The morning light outside the Lower Silesian Police Headquarters was thin and cold, pooling in pale streaks across the marble floors. The smell of old coffee and printer ink hung in the air. Phones rang. Someone cursed under their breath. Somewhere, a typewriter still clacked.

  Detective Lisa Kowalska pushed through the doors with her usual authority. Her boots clicked once, sharply, announcing her before her badge did. She walked straight to the front desk, every movement crisp and precise, her trench coat folding neatly at her sides. The officer at the counter—an anxious young man whose tie didn’t match his shirt—straightened instinctively.

  “Good morning,” Lisa said, her voice steady, low, but commanding enough to cut through the ambient chatter. “Is Dr. Budny in today?”

  The young man blinked, fumbling with a logbook.

  “Yes, ma’am—he’s in. But, uh, he’s busy right now.”

  Lisa raised an eyebrow.

  “Busy?”

  The officer nodded, licking his lips nervously.

  “Yes, he’s—he’s in the middle of a case. Interrogation, actually. They brought someone in this morning.”

  Lisa tilted her head slightly, a faint curiosity flickering in her sharp blue eyes.

  “Who?”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t—”

  “I’m not asking for the case file,” she interrupted coolly. “I’m asking who he’s with.”

  The officer hesitated, then lowered his voice.

  “It’s not Dr. Kuroda, if that’s what you’re asking. This one’s… different. Name’s Krol. Piotr Krol. Picked up this morning in Boles?awiec. Stabbed an office worker in his sleep. Said he didn’t even know the man.”

  Lisa’s expression didn’t change. She only nodded once, slowly.

  “I see.”

  Then she turned away, her coat whispering softly behind her as she took a seat near the frosted glass window. Her posture was perfect, hands folded, eyes fixed on the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms. Waiting.

  Inside Interrogation Room 2, the air was dry, too bright. The table between the men looked like something out of a morgue—sterile, unfeeling.

  Dr. Budny, the police psychologist, sat with his back straight, glasses balanced precisely on the bridge of his nose. He had the calm, disciplined manner of a man who had learned how not to show disgust, how to listen to monsters without flinching.

  Across from him sat Mr. Piotr Krol, mid-forties. His face was average in every way except for his eyes—they were wide, darting, as if seeing shapes no one else could. He looked exhausted. His hands were cuffed in front of him, resting loosely on the table. The faint tremor in his left hand was the only sign of emotion.

  Dr. Budny pressed record on the small tape device beside him.

  “Time is 10:43 a.m.,” he said calmly. “Subject: Piotr Krol. Arrested in connection with the homicide of Jakub Kaczmarek. Mr. Krol, I want to begin by asking—do you understand why you’re here today?”

  Mr. Krol’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

  “They said I killed him.”

  Budny’s tone remained level. “Did you?”

  Krol looked down at his hands.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Budny repeated softly. “Did you black out?”

  Krol shook his head. “No. I remember. I just… it wasn’t me.”

  Budny leaned forward slightly, careful not to break the calm rhythm of his voice.

  “Then who was it?”

  Krol’s eyes darted toward the corner of the room, as though afraid the walls could hear.

  “He told me to.”

  “Who?”

  “The man. The one who promised me something.”

  Budny’s pen paused above his notepad. “What did he promise you, Mr. Krol?”

  Krol blinked slowly. When he spoke again, his voice trembled. “He said I’d see it. The end of the world. He said if I did what he asked… I’d be allowed to see it.”

  Budny’s breath caught, a faint hitch beneath his professional exterior. He forced his hand to remain steady as he wrote down the words.

  “The end of the world,” he repeated quietly. “That’s quite a promise. Tell me about him. What did he look like?”

  Krol rubbed his wrists nervously against the cuffs, eyes glassy.

  “He was young. No older than twenty-five. Maybe younger. His hair—” He paused, searching for the right words. “—his hair was pale. Golden, almost white. Like sunlight when it hurts your eyes. And his skin… pale too. Like he wasn’t really alive. His eyes were blue. Very blue. You couldn’t look at them for long. Like he was seeing through you, and through the walls, and everything. Narrow jaw... Uh, curtain bangs, I think."

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  Budny slowly reached for a piece of paper. “I see. Let’s try something. I’ll sketch, and you tell me if I’m close.”

  He began to draw. Fine, deliberate lines. A narrow jawline. Smooth features. Delicate symmetry that bordered on the uncanny. Hair parted neatly, falling just above the ear. Eyes—sharp, intelligent, far too calm. He shaded the pupils lightly, leaving a ring of pale iris.

  When he finished, he turned the sketch around and slid it across the table.

  “Was this the man?”

  Mr. Krol looked down.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  "Casimir..." Mr Krol muttered.

  "What? Casimir?"

  Then, his breathing changed. It came in short, sharp bursts. His pupils constricted. His lips began to tremble.

  Budny frowned, lowering his pen.

  “Mr. Krol?”

  Krol’s eyes widened, horror dawning across his face like a slow sunrise. Tears filled the corners of his eyes. His body stiffened. His cuffed hands jerked once, twice, and then—

  He went completely still.

  “Krol?” Budny stood quickly, the chair scraping back.

  The man’s eyes rolled upward. His body convulsed once, then collapsed sideways onto the floor, his chair clattering to the tiles. Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth. His face twisted into something unrecognizable, a silent scream caught halfway through breath.

