[Adastra, Luxomoris. Police Station. Same Night]

Mark was taken straight to the police station, but he didn't care at all. The driver was clearly on duty and was boiling with rage. He was especially eager to punish people like Mark.

However, the man didn't take into account that Evans was not an ordinary guy. While the driver was filling out the paperwork — the evacuation report and the protocol on unauthorized entry — Mark, under the pretext of smoking, silently climbed into the cab of the tow truck. With the confidence of the last hacker about to break in, he pulled on the gloves found on the seat and opened the DVR's protective compartment, humming softly and moving to the rhythm.

The guy knew exactly which movements to perform and at what speed, so he was as relaxed as possible. He deftly extracted the SD-card and, whistling, hid it in his pocket. Then he pressed a couple of buttons — the screen confirmed successful formatting of the memory.

All the compromising recordings disappeared within seconds.

With a triumphant grin, lighting a cigar, Mark confidently closed the compartment and climbed out of the cab of the tow truck. No data will surface — this station isn't even equipped with external cameras. More precisely, they exist, but only for show. Of course, Mark knew that.

[Should I remind you how important funding is?]

— You do realize that this idiot is breaking the rules. The car had been parked in an unauthorized spot for several days, and I simply took it away when there was no foot traffic, — the tow truck driver reported to the police officer who had recently completed training.

— I need to speak with the senior officer, —he replied, eyes wide open. It seemed he doubted the reality of what was happening. Eh, rookie...— He'll be here in a few minutes... Oh, there he is, Sir Major Nivis! — the young man was relieved that he wouldn't have to haul this burden himself.

— Greetings. What are the violations? — a confident and self-assured man entered the station. He exuded the aura of a professional villain, but no — he was a cop on duty.

— Here's the guy, Sir Major Nivis — the junior sergeant said, pointing at Mark, who had followed the policeman inside. — He jumped onto the tow truck that had impounded his car.

— Greetings! — Mark shouted loudly enough to make the policeman flinch.

— What did he do?! Oh... don't you know how to solve this? Formalize the photo-fix, — the major said irritably. He had come here for a couple of hours regarding a completely different matter. He clearly didn't want to deal with anything unnecessary.

— Yes, sir Major Nivis! — the rookie nodded and eagerly got to work, fire in his eyes.

— Wow, a photo shoot at the police station – this will be a keepsake! — Mark exclaimed with anticipation, as if it were the first time in his life.

[What is this strange collection?]

— And me? — the driver asked, puzzled.

— You’re free to go! — the major replied shortly, not hiding his irritation. — Everything’s already been processed.

They started photographing Mark, but he made faces, sent hand signals, and completely turned the process into a comedy show. The rookie was lost, not understanding how to act. It was the first time in his practice that he had encountered such a character. The junior sergeant looked to the major, because no matter what orders he gave, Mark simply ignored them and acted on his own accord. Mark sensed authority.

The major received a phone call at that time, and he answered with a heavy sigh. For some reason, he wasn’t fazed by the unknown number that showed up on his personal cell phone.

— Delete my number, — a cold voice commanded abruptly, without any preamble.

— Lu...? — the major faltered, no trace of the mask of restraint and confidence left. He recognized the voice, but for some reason he was afraid of it.

— Keep quiet. A little birdie told me you made a case on the wrong man on your shift. Did you forget that any case against him leads back to you?! — the voice exploded with menace, not mincing words. It was a distant bird.

— Ahem... This guy? — the major glanced sideways at Mark in the distance but paid no mind to what he was doing.

— Exactly, — the voice cut him off curtly.

— All right, I’ll fix it, — the major said calmly. The dial tone sounded immediately — apparently, the caller hung up without overloading his schedule.

The major immediately rushed over to Mark, while the junior sergeant, stunned, kept filming out of inertia. As a result, the policeman ended up in the frame too — and not in the best light. By that time, Mark had already snatched his cap off and was playing the role of an important person. Meanwhile, the major was frantically waving at the rookie to stop fixing these moments.

Well, a classic display of Mark’s spirit.

— Go away, the case is closed, — the major shouted at Mark. Mark was already looking at him with a serious expression, as if he were a criminal, squinting in feigned contemplation and tilting his head from one shoulder to the other.

