Morning light skillfully pierced through the dusty blinds. Not sharp enough to get past the tightly shut eyelids and let him know it was time to tear himself away from the warm embrace of the bedding. The double bed had been serving only one person for years now. Like everything else, he had gotten used to the emptiness, though perhaps with more difficulty than he was willing or able to admit. The thin yer of cotton beneath his back had become a crumpled mess of sweat ced with nightmares and restless tossing. Often, on these hot nights, he would wander through the apartment, trying to tire out his body full of excess energy in the hope of falling asleep more easily. But in recent weeks, nothing had worked, and the forecasted tropical temperatures weren’t helping. Bromazepam and two cans of Heineken had long ceased to be luxuries he could afford.

  His hand hung from the right side of the bed, swaying above an ashtray full of cigarette butts with yellow filters. What had started as a teenage joke among a few buddies had become an unyielding addiction. Like every addict, he would occasionally lie to himself that he could quit if he wanted to, but deep down, he knew that every attempt at abstinence ended in a repse twice as bad. A year and some of chewing Airwaves, sucking on menthol candies, watching comedies whenever he craved a smoke, and taking Tabex couldn’t compare to opening a new pack. He even tried joining countless Facebook groups made up of addicts—from casual smokers to junkies, alcoholics, and parasitic gamblers. Most found soce in faith, the Bible, and the gym, and that majority would often bully the minority who didn’t want to join. There was only one difference: Marlboro never gave him the false hope of eternal life.

  But simply nothing came close to the satisfaction of pulling out that first cigarette, which he would immediately tuck between his chapped, eager lips with his long fingers. He would light it, and greedily inhale the smoke. His pate and already accustomed lungs would joyfully welcome the wave of nicotine, carbon monoxide, and the rest of the carcinogenic substances—of which the exact number was unknown.

  His open mouth drooled childishly on the satin pillowcase—something he wouldn’t even own if his mother hadn’t brought it st Christmas when they visited as a family. That same woman, with his father in tow, smiled at him from a photo frame on the nightstand just a few centimeters from his head. Both had contributed to the decorative part of the apartment, which had remained almost untouched since they st left it that way. The half-empty ft they had found after the departure of their would-be daughter-in-w had been filled with the kind of warmth he only ever felt in his childhood bedroom.

  The front door, cream-colored and wooden, clearly showed signs of wear—just like in living beings, it was a sign of aging. The tenant hadn’t made any effort to fix it—neither concern nor taste for aesthetics were his strong suits. As long as it could still be locked, the faded surface bordered by chipped trim didn’t bother him. Behind it y an interior equally cking in preservation. The corners of the narrow hallway leading to the spacious living room had not only absorbed moisture, but also become a new home for spiders who diligently worked at catching flies and mosquitoes. A lonely coat rack stood on the right, adorned with a bck sports jacket that, had it been able to speak, would have begged for fabric softener. It hung stiffly from the fourth hook, untouched since it was st worn in February for a police seminar on serial killers. The omnipresent stench of cigarette smoke didn’t help the room’s condition either, teasing the nostrils of the rare visitors who passed through.

  The real challenge was getting through the hallway. The minate flooring was a true minefield of mismatched shoes and sneakers which, compared to their velvet friend on the rack, bore signs of more frequent use, yet shared the same aura of neglect. Pairs that were still together sat boxed on the shelf above the mirror on the left—though the mirror didn’t serve much purpose to the young man. Mostly winter shoes, high-ankled with cleats, filled the boxes—though considering how snow had become a rarity in Serbia over the years, the cleats were practically useless. His prized Shelly Rangers, the pride and joy of his collection, stood out with their near-divine treatment, showing far less dust than their leather and canvas companions.

