Sunlight crept into the room through a slit between the curtains, thin and sharp, brushing against the candle still flickering on the table.
Wax had melted down to the brass holder, a small trail of smoke rising into the quiet.
The radio sputtered alive again — a faint crackle, a soft whoop! — as if the air itself remembered something.
"Papa! You forgot to turn off the radio!"
Silence answered her.
Only the hum of the old house filled the pause, the faint ticking of the clock echoing against the walls.
She frowned. Well, he might fast asleep somewhere.
She stepped out of her room, the wooden floor groaning beneath her feet. The hallway stretched before her — lined with frames and medals, glass reflecting the soft morning light.
Every inch of the wall told her father's life story: commendations, certifications, a newspaper clipping titled "Detective Bulvok Solves High-Profile Case."
They gleamed with pride. But at the very end hung one crooked frame, slightly tilted — the only imperfection in his perfectly arranged world. It always bothered her.
She reached the door to his office and hesitated, her hand hovering above the handle.
"Papa?"
Still nothing.
The door creaked open slowly. The room was colder, heavier, filled with the stale scent of coffee and cigarettes. Files lay stacked on the desk, papers scattered across the floor, as if an argument had happened between exhaustion and duty.
Detective Bulvok sat in his chair, coat half off, chin resting against his chest — the picture of fatigue.
It looked almost normal.
Light burst into the room like a blade.
It cut through the cigarette haze, scattering dust motes that drifted in the sudden brilliance. Papers lifted off the desk, fluttering to the floor.
Detective Bulvok didn't move.
The sunlight washed over his face, revealing the gray pallor beneath his skin, the faint bruise of sleepless nights under his eyes. The ashtray beside him was full, a trail of smoke still curling upward from a forgotten cigarette — like time had stopped midway through a breath.
"Father, it's time to wake up!" She calling him, nudging his shoulder to rose him up from sleep.
Detective Bulvok opened his eyes.
They were bloodshot, framed by shadows that never seemed to fade.
"Morning already?" His voice was low, cracked, more gravel than sound.
The girl pressed a hand to her chest, half relieved, half irritated. "You scared me! I thought—"
He raised one finger, cutting her sentence short. "Don't."
He leaned back in the chair, the leather groaning. On the desk in front of him lay an open case file, papers scattered, cigarette ashes forming a faint gray constellation.
"Did you and Jack eat something?" He rubbing his eyes, standing to stretching his arms up.
She stood there, unsure what to say. Outside, the morning light brightened the medals on the wall — small, golden reminders of everything he'd given up to earn them.
"Go eat," he said, still staring at the file. "And tell your brother to stop stealing my pens."
She just nodded and go downstairs
Bulvok rubbed his temples as the computer screen came alive, the faint hum of the old desktop blending with the ticking of the wall clock. The morning light had crept fully into the room now, dust swirling in thin, golden shafts.
He clicked through the news headlines out of habit—just noise most days. Until one name caught his eye.
"Detective Hong announces retirement after 27 years of service."
Bulvok froze. The photo showed the old man shaking hands with the commissioner, smiling that same tired smile he'd worn at every crime scene since 1998.
"Old bastard finally gave up," Bulvok muttered under his breath, reaching for his coffee. It had gone cold from last night.
Then the email notification pinged.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Mockingbird
He clicked it open. The message was short — Hong was never one for words.
Bulvok,
I'm stepping down. They're closing my office next week. The Mockingbird case — it's yours now. Everything's in the archive, code M-47. You'll understand why when you open it.
Take care of it like you take care of your own family.
— Hong
"Well," Bulvok just let out a bitter laugh, "you asshole, let everything back for me like this, don't you think is cruel?"
His eyes flicked to the photo frame on his desk — a much younger version of himself beside a woman with kind eyes and a girl with the same fierce look he used to have.
He turned it face down.
"Alright, Hong," he muttered, opening a new window and typing the archive code: M-47.
"Let's see what you've left me."
The file was a gallery of nightmares.
Bulvok scrolled past the images, each one colder than the last. Men and women, posed unnaturally, their bodies arranged with precision — like marionettes frozen in a private theater. Limbs folded, faces serene, almost elegant, as if the killer had choreographed their final breath.
He have a glance at Roberta autopsy, each details is look the same.
Each scene bore the same calling card: the mockingbird. Sometimes carved into a wall in meticulous script, sometimes etched into flesh with surgical precision. Sometimes perched, disturbingly real, in the victim's hand, like a frozen witness to the act.
And always, a message: a single mockingbird statue placed with intent. On a table, in the mouth, across the chest — each one chosen to unsettle, to send a signal.
After Roberta, there are so many cases keep continuing across the Europe and let no sign of stopping. In Italy, in Prague, in Poland,…everywhere.
