Sectia 8 Politie -

Munteanu walked back to the main office. The logbook was open. He ran his finger down the list of arrests for the night. There it was: “John Doe, public intoxication, 02:15 AM. Arresting officer: Secuiu, V.” No other details. No ID. No witnesses.

Munteanu’s blood chilled. That was Agent Secuiu. Secuiu was a brute, a man who believed the law was a suggestion and that his fist was the final verdict. Officially, Secuiu was on administrative leave pending an internal investigation for excessive force. Unofficially, he still walked the streets, doing favors for people who didn’t exist.

The skin was cold. No pulse. The man was dead. sectia 8 politie

Munteanu shone the light on the prone figure. The man’s back was still. No rhythmic rise and fall. He clicked the heavy lock and stepped inside. He knelt, ignoring the smell of cheap wine and sweat, and pressed two fingers to the man’s thick neck.

This wasn’t a drunk who’d had too much. This was a body dump. Munteanu walked back to the main office

“Munteanu,” she said, not a question.

Munteanu sighed, the sound scraping his dry throat. He grabbed his flashlight and heavy keyring. The station was understaffed—as usual. His partner, a fresh-faced recruit named Popescu, was out chasing a ghost report of a stolen tractor from the agricultural cooperative. There it was: “John Doe, public intoxication, 02:15 AM

But something was wrong. Munteanu leaned closer. The dead man’s hands were unusually soft, the nails manicured. His shoes were expensive leather, not the usual scuffed boots of a local drunk. And his face, when Munteanu gently turned it, was bruised in a very specific pattern—not from a fistfight, but from a precise, crushing blow to the temple.