The Witness

Chapter 3

2:28 am

The police station smelled of wet wool and cigarette smoke. A fan rattled overhead, pushing stale air around the dimly lit room where a single desk lamp cast a cone of yellow across a pile of paperwork. The rain had driven most of the city indoors, but two men sat stiffly on the wooden bench near the front desk, water dripping from their coats onto the floor.

The first was Sergei, a factory worker with wide shoulders and tired eyes. His cigarette pack was damp in his breast pocket, and his fingers twitched for one though he knew better inside the station. He kept glancing at the door, as if expecting someone to walk in and accuse him of wasting the officers’ time.

Beside him sat his friend, Mikhail, leaner, older, with a crooked nose that had been broken years ago and never properly set. Mikhail had insisted on coming along, half to back Sergei up, half to satisfy his own curiosity. He shifted impatiently, muttering under his breath.

An officer at the desk finally raised his head.

“You two are here to report something?”

Sergei cleared his throat. His voice came out rough.

“Yeah. A girl. I saw a girl being taken off the street.”

The officer’s pen paused. He gestured toward the chairs opposite the desk.

“Sit.”

They obeyed. The wood creaked under their weight.

“All right,”

the officer said, pulling a form closer.

“Start from the beginning.”

Sergei rubbed the back of his neck.

“It was just after midnight. I was heading back from shift. Rain still coming down. I saw her walking — the waitress from the café on Lenina Street. I know her face, she’s served me coffee plenty of times.”

“Name?”

“Anfisa. Don’t know her last name.”

The officer scribbled.

“Go on.”

“She was halfway down the block. Then this man steps out. Hood up. Tall. Didn’t say much, just went right for her. I thought maybe they knew each other, but she froze, then tried to pull away. Next thing, he’s dragging her into the alley.”

Mikhail leaned forward, nodding.

“He’s telling it true. I didn’t see the start, but I caught them halfway down. Looked wrong, officer. Not like two people arguing. Like a wolf snatching a rabbit.”

Sergei’s jaw tightened.

“She tried to scream, but he shut her up quick. She was fighting, clawing at him. Not drunk, not playful. Fighting for real.”

The officer tapped his pen against the desk.

“You saw his face?”

“No,”

Sergei admitted.

“Hood shadowed it. But… pale. What I did see — his skin looked pale. Like a man who doesn’t see the sun.”

Mikhail added,

“And eyes. Didn’t catch them long, but light. Not dark like ours. Strange eyes.”

The officer jotted more notes, lips pressed thin.

Sergei shifted, uneasy.

“Look, I know what I saw. He took her. And I couldn’t catch them — they vanished into the alleys like smoke. That’s not normal.”

Mikhail leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Everyone’s been talking about that raid tonight. Cops all over the café. Now the girl from that same café’s gone missing? You can put the pieces together, officer. Same as we did.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re suggesting it’s connected?”

“What else?”

Sergei said, his voice low.

“That ghost figure you lot are after, the one who leaks files, stirs trouble. You came sniffing around the café tonight, didn’t you? And hours later, she’s dragged into the dark by some hooded bastard. Tell me that’s coincidence.”

The officer didn’t reply, but his pen moved steadily. He finished the line, then rose.

“Wait here.”

He disappeared into the inner office.

Sergei exhaled shakily, running a hand over his damp hair.

“Think they’ll take it serious?”

“They’d better,”

Mikhail muttered.

“Girl like her — harmless, quiet — she’s the kind who ends up a story in the morning paper if no one listens.”

A second door opened, and two more officers entered — higher rank, uniforms sharper. The man from the desk followed them, handing over the form.

The taller officer fixed his gaze on Sergei and Mikhail.

“Repeat everything you told him. Every detail.”

They did, halting at times, circling back, adding small things — the way she’d clutched her bag, the sound of her cry, the heavy steps in the rain. The officers asked the same questions twice, three times, testing for cracks. But Sergei’s story held. Mikhail’s too.

When they were done, the taller officer leaned back.

“You know the name people whisper for him?”

Mikhail smirked faintly.

“The hidden one. The ghost.”

The officer’s eyes hardened.

“If it was him, then this isn’t a simple abduction. This is a hostage. That means escalation. You understand?”

Sergei swallowed, nodding slowly.

The officers exchanged glances. One left the room, phone already in hand. Orders spread quickly, like fire catching paper — other stations notified, descriptions relayed, patrols adjusted. By morning, every precinct would have the girl’s name and face.

