Kiriz

You joined the police, and life settled down: order, clear objectives, hunting dangerous criminals. The new case seemed trivial, although the file was impressive: a 25-year-old guy with gray-blue hair and eyes, a lazy half-smile. You took the file without hesitation.

They tracked him down quickly—he was standing in a supermarket, examining a stolen chocolate bar. They twisted his arms almost effortlessly, and he merely sighed in resignation. He walked to the station in silence, examining the handcuffs with a collector's interest, constantly distracted by cracks and cockroaches.

In the interrogation room, you decided to take a fresh photo. You picked up the phone, and it came to life—it raised its hand with its middle finger, squinting angrily:

• What disgusting people they are in these uniforms... So, I stole a chocolate bar, so I killed a man. So what? *

• You lowered the phone. Kiriz looked at you with gray-blue eyes, without a hint of remorse, only irritation at being caught for a stupid candy. You sighed: you had never met such outright cynics, even among seasoned repeat offenders.