step back.

  “A man dies in his own office,” he continued. “Without screaming. Without defending himself. Without disorder. That’s not an impulsive attack. It’s something planned… or something personal.”

  Silence settled once again over the room.

  “I want to speak with the secretary,” Volkov said at last. “Now.”

  Minutes later, Elena Weiss entered the office. She was a woman of proper appearance, pale-faced, her hands tightly clasped together. She was dressed in black, as if she still hadn’t decided whether she was in mourning or simply afraid.

  “Thank you for coming,” Volkov said in a neutral voice. “I just want you to tell me, calmly, how you found Mr. Hagen.”

  She swallowed.

  “I came in like every morning…” she began. “I thought he was asleep in the armchair. Then I saw the blood.”

  Her voice trembled slightly.

  “Did you touch anything?” Volkov asked.

  “No,” she replied quickly. “I didn’t touch anything. I called the police immediately.”

  Volkov watched her in silence for several seconds. He wasn’t listening for words, but for gestures, pauses, breathing.

  “Was it common for Mr. Hagen to stay late?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “He often worked at night. He had… many matters.”

  “And visitors?”

  Elena hesitated for just an instant.

  “Sometimes.”

  That single second was enough for Volkov to notice.

  “Thank you, Miss Weiss,” he said at last. “That will be all for now.”

  She nodded and left without looking back.

  Volkov turned his gaze toward the empty office.

  “This place doesn’t speak,” he said. “But it doesn’t lie either.”

  He took one last look at the desk, the glass, the stopped clock.

  “And someone here didn’t tell the whole truth.”

  As he left the building, Volkov knew that this crime was not just a murder. It was the beginning of something bigger. Something the city had tried to bury.

  But secrets, like crimes, never sleep.