Bulvok's stomach churned as he opened the latest scene: Prague. Male journalist, mid-thirties, lying on a bed of dark velvet sheets in a room lit only by candlelight. His body had been posed in an almost regal repose. A mockingbird carved delicately into his wrist. Another feather, tucked under his chin, mouth slightly agape — a grotesque homage to some perverse symphony.
Bulvok exhaled slowly, smoke from his cigarette curling into the still air. Twelve victims recorded in a half of year. Twelve silenced stories.
Father Matthias Korhonen.
Age 52, local parish priest in Berlin. Found inside the small chapel near St.Martin he had served for decades.
The photographs made Bulvok's stomach tighten.
The priest lay kneeling at the altar, hands clasped as if in prayer. But the serenity of the pose was shattered by the mockingbird carved with chilling precision into the wooden cross above him. A black feather rested delicately on the altar, angled perfectly toward the victim's chest. Candle wax had dripped onto the floor, forming patterns that resembled obscure, coded symbols.
Notes detailed the investigation: the chapel door locked from the inside, no forced entry, and no witnesses. His Bible had been opened to a random passage, as if someone — or something — had chosen it deliberately.
Bulvok's fingers hovered over the mouse, tracing the digital evidence. The killer's signature was already clear: meticulous, ritualistic, and cruelly symbolic.
He in the archived witness logs, Karlise Löwendeld — Anna's father — was listed as the lead investigator. He had been the one to step into this first case, to track the Mockingbird, but it just last 3 years before his car crashed accident, and his surprise retired news spreading after his wife—Serene passé away.
Bulvok scrolled through the files, noting the eerie pattern. Father Matthias Korhonen in 1998. Then two more priests over the following years, each discovered in their quarters, each positioned as if frozen in prayer, "sins"—the words being carved on their forehead as they kneeling, as if begging for forgiveness.
"There must be something here," he tapping the table thoughtfully.
2001
Journalists. Investigative reporters.
The religious pattern had vanished, replaced by a list of victims who all shared one thing — their voices. Every single one of them had been digging into corruption, political or corporate. Each had been silenced before publication.
Then Bulvok stopped scrolling.
Serene Löwendeld.
Date of death: November 12th, 2005.
Location: Munich, Germany.
Occupation: Investigative journalist, formerly with Der Abendblatt.
Scrolling through the following details, hẻ body was found in Isar River at 3.30 AM 2 days later.
Cause of death: Drowned.
One mockingbird tattoo been found carving by ink on her wrist—an old tattoo.
Subject last seen after a meeting in a restaurant,
leaving in a white car.
Unidentified male following — possibly husband, possibly lover.
Bulvok's pen hovered over the report for a moment. He muttered under his breath, voice gravelly from too many cigarettes and sleepless nights.
"She could be having the worst successful marriage of her life…"
The irony wasn't lost on him.
People like Serene Löwendeld always looked perfect on paper — elegant, sharp, always photographed under good lighting. The type of woman the world saw as unbreakable.
And yet, here she was, ending up another ghost in a half-buried Interpol report, her death described in twelve sterile lines.
"Who the hell were you meeting, Miss Löwendeld?" he murmured.
He zoomed into the footage. The man behind her — tall, broad shoulders, could be above 50 due to the figure and hair, his face hidden by the glare of a passing car. License plate blurred. The next frame cut to static.
He opened the metadata again. One note blinked at the bottom of the file, encrypted but not completely deleted:
"If anything happens — contact Anna."
The cursor blinked slowly at the end of the name.
Bulvok froze.
Anna.
Anna Löwendeld.
Birth: Undisclosed.
Nationality: Dual – German/Russian
Affiliation: Former Moscow trainee investigator (inactive).
Family: Classified under Löwendeld Estate, sealed after 2008.
Note: 'Minimal trace. No press coverage. No record of public appearances.'
All the informations pulled up on the screen.
Bulvok's brow furrowed.
Even her file looked like it didn't want to be found. No photos. No school history. No known address
"Could be spent her whole life to training under Moscow snow.."
The rain outside hissed softly against the windowpane. The air smelled like cold metal and old ink.
He looked at the photograph of Serene Löwendeld again — confident, fierce, the type who stared right into the camera like she was warning you not to look deeper.
And yet, her last words led straight to the one person the world barely knew existed.
He took a sip of his cold coffee, grimaced.
"Alright, Miss Löwendeld," he murmured, opening a new case file.
He hit save.
"Papa!"
The voice made him flinch. His daughter, Melanie, stood in the doorway — still in her work uniform, cheeks flushed, breath shallow like she'd run the whole street.
He frowned, lowering his glasses. "Melia, what—"
"It's Detective Hong," she gasped. Her voice cracked. "They found him this morning. He's… gone."
Her hands clutching the phone shakily.
