قاضی خاموش

Promise me you will stay.

Dorin
The room is drowned in darkness. Only a candle flickers on the corner of the desk, its trembling flame making shadows dance across the walls. The air reeks of metal--the sharp scent of blood, fresh, hot, almost alive. A body lies in the center of the room. I kneel beside it, gently closing its eyes. With a short breath, I blow out the candle. Darkness swallows the room like a suffocating blanket. But I know the way. I move through the blackness toward the sink. My hands are red, soaked in blood. I turn on the faucet, letting the water run over them. The blood clings stubbornly between the creases of my fingers. I lift my head, staring straight into the mirror. A faint light from the half‑open door in the hallway falls across my face. My features are stern, but my eyes are weary. I smirk.
"One less."
I walk to the chair in the corner and sit down. I pick up my headphones from the desk and slide them over my ears. A voice begins to play softly:
"In the heart of darkness, some shadows are not born of fear... but of hope. This is my voice, and you are listening to episode four of In the Shadow of Justice. This week's case is about someone who is both killer and judge. Someone who passes sentence without a courtroom. The media call him The Silent Judge. Because no one knows who he really is. No trace of him has ever been found."
A faint smile of pride curls on my lips.

Eli
The main door opens with a muffled sound. The click of my high heels on polished tiles becomes a precise rhythm, the music of steps that never hesitate. I adjust my pressed suit, loosen the collar, and tighten the ponytail holding back my hair. My eyes sweep the hallway from the entrance to its end. I greet the receptionist with a brief nod. For a moment, everyone behind their desks stops working. I even hear one whisper:
"She's here. The damn detective everyone's been talking about."
And another replies:
"They say this case is different. They wanted only her."
Without turning my head, I walk straight to the second‑floor conference room. The chief greets me with a firm yet warm tone:
"Detective Silora. Welcome back. We know you were on leave. But this one... it's complicated. And only you can handle it."
I nod, expressionless, blinking once. The chief gestures toward the file.
"This person isn't technically a serial killer. There's no repeating pattern in the method."
The senior officer opens the folder, scattering photos across the table: a retired judge accused of child abuse, an investor acquitted of rape, a veteran officer with missing case files.
I ask, "And at the crime scenes?"
"There are no crime scenes. They simply vanish. Then their names disappear from the system. Which means... they're dead. It seems he enjoys being both judge and executioner."
"What's his name?"
"We don't have one. No evidence, no identity. Only the title the media gave him: The Silent Judge. That's why we came to you. We need someone who looks beyond footprints."
I place my hands on the table, my eyes fixed on the photos.

Later that night
The glow of a bedside lamp paints the white walls of my home. Once I'm sure everything is spotless, I sit on the couch in a tight gray T‑shirt. My hair is loose, trapped behind my shoulders. On the small wooden table in front of me rests a half‑finished cup of coffee and my laptop, its screen filled with the report.
"Shadows of Justice Podcast. Stay with us. Murders without a trace. Victims who rise from forgotten files, finding the voice of law only in death. He is the furious champion of justice."
A subtle smirk crosses my lips. I lift my coffee but don't drink. My eyes linger on a dark stain in the corner of the wall.

Dorin
I lie on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the gray ceiling under the dim glow of the streetlights outside. The pillow rests beneath my head, but no position brings peace. My hand refuses to reach for the notebook beside me. I haven't lit the candle. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall fills the silence, until my eyelids grow heavy and finally close.
The room is quiet--until the scream returns. I jolt awake, breath tangled, tumbling off the bed. My eyes are open, yet I feel trapped inside the nightmare. I press my hand against my mouth, but even that cannot silence me.
"I was too late..."
My first fist slams against the wall, burning my skin. The second shakes the floor, leaving blood on the plaster. My cry fills the room. With trembling hands, I stagger to the cabinet and pull out a bottle of wine. No glass. I drink until the world blurs. If the wine doesn't burn my tongue, madness will. Shaking, I force myself back onto the bed and open my notebook. The pen trembles, scratching broken lines:
"3:26 a.m. Her scream is the same. Just like that night. I was only a child then. But I still can't forgive myself."
The second line presses deep. The pages blur--smeared by sweat, wine, tears, or ink. It doesn't matter.

