Night had fallen over the city without asking permission. From his office window, Marek Volkov watched the distant lights flicker, as if each one were hiding a story no one wanted to tell. On his desk, the documents of Laura Havel’s case were spread out with precise, almost ritualistic order. Photographs, reports, incomplete statements. Too many gaps.

  Volkov sat down and began reading again from the beginning. Date of disappearance. Last contact. People close to her. Everything was there… and at the same time, something was missing.

  There was a knock on the door.

  —Come in —he said without looking up.

  A young man entered cautiously. He carried a folder under his arm, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination.

  —Good evening, Detective Volkov —he said—. I’m Ilya Novak. I was assigned today as your assistant. Recently hired.

  Volkov slowly raised his gaze, studying him with that silent attention that made even experienced officers uncomfortable.

  —Do you know what you’re getting into? —he asked.

  Ilya swallowed.

  —I hope so.

  Volkov gestured toward a chair.

  —Sit.

  The young man obeyed, glancing at the documents on the desk.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  —Is this the case of the missing girl? —he asked carefully.

  —Laura Havel —Volkov replied—. Twenty-two years old. Officially, a voluntary disappearance. Unofficially… a poorly assembled puzzle.

  Ilya nodded.

  —I read the report —he said—. The police found no signs of violence or clear evidence of a crime.

  Volkov leaned his elbows on the desk.

  —And that was enough for them —he commented—. What do you think?

  Ilya hesitated for a moment before answering.

  —Too clean —he finally said—. Real disappearances always leave chaos behind. This feels… designed not to raise suspicion.

  A faint shadow of interest crossed Volkov’s face.

  —A good start —he said.

  Ilya breathed a little more confidently.

  —The mother says Laura would never leave without saying something. And her life seemed stable: studies, friends, a relationship. It doesn’t fit an impulsive escape.

  —People don’t disappear when everything is fine —Volkov replied—. They disappear when someone convinces them their life no longer belongs to them.

  Ilya frowned.

  —Do you think someone manipulated her?

  —I think someone pushed her into silence —Volkov corrected—. And silence, sometimes, is a cage.

  The assistant looked at one of the photographs: the tidy bedroom, the marked calendar.

  —That date… —he pointed—. What do you think it meant?

  —An appointment —Volkov answered—. Not social. Decisive.

  Ilya looked up.

  —With whom?

  Volkov closed the folder gently.

  —That’s what we’re going to find out. Friends first. The boyfriend after. Answers tend to hide where people insist that nothing is wrong.

  Ilya nodded, mentally taking notes.

  —Detective… —he said cautiously—. What if she’s still alive?

  Volkov stood and looked out the window again.

  —Then someone is working very hard to make the world believe she doesn’t matter —he replied.

  He turned back to his assistant.

  —And that someone will make a mistake. They always do.

  The office fell silent again, but it was no longer a lonely silence. Two minds were staring at the same void, searching for cracks.

  Outside, the city slept, believing that a young woman had simply walked away.

  But Marek Volkov knew the truth:

  no one disappears without leaving a story behind.