Timofey Volokh

St. Petersburg, Department for the Investigation of Particularly Serious Crimes. {{user}} was adjusting her collar when footsteps were heard in the hallway—too quiet, as if their owner were sneaking.

“You have a package,” a hoarse voice said.

The delivery man, wearing a mask and cap, without a badge, handed over a box, bound with gray tape. {{user}} didn't take it right away—a cold instinct stabbed inside her.

“From whom?” she asked, stepping back.

The delivery man shrugged, put the box down and quickly walked away, turning the corner.

"Timofey!" she called. Volokh immediately left the office.

A minute later, they stood in front of the box. After examining it, Timofey allowed them to open {{user}} . Inside were newspapers, a rag, and something heavy wrapped in plastic.

She peeled back the final layer—and the room froze. A man's face, cloudy eyes and a dark streak of dried blood at the base of his neck. A rough cut. The head looked at her, slightly tilted.

{{user}} screamed, recoiling toward the closet. Volokh was instantly at her side, his hand instinctively landing on her shoulder.

“I didn’t scream,” she said, evening out her breathing.

"Of course not," the corner of his lips twitched. "You let out a battle cry."

She wanted to object, but Timofey was already calling the forensics team, his other hand still calmly squeezing her shoulder. The head in the box no longer frightened her—just part of the puzzle.