The dorm was quiet in the way university buildings become late in the night, faint murmurs behind doors, the hum of a vending machine, the restless silence of young adults trying to pretend everything is normal. Lisa’s footsteps echoed as she walked down the narrow hallway, past old bulletin boards plastered with outdated event flyers.

  Marcin Wójcik stood waiting outside his room, fidgeting with the keychain in his hand. He was trying — and failing — to appear calm.

  “Detective Lisa?” he said as she approached.

  “Yes,” she replied, curt but not unkind. “May we speak inside?”

  He nodded quickly, stepping aside.

  “Of course. S-sorry. It’s just… I’ve never talked to a detective before.”

  Lisa entered the dorm. It was cleaner than she expected, a desk covered in biology books, notebooks scattered with highlighted passages, a poster of some Polish rock band taped crookedly to the wall. A half-drunk cup of tea sat cooling on the dresser.

  They sat. Lisa kept her coat on, posture straight, eyes sharp.

  “Marcin,” she began, “I’m investigating several connected deaths. I need to ask you some direct questions.”

  Marcin swallowed hard but nodded.

  “Did you know Anna Smirnov?” She asked.

  His shoulders tensed.

  “Yes. She—she was a friend. We weren’t super close, but… we talked. She was kind. Quiet. Really smart. And… she didn’t deserve any of this.”

  Lisa nodded once, watching his every microexpression.

  “What about the men who died in the fire last week?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t at the event. I was studying that day. But… I know some of the students who were there.”

  Lisa took out her notebook.

  “Did Anna have suicidal tendencies?”

  “Absolutely not.” His answer was immediate, forceful. “She wanted a future. She talked about becoming a philosopher, studying abroad, falling in love, and her thesis. She wouldn't jump off a roof. Not in a million years.”

  Lisa’s gaze sharpened.

  “Then you believe it was foul play.”

  Marcin’s voice dropped.

  “Detective… there’s more. I think… the fire, Anna’s death, and the student who went missing last summer, I think they’re connected. Too many weird things happened. Same building. Same circle of people. Same… feeling.”

  A small silence stretched between them.

  Lisa leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting, quieter, more dangerous.

  “Marcin… have you ever met someone named Dr. Kazou Kuroda?”

  Marcin stiffened.

  He hesitated, then nodded slowly.

  “Yes. I… think so. If you mean an Asian man. I talked to him after the fire. Outside the building.”

  Lisa didn’t react outwardly, but something in her eyes hardened like cooling steel.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Marcin exhaled — then the memory surged back, clear as if it were still happening…

  ***

  Kazou Kuroda had stood apart from the surviving students, the glow of firetruck lights painting harsh shadows across his face. His coat was damp at the shoulders. His cheek still streaked with soot. He watched silently as EMTs loaded a stretcher into an ambulance. The night was bitter and shaking with sirens.

  Marcin approached cautiously.

  “You’re… not from here, are you?”

  Kazou’s eyes shifted toward him, dark and unreadable.

  “I suppose not.”

  “You saw the fire earlier,” Marcin continued, “with that girl. My friend’s friend. Are you her professor?”

  Kazou shook his head. “No. I’m a researcher. Philosophy. Psychology. I came here because of one of your students.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Marcin blinked. “Which one?”

  Kazou’s answer was quiet — but sharp as a blade.

  “Casimir Bielska.”

  Marcin smiled faintly. “Ah. Casimir. Brilliant guy. Top marks in everything. A little strange, but—”

  Kazou’s expression flickered — a flash of something too complicated to name.

  Then:

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Marcin said.

  Kazou hesitated. Then, softly:

  “…Kuroda.”

  Marcin blinked. Then recognition struck like lightning.

  “Kuroda…? As in Yuichi Kuroda? Are you related?”

  Kazou froze, the world narrowing.

  Marcin continued, oblivious.

  “They mentioned him in a lecture. Psychological experiments… clones… Western Europe. No one knows where he went.”

  Marcin handed him a folder. More fragments. More ghosts.

  Amsterdam. Red ink underlined ruthlessly.

  Kazou stared at the words like they were a wound reopening.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  If Marcin had known who he was truly speaking to, he might have run.

  But he only smiled, na?ve and hopeful.

  “If you find anything cool — come back and tell me!”

  Kazou smiled back — a fragile, almost painful echo.

  “I will.”

  “…Amsterdam…” he whispered.

  Lisa let the memory settle before speaking.

  “Marcin,” she said evenly, “that man — Dr. Kuroda — burned the building.”

  Marcin went rigid. His breath stuttered.

  “What…?” His face drained white. “No… no, he—he seemed normal—”

  “He killed Anna,” Lisa said flatly. “He’s linked to the missing student. He’s linked to all of it.”

  Marcin’s eyes brimmed with horror.

  “But why? Why would he—?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Another long pause.

  “Do you know where he went?” she asked quietly.

  Marcin’s breath shook. His fingers curled into fists on his knees.

  He hesitated, then whispered:

  “…Amsterdam.”