Mikhail tapped the desk with a scarred finger.

“But listen. You can’t be sure, can you? Hood up, pale skin, strange eyes. Could’ve been someone else. There’s men in this district you know damn well would take a girl like that. Rapists, traffickers. More than one bastard I could name who hides behind shadows and doesn’t need to be a legend to do it.”

Sergei frowned.

“You saying it wasn’t the ghost?”

“I’m saying maybe it was. But maybe it was worse. At least the ghost, they say he’s got… purpose. The others? They don’t leave girls alive.”

The officer at the desk cut in sharply.

“Enough. We’ll handle that. What matters is she’s missing, and you both saw enough to confirm it.”

The men fell silent.

Outside, the rain lashed against the station windows, carrying the night deeper.

By the time Sergei and Mikhail left, the report had already begun its climb. Upstairs, phones rang. A sergeant repeated the story to another district. Another officer pinned the girl’s café ID photo to the board. A name scrawled beneath it: Anfisa Ivanovna.

And in the city’s veins, gossip carried faster than orders.

Sometimes later

By the time the two men reached the tavern near the factory, their tale had grown legs. The waitress was missing. She’d been taken by the ghost, maybe. Or maybe not.

“She was dragged off the street,”

Sergei repeated, hunched over his beer.

“I saw it.”

“Dragged, eh?”

the bartender said, polishing a glass.

“Could be that pig Clint He’s been sniffing around girls for years.”

“Or Yarik,”

An other man offered darkly.

“He’s out of prison again. Everyone knows what he does.”

“Maybe the ghost,”

Mikhail countered, lifting his glass.

“Maybe not. But whoever it was, she’s gone. And the city won’t sleep easy until they know.”

The tavern hummed with mutters, theories twisting and knotting.

The station lights burned late into the night, long after most of the city had gone to sleep under its blanket of rain. The clock on the wall crept toward two-thirty in the morning, but the air was still taut, voices echoing through the corridors. The disappearance of one girl, any girl, would usually be noted in the log and dealt with by morning. But the way Sergei and Mikhail had told it — the timing, the shadows, the hooded figure — the possibility of a connection to the phantom who haunted their city had everyone restless.A sergeant leaned over the desk, speaking to the younger officer on night duty.

“Start digging. Full background. Who is she, where does she live, who does she know. Every detail.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer typed quickly, pulling up the registry files.

Anfisa Ivanovna. Twenty-three. Orphan. Current residence: a crumbling apartment block near the tram line, fourth floor. Employment: the café on Lenina Sreet, steady shifts, no criminal record, no associations flagged.

He frowned.

“She’s… clean.”

The sergeant grunted.

“Too clean. People like that, they’re easy to use. Easy to vanish.” He tapped the desk.

“Get me her employer. The old man who owns the café.”

Almost 3 am

Across the district, a heavy knock rattled the front door of a narrow apartment. The café’s owner, Pyotr Sergeyevich, shuffled from his bedroom in slippers, muttering curses. He pulled the door open to find two uniformed officers standing in the rain.

“What’s this?”

Pyotr demanded, rubbing his beard.

“You know what hour it is?,what?”

“Mr. Sergeyevich, we need to ask you about one of your employees,”

the taller officer said.

“Anfisa Ivanovna.”

Pyotr’s expression softened, confusion replacing irritation.

“Anfisa? What’s happened?”

“She hasn’t returned home. Witnesses claim she was taken on the street after leaving your café tonight.”

The old man blinked, stunned.

“Taken? You mean… kidnapped?”

“That’s what we’re trying to confirm.”

He gestured them inside, grumbling,

“At least close the door, it’s raining buckets.”

They stepped into his cramped sitting room, where the smell of tobacco clung to the curtains.

Pyotr sank into a chair, running a hand through his graying hair.

“Anfisa… she closed up with us tonight. She was tired, same as always. Nothing unusual. She laughed at my jokes, for God’s sake.”

His voice dropped.

“She’s a good girl. Quiet, hardworking. Doesn’t deserve this.”

“Does she have enemies? Anyone who might have reason to harm her?”

“Enemies?” Pyotr scoffed.

“She can barely afford rent, what enemies would she have? No, no, she’s too ordinary for that. Invisible, almost. If you blink, you’d miss her in a crowd.”

His words faltered, a sadness creeping in.