  But the main event was happening in the living room. It was a space rger than average, with gray walls soaked in Marlboro tar. A small, wooden, three-legged coffee table stood in the center on a modest blue rug of coarse texture that didn’t stand out. The table, however, served more as a trash bin, filled with a variety of waste. From greasy napkins and crumpled foil smelling of fast food oil, to half-eaten pizzas in torn boxes and unfinished burgers nearly forming a Penicillin colony on stale beef. Amid this ndfill, ironically standing like the Twin Towers, were two rivals: cans of Pepsi and Coca-Co. The winner of that famous duel was evident—the lukewarm blue can barely missing three sips, while its red-and-white neighbor stood completely empty beside it.

  On one side of the table was a metal folding garden chair that creaked loudly, whether from poor materials or from being the most-used item in the room. On the other side was a massive TV sitting on a wooden cabinet with three drawers and a small space below for a humble collection of An Ford comics. The oversized screen often served as the only source of light at night, when the synchronized sounds of Clint Eastwood’s gunshots burst from it, accompanied by matching fshes. If there was one thing he truly enjoyed, it was pnting his pale, bony body in that chair and watching spaghetti western marathons by Sergio Leone. Cheering for the good guys wasn’t exactly trendy anymore, but he would still beam every time Clint’s nameless character outsmarted his enemies.

  The top drawer, which once held his badge and gun, now gathered dust after he had to turn them in due to suspension. The one below, a bit tricky to open, barely managed to contain the mound of paperwork stuffed inside. Starting from the diploma at the bottom—which he couldn’t even bring himself to look at—to the useless certificates formally commemorating his attendance at various seminars. Appearances by foreign criminal analysts, prison criminal psychology, the history of organized crime, and prevention measures were all crammed into his mountainous résumé. Somewhere among them y a mispced pamphlet titled Wake Up, Take Action, an educational lecture about starting your own business. Even he wasn’t sure why he had bothered to attend it.

  And on the top, like a tombstone of his greatest failure, sat the divorce agreement.

  Just reading the title hurt more than the two already healed, diagonal scars on his back. No bde or bullet in this world had burned through tissue and bone like her words had, six years ago. Or was it five? He’d lost count once the court hearings stretched into a year and a half. She hadn’t been wrong to want to distance herself. She had the right to love, the right to her pain, the right to want a real life—someone to hug her and tell her tomorrow would be better. And the stubborn inspector she had married couldn’t offer most of that. Maybe, in his own twisted way, he had tried to show her he cared. Maybe he didn’t even know how. In the Krivi? family, men weren’t allowed to have feelings, let alone show them. A man wasn’t supposed to compliment, to love, to kiss—but only to tease, torment, and rub things in. And though he hadn’t excelled in those st three like his predecessors, he hadn’t exactly shone in the nicer ones either.

  Because ever since joining the police force, he was no longer the well-read young man with a deep voice and charming manners she had met when she started med school and he had just passed his final exam of sophomore year. Since then, he had become a shell of what she had once proudly called her partner. Those cute tics at the corner of his mouth that appeared when he was nervous became increasingly repulsive as they lost their smile, day by day. There were nights he wouldn’t even look at her, let alone touch her. “Good morning, love,” quickly turned into, “I’m off to work,” and “Wait for me so we can eat together,” became “I won’t be long.” It didn’t take long before she became suspicious. Of him. Of other women. Of the older colleague showing him the ropes. Trust quickly crumbled, leaving behind nothing but the shattered remains of what had once been beautiful.

  What she never understood—and what he never asked of her—was that, somewhere deep down, he was showing the most honest version of himself.

  Being a police inspector in Serbia came with more disadvantages than perks, depending on which side of the w you leaned toward. His boss, for example, was interested in the big shots—those at the very top, with feet sunk deep in the murky waters they waded through. If only she had known that his constant absence was due to excessive overtime, a result of so-called “inappropriate behavior.” One of the many sins of “the boys in blue” was refusing a twenty-euro bribe from a rich kid going fifty over the speed limit. Reporting misconduct to Internal Affairs was another. But even those agents had no authority when it came to a now-retired, tightly wrapped officer addicted to youthfulness—an enthusiastic collector of genetic material from all superiors on and beyond 29th November Street.

  Yet, despite it all, he still arrested relentlessly.

