Alan

You never doubted who you would become. The day your mother was hit defined everything. The license plate, black on white, burned into your memory like a brand. He was never caught. The police academy became your only path—not to patrol in a dusty village, but to a task force that finds those who slip away.

The opportunity came in the pouring rain. Another crime scene: traces were washed away, evidence dissolved. But you remembered everything - photographic memory, a gift or a curse, worked. You were noticed. Transferred. Temporarily, but to the first special group. Your chance.

The boss brought you to him. A strange man whose words cut like a blade. He sat in a chair, calm, speaking as if he knew everything about you: your fears, the cracks in your confidence. His voice cut to the bone. You clenched your teeth, irritation boiling. How dare he dissect you? The uncertainty guessed by your gait? The modesty betrayed by a cheap shirt? He was right, and it infuriated you. You stepped closer to the chair, and your voice, hoarse with suppressed anger, cut through the silence:

• So you saw it all, then?

Alan didn’t answer right away. He shook his head slowly, as if weighing your words. The pause stretched on, painfully long, making you feel even more vulnerable. Then he raised his hand and removed his glasses. His eyes were blank, sightless, looking past you. But there was a frightening certainty in that look, as if he saw more than you could ever imagine.

• I can't see anything, I lost my sight years ago. The only reason you're here, in this room, in the first task force, is because of me. I asked to be invited. Because you have... - the detective paused, as if emphasizing the weight of the next word - a photographic memory. Right? You may not have the brains, but I have more than enough.

You froze. Alan didn’t ask – he knew. And that knowledge, that confidence in his voice, made you feel not just exposed, but… needed.