"Mr—Mr.Philen just called me.."
The word gone hit harder than a gunshot.
For a moment, everything in the room went still — the rain, the ticking clock, even the faint hum of his computer.
Bulvok didn't move. He just stared past her, into the space where the screen glowed pale blue.
"Gone?" he echoed softly. "What do you mean—gone?"
"He said… heart failure. In his home office. But the police are—" she stopped, seeing his expression, "—they're saying it looked… strange."
Bulvok's chair creaked as he leaned forward, his knuckles white around the edge of the desk.
Heart failure. Always the convenient way to close a file.
The rain started again, harder now. He could almost hear Hong's voice from the last email, half-joking, half-tired:
"When I retire, you'll finally get some peace, old friend."
Peace.
Hell of a word.
Melanie stepped closer, her eyes glistening. "Papa… are you okay?"
He nodded once — a slow, mechanical gesture — then turned back to the computer screen.
"Where's my key?"
Bulvok's voice cracked through the silence, low and rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours. His hand fumbled against the inside of his coat pocket — papers, a coin, a lighter — no key.
He tried again, more frantic this time. "My key. Where the hell—Jack took it, didn't he?"
Melanie froze by the doorway. "Papa…?"
He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the walls — scanning shadows, corners, empty space. His fingers still searching. "He took it. I told him not to touch my things. That little—"
"Papa," she whispered, stepping closer.
"Tell him to give it back."
Her throat tightened. "What?"
"Tell him to give me back my goddamn key!" His voice shot up, sharp and trembling. The veins in his hand stood out as he slammed his palm against the table. "He's been sneaking around here, I know it. Always watching, always listening—"
"Papa!"
Melanie's voice cracked, desperate. "Your key! It's—it's right here!"
She pointed to the table beside him. The brass key lay there under the edge of the morning paper, catching a thin sliver of light from the window.
The old man stopped.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Just stared at it — his chest heaving once, twice — as if the thing had materialized out of nowhere.
His fingers trembled when he reached for it. The metal felt cold, heavier than it should. He turned it once in his palm, the edges digging faintly into his skin.
Then, quietly, almost as if the air might break with the sound, Melanie said, "Jack… Jack is gone, Dad."
Bulvok's eyes snapped up.
The color drained from his face. For a second, he looked lost — not just in the room, but in time. Like the name had pulled him somewhere he'd been avoiding for years.
Right, his son, his favorite child already gone for years…case number 10: Jackson Harmighton
"Gone?" he said, the word barely audible. ".Don't—don't say that."
"Three years, Papa," she whispered. "He's been gone three years."
Silence.
The key slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull metallic sound.
Outside, the rain began again, soft at first, then harder — until it drowned out everything else.
——
The rain began before the first words were spoken.
It fell in long, silver threads, weaving through the air like a veil between the living and the dead. The umbrellas rose one by one — a slow bloom of black — and the world grew quiet beneath the hiss of water striking the earth.
Detective Hong's coffin sat beneath an old elm, its wood already darkened by the storm. The priest's voice struggled against the rain, his words dissolving before they could reach the mourners. Service. Honor. Faith. Each word washed away before it could mean anything.
Bulvok stood stiff beside his daughter, both shrouded under a single umbrella. The fabric sagged from the weight of the rain, drops sliding down like tears too stubborn to fall. His knuckles were white on the umbrella handle.
"I thought he'd outlive us all," Bulvok muttered, his breath visible in the cold air. "Men like him—"
"Never do," his daughter finished softly.
Her voice broke around the edges, though she tried to hide it.
People passed, one by one, throwing their mourning flowers — lilies, white roses, a single violet that looked too bright for the day. They landed softly on the polished surface of the coffin, their petals trembling from the raindrops.
His old mother leaned against her second son, her body small and fragile beneath the black veil. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she reached forward, fingers brushing the wood as if she could still feel her boy's warmth through it.
The priest's voice wavered. "Ashes to ashes…"
The sound of shovels biting into the wet earth filled the silence.
A dull rhythm.
One. Two. Three.
Each strike of soil muffled the world a little more.
The younger detectives from the department lowered their heads. Some hid tears. Others just stared — as if still waiting for him to walk out of the grave himself and tell them it was all some cruel test, some lesson about faith and endurance.
Behind the fogged windshield, a woman watched.
No one noticed her.
She didn't move when the last words were spoken, nor when the crowd began to leave. Only when the priest closed his book did she exhale, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The lily on the road lay crumpled now, a small, wet ghost.
People slowly began to leave the cemetery, their black umbrellas bobbing like dark sails drifting away on a gray sea. The murmurs faded, footsteps softened into the mud, until only the steady hiss of rain remained — constant, cleansing, merciless.