  “Security!” Budny shouted, slamming a hand on the table. “We need medics in here now!”

  Two officers burst through the door within seconds. One of them dropped to his knees beside the fallen man, checking for a pulse.

  “Nothing!” the officer called out. “No pulse!”

  Budny’s eyes darted to the sketch still on the table, the young man’s face staring back at him in eerie calm. Pale hair, blue eyes, a smile that didn’t quite exist. With Casimir written below.

  He swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  In the reflection of the one-way glass, Lisa Kowalska's silhouette stood just beyond the door. She hadn’t meant to come close, but she had heard the commotion. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked toward the room—the sketch visible on the table, the lifeless man on the floor.

  Casimir.

  The name she hadn’t said in months whispered through her mind like smoke.

  Outside, the sirens began to wail.

  Inside, Dr. Budny stared at the sketch, unable to shake the feeling that the young man’s eyes—drawn only in pencil—were staring straight back.

  ***

  The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the frosted windows of Dr. Budny’s office, casting a pale light across the disorganized piles of case files and psychological reports. The walls were lined with books on abnormal psychology, cognitive theory, and criminal pathology — a quiet testament to a mind both brilliant and perpetually burdened.

  Lisa entered without hesitation, the echo of her heels precise and deliberate against the tiled floor. Her posture, as always, was straight-backed and calm — professional yet unyielding. She closed the door behind her softly, and for a moment, the room felt sealed off from the chaos of the outside world.

  Dr. Budny was sitting behind his desk, glasses resting low on his nose as he reviewed the morning’s interrogation notes. His face looked more tired than earlier — the kind of fatigue that came not from lack of sleep, but from having looked too long into something profoundly unsettling.

  “Detective Lisa,” he greeted, looking up as he removed his glasses. His voice was level, though faintly strained. “I was just going to contact you. Please, sit.”

  Lisa took the seat across from him. Her eyes flicked briefly to the sketch lying on the desk — the one drawn that morning. The faint lines still seemed to hold a kind of life, the haunting impression of youth and serenity captured in charcoal.

  “You said you wanted to see me about the interrogation,” Lisa said, folding one leg over the other. "I originally came to talk about my case, but the front desk told me something else."

  Dr. Budny sighed quietly, pressing a hand against his temple.

  “Yes. Mr. Krol, the suspect we brought in from Boles?awiec, died this morning. Cardiac arrest. It was sudden. The medic on scene said it looked like a stress-induced myocardial infarction.”

  Lisa frowned slightly. “He died during questioning?”

  Budny nodded.

  “Immediately after I showed him the sketch. He… reacted violently to it. Not physically — but psychologically. His body just gave up. It was like he recognized something that shouldn’t have existed. All because of the image.” He leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking softly. “And now, we’ll likely never know who hired him to kill that office worker.”

  Lisa sat in silence for a moment, her sharp eyes scanning the sketch again. The face staring back at her was disturbingly beautiful — and eerily familiar. Young, almost ethereal. The faint smile, calm yet distant, was one she had pictured before. Kazou Kuroda had described this man to her.

  “I might have a lead,” she said.

  Budny looked up, his expression focused now.

  “I’m currently leading a serial killing case,” she continued, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a thin, black folder. “I was wondering if I could recruit you for consultation. Your experience with behavioral anomalies could help. And… your case — this Krol incident — it might be connected to mine.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Connected how?”

  Lisa opened the folder and slid a few photographs across the desk — crime scene shots, autopsy photos, and one printed witness sketch. Pictures of Dr. Kazou Kuroda.

  “The man who hired Krol may be the same man I’ve been hunting for the past eight months.”

  Budny glanced down, scanning the materials. He froze when his eyes landed on the sketch he himself had drawn just hours ago — nearly identical to the man in Lisa’s files.

  "This isn't who Mr Krol described. This is an asian man. He described a blonde, white young male."

  Lisa gave a faint, knowing smirk.

  “It’s connected.”

  Budny’s gaze flicked up. “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” Lisa said. “Casimir isn’t a real person. He’s an alias. An alter ego — the name used by a Japanese scientist, Dr. Kazou Kuroda.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. Budny’s analytical mind immediately began connecting dots, revisiting every word Krol had said. His expression darkened.

  “So,” he murmured. “Krol believed he was promised something — the end of the world, wasn’t it? And the one who promised it fits this man’s description…”

  “Exactly,” Lisa said, her voice low but firm. “Kuroda’s been off the grid for years. But bodies keep appearing. People keep dying. And every time, someone claims to have been promised something impossible.”

  Budny sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the sketch.

  “He doesn’t look like a killer.”

  “He’s not,” Lisa said flatly. “At least not in the conventional sense. He’s something else. A manipulator. A scientist who treats morality as a variable. And Casimir… is his mask.”

  For a long moment, the two sat in silence — the ticking of the wall clock the only sound between them. Then Dr. Budny folded his hands together, resolute.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “This could lead somewhere. And if we find this man — Kuroda, or Casimir, or whatever he calls himself — it might also give closure to Krol’s family. To all of them.”

  Lisa nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

  She stood and extended her hand.

  “Welcome to the case, Doctor.”

  Budny rose as well, shaking her hand firmly.

  “You’ll have my full cooperation. I want to see how deep this goes.”

  Lisa’s eyes narrowed faintly, the ghost of a smile forming on her lips.

  “Then brace yourself. Because if we’re right… We’re about to step into something far worse than a murder investigation.”