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.
Andrei Munteanu poured his cold coffee into a plant that had been dead for months, checked his pistol, and sat down to wait for the war to begin.
He looked back at the stopped clock. 3:17 AM. The hour of truth. sectia 8 politie
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.
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 sighed, the sound scraping his dry throat
“What happened, Ghiță?” Munteanu asked, his voice calm.
“I don’t know! They brought him in an hour ago, drunk. He started snoring, then… nothing. He stopped!” His partner, a fresh-faced recruit named Popescu, was
Agentul principal Andrei Munteanu didn't need a clock. He could feel the weight of the hour in his bones. He was on his third coffee, a thick, bitter sludge from a machine that had been old when he joined the force a decade ago. The station smelled of bleach, old cigarette smoke, and the faint, sour tang of fear.