— Sir Major Nivis, but why? — the rookie asked, clearly upset by the situation. Perhaps he took it as a personal verdict.

— What about the swallow? — Mark threw, completely unconcerned about who was in charge.

— Quiet. I'll talk to you later, — said sharply the major to the junior sergeant, then, looking at Mark, added brusquely: — And you — you're not in a zoo.

— I'm talking about the sports car, — Mark said to the major with such surprise, as if all sports car drivers called their cars ‘swallows.’

— You mean that monster on the tow truck? — the major asked ironically, grinning cheekily.

— Keep your mouth shut! — Mark clenched his fists and bared his teeth. He was ready to tear someone apart even for a single word against his car.

— You'll have your swallow. Go with God! — threw the major and, without looking back, headed to his office to deal with other, more important matters.

— More like hand in hand with the diablo, — Mark snapped with a sneer, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hadn't even thought about leaving without his swallow. But seeing Ostin outside the window, he changed his mind.

Braun couldn't sit still. He just paced back and forth, kicking everything in his way. Sometimes he'd freeze, staring into the void. Terrible sight.

Then he looked straight at Mark, with the pity of a forsaken puppy. A friend was still more important than any sports car, even a glossy one, so Mark simply turned and walked away without a 'thank you' or a 'goodbye'.

[Persipera, Luxomoris. Sheriff’s Cabin. Same Night]

The sheriff froze, poised for battle. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He fired. He fired at his son — the only child the world had sent him. And he did it without even pausing to consider: was it worth it? It wasn't just his failure as a cop — it was his failure as a father.

But today, the world didn't take him. It took something deeper... his own pride and sense of professional worth.

[Even when you pay, the world will take it piece by piece — sometimes in ways too cruelly intricate.]

The son immediately burst out of the house, barely regaining his senses. No wonder — just one wrong move, one micro gesture — and the world would disappear, and you with it. He lunged at the sheriff and slammed him to the floor with all the strength and fury blazing in his mind. Yes, it was reckless. But still, in those few seconds, he couldn’t come up with anything more sensible. It's not every day you get shot by your own father…

— What are you doing?! — the young man screamed hysterically, clutching his ancestor’s clothing almost to the skin. — Say something... — it sounded like despair, but in fact behind it lay a sense of injustice and the utter insignificance of his life… one that could be taken away in less than a minute. As if it were worth nothing. As if it were a bolt that could be swapped for another in an instant.

— Sorry... — the sheriff slowly stood, brushed the dirt off his clothing, and stowed his revolver. He acted irritatingly casual, as if it were not his mistake that would be fatal. — Let’s go to the cabin, — he said in a monotone, as if his son no longer mattered to him.

[Did he mean anything to him, or do years and thoughts of retirement simply make you stop believing in the power of people?]

His son looked at him with a pale face, then rose, but simply couldn’t move. It seemed as if another flash of rage was about to overwhelm him. He clenched his fists tightly, bowed his head, and, ignoring the bangs falling over his eyes, simply entered the house. Without uttering a sound.

— Are you hungry? — such a simple fatherly question seemed utterly insignificant.

— You almost killed me ... — the guy couldn't hold back, but spoke as if to himself. Quietly and without even glancing in Moor's direction.

— I told you: sorry… — the sheriff faltered. — And one ought to warn me before visiting. I didn’t know that after all these years you’d remember your father existed… — and the excuses began to pour out. Why can’t such a stern law dog admit his own mistakes? Or is that exactly the reason?

— Listen, I’ve been busy… — the son knew full well that his father was simply shifting the blame onto him. But he also understood: his father would never admit it. Not even in his own thoughts.

— Three years? — the sheriff straightened abruptly.— Tell it like it is: you decided I'm crazy, that's why you're here, — he said with contempt, slamming the table so hard that a pie bounced off the plate and nearly fell to the floor. What’s with all this rage, or are you angry at yourself?

— You know, you don’t call every day claiming you saw a ghost, — the son retorted just as harshly. There was neither irony nor mockery in his tone — only genuine incomprehension, and deep down, a hint of worry lingered. It was evident that the guy truly believed what he was saying.

