"Yes, I understand your policy—" I said through gritted teeth, trying to keep my voice even as the man on the other end of the line kept talking over me.
"Understand?" The voice from the Moscow Investigation Unit's headquarters snapped, sharp as steel.
"You've been absent for over a month, Löwendeld. No reports, no updates, not even a formal request for leave. We expected better from you."
I exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. The static hum from the cheap café Wi-Fi mixed with the faint ringing in my hearing aid, making every word feel heavier.
"With all due respect, sir," I said finally, "you expected obedience, not results."
There was a pause — the kind that could slice through bone. "Watch your tone, Agent Löwendeld, and shall i have some words with Mr.Lowëndeld?"
The words spiking into my spine, no, not with that old man, if he know I quit the unit for one month, he won't tolerate me for that
"I'm not your agent right now," I replied, sharper this time. "And I'm not in Moscow."
"You are still under contract," the voice shot back. "You made a promise—to this department, to your team. You vanish, and now we find your name tangled in arrival records and… German police correspondence?"
They stalked me.
I could almost see his expression through the phone — that familiar mix of authority and disappointment. I hated both.
"I'm working on something," I said flatly.
"You're working off the grid. That's not how we operate."
"That's exactly why you'll never understand what I'm doing," I said, leaning back in my chair. The rain outside tapped against the window, soft but relentless. "You follow protocol. I follow leads."
"Anna—"
"I won't come back." My tone dropped, final. "Not yet."
There was a long silence. Then: "You're risking your position. Your reputation."
I looked down at my trembling hands, at the faint scar near my wrist where the burn never fully faded. My reflection in the café window looked almost foreign — pale, controlled, eyes a little too tired to belong to someone still fighting for her job.
"Reputation is overrated," I said quietly. "If you want to fire me, do it officially. Otherwise—stop calling."
I hung up before he could reply.
The sound of the dial tone lingered for a moment too long, echoing like a low hum through my hearing aid. I removed it, setting it on the table beside the cold coffee cup. For a brief second, the world went silent — mercifully silent.
But in that silence, I could still hear my mother's voice from years ago, soft and distant, under the rain:
"You can't save everyone, Anna."
I stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur through the drizzle.
"Watch me," I whispered.
"Mother"
"Hey yo!"
I jumped so hard my fork stabbed into the damn table.
Every sound in the cafeteria hit my hearing aids like a goddamn explosion—chairs scraping, trays clattering, laughter echoing like gunfire.
"Jesus, Lucas!" I hissed, pressing my hand to my ear. "Do you have to yell like you're summoning the dead?"
He just grinned, loud and unapologetic, balancing a tray that looked like he robbed the kitchen—two sandwiches, fries, coffee, and a mountain of cake.
He also told me he have some sweet tooth as an achievement in his life to spend his free time rooting his butt at his mother bakery shop.
"What? I'm spreading joy," he said, dropping into the seat across from me with all the grace of a wrecking ball.
"You're spreading noise," I muttered, stabbing at my salad. "And fucking crumbs everywhere."
He shrugged. "You look like you haven't eaten in a week. Thought I'd be your hero."
"I don't need a hero," I said flatly. "I need peace. And maybe a working mute button for you."
Lucas snorted. "You love me."
"I tolerate you," I corrected, glaring. "Barely, but your teeth might."
He leaned back, smirk plastered on his face. "You're cute when you lie."
"Cute," I repeated dryly. "That's one word for homicidal."
He laughed, loud enough that two tables turned to look. "There it is—the Anna I know. Always two seconds away from stabbing someone with a spoon."
I clenched my jaw, biting back the sharp reply that wanted out. He didn't notice—no, correction, he always noticed.
He picked up a fry, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving me. "Still doing that thing, huh? Pretending everything's fine while your head's on fire?"
"Still doing your thing," I snapped. "Talking shit like you're some therapist with fries for credentials."
"Ouch." He grinned. "I'd say that hurt, but it didn't."