  He investigated. He stumbled and restarted. He interrogated, pestered anyone his gut pointed to. His office at the Department for Narcotics Suppression often stayed lit long into the night, joining the mps and billboards of Belgrade’s forgotten alleys and streets. If a passerby had looked closely enough, they would have seen a shaved head peeking from behind mountain ranges of paperwork. The blue glow of his computer would shine on his worn-out face, which he rubbed—either from fatigue or migraines. Sometimes he’d drag himself to the window to catch a breath of fresh air, one hand buried in his jeans pocket, the other sipping who-knows-which round of caffeine overdose. Coffee and cigarette smoke swirled and blended, drifting into the night with the breeze. Just like that, in his brilliant mind, personal and professional life merged—expressing themselves through heavy breaths in and out whenever he wasn’t thinking about work. Eventually, and almost without resistance, the professional side won. Because if it hadn’t, he never would have made a name for himself that carried him all the way to the Blood and Sexual Offenses Division.

  On some of those nights, he knew he didn’t have much left. He wasn’t sure how or when it would happen, but something in him sensed that his only refuge—the one he had outside the station—was about to colpse. He didn’t know if he’d come home to emptiness, or find a farewell letter waiting, one that would, with full justification, call him a selfish bastard who had dragged nearly three years of their life together down the drain. Maybe he’d be greeted by suitcases at the door, not even neatly packed. But one thing he knew for certain:

  The st few times he saw her, her eyes were no longer bloodshot.

  The dark circles under them had faded. Her soft, sweet voice had turned into the monotone mechanics of repeated words.

  When he y next to her, he no longer felt her pretending to sleep. Her green eyes truly were closed under the bnket.

  She had been hurt—but she had healed.

  She had fallen—but she had risen.

  Her confidence had returned—strong enough that one morning, she finally saw him off to work with the intention of fixing what had been broken and no longer staying silent about what was going wrong in their marriage.

  Even though her conditions were simple, they still weren’t good enough for Vasilije.

  All she asked for was better communication. That he talk to her more about what was happening behind the scenes, in the parts of his life that were off-limits to her. But in his mind, that meant only one thing:

  She wanted to be a part of his world.

  Which, on paper, made sense. They were married, after all. But she had finally come to terms with something he had long avoided: that she had married an emotionally stunted and selfish man—just another in the line of mistakes she had made.

  Only this time, she had given this mistake a five-year chance, one that had long since fallen into an abyss with no visible bottom.

  A man who couldn’t grow up, who couldn’t accept that she only ever wanted what was best for him.

  And that’s why he no longer woke up next to her naked body.

  That’s why his nights were now spent with wide, exhausted eyes long past midnight.

  The bedsheets reeked of stale sweat, easily blending with the yellowed tint of what were once white walls. He often tried to knock himself out with benzodiazepines—sometimes even exceeding the recommended dose. He’d swallow the little pink pills like candy.

  Even the half-milligram dose had started losing effect.

  What his therapist didn’t know was that he hadn’t been fully honest.

  He lied about the antidepressants working. Lied about sleeping soundly, like a baby.

  He never mentioned that the few hours of sleep he got—mostly in the early morning—were filled with distorted figures and surreal ndscapes.

  In those dreams, he was always in a forest.

  Dark. Eerily quiet.

  The ground, covered in dry leaves and brittle branches, crackled under his cold, stiff feet.

  Thick fog crept under his eyelids.

  His arms and legs trembled like jelly.

  Anxiety.

  He’d feel his entire body tighten in anticipation.

  A chill would slither down his spine, needles stabbing every nerve.

  He writhed in the cold, all warmth drained from his limbs.

  It wasn’t blood that ran through his veins anymore—it was fear.

  His lungs didn’t breathe on their own anymore.

  They filled with frantic, panicked gasps—horror-induced.

  The few hairs he had left on his head would become slick with icy sweat.

  He was drowning in it—as if submerged in a frozen ke during a blizzard.

  Paralyzed and frozen, he could no longer speak, no longer feel.