— It wasn't a ghost! — shouted the sheriff, almost out of control. He believed in what he was saying as well. And that’s exactly what turned everything into a comedy of the absurd.

[Who’s at fault if they’re both right?]

— You're at it again! — the son couldn't take it. He looked at his father with pity, as if he were mentally searching for the nearest psychiatric hospital.

— Don't you dare yell at your elders! — and in that moment, his dignity and sense of self-importance clashed. Now the sheriff wasn’t arguing about whether he had seen Sylvester. He was arguing about himself.

— I'm sorry... — the son hesitated and sighed. He knew: only Sylvester could be more stubborn than his father in this world. Ironically, he had vanished.

— What do you know about Sylvester? — the sheriff’s voice sounded no longer like a father’s, but like a cop ready to tear a throat for the truth.

—  Just like that? No 'how are you,' no 'what have you been up to, son,' no 'I'm so glad to see you'? — the son could hardly believe that this conversation was really happening. Deep down, he still hoped that maybe somewhere inside this iron cop lay the love of a real father.

— Is this the first time you’re seeing me? — the sheriff said coldly, not even blinking. No, it hasn’t been hiding.

— Really. What a foolish son, — the guy muttered ironically, not taking his eyes off his ancestor. Pain was visible in his eyes, and his pupils seemed ready to fill with the purest water.

— The sheriff didn't soften his tone, didn’t make any concessions, didn’t even flinch. He was like a stone, but with the skin of a man.

— He disappeared eight years ago, then he was declared dead, — the son reported in a calm, emotionless voice, like a TV news reporter.

The sheriff waited, persistently looking for the slightest mistake in his words.

— And where was I? — he finally asked, as if trying to find hidden pitfalls.

— As always, on the road, — the son replied.

— And how do you know? — Moor persisted, digging deeper and deeper, as if trying to break his interlocutor. It didn’t matter who he was to him. But for what?

— I get my information from thin air, — the son said irritably. Of course, when your help is treated as a bargaining chip.

— Don’t be rude, — the sheriff raised his voice.

— Don’t give me an interrogation, — the son turned away, about to leave. These battles had worn him out.

— Then speak to the point, — the sheriff placed his hand on his shoulder so firmly that he could have broken the bones in one motion.

— Only when you stop seeing me as a criminal, — the son replied, every word soaked with pity and bitterness.

Silence. Nothing more is needed here.

Or maybe the shadow cast by the sheriff’s awards? Or the scent of lavender, which now felt like suffocation? Or perhaps we should talk about the son, ready to break free if only you loosen your grip.

— You know what I’m like, — the sheriff broke the silence. He didn’t even give it a choice — only on his terms.

— Of course, that’s your favorite manipulation, — the son said, now so loudly that even the deafest walls could hear. He no longer wanted to remain a shadow in his father’s eyes. He didn’t want to be the lapdog in his affairs.

— But I saw him, Frank, — the sheriff said with a hint of guilt; it could even seem as if he were starting to doubt himself. But he had never doubted himself. Now doubt flickered in his gaze, directed at his son.

— No. You just want to call yourself a cop again, — the son said harshly, not thinking of the consequences. He had inherited such stubbornness from his father — no wonder.

But Frank didn’t rejoice for long — he noticed sadness and despair on his father’s face. His gaze darted about, and he unclenched his arms, which had been crossed over his chest.

— I'm sorry... — he said with a military gesture and a slight smile, though the corners of his lips trembled. — Father, you really could see him, — he said encouragingly, though inside he doubted the adequacy of his words. He just wanted to pretend to believe, so that his father's next tricks wouldn't make him feel vulnerable under the police officer's aim.

— Of course! He was still with Ostin! — the sheriff blurted out involuntarily, then abruptly fell silent and wiped his mouth.

— Ostin? — the son squinted. The name felt painfully familiar, but he couldn’t understand why.

— Uhu... Let's have some tea, — the sheriff said, pointing at the kettle. No, he didn't bother to make the tea himself — instead, he nodded and motioned for his son to do so.

The sheriff watched his son fiddling with the kettle — at the same age as he himself was — and didn’t recognize his child in him. Over these three years, he had changed a lot. He looked far younger than his years.