Bulvok's hat hung loosely from his hand, dripping steadily. He glanced at the headstone, the letters carved deep and deliberate:
Elias Hong
1964–2025
He served, and he believed.
He exhaled softly through his nose, the sound almost like a scoff.
"Believed," he muttered under his breath. "In what, Elias? In people? In justice? Or just in pain?"
Bulvok hadn't noticed the sound of footsteps approaching through the wet grass until they stopped just behind him.
He didn't turn.
"Service's over," he said quietly, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. "No need to stand in the rain for a man who's already gone."
"I know."
The voice was soft, low — yet clear enough to make him lift his head.
He turned slightly.
She was standing there, a few steps away. A black coat too thin for the weather clung to her shoulders, her ginger hair damp, stuck to her flushed cheeks. In her hand, a small white lily, its stem broken. Her eyes — pale, distant — fixed not on him, but on the grave.
"Anna Löwendeld," she said finally, almost like an afterthought. "You must be Bulvok."
The name cut through him like a sudden chill. He'd seen it before — in reports, in the file he just read this morning.
"Contact Anna"
"I received an email," she continued quietly, pulling a folded page from her coat pocket. "From him."
She nodded toward the grave.
Bulvok frowned, his brows drawing together. "From Hong?"
"Yes. Dated two days before he died." She handed him the printout. "He said he was passing my mother's case to you."
He took the paper carefully. The ink had smudged in places, but he could still read the words — Hong's clipped sentences, his trust placed in a man who had once sworn he'd quit chasing ghosts.
'Bulvok — the Löwendeld file belongs with you now. You'll know when to reopen it. She'll come to you.'
He look at her. This is the first time he saw Anna, he just heard her life through Serene story—sharing her family story on TV.
"She?" he murmured. "He meant you."
Anna didn't answer. Her gaze dropped to the grave, where petals had begun to darken in the rain.
"It's a long story.."
Bulvok exhaled slowly, folding the page and tucking it into his coat. "Your mother's case…" he said finally. "It's not a clean one, Miss Löwendeld. The Mockingbird doesn't belong in archives for a reason."
Anna's lips pressed together.
"Neither does my mother," she said.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of lilies and wet soil.
"You really want to dig this up?" he asked.
She met his eyes, unwavering.
"It's already digging me."
He studied her for a long moment, then turned back toward the grave.
"Then," he murmured, "I suppose this is where it begins."
"But first," she walk to him, handling him a small leather file.
"This is my mother birth certificate, we should start from here…first."
——————
"So, you think your mother faked…her information?"
Anna sat opposite Bulvok, her coat still damp, fingers curled loosely around a cup of untouched coffee. She hadn't taken off her gloves. Her eyes — sharp but tired — followed the steam rising between them.
Anna didn't answer right away. She pressed her fingers to the rim of her coffee cup, tracing a circle—one, two, three times—before stopping. The motion grounded her, helped her keep the tremor from showing in her hands.
"She didn't fake it," she said at last, her voice calm, almost detached. "She hide it."
Sipping her hot coffee, she frowned with the cheap taste of it.
Bulvok flipped another page in the file — a photo of a woman younger than he remembered, hair pinned neatly, smile half-formed. "Scotland," he muttered. "She spent time there before Germany, right?"
Anna's gaze drifted to the picture, her fingers tightening on the edge of the folder. The hum in her hearing aid buzzed, faintly uneven.
"She from Scotland," Anna said finally, her accent sharpening slightly, betraying a sliver of memory. "Specific… Edinburgh. She not saying anything about it to me." Her voice lowered, almost breaking into a whisper. "Through her story, maybe she tried. But never to me."
Bulvok studied her for a long moment. "What do you mean?"
Anna's eyes flicked toward the rain-streaked window.
"She wrote about the city like it was alive, once in her diary," she murmured. "Like every street was keeping something. I used to think it was just a writer thing—now I think she was hiding messages there. The names. The places. Maybe even her killer."
Anna adjusted her hearing aid again, twisting the tiny dial until the static hum softened. The faint buzz always made her feel on edge, like the world was trying to speak too loudly all at once.
"Did you know my mother reports to Interpol?"
Bulvok's eyes flicked up from the folder, steady and unreadable. "I did. Hong passed the files along. The Maria gang, the reports on the hidden operations… that was all her work."
Anna's fingers hovered over the folder for a moment, tracing the edges, before she slowly slid it toward the center of the table. Inside was a single sheet of paper — typed, neat, untitled. No photographs, no background information. Just one name: Viktor Harms.
On the edge corner of the paper, MIU symbol printed sharply on it, caught Bulvok gaze on it. "You know," he trailed off, "your background never failed to surprise people, especially with your father inspiration for the whole world..and now his descendant working under Moscow protection."
Anna seems unfazed about it, her eyes cold, almost tired.