"Maybe I should aim better next time."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, his voice lower. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one right before you fuck something up on purpose."
I froze for a second, staring at him. "Then maybe you should've stopped me years ago."
He smiled, tired but knowing. "Wouldn't have made a damn difference."
"Exactly," I muttered. "You talk like you understand everything."
He raised his cup of coffee in a mock toast. "No, I just understand you, which is worse."
I scoffed. "You don't know shit."
He tilted his head, smirk softening just a little. "Then tell me. For once, Anna—tell me what the fuck you're actually doing."
And just like that, the air between us went sharp—too quiet, too dangerous.
Because the truth was, I wanted to. But if I did, I'd drag him right into the fire I'd been building.
"Even you don't trust your father, or anyone else, at least you have to trust someone…to not let make your brain suffocating.."
His smile never leaves his face, but it seems softened.
The fork in my hand trembled, clinking against the plate.
His words hung there like smoke — heavy, choking, inescapable.
"What the fuck I'm doing?" I said, almost laughing. "You make it sound like I'm planning a damn murder."
Lucas didn't flinch. "Aren't you?"
My jaw tightened. "You're not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be." He leaned back, crossing his arms, eyes sharp now — that Air Force stare of his that could slice right through excuses. "You disappear for day, running in the middle of the streets like you being possessed, you ignore my calls, you stop talking to me. You're doing something, Anna. So yeah—either tell me, or stop pretending I won't find out."
I stared at him. The cafeteria suddenly felt too bright, too loud — like every sound was trying to crawl under my skin. The overhead light flickered, and for a heartbeat I thought it was lightning again, the same flash that split the sky the night my mother—
"Don't," I muttered under my breath. "Don't push me right now."
Lucas's expression softened just a little. "You know I will."
"Then you should stop trying to be a goddamn hero." My voice cracked — too sharp, too desperate — and I hated it. "Because heroes die. Always. There is no fairy tale, there is no sleeping princess, there is no Snow White, there is no whats call Justice…"
He frowned. "Anna—"
I stood up too fast, the chair screeching across the tile, uneven and loud. The sound split my skull open—it wasn't even. It wasn't right. My chest tightened, counting under my breath. One, two, three, four—no, no, fuck—five, six.
"You want the truth?" I hissed. My voice shook, the air cutting against my throat. "You want it so bad?"
Lucas stayed silent, his eyes following every twitch, every tremor.
My breath started coming out in short bursts, uneven, ragged—like my body forgot how to work properly. My hearing aids picked up the hum of fluorescent lights above, amplifying every fucking noise—the chatter, the buzz, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing too loud three tables away.
All of it crashing together, crawling under my skin.
"Tell me the truth…"
"Tell me the truth.."
"Tell me the truth.."
"Tell me the truth…"
"Tell me THE TRUTH!"
"You don't understand FATHER!"
"Anna—"
"Don't." I slammed my palm down, the impact making my own bones rattle. "Don't say my name like that. You weren't there."
He opened his mouth but stopped—something in my face must've warned him off.
"I saw her," I continued, voice lowering, trembling between fury and despair. "My mother. The night she died. It was raining so hard the fucking sky bled. And the lights—"
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The flashes came back: blue, white, blue again, each one slicing into me like glass.
"She was on the ground, Lucas. Her face—.., her face was just… still. And I couldn't—"
I clutching my chest, it feels tightened with every flesh, veins, blood flowing inside.
The words collapsed in my throat. My hands trembled, and I pressed them to my ears, but the hearing aids only made it worse—every sound sharper, too real.
"Turn it off," I muttered, fumbling with the switch. "Just—turn it off—"
"Turn it off.."
"Turn it off…"
"Turn it off!!
"Stop!"
I yanked the hearing aids out. The sudden silence slammed into me—heavy, suffocating, but merciful.
The world dulled, muffled.
I could finally breathe, but my hands were shaking too hard to notice.
I can feel something cold running down from my ears.
