The crowd roared as the referee blew the final whistle. Red and white scarves waved in triumph — Rayo Vallecano 2, Almería 0.
Elias returned to his seat, calm, composed, the faintest trace of adrenaline still pulsing behind his steady exterior.
Marin glanced at him and grinned.
"Well, someone looks very cheerful. Must've been one amazing toilet."
Elias chuckled softly, adjusting his jacket to hide the faint smudge of dust on his sleeve.
"You could say it… flushed all my problems away."
She groaned. "Oh no, you're one of those guys — bad jokes and a mysterious smile."
He smirked. "I like to think of it as charming ambiguity."
She laughed — a sound that came easily, almost too easily for someone who'd spent her life chasing ghosts. For a brief second, Elias wondered what kind of man she believed him to be. Someone harmless, perhaps. Someone… ordinary.
Outside, the night air was cooler, the city buzzing with post-match energy. Fans sang in the streets; fireworks bloomed faintly over rooftops. Elias and Marin walked side by side down the cobbled street, their conversation flowing as naturally as the crowd around them.
"You have to admit," Marin said, bumping his shoulder lightly, "Barcelona plays the more beautiful football."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "Beautiful? Maybe. Effective? Not since Madrid started collecting trophies again."
She gasped in mock outrage. "You sound like one of those smug Madrid fans."
"Because I am one," he replied easily. "Winning becomes a habit."
Marin shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told," Elias murmured.
They reached a quieter street. The noise of the crowd faded behind them, leaving only the sound of distant music and their footsteps on stone. The air carried the scent of salt and jasmine.
For a moment, they stood facing each other under a streetlight — close enough for him to notice the flecks of amber in her eyes, the way her breath caught just slightly.
Something stirred between them — tension, curiosity, danger wrapped in calm.
Elias leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to move.
But Marin took a small step back, lowering her gaze.
"I can't," she said softly. "I have someone. Back home."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Elias gave a small nod, his expression unreadable.
"He's a lucky man."
She smiled faintly, but there was something heavy behind it — guilt, perhaps, or confusion she didn't want to name.
"Goodnight, Elias."
"Goodnight, Marin."
She turned and walked toward the hotel, her figure fading into the amber light.
Elias watched her go, his hand brushing unconsciously against the notebook in his pocket. For the first time in years, the silence after a kill felt different — not relief, not peace, but something like… absence.
He looked up at the night sky, whispered quietly:
"You almost made me forget."
Then he turned away, heading into the darkness, where duty waited
The call came just after midnight.
Elias had just returned to his room when his phone buzzed — a single vibration, the signal for urgency.
He checked the encrypted number. Switchblade.
He answered without a word.
"Vale," came the low voice on the other end. "I'm outside one of Lamina Antonio's drop sites. You'll want to see this."
Elias's expression didn't change. "Where?"
"Dockside warehouse. Moll de Ponent. Old import yard — she's using it to move the medical shipments."
"Is she there?"
"Not yet. But her men are. Three trucks, unmarked, Spanish plates. I think she's sending a message — or moving something big."
Elias's tone stayed calm. "I'm on my way."
He ended the call, holstered his pistol, and slipped into his black jacket. The suit was gone — replaced by something darker, functional. The man Marin had seen at the football match was gone. In his place stood the Interrogator.
The docks were a skeleton of iron and silence. Cranes stood still against the night sky, their shadows slicing across the wet pavement. In the distance, a ship's horn moaned, low and lonely.
Elias parked his motorcycle in the shadows and approached on foot.
He spotted Switchblade leaning against a rusted container, cigarette burning between his fingers. His real name was long forgotten; he'd earned his nickname after carving his way through an ambush years ago and never letting go of the blade since.
"Vale," Switchblade said, exhaling smoke. "Still breathing. Good to see you."
Elias gave a small nod. "You always were terrible with greetings."
Switchblade smirked. "You always were terrible with friends."
Elias stepped closer, eyes scanning the yard. "Tell me what you've seen."
Switchblade gestured toward the lit warehouse across the docks. "That's where they're sorting it — painkillers, amphetamines, a few crates labeled as medical supplies. Lamina's fingerprints are all over it. She's been diverting drugs meant for clinics into the street trade."
Elias's jaw tightened. "And her?"
Switchblade shook his head. "No sign yet. But her second-in-command — that weasel named Ortega — he's inside. I can get you close if you want a word."
Elias's tone was calm but sharp. "When Lamina shows up, I want to know immediately."
Switchblade flicked away his cigarette, watching the ember die. "You planning to talk, or kill?"
Elias looked out toward the glow of the warehouse lights. "That depends on her answers."
Switchblade grinned faintly. "Still doing your three-question thing?"
Elias didn't look at him. "Some habits are harder to kill than people."
For a moment, silence hung between them — the sound of waves against metal, the hiss of wind through chains. Then Elias pulled the slide of his gun, checked the chamber, and holstered it again.
"Stay out of sight," he said. "If Lamina's here tonight, the game's about to change."
Switchblade nodded once. "You got it, Interrogator."
Elias slipped into the shadows, his footsteps silent against the wet dock floor — hunting once more, as Barcelona slept.
.
The city was quieter now.
Barcelona slept under a thin veil of mist, the waves beyond the harbor lapping softly against the shore.
