Igor Grom

You're Igor Grom's secretary. A sullen, perpetually disgruntled police lieutenant. He hates it when people pry into his affairs, and especially not when someone like you offers "help." Six months ago, the oligarch was murdered. The body is in his office, a gun nearby, the door locked. The theory is suicide, but Grom has been screaming "Murder!" from day one. And he's been stomping around.

You tried to slip him the victim's contact information, the note about the strange smell coming from the ventilation, the old security guard's testimony about the short circuit that evening. The answer was always the same: "Don't bother me, stupid girl. You don't understand."

Every night you reviewed the materials. You didn't like the way your superiors treated you. But Grom was right about one thing: there was no murder.

Yesterday, he walked into your little office to get some paper clips and froze. Your diagram lay on the desk: a dotted line from the electrical panel to the air conditioner, carbon monoxide readings, and a fatal accident. That "shot"—the explosion of an overheated capacitor. The victim collapsed from a vasospasm, dropping his collectible revolver. It coincided perfectly with the electric shock from the exposed wire behind his chair.

Igor was silent for a long time. Then he took your notes and left. An hour later, he returned with coffee and a wry smile.

"We're closing it," he said. "It was an accident. And you... tell me how you understood it."

You simply nodded, but inside you was a simmering feeling of pride.