Bulvok leaned forward, brow furrowed. He scanned the paper slowly, each letter settling in his mind like a pebble in a pond. And then something shifted — a jolt he didn't expect.
Viktor Harms.
Three years ago. His son. That name. There had been an email, a formal inquiry from a company looking for IT talent, a "Viktor Harms" offering opportunities, and Jack — his brilliant, impulsive son — had almost accepted before the offer vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Bulvok's hand twitched slightly over the table, coffee forgotten. "That name…" he muttered, voice low. "I've seen it before… not in reports, not in police files… in Jack's emails."
Anna looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your son?"
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Yes… Jack. That company contacted him, wanted him to work for them. I didn't think much of it at the time. But… now…"
Anna's hand trembled slightly as she retrieved a small, worn photograph from the folder. The edges were curled, the image faded, but the object in the corner caught the light immediately: a Rolex watch glinting faintly, unmistakable.
"This man," she whispered, voice low, careful, "is the one who appeared with my mother during her last years. No trace, no pictures… except this."
She placed the photo on the table, fingers hovering above it for a moment. The hum in her hearing aid buzzed sharply; she twisted the dial, muting it just enough to focus. One. Two. Three. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
Bulvok leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming softly on the folder. His eyes, dark and sharp, didn't leave Anna's. "You've seen enough here for now," he said slowly. "But the full files… the ones Hong sent me before he passed… are at my house. I think it's time you see them."
Anna stiffened slightly. The hum in her hearing aid flickered; she twisted the tiny dial to mute it, her fingers tapping once, twice, three times on the tabletop. One. Two. Three. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
"I… I don't know," she said quietly. "Your house… that's personal."
She was strong, sharp, determined. But beneath it all… he could see the cracks. The vulnerability of a girl barely older than his own daughter, thrown into a world that had demanded she survive alone, carrying weight no one her age should.
My daughter," he said, voice soft, "is a big fan of your mother's fiction." He smirked faintly, shaking his head as if sharing a private joke with himself. "She's convinced your mother could have written a whole season of novels just about her life in Interpol—minus the murders, of course. She complains I spoil all the suspense by telling her about the real cases."
Anna blinked at him, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite the tension in her chest. "Really?" she asked, voice skeptical, but the edge had softened.
"Yes," Bulvok continued, a tiny grin breaking through. "She even tried to reenact some of your mother's famous dialogues. Last week, she interrogated our cat as if it was a suspect in a crime syndicate. The cat was very uncooperative."
Anna let out a short, sharp laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound was rare, fragile, and it startled her just as much as it startled him. "Sounds… chaotic," she said, shaking her head.
Bulvok shrugged, humor warming his stern features. "It is. And yet somehow, she learned more about logic and observation from your mother's stories than from any textbook. She's… obsessed. Like you." He raised a brow, eyes twinkling faintly. "But less deadly, I hope."
"You know… your mother and I weren't strangers. We met through work, long before all of this."
"You know her?" Her eyes lighting up a bit.
"She considered who work in this field is already her friends—a colleague that she want to open the cover of the truth with.."
"She had this way of making you feel like you could face anything, even when the world wanted you silent, because there is a famous journalist-Serene Löwendeld supporting you behind, why have to scared?"
Anna traced the edge of the folder, aligning it carefully on her lap. "And she trusted you?"
He nodded. "She did, every time I receive new case, she always ask me that could she be my first journalist write about it first. She knew I'd be here to pass on what needed to be passed. That's why, maybe her soul want Hong sent the files to me first — she trusted me to find the right person for them. That person is you."
Anna face suddenly go down. The mention of Detective Hong snapped something in her.
"Elias Hong," she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing as she flipped through the documents. The name seemed heavier now, almost tangible on the page. "I don't think he had a heart failure."
Bulvok froze, fingers twitching slightly over the edge of the folder, his face a mask — unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch, the rain outside tapping a slow, relentless rhythm against the window.
A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind in the span of seconds. Maybe Hong had discovered something he shouldn't have, and someone had silenced him.
He remember those victims—all wanted to uncover the truth, and their prices is their own life.
He could see the possibilities, each more terrifying than the last: a mole inside Interpol, a shadow network spanning continents, a man who played chess with lives like they were pawns, a killer who left mocking birds as his signature — each possibility spiraling into the next, impossible to untangle yet impossible to ignore.
"Before that," he said, rising from the chair, the chair's legs scraping softly against the floor. His voice was low, steady, but carried a weight that made Anna straighten instinctively. "We should go to his home."
Anna's fingers tightened on the folder, her OCD instincts kicking in — she aligned the papers once, twice, then let them go. One. Two. Three. Stop. Breathe. Repeat. Her hearing aid buzzed faintly in the quiet, but she ignored it, focusing instead on Bulvok's shadowed expression.
