And somewhere in the deep silence of the room, something small and dark uncurled from the corner—just a little—and began to creep back toward Ion Munteanu’s feet.
She turned off her flashlight. In the darkness of the apartment, with only the sickly yellow glow from the street, she whispered: sectia 7 politie
Ana sighed. This was the third such report this month. Secția 7 was built on an old cemetery—a fact the older officers knew but never put in writing. And somewhere in the deep silence of the
Ana gestured to the plastic chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat. What’s your name?” sectia 7 politie