Lucas's lips moved, but I couldn't hear him.
It was almost peaceful—watching him speak in a soundless blur, like everything had gone underwater.
Then—flash.
Someone's phone camera went off nearby. Just a photo. Just light.
But my body didn't care.
"Stop," I gasped, even though no one could hear me now. "Stop it, stop it, stop it—"
Lucas reached for me, slow, hesitant.
I stumbled back, clutching the hearing aids like they were burning.
"Stop…"
My hands freezing, my muscles unmoving.
He caught me before I dropped myself,
My hands were freezing, fingers stiff and useless — I couldn't tell if it was fear or the cold crawling up my skin.
The room tilted. My knees buckled.
He caught me before I hit the ground.
Lucas's arms wrapped around me, steady, unshaking, while everything in me trembled. I could feel his pulse against my shoulder — calm, even, maddeningly stable when mine was chaos.
"Hey—hey, easy," his voice came through, rough but low, somewhere between command and concern.
I couldn't hear every word, not clearly — the sound flickered like radio static, faint and distorted without my hearing aids. But I could feel it.
Why?
I feeling so lightweight…
My body have some kind of shockwave, chills spiking into my spine.
I need something…
"Anna!..Shit..shit…" he barked back, already fishing his phone from his pocket. His hands shook as he scrolled through the contacts list, mumbling, "Where the fuck is it—come on, come on—"
He found the number. Pressed call.
"Mr. Löwendeld?" His tone snapped into something urgent but controlled. "It's Lucas. I'm with Anna—she fainted. No, it's not dehydration, I think it's shock or something. She's burning up, sir. You need to—"
The voice on the other end was low, calm, but Lucas could hear the weight behind it.
"…Where are you?"
Don't tell him where am I…
I tried, God I tried, but my tongue completely froze.
"Jesus, Löwendeld," he muttered, brushing a strand of hair off my face. "What the hell did you get yourself into?"
I fainted.
Everything is dark.
Everything is numb.
I can't feel my face.
I can't feel my body.
Is someone out there?
…
…
…
The words slipped from my mouth before I even thought them.
They floated into the sterile dark of the lab, lost beneath the hum of electricity.
Outside, the storm cracked open the sky.
Lightning split through the glass wall—white, violent, immediate.
For one sharp second, the room was a mirror — a cracked reflection of a ballerina's studio.
My face appeared in the glass, pale and uneven, hair clinging to the edges of my cheeks. Behind me, the trembling glow of the television screens danced like stage lights, flickering across the walls where paint had begun to peel in delicate curls.
And in the reflection—
for just a breath—
a shadow stood by the window.
Still. Watching.
Someone in the rain.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
Just me again.
Always just me.
My fingers found the edge of the desk, nails pressing into the wood until it bit back.
I counted them, the way I always do.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Stop.
Breathe.
Repeat.
It's the only way to stop my hands from shaking, the only language my body still listens to when my mind refuses to.
Thunder rolled — deep, alive, crawling through the walls like something breathing behind them.
The sound hit my chest first, then my teeth, then the back of my skull.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Static whispered through the television speakers—wet, broken, like the sky itself was trying to speak.
The static deepened.
A voice broke through it—faint, warped, almost too human.
Anna… run.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
The air thickened. The sound of rain — first on the window, then behind me, then everywhere.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
The television flared white.
And the room fell away.
Now it's the bridge.
The storm screaming.
Wind like a thousand blades cutting through my coat, slicing the edges of my skin.
I can smell it — metal, salt, mud. The smell of thunder just before it hits.
And below me, the river thrashing, black and endless.
Mother!!!!
I called out for her unaware that's who I remember to first.
My voice — smaller than I remember it. My throat raw, fighting against the storm.
She's there — her figure half-shadowed, half-lightning. A red umbrella snapped backward in her hand. Her hair plastered to her face, dripping, her lips forming words I can't hear.
Don't come closer, Anna.
But I do. I always do.
The rain blinds me, but I see the shape — someone behind her, dark, faceless, moving.