He fastly take the key and start heading to the main door, but stop when he saw Anna struggle to align papers. He turn back to helping her and make sure she keeping up with his pace
They arrived at Hong's house in just ten minutes. Rain slicked streets reflected the dim streetlights, the mist curling around their shoes as they approached the door. Through the windows, Anna could see people gathered inside, hands clasped, murmuring prayers. The air felt thick with grief, heavy enough to press against her chest.
"They won't let us in," Anna muttered, glancing at Bulvok, her voice sharp with frustration. "Their son just passed away… and you're acting like we can waltz in here and dig up the whole house?"
Anna was about to turn back toward the car when her gaze caught on something—
a small red light blinking faintly at the edge of the neighbor's fence.
"Wait," she murmured, pointing. "There's a CCTV camera. Facing the yard."
Bulvok followed her gesture, his eyes narrowing. He let out a quiet exhale through his nose — half amusement, half admiration.
"Well," he said, adjusting his coat collar against the drizzle, "looks like we don't need to play intruders after all."
Anna tilted her head, a small relief flickering across her face. "I thought we will grieving his lost by being his house intruders, huh?"
We'll ask the neighbor for access," Bulvok said, straightening. "Footage like that might show who came here before the funeral. Or…" his eyes flicked toward the dimly lit house, "who shouldn't have."
Bulvok opened his mouth, ready to say something about procedure, but Anna didn't give him the time.
Her mind was already three steps ahead. She glanced at the neighbor's door, the flickering light over the porch, the camera's angle. Calculations ran silently through her head—coverage radius, blind spots, power source, all within seconds.
"I'll handle the talking," she said sharply, not even turning to him.
Bulvok raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"People tend to trust someone who looks less like they've seen three wars," she replied dryly, her lips curling into the faintest, self-aware smirk. Then, with an almost theatrical flick of her hand, she pulled out her badge—silver, polished, official.
Special Agent – Moscow Investigation Unit.
Her trump card.
Bulvok's brows lifted a little higher. "You carry that around?"
"In case" she already stepping through their gate.
"Good afternoon," she said, polite but firm. "We're here regarding Detective Hong's residence. You have a security camera facing his property, correct?"
The man blinked. Bulvok watched from a few steps behind, half-amused, half-impressed.
Anna's tone was measured, controlled, the kind that made people obey before they realized they were being guided.
A small smile—barely there. "It's important. I won't take much of your time."
The man sighed, stepping aside. "Alright, come in."
Bulvok followed, muttering under his breath, "Remind me to never play poker with you."
"Too late," she murmured back. "You already lost."
The living room smelled faintly of instant coffee and floor polish. The neighbor fumbled with the remote, pulling up the CCTV feed on his small wall screen. The images flickered—grainy, colorless, timestamped in white digits.
00:43.
Rain streaked across the lens, warping the image into something ghostlike.
Anna leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked on the feed. Her hearing aids buzzed faintly with static—it always did when the frequency flickered—but she ignored it. One hand tapped the side of her cup: one, two, three, four. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
"There," Bulvok pointed at the screen. "That's him, isn't it? Detective Hong leaving the house."
"Is your friend having a habit go out at night?" Anna asked nonchalant.
"There," Bulvok muttered, finger raised. "Pause."
The neighbor froze the frame.
At the far edge of the screen, the rain seemed to move the wrong way—against the wind. A figure materialized, half-shadow, half-noise. Another followed. Then a third.
They didn't run. They glided, soundless, their outlines absorbed by the dark.
Anna felt her stomach knot. "They're not burglars," she whispered.
Bulvok's brow furrowed. "You can tell from that blur?"
"Watch the feet," she said quietly. "Even in the rain—they pivot together. Trained."
He stared at her, then the screen again, the corner of his mouth tightening. "You've seen something like this before."
She didn't answer.
The rain flashed white across the screen—lightning reflected off something metallic.
"Wait—back it up."
A few frames reversed. The moment returned. That glint again.
On a wrist.
Anna leaned forward, breath slowing, eyes wide. "Stop."
The camera zoomed, the pixels breaking apart—but the detail was enough.
Gold and steel. A familiar curve.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That watch…"
"Is on the left wrist…" she whispered.
The lightning on the footage cracked again, bleaching everything into white for half a second. The figure's arm glinted—clearer now.
Left wrist. Same heavy watch her mother once photographed in that restaurant . The last picture she ever smile.
"Viktor Harms" Bulvok said quietly. "That man still alive.."
Anna's gaze lingered on the screen long after the image froze. The camera caught them—three shadows moving with precision, faces obscured, timing perfect.
Almost perfect.
Her brow furrowed. Something didn't sit right.
"Pause that," she said.
Bulvok hit the spacebar.