  There was only one sound.

  The same, every time.

  A loud, piercing scream of a child.

  A haunting echo, full of despair.

  He could never pinpoint its source—it seemed to come from everywhere.

  The cry, the scream, called out to him.

  A warped, dissonant voice tried to say his name. Unsuccessfully.

  His head became too heavy for his shoulders.

  His ears filled with screeching tones.

  The little blood left in his body seemed to erupt from his eardrums.

  His pupils dited, darting around wildly.

  His mind was conscious.

  He knew what came next.

  Yet it terrified him every time.

  In total silence, he waited for what had become all too familiar.

  Paralyzed in the middle of a muddy forest path, he would see it—

  A grotesque figure approaching, draped in bck, like Death itself.

  A tattered, decaying cloak trailed behind it, its darkness stark even against the foggy grayness.

  If he had been able to swallow, it wouldn’t have been a lump—it would’ve been a stone, rolling down his throat.

  Though its steps were slow, the force of each one stirred clouds of dust, filth, and muck.

  Branches bent and snapped around it.

  Stones and earth cracked under the weight and rage of this unfulfilled force.

  But he already knew who hid beneath that rotting woolen hood.

  He couldn’t feel it, but in his mind, he was choking on the touch of her long, unkempt fingernails.

  He wanted to scream like that child.

  To burst out of his own skin and flee—cowardly, as only he knew how—behind the mask of the unbreakable man.

  He couldn’t bear to look at her aged joints peeking from sleeves too wide for her frail frame.

  Wrinkled, gray, freckled skin made his stomach churn.

  What little food he’d eaten that day rose and fell in his throat, but his jaw couldn’t open to vomit.

  The bckness beneath her gnarled nails smeared across his entire body as she stroked him,

  Each motion dripping with horror.

  At st, with one quick motion, she pulled down her hood and revealed her face.

  It was Nemesis—the goddess of righteous wrath.

  Only this wasn’t a beautiful young Greek woman—this was an old crone who had long lost count of her years.

  Her face was shriveled and weary, but her psychotic, toothless grin never left her cracked lips.

  She ughed endlessly, but Vasilije heard none of it—his ears were drowned in buzzing.

  The blindfold over her eyes was soaked with a foul blend of mud, pus, and blood,

  Flies buzzing around it.

  Two crimson streams ran down the cracked skin of her withered cheeks,

  Disappearing into the shadows of her robe.

  From time to time, strands of her silver, wild hair would fall across her face.

  Each one she ripped out violently, without a flicker of pain.

  “Just for you, my dear,” she said—Vasilije read her lips.

  From a sheath at her brown leather belt, she drew a sword— longer than Vasilije himself.

  Despite her brittle, bony frame, she wielded it with the vigor of youth.

  Moonlight fshed off the smooth, steel bde—blinding him for a moment.

  In its reflection, he saw his own face.

  Twisted. Wide-eyed.

  Sunken cheeks, strained lips.

  His neck tensed, trying to form a response.

  But he knew—

  The punishment fit the crime.

  Karma catches everyone, even successful inspectors.

  In the end, everyone has their nightmare.

  And what better poetic justice than to be struck down by the goddess of it?

  He closed his eyes, knowing what would come next.

  And then he felt it—

  The sword driving through the center of his abdomen.

  Nemesis didn’t hold back.

  She shoved the bde all the way to the hilt, satisfied as his own blood trickled down his legs.

  His eyes bulged—ready to pop from their sockets.

  He screamed, and from his gaping mouth, a torrent of blood, saliva, and breakfast gushed out—

  Spshing all over her sleeves.

  Suddenly, he was back in his apartment in Belgrade. Sweaty and frantic, curled up in a lying position, his hands clutching the painful spot from the dream. This time, something was different. He felt a gentle and calm touch on his bony shoulder. Could it be a dream within a dream? He thought. He quickly wriggled out of the slight grip and rolled to the other side of the bed. Propping himself up with his elbow, he lifted himself slightly. Through still sleepy eyes, he saw a blurry figure hanging over him. Its full figure triggered a feeling of familiarity. He squinted, though still unable to focus. The male figure stepped back, like a lost traveler trying to retreat from the wilderness, holding his hand out in front.