"Mom!"
Lightning carved the world in half — and for one impossible second, I saw everything:
Her turning toward me,
the stranger's hand on her shoulder,
and then—
A push.
Not a stumble, not a slip.
A push.
The scream tore from my chest but got swallowed by thunder.
Her body fell backward — slow, too slow — like gravity forgot what to do.
Her umbrella spun once, twice, then disappeared into the night.
And me —
my feet running before I know it, slipping on wet pavement, my palms scraping the guardrail as I reached—
too late.
I leaned so far I could see the ripples break the river open, then close again, as if she'd never existed.
The storm roared.
My knees hit the ground.
And for a moment, I thought the sky cried with me.
Why did you do that?
Why did you?
Why you?
Why?
"Why?" I can feel a hand pressing down on my shoulder, is cold, is heavy.
That watch…
That fucking Rolex watch…
My pulse stuttered, matching the rhythm I can't stop counting.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Stop.
Breathe.
Repeat.
Only this time, it doesn't work.
I will kill you…
"I will kill you…"
I will kill you…
The world came back one sound at a time.
A steady beep.
A faint hum from the air conditioner.
Something dripping — water, maybe. Or a machine pretending to be rain.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was white, too white — the kind that stings your eyes, like it's trying to erase what came before.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Then the smell hit me — antiseptic and metal, too clean to be real.
Hospital.
I tried to move, but my limbs felt heavy, like someone replaced my veins with sand. The sheets tangled around me; the IV line tugged at my arm when I shifted.
"Easy," a voice said from the left.
Lucas.
He looked like he hadn't slept — hair disheveled, hoodie half-zipped, a coffee cup that had gone cold hours ago in his hand. His eyes flicked toward me with something between relief and irritation.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, voice low but soft enough to make me hate it.
I blinked. The light above buzzed faintly. My hearing aids were gone — I reached instinctively to my ear and touched only skin. Panic flared.
"Hey, hey," Lucas leaned forward. "They're on the table. You passed out, remember?"
He handed them to me carefully, as if they were glass.
When the sound clicked back in, everything was too loud — the heartbeat monitor, the hallway outside, the nurse's shoes squeaking on the floor.
Too much.
Always too much.
"Oh, Cara mia!!"
The voice hit the walls before I even saw her — big, echoing, theatrical. The kind of entrance that would make nurses flinch.
My eyes darted toward the doorway. And there she was.
Claudia.
Perfect hair, oversized sunglasses (indoors, of course), and a scarf that looked like it belonged in a Renaissance painting instead of a hospital hallway.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered under my breath, "who let she in?". Lucas shrugged.
She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest as if I'd just wounded her spirit. "They tried to stop me, but I told them I'm your cousin from Milan. Honestly, they should give me an Oscar."
I didn't have the strength to argue, so I just sighed. "Claudia, it's a hospital. Not a film premiere."
"Oh, tesoro, everything's a film premiere if you believe hard enough." She strutted in, heels clicking too loud for my ears. My hearing aids whined faintly at the pitch — I winced, adjusting them with a small twist.
Claudia noticed immediately. "Oh, darling, still wearing those little gadgets? They make you look so—"
She paused, scanning for the right word.
"—cyberpunk chic."
I gave her a dead stare. "You mean deaf."
The door opened again — not slammed like Claudia's hurricane entrance, but quietly.
A pause.
A weight in the air changed.
Even Claudia noticed. Her grin faltered.
"Oh, Honey, I'm so relief that our daughter is finally awake, weather in Germany must be so strict on her, right? Dear?"
My father didn't say a word for a while. Just stood there — tall, still in his uniform, the faint smell of rain and cigarette clinging to his coat. The kind of presence that fills the whole room even when he barely moves.
I looked away first. My throat was dry.
"Hospital's not exactly my vacation plan, if that's what you're thinking."
"Anna."
Just my name. But it landed like a command.