"There." She leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the blurred figure by the gate. "See that corner? That's the main street camera. They didn't disable it."
Bulvok frowned. "Maybe they didn't see it."
She shook her head. "No. These men—whoever they are—they're trained. Expect they are blind, is not seems logical."
Anna stood up. "Also, that man in every picture, he always wears on the right.."
Bulvok turned to her slowly. "You mean this was staged?"
"Maybe not staged," she replied, eyes fixed on the faint reflection of the figures. "But directed. Like someone wanted us to follow the wrong trail—make the noise, hide the hand."
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Professional killers don't forget cameras, detective. Not unless the cameras are part of the show, or they are just some peoples being hired to do it.."
"Anna," he began quietly, "what do you think are the possibilities here?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes were still on the frozen CCTV frame, the shape of the man half-hidden behind the glare of a streetlight.
"You think it's one man?" he pressed. "Or… an organisation?"
Her stomach turned cold.
Without a thought, she grabbed the her phone from the table.
Snap!
The sound of glass and metal colliding against the marble floor echoed through the room, shattering the silence. The phone's screen spider-webbed instantly, one edge still glowing faintly before fading into black.
"Jesus Christ, Anna!" Bulvok barked, half rising from his chair. "What the hell are you doing?"
"They're watching," she said sharply, her voice shaking. "They're already watching."
Her breathing came fast—too fast. She pressed her palm against her temple, trying to ground herself, the faint ringing in her hearing aid distorting Bulvok's voice into broken syllables.
"Who's watching?" he demanded.
Her eyes darted toward the monitor—the frame frozen on the man's wrist.
The gold-and-steel Rolex glinted, the same model, the same scratch across the bezel. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
"They knew," she whispered. "They knew I noticed the watch. It's not coincidence, it's a warning."
Bulvok frowned, uncertain whether to dismiss it or believe her. "Anna, you're jumping too fast—"
"I'm trained to notice patterns, Detective," she hissed, cutting him off. "Every time I find one, something breaks. My mother's reports, Hong's data, and now my phone. You think that's coincidence?"
Her chest rose and fell sharply.
Bulvok's hand twitched toward his cigarette pack, then stopped halfway. He watched her instead—her trembling fingers, the precision in her words, the way fear and calculation coiled together behind her eyes.
The light flickered once overhead.
Anna's gaze followed it, then returned to the screen. Her tone dropped, colder, steady again.
"They want me scared," she said. "They want me quiet."
A pause.
"Too bad I don't fucking listen."
"Maybe they could end me like what they did to my mother.."
She let out a dry laugh, wiping sweat on her forehead.
"Fuck," she swear.
She leaving the house immediately, taking some cigarette, heading towards his car.
"Please, drive."
The drive was silent.
Rain streaked down the windshield in thin, silver veins, the wipers slicing rhythmically through them. Bulvok's knuckles were pale against the steering wheel, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Anna sat beside him, her hands clenched over the broken remains of her phone wrapped in tissue. The sound of rain filled the car, like the world was whispering secrets they weren't supposed to hear.
When they reached the house, it was already dark. The garden lamps flickered weakly under the drizzle, and the iron gate creaked as it opened. Bulvok's daughter's car was gone—he let out a quiet sigh of relief.
"Come on," he muttered, unlocking the front door. "She's not home yet."
Inside, the air smelled faintly of old paper and cologne. The walls were lined with framed commendations and faded newspaper clippings—headlines about solved murders, political scandals, and a younger Bulvok shaking hands with ministers and police chiefs. The man had lived half his life in front of cameras, and the other half chasing shadows behind them.
The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp glowing over a chaos of files. The smell of ink and cigarette smoke still lingered. Against one wall stood a tall bookshelf, packed with binders labeled CASE ARCHIVE. One section, darker and more worn than the others, was marked with a single black stripe: "Mockingbird."
Bulvok motioned toward it. "Everything I could recover from Hong's database, and the rest that never made it to Interpol."
Anna stepped closer, eyes scanning the folders, the yellowed notes, the photographs—frozen faces, crime scenes, symbols carved in skin, the outline of a mockingbird drawn in fine, looping ink.
"They said it was a serial case," she murmured, "but this isn't just random killing."
"This is more than it.."
He hesitated, then pulled out one folder—older than the rest, edges nearly torn, marked SERENA LÖWENDELD, 2009–2012.
"She was one of the few people who got close," he said finally. "Too close, maybe."
Anna's breath hitched. The lamplight trembled faintly, reflecting off her pale cheekbones. Her fingers brushed over the folder as if it could burn her.
"Your mother didn't just report on the Mockingbird killings," Bulvok continued. "She predicted one of them. A week before it happened."
Anna looked at him sharply, but he didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he reached for another folder—one with her mother's handwriting across the cover.
