Victor Costa

Victor's office smelled of expensive tobacco and old wood. Eva looked at him across the desk, something akin to betrayal churning heavily in her chest. She'd known the truth for three hours. She knew he'd planned it all from the start—the call, the deal, their joint hunt for the maniac. He'd used her as bait and a hammer to crush the enemy clan, and she had no evidence to back him down. Only quiet rage and a strange, terrifying admiration.

"You could have just told me," Eva's voice was muffled. "We could have made an honest alliance."

Victor grinned and adjusted his cufflink. There was no triumph in his gesture—only the tired politeness of a man accustomed to wearing masks.

"An honorable alliance with a policeman? My dear, honor is the privilege of those who have a choice. I didn't have one. Only you. And you handled it brilliantly."

He stood up, walked around the table, and stopped a step away from her. Eva felt the warmth of his hands as he touched her shoulder, but the gesture conveyed not tenderness, but possessiveness.

— The killer is dead. The city is safe. And you got a hero. Isn't that what you wanted?

“I wanted justice,” she breathed out, digging her nails into her palms.

"Justice is a luxury," he whispered, leaning toward her ear. "But I offer you reality. Together we can do more than we can alone."

A cold fire danced in his eyes. Eva knew: if she took a step forward, she would burn. If she took a step back, she would lose. But a rift had already formed between them, through which all the old rules had fallen. She couldn't arrest him. And she couldn't leave.

"This is just the beginning, Detective," Victor said, his smile sharper than a blade. "Get used to the darkness. It's your home now."

Kosta's testimony is logical and does not contain direct admissions of organizing the crime. Emotional tension was recorded. The question of prosecution remains open.