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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 hung up. Outside, a stray dog howled. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. Sectia 8 was old, tired, and dirty. But tonight, it wasn't a place where justice slept. It was the place where it finally woke up.
The skin was cold. No pulse. The man was dead. sectia 8 politie
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.
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. Andrei Munteanu poured his cold coffee into a
He looked back at the stopped clock. 3:17 AM. The hour of truth.
He walked to Cell 3. Inside, a skinny, twitchy man known as “Ghiță” was pressed against the far wall, his eyes wide. Lying on the concrete bench was a mountain of a man, face-down, arms splayed. It was the place where it finally woke up
He picked up the phone to call his captain, then stopped. Secuiu had friends. Powerful friends. The captain might be one of them. One wrong call and this report would vanish. Munteanu would be transferred to a rural outpost in the Delta, and the dead man with the soft hands would be cremated as an “unidentified vagrant.”