Prologue

A dim light flickered in the grim cabin of the old elevator as four people stepped inside. The dust-covered panel of buttons suggested it hadn't been updated in decades, and the battered thud of the elevator as the doors slammed shut suggested the mechanism was well past its time.

"Well, God bless you," Pharqraut said, pressing the worn button for the third floor.

The elevator started with a characteristic creak, as if resisting the movement. The tense silence that immediately filled the space was palpable, almost dense. Each of them was silent, and it seemed that no words were needed here. Maurice stood with his eyes downcast, his hands hidden in the pockets of his robe, as if he were trying to hide from something invisible. Nelissen, not used to such silence, tried not to look at Pharqraut, whose expression said that there would be no conversation.

Galbraith stood in the corner, arms folded across his chest. His gaze swept over each passenger in the elevator, but his face showed no emotion or concern. They were all preoccupied with their thoughts. The report they were moving forward with was not just important; it could be decisive. But as they moved toward the third floor, there were no easy decisions.

When the elevator came to a heavy stop, the doors opened with obvious resistance. The third floor corridor was long and almost deserted, only the noise of the fan and muffled conversations from distant offices broke the silence. The group's footsteps echoed loudly, as if each step they took broke the silence of the place.

They walked calmly, but not slowing down. Nelissen, walking a little behind, tried to hide his excitement, although he himself felt it taking hold of him. He was the youngest in the group, and although his rank already inspired respect, it seemed to him that he was only a newcomer among these veterans.

On either side of the corridor, on the dim walls, hung old photographs, capturing moments when the place was still full of life and movement. These pictures, fading with time, seemed like ominous reminders of past grandeur, which only added to the gloomy atmosphere that reigned here. Finally, they came to a door on which a sign was barely visible that read "Chief Inspector Schaeymoure".

Pharqraut paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, feeling the weight of the conversation ahead. He exhaled deeply, as if trying to shake out all doubts, and knocked on the old wooden door. The sound was muffled, but with some kind of firm determination, as if it were a warning in itself. A few seconds later, a low, even voice sounded from behind the door. The owner of the office, without the slightest interest in those waiting in the hallway, calmly invited them in.

Pharqraut opened the door and they entered the office. Chief Inspector Schaeymoure sat behind his desk, not deigning to look at the newcomers. His sharp features, framed by deep lines on his forehead, were focused on the file in front of him. As he turned the page, his thick gray eyebrows rose slightly. It seemed as if this document was more important than everything else that was going on around him. His entire attention was absorbed by it, and nothing seemed to be able to distract him.

Inspector Galbraith, a dark man with a neat moustache, looked around the office and shrugged involuntarily, as if he had a presentiment that the meeting would be prolonged. Silently, he walked over to a long table against the wall on which stood a decanter of water and four glasses, already filled to the brim. Taking one of them, he placed it in front of his place and carefully pulled out his chair, intending to make himself more comfortable.

But as his hand touched the back of the chair, Chief Inspector Schaeymoure slowly looked up. His eyes were sharp, almost piercing, and they swept over each person present as if he were trying to read their thoughts. Suddenly he raised his hand for silence, and everyone in the room held their breath.

"Please sit down," he said briefly and nodded slightly towards the table.

Pharqraut, who was standing closest to Schaeymoure, coughed slightly, indicating that he was ready to speak.

"Dear Inspector," he began, trying to maintain his composure. His voice remained controlled, but there was a sense of urgency in it. "We acted under extreme urgency, as this matter is of great importance. It arose suddenly and required an immediate response on our part. All available information has been collected, and new facts have come to light that require your immediate attention.

With his last words he placed a thin folder of documents on the table in front of Schaeymoure. The chief inspector looked at it carefully, but did not hurry to open it. He looked up at his interlocutor, as if trying to grasp his intentions.

"Go on," he said, crossing his fingers in front of him.

Pharqraut glanced around at the others, as if inviting them to join in, but no one was in a hurry to speak. Everyone knew that it was better not to waste time with Schaeymoure.

"This is a very complicated case, Mister Chief Inspector," he began. "We are talking about Delia Yonce, a twenty-two-year-old musician in a local orchestra. During the entire time she was part of the group, the girl was bullied by her colleagues. Today, the situation got out of control: her tormentors organized a real chase. Their victim managed to find shelter in an apartment on Fourth Street, but..."

Schaeymoure narrowed his eyes, not hiding his irony.

"Chase? What a word. How many of these... "hunters" were there, according to your data?"

"Three," Pharqraut answered calmly. "They didn't stop when she disappeared into the house. Several of them tried to break down the door of the apartment."

"And the neighbors?" Schaeymoure interrupted. "They, as I understand it, were watching what was happening all this time?"

"Exactly. And they called the police. The lieutenant arrived on the scene within seven minutes," Pharqraut explained.