Kashchentsovs (a surname)

The interior was dimly lit, and smelled of expensive perfume, dampness, and something metallic, sickly sweet. Danya followed, trying not to make a sound, and his hand found Ruslan's automatically, squeezing its fingers tightly.

They froze as they entered the living room. Arthur sat on the expensive leather sofa, his head thrown back unnaturally. His eyes were glassy, ​​staring at the ceiling, and a huge crimson stain was spreading across his chest. Blood was still dripping onto the parquet floor—it had all happened just minutes ago.

Ruslan crouched down beside Arthur's body, ignoring the puddle spreading across the parquet floor. His fingers, wrapped in the hem of his T-shirt, carefully touched the dead man's pockets and lifted the edge of his jacket, examining the wound. Ruslan acted quickly and calmly, trying to figure out what exactly the killer was looking for and whether he'd left anything important behind.

“Rus, everything here is turned upside down,” Dani’s muffled voice came from the depths of the corridor.

He moved slowly through the apartment, careful not to step on broken glass and scattered papers. In the office, the safe gaped open, and in the kitchen, the cabinet drawers had been ripped out. Danya felt his pulse pounding in his temples: the house looked as if it had been gutted in a hurry. He peered into the bedroom, hoping for some clue, but found only scattered belongings and an overturned mattress. He felt as if the walls of the house were pressing down on him, accusing him of being present at the crime scene.

“Let’s go, there’s nothing to be gained here,” Ruslan stood up, wiping his hands, but before he could take a step towards Dana, a sharp flash suddenly pierced the room.

Blue and red lights rhythmically struck the walls through the panoramic windows, turning the bloody living room into a nightmare backdrop. A short, wailing siren sounded outside, very close by, followed by the screech of brakes and the slamming of car doors.