He moved closer, the floor creaking under his boots. I hated that sound. I hated how it made me feel ten years old again — small, trembling, waiting for him to speak.
"You fainted," he said finally. "Lucas called me."
I glared at Lucas, but he munching on the apple slice nonchalantly.
He didn't answer. His silence was its own interrogation.
I could feel his eyes studying every part of me — the IV line, the bruises, the faint tremor in my hand. He always saw too much, but never what I wanted him to.
"You've been avoiding Moscow Investigation Unit," he said. His tone clipped, cold. "You made promises, Anna. They were counting on you."
Lucas and Claudia already left the room, making some space for us to talk.
I shook my head, words catching in my throat.
"No," I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I… I don't want to go back."
His eyes narrowed, sharp and precise like a blade. "Anna—"
"No!" I slammed my hand against the bedframe, the rhythm of my tapping hands scattering like broken counting. "Not like before. Not when they… when they tortured me to make me follow their drills. I can't. I won't."
The memory hit me like lightning — the cold floor, the harsh lights, the commands shouted over my trembling body, the sting of being pushed past every limit I thought I had. The smell of sweat and iron, the sound of leather straps and boots clicking in unison. My hands clenched the sheets, counting silently, trying to keep my racing heart in line. One. Two. Three. Four. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
"They broke people before me," I said, voice low and sharp. "They don't care about… about me. They only care about results, numbers, obedience. And I… I don't belong there anymore."
My father's expression hardened. His jaw tensed, but his eyes softened just slightly — the way adults do when they know you're serious, even if it hurts them.
"You think you can refuse because it was hard?" he said finally, voice measured, like a teacher. "Because it hurt?"
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling. "Not because it was hard… because it was wrong. I've done enough to survive their methods. I'm not a tool to be sharpened on their floor
"I am…your daughter, dad.." I muttered out, my hands clutching tightly.
I swallowed hard, the words burning on my tongue.
"I… I want to be a journalist," I whispered, almost afraid to speak them aloud. My fingers trembled against the hospital bed sheets, tracing the IV lines like they were fragile threads holding my resolve together.
The room went quiet, almost reverent. Even the steady beeping of the machines seemed to pause in anticipation.
But then—
the memory hit me, unbidden.
The bridge. The storm. My mother's scream swallowed by thunder. The river below, black and endless.
Her red umbrella spinning, the faceless hand pushing her over.
I froze. My chest tightened.
I counted rapidly in my head, frantic: one. two. three. four. five… stop. breathe. repeat. But the rhythm faltered. The past clawed into the present, threatening to drown me before I even had a chance to surface.
I closed my eyes.
I wanted to turn away, to pretend that the world of stories, deadlines, and bylines wasn't waiting for me. I wanted to hide from the truth I couldn't control, from the people who had taken her from me.
And yet…
there was fire beneath the fear. A small, stubborn spark that refused to be buried under grief.
I opened my eyes.
The hospital room — white, sterile, quiet — felt impossibly vast. The beeping machines, the pale light filtering through the blinds, the smell of antiseptic — it all felt like a starting line.
If I wanted to honor her, I couldn't stay frozen.
My hands clenched into fists.
I pictured the notebooks, the pens, the piles of research waiting for me, stories untold, voices unheard.
I pictured myself stepping into the rain, into the chaos, into every scene that needed someone to see, someone to ask the questions no one dared.
"I… I'll do it," I whispered, barely louder than the hum of the monitors.
The first case — always important to a detective. Not because someone ordered me, not because I had to survive, but because I had to live.
"You do what?"
My eyes go emotionless.
"You want a successor?"
"Then fine, I will make it clear,"
"I'll be your fucking successor, the one you brag about when you finally realize what you turned me into — are you fucking proud now, Dad?"
My phone buzzes.
A message from Maya:
"Name's Viktor Harms. That's your mysterious man — the one with your mother at the restaurant."
My eyes blank, hand clutching the phone as if I can break it into pieces.
"Well, let it fucking…begin"