  “Vasilije... Rex, man! It’s me, Milo?,” said the other guy, his voice matching his age. “You just had a bad dream. I made you some coffee, come on.”

  “Fuck off,” came the quick reply, muttered sleepily.

  Milo? was only two years older than Vasilije. Like the guy he was waking up, he was also an inspector in the Department for Homicide and Sexual Crimes. He was a man of average height and build. His brown hair was always neatly trimmed, slicked to the right side. In his face, he was the kind of person a child would describe when asked what a man looked like. Simply, normal. He didn’t stand out much in terms of physical attributes from the rest of the popution. He had a beard like everyone else, though no one ever saw it because he would trim it every two days to prevent it from growing. His lips were plump, and within them hid a disarming and bright smile. His cheeks were not sunken like Vasilije’s but were rosy, exuding life. He had only one wrinkle on his forehead, which he never tried to hide. After a day of work, the stress was inevitable, and he saw no point in hiding it. However, his eyes were unusual. They had a certain spark in them that could overpower the darkest of moments. They were like gss—fragile and transparent-looking due to their incredibly light shade of blue, almost bordering on invisibility. Large like sarma, they simultaneously frightened and enticed. People often feared looking into them because they judged and dug deep. They penetrated souls, pulling out secrets from the darkest depths. Yet, at times, they would lower their guard. They would signal trust, presenting him in the best possible light while in harmony with his soft and silky voice.

  He was wearing a bck shirt with grayish-white stripes and a neatly ironed colr. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the hem of the shirt was tucked into gray pants, tightly fastened at the waist with a dark brown belt. A small, barely visible belly still protruded and was clearly outlined against the tight shirt. This was a side effect of the inspector’s bad habit of irregurly spaced, but very hearty, meals. Although long overtime stays at the office, to the point of red eyes, didn’t leave much choice except for ordering food at two in the morning. Still, despite the exhausting work, he managed to stay in decent shape. Lately, he had become more of a heater for the partially worn and squeaky rotating chair than a hunter of killers. It was wrong to think this way, but deep inside, he was hoping that some drunk would beat up his girl so he would get a call. In the end, his prayers were not answered, and he spent more time watching Argentine football than investigating outdated and solved cases.

  Milo? was perhaps the only inspector in the entire station whom Vasilije trusted even slightly.** That much was obvious, given that he was currently standing unbothered in his apartment. He had given himself permission to drink a cup of coffee before brewing another for his still half-asleep friend. After finishing his own, he dutifully washed it and returned it to its pce. Though, even if he hadn’t, he doubted Vasilije would have cared in the already cluttered mess by the sink. It was no wonder the apartment was littered with papers and food boxes everywhere—even if he wanted to cook, there was neither space nor clean dishes. Maybe, like any true friend, Inspector Jakovljevi? would have offered to help, but knowing the other man, the reaction wouldn’t have been the warmest.

  Vasilije was still hunched over, sitting on the edge of the bed and clutching his stomach. The pain and nausea, though still present, had begun to ease. His bony spine became more pronounced as he remained bent over, staring at the floor, his eyes now slightly clearer and less frantic. With every passing moment, he was regaining his senses, though the thoughts of what seemed like an endless nightmare refused to leave him. Despite his best efforts to restrain himself, his lips still twitched rhythmically in fear. Grabbing the flimsy chair to his right, he stood up and let out a long sigh, stretching and rubbing his temples. His joints ached sharply, and exhaustion weighed on him. He barely even felt his own body—or at least, the little he did feel gave the impression of being run over. Slowly, he turned toward his colleague, extending his left arm and accepting the cup that had been held out to him for a while now. He brought the rim of the blue ceramic to his chapped, dry lips and took a sip of the already lukewarm bck coffee. The bitterness spread across his tongue, gums, and the inside of his cheeks. His face twisted at the morning taste, and his eyes were bloodshot from the smoke that lingered and curled in the fractured sunlight. Milo? walked to the window and opened it, coughing at the fresh air—something this apartment hadn’t been exposed to in a while.

