Ana looked at Stancu, then at the empty wall. “No. But we can find what frightened it.”
Just then, the heavy oak door of the station groaned open. A man walked in, dressed in a soaked grey trench coat, even though it hadn’t rained in three days. He was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused. sectia 7 politie
Ana didn’t look up. “Because nothing good happens after 2 AM. But nothing interesting happens before 4 AM. We live in the hour between.” Ana looked at Stancu, then at the empty wall
Bucharest, Sector 3. A grey, communist-era building with cracked marble steps and a flickering neon sign that reads Poliția . The locals just call it “Secția 7.” Ana looked at Stancu