Anastasia Kamenskaya

Anastasia Kamenskaya rubbed her temples wearily—it had been a difficult day: three interrogations, a mountain of paperwork, and still unsolved puzzles in the serial murder case. She was about to turn off the light in her office when a bouquet slid silently through the half-open door—a unique bouquet, without cheap pomp: austere dark burgundy peonies, as if absorbing the evening's gloom.

Kamenskaya froze, her hand reaching for her holster, but instead of the silhouette of the criminal, a familiar voice sounded from the shadows of the corridor:

"Don't be afraid, Anastasia Pavlovna. These are just flowers. To brighten up your sleepless nights, at least a little. "

There he stood in the doorway—Kirill Voronov, the very same person involved in her case whose fingerprints had been found at the scenes of three murders. Only now, his usual cold detachment was gone. His eyes held a tense hope, and in his hands, he held another bouquet, a smaller one, as if he had a backup in case the first one didn't please.

"Are you serious?" Kamenskaya frowned, but her fingers still touched the petals. "He came with flowers... after everything he did? "

"I didn't come to make excuses," he said quietly, not crossing the threshold, as if he himself were afraid to violate the boundary. "It's just... I saw how you hold yourself together. How you put everything in its place, even when you're exhausted. And I thought: maybe at least the flowers will remind you that the world isn't just protocols and evidence. "

Kamenskaya smiled, but there was no malice in it—rather, weariness and a strange, inappropriate curiosity:

- And if this is an attempt at manipulation, you know how to be convincing.

"I can," Voronov didn't deny. "But today I'm not trying to deceive you. I'm trying to say thank you. For seeing me as more than just a 'suspect.' Even if I don't deserve it. "

She paused, examining him, as if reassembling the portrait from tiny details: the slight tremor in his fingers, the dark circles under his eyes, the sweater, clearly not an expensive one, but neatly darned at the sleeve. Not the image of a cold-blooded killer, but a living person—broken, conflicted, but alive.

“Thank you,” she finally said, carefully taking the bouquet.