  Outside, it was surprisingly quiet. Only a few cars passed through the small alley lined with trees. There was none of the usual noise of children that Vasilije had grown accustomed to, nor the incoherent shouts of strung-out addicts in crisis. No one was arguing. The old guy who pyed his renditions of old Yugosv rock songs every morning—the ones Vasilije sometimes enjoyed from his little window—wasn’t there either. Even the chirping of birds was absent. For once, the silence didn’t seem like such a bad thing, though it quickly grew unsettling. The TV hadn’t continued its droning after he’d fallen asleep—this new smart one turned itself off after a while if no one was watching. The two of them stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, expertly avoiding each other’s gaze.

  *“If nothing else, at least you make better coffee than you write reports,“* Vasilije said, his expression unchanging, but breaking the ice between them.

  *“Yeah, well... They weren’t hiring baristas when I joined the force,“* the stocky inspector replied with a forced smile, behind which hid a certain discomfort.

  *“So, what brings you here?“* Vasilije asked with feigned interest, shuffling around the room in search of a mispced pack of cigarettes.

  *“Well, you know... You’re supposed to see the senior prosecutor today.“*

  *“Already? The fuck, since when?“*

  *“What can I say?“* Milo? shrugged, searching for an adequate response. *“How long have you even been suspended?“*

  *“Long enough to make me want to blow my brains out. Toss me that Marlboro,“* he said, spotting it on the dresser to the right of Inspector Jakovljevi?.

  *“Anyway... For the past five days, the boss has been on my ass about you not answering your phone and how he’ll demote me to patrol duty if I don’t drag you in for questioning. I stalled as long as I could.“*

  The tall, nky inspector stared half-dead at his colleague as he expined the reason for his visit. He stuck a cigarette from the fresh pack into the right corner of his mouth and lit it, taking a long, slow drag of the first smoke. He almost ughed as he inhaled, feeling the first sting in his throat, perfectly blending with the lingering taste of coffee. He walked over to the window—the minate floor slowly warming under his bare feet—and stared outside. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking at. His eyes held a certain puzzlement, but uncertainty clouded whatever they were trying to decipher. His gaze wandered over the small street below. He fixated on the unevenly id cobblestones, some raised from years of rain. The symmetrical rows of trees swayed gently under a weak breeze that now spped both men in the face. He held the lukewarm cup firmly in his hands as he surveyed the neighborhood he already knew by heart. Yet even his little alley could be unpredictable. None of the familiar faces were around, as if the daily life he knew had vanished into the ground. In a way, it already had long ago.

  *“Don’t worry, Mi?ke. You did your job. Okay?“* Vasilije said, lightly pcing a hand on his shoulder before finally meeting his gaze, receiving only a short nod in response.

  They continued standing side by side, lost in thought. Each in their own mind. Each in their own ideals. Each in their own world. They didn’t exchange another word, but at least the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—Milo? felt somewhat relieved that his friend had enough understanding of the situation. They allowed themselves to bask in the soon-to-be midday beauty.

  Vasilije was overcome with an itch all over his body, one he often felt under stress. He was used to these symptoms. They started as a simple chest pain sting a few seconds, but soon he paid too much attention to them. Where he came from, admitting depression was a real problem was considered shameful. Small towns always had their own backward ways of thinking, which was why he rarely missed his hometown. The general Balkan mentality regarding mental health wasn’t exactly progressive. Still, he might have had to see a professional about his current situation—forced by his superiors. They didn’t care about the proper procedures for such an evaluation as much as they cared about the fact that he wasn’t exactly popur among the rest. That same group of people had been waiting for something like this to happen, eager to sp him with a convenient diagnosis. His tics and odd, distant nature were enough for them to jump to conclusions about his condition at the first opportunity. Even his tall, gaunt appearance hadn’t been spared, let alone his acne-scarred face. These noticeable traits of his were often the subject of ridicule in the smoking room, with jokes at his expense almost at a high-school level. He’d noticed he was being avoided, not that he minded much. Most of his conversations were work-reted, though he did crack a joke now and then—stiff and emotionless, of course.

