I called the waiter and asked where the nearest police station was. He gave me directions, and I quickly left the coffee shop. It was quite cold. I pulled up the collar of my sweater and rubbed my hands together to warm them. It must have been early winter, but oddly, I wasn’t sure of the exact date. The attack had really confused me. I pushed the cold sensation from my mind and was surprised at how easily I could do it. It was just a bodily sensation—something I could store in a corner of my mind for now.

The police station was only a few streets away. I stayed tense on the way, scrutinizing the faces of passersby, trying to spot my pursuer. With each exhale, a white cloud of vapor formed in front of my mouth. The cold seeped under my sweater. People hurried down the street—some eating sandwiches, others entering restaurants. It was probably lunchtime.

Something about the street scene felt off, unreal, without a clear reason. I had the strange feeling that something was obviously wrong, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. I was probably just tired. I stopped a passerby to confirm the way, and a hundred meters further, I finally reached the police station. 

I hesitated for a few seconds. The man who had chased me had claimed to be police—it was obviously a lie to get the passersby’s help—but I still felt uneasy. I took a deep breath. I was an ordinary citizen. There was absolutely no reason for me to be wanted. I had committed no crime, no irregularity. And yet, something inside me rebelled at the idea of stepping into that station.

I pushed the feeling aside, steeled myself, and entered. A few officers were chatting in the hall. Notices for missing persons were pinned to the entrance wall. I paused for a moment, looking at those smiling faces frozen in a moment of happiness. These people were loved. Someone was probably still waiting for them to return. I didn’t have that. If I disappeared overnight—aside from the army registering me as a deserter—I doubted anyone would notice or care. A pang hit my chest. I quickly shoved the thought away. I must have been exhausted to sink into self-pity. I approached the duty officer.

“I want to file a report for theft and assault.”

My voice was hoarse. I was nervous, but I pushed the feeling aside. I was the victim, not the assailant. The officer looked up and stared at me in silence for a few seconds. It only deepened my discomfort. Finally, he said, “Follow me.”

He led me to another room where several officers were working. Some were focused on their computers, others were engaged in a heated discussion about a football match and a controversial call. A man was sobbing in front of a female officer who, visibly uncomfortable, stood up to hand him a tissue and gently patted his shoulder.

“Can you take over? It’s a theft case.”

The duty officer handed me over to one of his colleagues, a stocky man in his forties with a shaved head. He seemed ready to handle the complaint quickly. He motioned for me to sit at a desk and took a seat across from me.

I told him my story—the little I knew of it, anyway. He typed on his computer for a moment. At his request, I lifted my sweater to show him the purplish marks on my body. He took pictures. He grimaced when I mentioned the incident with the pedestrian, though I didn’t go into detail.

He began making phone calls to confirm my identity. I just had to wait—but I couldn’t sit still. From where I was, I didn’t have a good view of the room or the door. I stood and approached a radiator, pretending to warm myself. My right hand instinctively traced the design of the archer on the armband I wore. I watched the officers work. I was still on edge. Every time someone entered, I couldn’t help but stare, half-expecting to see my pursuer. My whole body tensed, ready to flee. I eventually noticed that the officer handling my case was spending an unusual amount of time on the phone, occasionally glancing at me with a strange look.

When he finally hung up and motioned for me to return, I was tense. He seemed concerned. He asked for my fingerprints. I complied, letting him press my fingers into the ink and then onto a sheet of paper. Something wasn’t right. His initial indifference had shifted. My suspicion was confirmed when, after handing my fingerprints to a colleague, he asked me to retell my story. Then came questions about my background—my name, birthplace, family... The conversation was heading into unsettling territory. My discomfort only grew.

After five minutes, my fears were confirmed: he doubted my identity. Without papers or family, you could go from someone to no one in an instant. I stood and took a few steps. My gaze fell on a map of the city covering half a wall. I struggled to breathe. The ceiling felt low. Light barely filtered in. The windows were small, reinforced with bars. It felt like a prison. The walls were closing in. And it was unbearably hot—why had they turned the radiators up so high?

“The military base didn’t confirm my identity.”

It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

He sighed. “No.”

“You probably contacted the wrong person. They didn’t search properly.”

The heat was inhumane. Why didn’t they lower it?

The officer waved away my objection.

“That’s not all. There’s no one matching your name, date, and place of birth in the civil registry.”

“You think I’m lying?”

I passed my hand over my sore ribs. I couldn’t have done this to myself.

He studied me carefully, then said, “I don’t know. Your story doesn’t add up, that’s all. We’re in winter, it’s cold. But there are other ways to warm up and get a hot meal.”

His voice was cold. He took me for a homeless man wasting his time. The suffocating heat made it hard to breathe. I slid a finger under my collar, trying to loosen it. Outside, at least, the air was cold. I needed to get out. Why was I still here? Thinking clearly was becoming difficult.

The officer was still watching me, thoughtful.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to the hospital. You need treatment.”

As he spoke, he gathered his papers into a neat pile on the desk. The case was closed, in his eyes.

“And we’ll follow up on your case.”

But his tone and expression said, And we have better things to do.

“Tell me, where can we contact you?”

I shook my head. I had no money, no papers, and the military base was hours away by train.

“There’s a homeless shelter three streets away.”

Things were going from bad to worse. I had to take control of the situation.

“Wait.”

I remembered passing by a small hotel on my way to the station. I hadn’t paid attention to it at the time, but apparently, I had a photographic memory. I could visualize it and gave him its name. He noted it. Then, when I said I didn’t know how to get to the hospital, he gave me directions. Finally, he handed me a copy of my complaint.

I almost ran out of the station. I felt like I was fleeing. But outside, I could finally take a deep breath of fresh air.

I had no money, no papers, and no family. And now, not even a name.