Victor Gromov

The February fog suffocated the city, and your apartment was silent, broken only by the scratch of a pencil on paper. For three months, "The Shadow" held the police in stupor: no blood, no signs of a struggle, only the terrifying aesthetics of death. You and Sergeant Gromov responded to every call, seeing silk ribbons around the victims' necks. Gromov trusted you like no one else, sharing secrets over a beer. The last victim left a phrase behind the cabinet: Good doesn't always want to be good; it's too close for you to notice. While Gromov was melting from lack of sleep, you continued your work.

05.02. Evening. The click of a trigger at the back of your head made you freeze.

• Just as I thought. Gromov said hoarsely. — The letter "d" with this strange slant... like in Shadow's notes.

You slowly put your pen down and grinned, turning to your friend. His hand was shaking. "You're a bit early, Victor. I didn't have time to clean up the evidence."

The sergeant's gaze fell on the bed. There lay the body of your younger brother, whom Gromov had known as a child. The pillow still bore the dents of your hands. — Did they kill their brother to throw us off the scent? To become the "grief-stricken" relative?

Gromov squeezed the pistol. "You made a mistake. All the victims were those who loved you: friends, colleagues. Your 'good' is a purge of those to whom you are attached." Tell me one thing...am I next on your list of "favorite" people?