  The first session they sent him to had been fruitless, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of gloom that coursed through his body. He couldn’t rex or open up to someone he’d just met. In movies, it always seemed easier. Maybe the problem was the scowling therapist sitting across from him, another state employee just trying to get through the day, eager to get rid of him as quickly as possible. He’d spent an hour and a half waiting his turn among people he wondered if he even belonged with. The cracked walls from moisture, broken floor tiles, and gum-stained wooden benches didn’t inspire much confidence in a constructive diagnosis. He remembered losing his mind internally as he listened to the other patients’ stories—only a handful of whom were anywhere near normal, if such a thing even existed.

  An older man next to Vasilije, who was next in line after him, managed to tell him his entire life story and completely drain him in the process. The geezer didn’t even seem to notice the constant *“Uh-huh“* and *“Mhm“* the inspector uninterestedly muttered in response. He kept going on about how he used to be married, owned a bar, had a wife and daughter, cheated on his wife, got divorced, and how *“everyone forgot about him.“* Of course, none of it was his fault, which was why he started drinking. Then he rambled about how he’d heard he had grandchildren who didn’t even know he existed, how his daughter had married abroad, how his bar was now a betting shop, and how he *“had no choice but to drink himself to ruin.“* At its core, this was a story Vasilije had heard countless times, just with different details—especially back when he’d worked behind the bar during his student days. He’d become numb enough to predict the direction and details of such tales with frightening accuracy.

  Suddenly, he felt something tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt. He turned to the man and, for the first time since they’d been sitting too close to each other, noticed what he looked like. He definitely wasn’t as old as his voice and appearance suggested. He wore a faded, once-bck nylon jacket, now stained with grease. His torn pants were covered in dust and mud, and his mismatched shoes—probably fished out of some donation bin—were peeling. His face was haggard, dark circles stretching down to his lips. His cheeks were sunken, malnourished, his lips dry and cracked. His eyes betrayed a body that was just a shell of what might have once resembled a soul—though that had long since faded. An unkempt gray beard, with a yellowed mustache from tobacco, reached down to his chest. His skin was blotchy and wrinkled. It was painfully clear how alcoholism had prematurely aged this man. His whole body trembled as he fidgeted on the bench, which creaked and groaned under his movements. With a shaky right hand, he pulled out a worn leather wallet from his pocket. He barely managed to open it with his thick, yellowed fingers. The only thing inside was a crumpled photo from at least ten years ago. It showed two blonde, blue-eyed women who looked nearly identical, alongside a well-postured man who bore no resembnce to the shadow now pointing at the family portrait.

  *“See... That’s my little Lenka. Pretty, smart. Takes after her mother. She’s, uh... what do you call it...“* He paused, his breath reeking of cheap cigarettes and cheaper alcohol. *“IT, computers and all that...“*

  *“IT?“* Vasilije interjected, subtly leaning away from the stench.

  *“Yeah, that’s it! I paid for all of it, and she can’t even send me a damn message. Won’t even see me. That bitch of a mother poisoned her against me. I built everything with these ten fingers. They took it all. Everything! Listen, kid—?*

  Just as Vasilije was losing hope, a sweet-voiced nurse finally called his name, announcing that the doctor was ready to see him. But that didn’t stop the old man, who continued his monologue as if Vasilije had been the only one showing even the slightest interest.