Detective Marin Cross sat on the edge of her hotel bed, hair damp from a late shower, staring at her reflection in the darkened TV screen. She couldn't stop replaying the evening — the laughter, the teasing, that almost-kiss that shouldn't have meant anything.
Her phone rang.
An unknown Spanish number.
She hesitated before answering.
"Detective Cross."
A man's voice came through, accented but clear.
"Señorita Cross? This is Officer Romelu García from the Barcelona Policía Nacional. We were told you are visiting from Interpol."
Her posture straightened immediately. "Yes. What's this about?"
"There's been… an incident outside the Estadi Olímpic. A man found dead not long after the match — single gunshot, clean, professional. Witnesses say you were there tonight."
Marin's pulse quickened. "I was. But I didn't see or hear anything unusual. Who was the victim?"
"Unidentified, but he had narcotics and counterfeit medical tags on him. Looks like drug-related business."
Her stomach tightened. The words drug-related tugged at the thread of her instincts — and something colder beneath it: the signature of a man she'd been chasing for years.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she said.
The police precinct on Carrer de la Marina buzzed with controlled chaos — the hum of printers, phones, the steady rhythm of Spanish voices moving through procedure. Marin stepped in, credentials flashing under the fluorescent lights.
Officer Romelu García looked up from a stack of files. Tall, dark-haired, mid-thirties — the easy confidence of someone who'd seen too much but still cared. He extended a hand.
"Detective Cross. Pleasure."
She shook it firmly. "You said there was a murder outside the match."
"Sí," García said, flipping through the photos spread on the table. "Single shot to the chest. No witnesses close enough to see the shooter. But… it was clean. Too clean. No panic, no stray shell casings. Whoever did this knew what he was doing."
He pushed one of the photos toward her. The image showed the victim — slumped near a maintenance corridor, his red cap still on his head. Marin froze.
That cap. That corridor.
Her mind flashed back to the stadium, to when Elias — or whatever his name truly was — had suddenly excused himself.
"You said this happened right after the match?" she asked carefully.
"Around that time, yes. Why?"
Marin forced her tone to stay neutral. "Just… thinking out loud. He could've been caught in the crowd."
García studied her face, curious. "You saw something?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. But I want in. I'm not here on holiday — I'm with Interpol. If there's a possible connection to international drug movement, I can help."
He hesitated. "It's not our usual procedure, but…" He exhaled, resigned. "Fine. You're in. You'll work under my supervision."
Marin nodded. "Understood."
As García stepped away to brief the team, she looked down again at the photo. The cold efficiency of the wound, the lack of hesitation — she knew that signature.
The Interrogator had killed again.
And he'd been sitting beside her, laughing about football.
Marin's hand clenched slowly around the edge of the photo.
"You won't slip away this time," she whispered.
The night wind off the sea carried the smell of oil and salt, and somewhere far below the city lights, gunmetal waited for the touch of a trigger.
Elias moved through the shadows like smoke.
He had been watching the warehouse for almost an hour — counting men, timing patrols, listening to the faint thump of crates being shifted. The pattern was predictable. They weren't expecting someone like him.
He pressed a finger to the small earpiece.
"Switchblade. Lights on my mark."
From a stack of containers across the yard, a low grunt of acknowledgment.
Elias slipped through the side door, his pistol ready. The air inside was thick with the stench of chemicals and damp concrete. Plastic drums lined the walls, each labeled as medical aid supplies. He knew better.
Two guards by the loading bay muttered in Spanish, not seeing him until it was too late.
Two soft shots.
Two bodies down.
The echo of the silencer disappeared beneath the warehouse hum.
Then — a shout. Someone had seen the movement.
Gunfire erupted.
Elias dove behind a forklift as bullets chewed through the metal around him. Sparks flashed in the dark. He counted three shooters, moving toward him from the catwalk. Calm, measured, he switched magazines and fired in rhythm — two up, one down.
By the time the echo faded, the only sound was the distant creak of chains and the drip of leaking fluid.
He stepped over one of the bodies and found a phone buzzing in the man's pocket. The screen showed Lamina A.
Elias picked it up but said nothing.
On the other end, a voice — calm, female — spoke.
"Is it done?"
The dying man on the floor wheezed, forcing the words out through blood.
"Job… done."
Lamina's laughter was soft, almost kind.
"Good. Then let the rats fight among themselves."
The line went dead.
Elias's eyes narrowed. He knew bait when he saw it. Whatever this "job" was, it wasn't finished — and he had just stepped into the middle of it.
Across the city, in a mansion draped with glass and silk, Dr. Lamina Antonio poured herself a glass of red wine. The reflection in the window caught the faintest smile curving her lips.
"So," she murmured to no one in particular, "the Interrogator has arrived."
She set the glass down and picked up another phone — a secure line. With a quick change in tone and accent, her voice became higher, softer — the kind of frightened civilian voice that drew sympathy.
"Hello? Is this the Barcelona police?"
The dispatcher confirmed.
"My name is Lucia Morales. I… I live near the docks. I heard gunshots, a lot of them! Please — you have to send someone."
Her eyes gleamed as she ended the call.
"Let's see what happens when the hunter and the cop meet in the same cage," she whispered.
Lamina laughed and said
" Time for work"