Eli
The sun has yet to rise, but the clock reads 6:12 a.m. I'm still at my desk. My eyes are bloodshot from sleeplessness, and steam curls from my third cup of coffee. Notes cover the wall before me--lines, city maps, timelines of murders, names of victims. With a red pen I underline a sentence from the file:
"None of the crimes are directly connected."
The podcast plays again, but this time not in my headphones. It echoes from the speakers, loud and clear:
"Is this person truly seeking justice? Or has he simply convinced himself he isn't a killer?"
I smirk, whispering under my breath:
"You're not searching for salvation... you're searching to be seen. Let's see who dares to judge in the dark."

At the station, everyone scatters for lunch. I'm the only one still at my desk, hundreds of files open on my laptop. The door creaks and the senior officer steps in.
"Eli... aren't you going to eat?"
Without looking up, I reply:
"Twenty‑six murders this winter. But when I checked the weather reports, none of the disappearances happened on rainy days. He avoids the sound of rain. He won't leave the house to kill when it's falling."
"You're getting too deep into this."
"As long as he's breathing, I have work to do."

Dorin
I sit on the couch, tea cooling in my hand. The television blares the news, but my mind doesn't catch a single word. I rise, pacing aimlessly through the apartment. Every few minutes I stop at the narrow hallway mirror, glance at myself, then move on. On the kitchen table, last night's meal sits untouched, fork in hand but no bite swallowed. I decide to shower. Warm water pours over me, but it brings no release. There is no dirt to wash away, yet I scrub my skin. Steam fogs the mirror. With my finger, I write:
"Today: no one."

Eli
I sit by the window, beneath the curling smoke rising from my cup. My eyes are hollow, the skin beneath them thin. Beside me, a plate with half‑eaten food--remnants from three days ago. I can't remember the last time I slept well. This case keeps me awake from within.
A video surfaces. From a surveillance camera thought broken weeks ago, a technician salvaged a single frame.
The date? The night after the seventh victim's death.
In the image: a shadowed man, black shirt, hands in his pockets, standing before a glass that reflects him back. On the dusty mirror, someone scrawls "Silent Judge" before walking away.
"You're playing with me..." I mutter.
I rise quickly, reaching for an old file--not tied to these murders, but my own. My first case, where I lied to protect a child. The file reopened when someone betrayed me to the police. It was him. I grab my phone and call the senior officer.
"Jake. Get here fast. I need your help."
Forty minutes later, he arrives. His first words:
"You look pale. You've lost weight. You're not well."
"There's no time for sleep. I need a list. Every anonymous call to the police that never led to an open case or trial. Especially in the last two years."

Files scatter across my desk. I comb through every anonymous report. More than twenty led nowhere. Six were recorded on rainy nights--irrelevant, I know. But one catches my eye. 3:12 a.m. A gunshot reported, but no body found. The date? The night before one of the victims vanished. My burning eyes fix on a single line:
"No evidence discovered."
I mark the location on the map. A narrow alley between two old buildings, only 460 meters from the park. I call the officer.
"I'm sending you a case file. I need the audio recording. Today."
"Eli, it was just a gunshot. Near the park--lots of hunters there. Illegal, sure, but unrelated."
"Send it. I want to hear it."
I hang up.
I play the audio again and again. The caller's trembling voice reeks of fear. The gunshot is close, too close. I reach for my phone to text the officer, to go check the alley. But hesitation grips me. If the killer was there, there should have been more shots, more calls. Not just one. I can't afford to be wrong.

The streets are half‑dark, dawn still far away. My breath fogs in the cold air. Hands buried in my coat pockets, I walk to the narrow alley where the call was made. Only the drip of water from air conditioners and the distant howl of a dog break the silence. My flashlight sweeps across walls and windows--until footsteps echo from inside one of the buildings.