“But she’s my like my daughter. She’s family. You find her, understand? Whatever you have to do, you bring her back.”

The officers exchanged a look. One scribbled notes.

“Do you know her friends, anyone close to her?”

Pyotr sighed.

“Only one I’ve seen often is a boy, Alan other than than My other staff.Comes by sometimes. They talk outside, nothing suspicious. He’s harmless.”

“Give us his surname if you know it.”

“Don’t. But I know his face. He works odd jobs, local. Ask around, you’ll find him.”

The taller officer nodded, tucking his notebook away.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

Pyotr followed them to the door, the weight of the news sinking deeper into his chest. When the door shut again, he leaned against it, staring at the rain-slick street beyond.

“Anfisa”

he murmured.

“What have they done to you, girl?”

Back at the station, the phone rang. The younger officer answered, listening intently before nodding.

“Yes. We’ll bring him in.”

He set the receiver down and turned to the sergeant.

“Alan Petrovich. She spoke to him just after leaving. He’s agreed to come down.”

Minutes stretched. The rain drummed harder on the roof.

At two-thirty sharp, Alan walked into the station, damp hood pulled back, hair dripping. His expression was worried, restless, but not frightened — not yet. He looked around until an officer waved him toward the desk.

“You’re Alan Petrovich?”

“Yeah.”

He dropped into the chair, shaking water from his sleeves.

“What’s going on? Someone said this is about Anfisa?”

The sergeant leaned forward.

“When did you last see her?”

Alan rubbed the back of his neck.

“About midnight. She’d just closed the café. I was walking home, ran into her on the main road. We talked a bit.”

“About what?”

“Nothing. Just… small talk. The raid earlier, why the police were there. I told her it was because of that ghost figure you’re all chasing.”

The sergeant’s eyes sharpened.

“And how did she react?”

Alan hesitated.

“She… nodded. Looked tired. A little uneasy, maybe. But that’s it. I offered to walk her home. She refused.”

The officer scribbled.

“She refused. Why?”

Alan shrugged helplessly.

“Said she’d be fine. She’s like that — doesn’t want to bother anyone.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“You’re saying she’s missing?”

The sergeant studied him for a long moment.

“Witnesses saw her taken by a man in a hood. Pale, silver-eyed. Ring a bell?”

Alan’s face went pale.

“Silver eyes? No. No, I don’t know anyone like that.”

His voice grew tight.

“She… she was right there. I could’ve—”

He stopped, fists clenching against the desk.

Mikhail, who had been waiting nearby after giving his statement, muttered to Sergei.

“Told you. The boy’s useless.”

“Quiet,” the officer snapped.

Alan leaned forward desperately.

“You have to find her. Please. She’s… she’s good. She doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this.”

“We will do everything possible,”

the sergeant said, though his eyes betrayed little warmth. He gestured to another officer.

“Escort him home. We may call again.”

Alan rose slowly, shoulders sagging. He looked back once, as if hoping for news, before being led out.

The room settled into murmurs again. Sergei and Mikhail lingered, watching the officers spread maps across the desk, marking the café, the alley, the route she would have taken home.

“Could be anyone,”

Mikhail muttered, shaking his head.

“That ghost you’re so sure of, or some other bastard. Doesn’t matter to her, does it?”

Sergei swallowed, his throat dry.

“No. Doesn’t matter.”

The sergeant ignored them, picking up the phone again. His voice was firm, clipped.

“Notify all precincts. Name: Anfisa Ivanovna. Twenty-three, waitress. Taken near Lenina Street after midnight. Witness accounts suggest possible link to the hidden figure. Circulate her description immediately. All stations to be alert.”

The order moved outward, carried on phone lines and wires. By morning, her face would be pinned on boards in stations across the city, her name passed between officers, her story whispered among locals.

And beneath it all, gossip swirled, twisting every retelling.

“She was dragged off by the ghost.”

“No, by Clint, that pig who hunts girls.”

“I heard Yarik’s back in town. Could be him.”

“Doesn’t matter who. She’s gone.”

At two-thirty-seven, the clock ticked on the station wall. The rain eased to a fine mist outside. Inside, the officers straightened their reports, exchanged weary glances, and prepared for the hunt.

And in the silence that followed, the name of an ordinary girl settled into the city’s bloodstream like a drop of ink in water — spreading, staining, impossible to take back...

Anfisa Ivanovna.

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