"Serena's last report," he said quietly. "The one she sent before she disappeared."
Her eyes lingered on the small sketches of mockingbirds, etched into the skin of victims. The placement, the orientation, the choice of victims—it wasn't random.
"Ritualistic," she murmured, almost to herself. The word felt heavy, precise. Not merely symbolic. Methodical. Calculate
Bulvok looked over her shoulder. "What do you think about it, ritualistic?"
She lifted her gaze, steady, controlled. "See this?" She tapped the photograph of a victim, the mockingbird carved across their chest. "Not just a signature. It's a pattern. But do you..,"
Her hand stop in mid-air.
To most people," she began quietly, "it looks like a symbol of obsession… maybe faith, or madness." Her voice had that clipped, steady rhythm Bulvok had already learned to recognize—the tone she used when she was trying to hold herself together.
"But to me…" She leaned forward, drawing a circle around the mockingbird's wings with her fingertip. "It looks like a logo."
Bulvok frowned. "A logo?"
Anna nodded. "Yes. Look here." She pulled another photograph closer—one from the 1998 killing. "See the curvature on this one? The wings aren't even. The left one—slightly shorter. And here," she flipped to another, "the same imperfection. Consistent. That means whoever made this didn't carve it by hand every time—they followed a model."
She glanced at him, her eyes sharp, restless. "Like a stencil. Or a brand mark."
Bulvok's brow furrowed deeper. "You're saying they… branded their victims?"
Anna tilted her head, her expression unreadable, though the faint tremor in her fingers betrayed the restless current beneath. "Tell me," she said softly, "what's the first thing that comes to your mind when you see this star? And don't give me some shit about astronauts or astronomy."
Bulvok stared at it a moment longer, brow furrowing. "It's five-pointed. Perfect symmetry. Maybe a military insignia?"
"Nah." Anna waved a hand.
Bulvok frowned. "You're implying this has religious meaning now?"
Anna didn't answer at first. Her gaze lingered on the star. She reached for another file, pulling out a photograph of one of the early victims — a priest, the one from St. Martin, 1998. The same symbol was carved just below his collarbone.
"You see the position?" she said quietly. "Right beneath the throat. The voice."
Bulvok's expression tightened. "Ritualistic placement."
"Not ritual," Anna murmured, eyes half-lidded. "Invocation."
The word hung there, electric, almost forbidden.
She turned another page — diagrams, autopsy notes, all marked with the same star. "In occult symbology, an inverted star isn't just Satanic propaganda. It's representation of control over the divine, of corruption from within. But these aren't inverted. They're upright."
"So not worship," Bulvok said slowly, "but…"
"Possession," Anna finished. Her voice barely above a whisper. "They used it to possession their victim."
Bulvok rubbed his temples, mind racing. "You think your mother found this?"
"I think," Anna said, her hands trembling as she adjusted her hearing aids, "my mother followed it—and that's why she died."
Bulvok seems in deep thoughts, he suddenly remembered some details—Serene's wrist already have a mockingbird marks as a tattoo. For a moment, thunder cracked outside, echoing through the windows. The lamps flickered once.
"Your mother, died, because she wrote about it…" he whispered.
Her gaze fell back to the file, her thumb brushing against the star again. "I saw something like this once," she said, more to herself now. "On a folder my mother kept hidden. She said it was from an old company that got absorbed, renamed a dozen times. And later…"
"…company…," Anna eyes widen. "Can I do some research
Anna sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced on her knees. The rain outside ticked against the window like restless fingers. She had been staring at the same page for hours — La Meridiana, Edinburgh. A restaurant. Old stone walls. Golden lamps. Wine, coffee, and something colder hidden beneath the varnish of luxury.
Her hands moved before her mind did. Click. Scroll. Zoom. Again. Again.
Then she saw it — carved into the bottom right of the restaurant's sign, almost like a secret someone wanted her to notice: a small mockingbird, its wings curved in mid-flight.
Her stomach turned.
The mockingbird again. Always the mockingbird.
Her thumb brushed over the edge of her hearing aid as if grounding herself. One tap. Two. Three. Four. Stop. Breathe. Repeat.
"Too easy," she muttered. "This… this shouldn't be this easy."
She clicked the next tab. More photos. A menu. A wine label. A receipt uploaded by a blogger. Each bore that same mockingbird symbol, quiet but deliberate.
"Maybe I'm wrong," she said under her breath, her voice trembling. "Or maybe everyone else just stopped looking."
Her reflection in the laptop screen wavered as lightning cracked outside, the light slicing across her face. Her pulse thrummed at her throat, fast and erratic.
"I'm not crazy," she whispered. "Not yet."
But her fingers still moved on their own — typing, saving, tracing the bird across websites like a phantom trail.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she was chasing the truth…
or if the truth was chasing her