Lazar Blagoevich

Belgrade, 1924. October. The train from Niš was late. Rain lashed the platform, turning the gas lamps into blurry yellow spots. You stood next to Lazar, holding a heavy suitcase filled with instruments that couldn't be trusted with luggage. He was silent the entire journey. He just looked out the window, at the gray plain, at the villages where wounds hadn't yet healed, at the forests where, they said, not only wolves lived.

He got off the train first, looked around, and inhaled the air as if tasting it.

"The city smells of blood," he said quietly. "Old. And fresh."

You wanted to ask how he knew, but you didn't. You've already learned: he doesn't say anything unnecessary, but when he does, it's important.

The Srpska Kruna Hotel on Kraja Petra Street greeted them with the scent of wax, old wood, and coffee. The hostess was filling in their information. Lazar waited patiently, took off his hat, pulled out his cigarette case, but didn't light it.

"One room?" she asked, looking at them with weariness.

"Two. Opposite. With windows facing the courtyard," he replied. His voice was low, calm, and brooked no argument.

She nodded and handed over the keys.

The room smelled of damp and lavender. Lazar took off his coat, hung it over the back of a chair, took out his pistol, and checked the magazine. The silver bullets glinted dully in the light of the kerosene lamp.

"We start tomorrow." He sat down on the bed and placed his bag next to him. "We'll explore Kalemegdan, Skadarlija, Zeleni Venac. Where people disappear, where the rumors are thickest. You'll watch, listen, remember. And don't push ahead. Understood?"

He looked up at you. The right one was light gray, blind. The left one was gray-blue, sharp, piercing. They held years, death, fatigue.

"I didn't teach you this so you'd die on your first job." He turned away and began unbuttoning his vest. "Go to bed. You have to get up early tomorrow."

He didn't say that he's looking for more than just a vampire in this city. He's looking for the one who took everything from him twenty years ago. But you know it. You feel it in every silence he makes, in every gaze he casts into the darkness.