  He politely introduced himself as he closed the office door behind him. Gncing around, he briefly wondered if he’d stepped into a storage room rather than a doctor’s office. It was as cold as a church inside, the hairs on his arms standing on end. The cramped space looked anything but rexing—the kind of pce where you’d open up about your troubles. Above all, the lighting was terrible. A single yellow bulb hung from a bck cord on the ceiling, dusty and grimy, the kind he’d seen in drug dens in run-down neighborhoods. Dr. Petrovi?’s desk had to be from the Yugosv era. The enamel on the edges was chipped, and the wooden panels bore what looked like decades-old coffee stains. The green linoleum floor sagged in pces, and the walls hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in at least five years. The musty smell was everywhere and quickly became unbearable.

  The young man grabbed the back of the chair across from the doctor. It was like the ones in schools—wooden seat and backrest with metal legs, rusted and worn. He sat down and waited as the typing continued. Behind him, he noticed an old-fashioned window whose frames had once been white but were now gray and filthy. The gss was smudged, and in the afternoon light, greasy fingerprints were clearly visible. There was even a faded orange curtain, long overdue for a wash. It was obvious the doc smoked in here when no one was around.

  Dr. Petrovi? was nearing retirement. For a psychiatry specialist, he looked incredibly sour and impatient, his forehead permanently creased. Though he wore gsses, he still squinted at the computer screen, typing one letter at a time. No wonder appointments took forever. He was unmistakably from the old guard, refusing to adapt to new technology. Inspector Krivi? would have bet money that the man had a Nokia 3310 in his coat pocket. He didn’t even have a namepte—just his st name poorly embroidered on the hem of his b coat, which had a chemical stain on it. His bald head, with only a few gray strands left, gleamed under the yellowish light. He chewed loudly on a piece of gum from a crumpled Orbit pack lying on his messy desk. The right side of his bck keyboard was noticeably dusty from disuse. Among the scattered papers, torn gum wrappers, and Nescafé sachets, there was barely any space to rest his hands.

  *“Vasilije Krivi?. Hmm...“* the short old man finally spoke in a squeaky, pretentious voice. He leaned back in his leather chair—which looked far more comfortable than Vasilije’s school-grade seat—and folded his hands. *“Well, you’re a special one, aren’t you? Mood swings, outbursts of rage, ck of self-control, sociopathic tendencies... What are we going to do with you?“*

  *“Socio—What?!“* Vasilije’s eyes widened, completely taken aback by the description just read aloud. His heart pounded, threatening to burst out of his chest. This was exactly what he’d expected. The police didn’t give a damn about a *“psychiatric evaluation.“* They just wanted someone old enough not to care anymore, grumpy enough to rubber-stamp whatever the higher-ups wanted.

  *“Doctor, but—?*

  *“Listen here. I’ve seen enough of you and your kind. All with the same story. ‘It’s not like that, it’s not like that.’“* He mocked the st part as he stamped and signed the report. *“A few more months, and I’m out of this shithole. I’m not about to let some angry kid lecture me on how I’m wrong at the end of my career. If you don’t shut up, I’ll call security and write you up as psychotic. If you behave, Lexapro in the morning, Xanax as needed, and a follow-up in a month.“*

  Defeated, Vasilije knew the first option wasn’t viable, so he reluctantly accepted the second. More than a month had passed, and yet the headaches hadn’t stopped. The nightmares had only grown more intense. The alienation he felt inside hadn’t faded. He stared out the window of his tiny apartment, deying the inevitable visit to the prosecutor because he already knew how this would go. Refusal to cooperate, skipping the follow-up, poor adherence to prescribed rules. His superiors and the judiciary would gleefully jerk themselves off over this guaranteed outcome, suspending him indefinitely. Maybe even firing him.

  Maybe that was for the best.

  He’d stop overthinking for ten people. No more banging his head against the wall while others took credit. No more stressing over superiors who were rewarded for obedience, not merit. He’d live life on his own terms.

  Maybe he would.

  Except, investigating cases was the only thing he was actually good at.

  ?Alright, wait for me downstairs. I’ll clean myself up real quick, Vasilije said after finishing the st of his coffee, motioning for his colleague to leave.

  “Vaso. Just one thing,“ Milo? paused at the front door. “Did you really kill that kid in self-defense, or...?“

  “Just wait downstairs. I’ll be fast.“