Dorin
Moments ago I woke up, breathless, when a beam of light fell across the floor from the small window. It takes me a few seconds to realize--someone is outside, holding a flashlight, scanning the surroundings slowly. I narrow my eyes.
"What the hell are you doing at this hour..."
I rise silently, moving toward the drawer beside the bed. I pull out my black cloth mask and throw my jacket over my shoulders. The alley is quiet, but the light remains--just a few meters ahead. My eyes catch the figure of a woman standing there. The moment she turns, I recognize her.
From the shadows, my hand rests on the pistol beneath my jacket. I whisper to myself:
"If you go to the station today, it's over."
I step toward her. She backs away, her fingers brushing the small spray can in her coat pocket. With a swift move, I seize both her wrists.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you."
She doesn't struggle. One of my hands grips her delicate wrists, the other rests on her shoulder as I guide her toward the building. I see her eyes searching for escape, her body tense, yet her movements quietly calculating. I unlock the door, step inside, leaving it half‑open. As I turn back to close it, I catch her left foot sliding back--measuring the distance, knowing she could reach the stairwell in less than two seconds. Before she moves, I say without turning:
"Take a step, and the stairwell lights up with sensors. The door below shuts automatically."

Eli
The Silent Judge... The building is old. Gray paint peels from the walls, the ceiling high, the windows draped in heavy velvet curtains. The house is large--an expansive hall with worn leather couches, an aged wooden table, and a bookshelf half‑empty. On one table lie a few leather notebooks, an old photo face‑down, and a half‑finished cup of coffee.
I stand in the dim space, lips dry.
"What do you want from me? If you think capturing me will save you, you're wrong. I'm not afraid of you."
He doesn't blink, but a crooked smirk curls at his lips.
"You're right. You're smart. You know I'm not going to lay a hand on you."
He turns toward the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silence. "Come this way."
Hesitant, but with my head held high, I follow. We enter a large but unwelcoming room: a simple bed with dark sheets, a small desk, a lamp switched off. Yet everything is clean. He flicks the lamp on.
"This is your room. You're not a prisoner. You can come out, talk, sit in the hall. But if you cross the door... I'm sorry. I won't let you leave. Not yet."
I lean against the frame, locking eyes with him.
"You're keeping me here because you can't stand someone thinking ahead of you? Or because you know if I walk out, I'll burn you from behind?"
He leaves quietly, no explanation, not even closing the door. Only the hallway light clicks off. A faint scent of soap and fresh wood drifts from the bed. I sit cautiously, running my palm across the sheet. Soft. I should have been terrified, but I wasn't. Somehow I knew--this man was no danger to me. I lie back, eyes on the ceiling. The house is as silent as a grave, and my breathing grows heavy.

The sound of three knocks wakes me. The door opens slowly. He stands there in black clothes, mask gone, eyes lowered, holding a wicker basket.
"I brought whatever you might need."
He sets the basket gently by the desk. When he leaves, I rise and search its contents: two clean sets of clothes folded neatly, a pack of sanitary pads, a hot‑water bottle with a plain fabric cover, a lined notebook with a pen, two painkillers in a small packet, and two books.
The door creaks again. Calmly, he leans his head inside.
"I forgot to mention--food and water are in the fridge. You can fill the hot‑water bottle with the kettle. If you need anything else, call me."
The door closes softly. I breathe deep, lowering my head. I cannot trust him.
Hours slip by as I lose myself in the books. I don't notice when evening comes. Lying on my side, blanket pulled to my waist, a dull weakness gnaws at me. Silence reigns--until a gentle knock breaks it. The door opens, and he enters with a pizza box.
"Sorry to intrude. I thought you might feel awkward coming out to eat. So I brought it here."
No sharp look, no expectation. He sets the pizza on the desk, leaves, then returns with bottled water and a cloth napkin.
"Vegetable pizza. Light cheese. You've had a lot on your plate--I figured you wouldn't want something heavy."
"I don't know the etiquette when a captor brings me food. But... thanks."
For a moment, I think I see his face fall. Then a small smile flickers, and he leaves. The door remains open. Sunset light filters from the hall into the room. My mind spins with the contradiction between what I know and what I feel. Why would a killer act so gently? Know what food is light? Speak softly, without threat?
Finally, I rise, close the book, and curl into the chair by the desk. I take a bite of the pizza, not even bothering to check if it's safe. Quietly, I murmur:
"I wish you were just a monster. Monsters are easier to judge."