  Lisa stood slowly, sliding her notebook back into her coat.

  “Thank you, Marcin. You may have just given me the missing piece.”

  He looked up at her, wide-eyed, afraid.

  Lisa’s expression softened only slightly.

  “You did the right thing.”

  She walked to the door. Opened it. Paused.

  And as she stepped into the hallway, her voice dropped to a low murmur, meant only for herself:

  “…Amsterdam, then.”

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  Her footsteps faded down the hall — steady, dominant, inevitable.

  Lisa stepped out of the university building and into the damp afternoon air. The clouds hung low over Wroc?aw, pressing the world beneath a muted grey. Her heels clicked sharply across the pavement as she moved with purpose, the edges of her coat fluttering lightly behind her. Marcin’s words pulsed in her skull in a steady, pounding rhythm.

  Amsterdam.

  She didn’t allow herself to hesitate. Not even for a breath.

  At the corner, near the tram stop, a dented red phone box leaned slightly toward the streetlight like a drunk leaning on a friend. Lisa pushed the door open and stepped inside. The small glass chamber was warm, humid with the breath of the last dozen callers. She took out her notebook, flipped to a page with scrawled numbers, and lifted the receiver.

  She dialed.

  One ring.

  Two.

  Three.

  A click, followed by a groggy, irritated voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

  “…Who the hell is this?” The voice on the other line groaned.

  Lisa’s lips twitched into a tired smirk.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Brook. This is Detective Lisa Kowalska.”

  On the other end, there was a long, unimpressed exhale, one that communicated perfectly: What now?

  “…Detective,” Rose muttered. “This better be important. I have an actual life.”

  “I’m aware,” Lisa replied bluntly. “Which is why I wouldn’t be calling unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  “Yes, well, detective, your ‘necessary’ and my ‘necessary’ usually mean two different things.” Rose’s tone was sharp, defensive, carrying that brittle irritation she always wore. “So what do you want now?”

  Lisa adjusted her weight against the phone box wall.

  “I’d like you to accompany me to Amsterdam.”

  She could practically hear Rose freeze.

  “…Excuse me?”

  “Amsterdam,” Lisa repeated calmly. “New information indicates that Dr. Kazou Kuroda fled there after the incident at the Wroclaw University's Philosophy Department Honor Event. I believe he’s hiding in or near the city, and since you know him better than anyone—”

  A sharp laugh cut her off. Bitter. Disbelieving.

  "Huh?! No. Absolutely not. Not happening.”

  “Ms. Brook—”

  “No,” Rose snapped. “You can chase him across the whole damn continent if you want, Detective, but I’m not going anywhere near that man. I don’t want to see his face ever again.”

  Her voice cracked—not loudly, but enough that an attentive ear could hear the fracture beneath the veneer.

  “You won’t.”

  Silence clung to the line. Lisa waited.

  Rose eventually inhaled, shaky.

  “You’re sure,” she said quietly, bitterness drained into exhaustion. “I won’t have to see him?”

  “You won’t.” Lisa’s tone was absolute. Measured. “I don’t need you for an interrogation. I need your insight. Your familiarity with his behavior, his patterns, his mannerisms. You spent years with him, Ms. Brook. That’s invaluable.”

  A longer silence this time. Rose was thinking—Lisa could tell because she could hear the faint tapping of her acrylic fingernails on a counter. Rose did that when irritated. Or anxious. Or both.

  At last, Rose sighed heavily.

  “You said… Amsterdam?”

  “Yes.”

  Another sigh—this one layered with reluctant resignation.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Lisa answered. “First flight out.”

  “That’s…” Rose scoffed through her teeth. “That’s expensive. Detective, ever since I stopped working at Zenkai, I’m barely scraping by this month, and my rent went up again, and—”

  “I already paid for your ticket.”

  Rose stopped breathing for a moment.

  “…You what?”

  “I paid for it,” Lisa repeated flatly. “You’ll be reimbursed for meals. Lodging is covered as well. You won’t lose anything. You may even gain something if we find answers.”

  A low groan came through the speaker.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Don’t,” Rose muttered, but there was no real resistance left in her voice. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll go. But this is your mission, Detective. I’m not running around playing sidekick.”

  Lisa smirked faintly.

  “I never said you were.”

  “Good,” Rose snapped, though she sounded more tired than combative. “Call me the flight details.”

  “I’ll call within the hour.”

  A beat passed. Rose exhaled once more—this time softer, resigned.

  “…Amsterdam,” she murmured, almost to herself. “God help me.”

  The line clicked. Rose had hung up.

  Lisa lowered the phone slowly, her reflection fractured in the glass as she stared out at the city with cold, calculating focus. She pushed open the phone box door and stepped back into the street.

  She tucked her notebook under her arm and began walking, her pace quickening with purpose.

  “Kuroda…” she muttered. “Amsterdam, then.”

  Her expression hardened.

  “And I’m bringing someone who knows how you think.”

  Tomorrow, the hunt would continue.