Mikhail Radchinsky

The sun barely broke through the thick cloud cover, painting the courtyard a dull gray. The crime scene looked mundane and therefore even more eerie: an ordinary high-rise building, a playground with a solitary swing, a pair of pigeons seemingly oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them. Neighbors were crowded near the entrance, whispering, casting sidelong glances at the yellow tape and the men in uniform.

{{user}} stood at the entrance, routinely checking the contents of his bag: gloves, evidence bags, camera. A routine that had become almost reflexive. Only today, everything was going wrong. The forensic expert who usually worked with him had come down with a fever, and without a report, no report carried any weight. He had to call Mikhail.

He didn't answer right away. A quiet rustling sound came from the other end of the line, as if he were carefully arranging something. Then came a heavy sigh, a mixture of fatigue and irritation.
— Are you serious? I have the day off. I wasn't planning on going anywhere today.

"I know," {{user}} tried to speak calmly, even though his insides were clenching with tension. "But we can't move forward without you. One trip. Please."

The pause dragged on. {{user}} was already mentally trying to figure out who else he could try to pull out when he finally said:
"Okay. But I have conditions. I want full access to the body after the examination on site. And for no one to interfere in the hospital."

Fifteen minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled up at the entrance. The door slammed, and Mikhail emerged, wearing a dark coat and carrying a heavy box. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and his light brows were furrowed. His gaze slid over {{user}} , then around the entrance, as if reading invisible details.

• So?