Dorin
I set my coffee cup gently on the table. My gaze drifts toward the hallway--the one with the door that was always closed, now left ajar. No sound, no movement, yet I know someone else breathes inside. My mind is so crowded I begin to whisper:
"The other room isn't empty anymore... Someone is breathing there. On the bed I smoothed myself. Someone with a name, a mind, a soul."
My hands rest on the table. A subtle tremor runs through my joints. With heavy, silent steps I move toward the hallway. I stop, hearing nothing but the soft rustle of pages and steady breathing.
Later, when the small lamp in the corner of her room clicks off, I lie on my bed. My eyelids grow heavy, and I drift into sleep. But soon she appears again--the eight‑year‑old girl in the hallway. Same blood‑stained clothes, same terrified stare. I run toward the door, but the hallway stretches, longer than anything.
I wake with my face wet. My hands tremble as I grasp the edge of the bed. Remembering her presence in the next room, I rise barefoot, shut the door, twist the lock, and lean against it. My fists pound the floor, then press against my lips to stifle the sound. But sobs break through my fingers. My body folds, head buried between my knees. I choke on my own cries. To stop them, I slam my hand against the floor again and again. Shaking, I climb back onto the bed, shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

Eli
A muffled sound reaches me from the other side of the wall. Something slams against the floor or the wall, followed by stifled sobs. Maybe I imagined it. But no--it comes again. I hold my breath, rising quietly from the bed. Maybe he needs help. I walk to the door, but just before my hand touches the knob, I freeze. My hand hangs in the air, my eyes locked on the door in the dark. Slowly, I turn back and sit on the bed. My gaze fixes on the wall ahead. The sobbing continues, softer now. I rest my head against the pillow, pull the blanket up to my chin, and lie awake, listening.

Half‑awake still. It's 8 a.m. A gentle knock at the door. It opens, and he enters with a tray in his hands. I look at it: boiled eggs, warm bread, an apple, and pale tea. His face is calm, no trace of last night's sounds. Only that same composed, respectful voice:
"Good morning."
He sets the tray on the table. I say nothing, just watch him for a long moment.
"If you need anything, call me."
As he heads for the door, I almost convince myself I was wrong--that maybe it was just a movie, or the neighbor's house. But just as he's about to close the door, I see his hand. The knuckles are bruised.

Dorin
She's been wrapped in blankets on the bed for three days. I push the door open softly and step inside. She tries to sit up, but sighs. Her face is pale, her eyes red.
"You've got a fever?"
Silence. My worry for a stranger unsettles me. I place my hand on her forehead.
"You're burning. You need rest. I'll bring a wet towel. You've got medicine. By tonight, the fever will ease."
She nods faintly, a weak smile crossing her lips. I leave, clean a cloth with soap, and return with a bowl of cold water. She's half‑asleep, breathing unevenly, cheeks flushed. I kneel by the bed, dip the cloth, squeeze it gently, droplets echoing in the silence. I lay it across her forehead, and her heavy breath softens for a moment. I slide the cloth slowly from one side of her brow to the other, then dip it again, pressing the cool fabric against her face. Her lips move. I can't tell if she's dreaming or awake.

Eli
It's 8 p.m. when I wake. The fever has lessened, but my body is still weak. I rise, blanket draped over my shoulders, and step quietly into the hall. Through the darkness, I see the kitchen light--and smell what fills the house. Dorin stands at the stove, back turned. His hair neat, torso bare, old scars visible across his shoulder. Steam rises from the pot. When he hears my steps, he doesn't turn. Only asks in that calm voice:
"You're awake? Feeling better?"
I stop at the doorway.
"Yeah, better. Just wanted some water."
He tilts his head, not meeting my eyes.
"I'm making soup. I'm no cook, but it'll help."
I smile. He stirs with a wooden spoon, broth bubbling with soft pieces of potato, celery, and grated tomato.
"Didn't know what you liked. Tried to make something your body wouldn't hate."
He chuckles. I laugh wider. I take a glass from the shelf, pour water, then instead of returning to my room, I sit on the worn couch in the hall. Blanket still around me. The ceiling light is off. I rise again and switch it on. Minutes later, Dorin emerges with two plain ceramic bowls. He hands me one, along with a light spoon and a glass of fresh orange juice.
"It's natural. Store juice has no real value."
I take the bowl, steam curling upward.
"Thank you."
My tone softens, beyond my control. Dorin doesn't sit beside me. He chooses the chair near the fireplace, holding his own bowl. I lift a spoonful.
"You were right. It's good."
We both pause, eyes locking.
"I mean it."
He smiles briefly. I set the spoon down, glance around.
"This place is boring. Will you give me my phone?"
"No."
I raise a brow.
"Not even going to think about it?"
He shrugs, pretends to consider for a moment, then repeats: "No. But you can talk a little, so neither of us gets bored. Only if you want to, not because I asked."
I tighten the blanket around me, a faint smile on my lips.
"What do you want to know?"
He sets his spoon aside. The mood feels strangely easy.
"How did you become the city's best detective? At your age, in this system?"
I tilt my head, pride flickering, then lift it again.
"I don't know where you heard 'best.' But I became known because I hated when criminals hid. When I couldn't solve something, it burned me. So I gave my life to making sure I could."
Dorin nods.
"And... what do they say about me at the station?"
I laugh softly.
"They say you're a shadow. That your cases are clean. That you're judge and executioner."
He blinks slowly.
"Why did they choose you to hunt me?"
"Because we're both professionals."
"You weren't afraid of me?"
"No. If you meant to hurt me, you would have already. And there's something in your eyes... that won't let me fear you."

Dorin
No gloves. Warm water stings the cuts on my fingers. I place the washed ladle and bowl in the rack one by one. My mind is crowded with questions. Why doesn't she fear me? Why doesn't she pretend? Not a trace of retreat or frown. I rinse another dish. Is she playing with me?
I dry my hands, walk to my room. I take my gray towel, retreat to the bathroom. Hang it on the hook, turn on the shower. Steam fogs the mirror. A woman with fever and sleeplessness, trapped in a stranger's house, is more alive than me. I only breathe in the memory of corpses.
Water runs down my shoulders. I trace the old scar on my arm. I shut off the water, wipe the fog from the mirror, grab the towel, and hurry back to my room. I stand before the wardrobe, staring at the clothes. I choose a plain black shirt, neatly pressed, with cotton trousers. I roll the sleeves up. Slowly, I step toward the full‑length mirror. I fix my hair, then pause. I look at myself. Why am I doing this now? A faint, involuntary smile touches my lips.

Eli
It's 2:46 a.m. I lie on my side, eyes open, blanket pulled up to my chin. The house is silent--until, for the fourth night, the muffled sobs return. Then the thud of fists against floor or wall. I hold my breath. This time there's no doubt. The fourth night.
I rise from the bed, moving quietly to his door. It's closed. I stand there, staring at the old wood for long seconds. I don't knock. I only draw a deep breath, my gaze frozen on the door. I wanted to go to him. I heard his voice, and this time I didn't want to run. But he still won't let me near. Maybe I'm still too much of a stranger. I close my eyes and return to my room. This time I don't pull the blanket up. I just stare at the ceiling, listening to the hidden sounds.

When soft sunlight filters through the hallway curtains, the scent of tea fills the air. I step out with half‑tamed hair, my mind still tangled in last night. Dorin stands at the counter, back turned, pouring tea. Fresh wounds mark his hands, darker bruises than before. I look. Something stirs inside me. But I say nothing. He notices my gaze, slips his hands into his pockets. I can imagine the sting of fabric against those bruises.
"I made green tea. Will you have some?"

Dorin
I pretend to wash dishes, but my mind is trapped in those cursed two seconds when her eyes lingered on my hands. No words. No fear. Just a look. My palms tremble. The glass slips, but doesn't fall. If she heard... no. She mustn't have.
As I wipe my hands with the cloth, the bruises throb. I whisper:
"Damn you. You couldn't stay silent. She heard. She felt it."

Dressed in black, I stand at her door.
"Where are you going?"
"Whatever happens, you don't leave this room. Understand?"
"I want to help you."
I don't pause.
"No. Absolutely not. It's dangerous. I won't argue. You stay here, lock the door, don't come out."
She steps closer.
"Please. I want to help. I'm not weaker than you. I can handle myself."
I frown, arms crossed.
"I won't allow it. You're still sick. Not because you're weaker or stronger. Because I don't want you to see. I don't want you there."
I don't want you hurt.
"I'm coming. I want to. You're not fine either. Hiding it doesn't erase it. If you can face it, so can I. Please, Dorin. Don't be stubborn."
I inhale sharply, teeth clenched. For a moment, only the ticking clock speaks between us.
"You stay behind me. Don't get close. Don't speak. And when I say leave, you don't ask--you go."
I can't believe I agreed. She only nods.
"I'll bring him. Stay here. Until I return, you don't open the door. Don't do anything foolish."

Eli
It takes more than two hours before he returns. The first thing I see in his hand is a mask. Without a word, he gives it to me. I slip it on. When he opens the door and I follow, my head burns--not from fear, but from the fact that he's finally letting me into the world he always hid.
The stairs are iron, rusted. Darkness, the smell of earth and damp. Then we arrive. A stone basement room. A single chair in the center. A man already bound with cables. Dorin steps forward. That's when I see the knife tucked at his back. Compact, black‑handled, no sheath. The kind our reports called "clean intervention."
Suddenly it all makes sense. Why the neighbor heard only one gunshot. Because Dorin didn't use guns. Maybe only once. Dorin lifts the man's head gently, knife still in hand. The man is half‑conscious, eyelids drooping. Dried blood stains his mouth. Dorin's fingers brush his ear. He says:
"This is the end. And I... am the only one who won't let you laugh at it."
The man's voice trembles.
"If it's money you want, we can talk. If it's revenge, tell me who sent you. Just don't kill me. You don't have to."
Dorin turns the knife in his hand.
"You speak of 'don't have to'? You, who shut your doors and ears to the pleas of women whose screams echoed in the walls? They said 'don't.' But you chose not to hear."
The man lowers his head.
"I... I was wrong. I don't know why..."
Dorin steps closer, voice calm.
"No. You know why. Because you saw weakness. Because you thought they had no voice. Now you raise yours, because in the dark you lost theirs. Do you know who I am? I am the voice of those you swallowed. The voice of the night you refused to hear. Tonight, I am that voice."
My breath locks in my chest. My hands tremble. He is a killer--yet I see no crime in his act. I had imagined knives as repeated stabs, brutal cuts. But he uses a technique our files called "three‑point artery." His left finger presses beneath the carotid, his knees pin the man's legs, and with one swift strike to the junction of the neck, the blood flow ends. The breath ends.
I watch, panting behind the mask. When it's over, Dorin stays still. He lays the knife on the ground, closes his eyes with a deep breath.

Dorin
I close the door softly. The sound of the lock echoes in my mind. She is still behind me. I turn. She stands under the dim light, mask failing to hide her eyes. I step closer, quiet.
"You okay?"
I startle at my own tone. It's been years since I heard that voice from myself. She hesitates only a moment, then walks with me. My steps are slower than ever--more for her than for me. At the stairs, the weight of blood on my hands drags me down. But she doesn't look.
"Sit in the hall, wherever you're comfortable. I'll wash my hands."
My voice feels foreign to me.

The blanket flies off my body. I jolt upright, cold sweat clinging to my temples. My chest heaves, fists clenched, one trembling with pain. I slam my head back against the wall.
"I was too late."
The words scrape from my throat, breath shaking. My cheeks are wet. I bite my lips to silence the sound.

Eli
The walls are the same as the first night. The ceiling the same, the weak lamp in the corner unchanged. But my body is restless. A weight presses on my chest, suffocating. It began the moment Dorin's voice reached me from his room--harsh, strangled.
I sit up in bed. My blood freezes. Again, the sobs. Again, the sound of collapse. It doesn't sound ordinary. It sounds like someone breaking apart.
The first time, I only trembled. The second, I walked to his door but turned back. The third, I stood still, silent. But tonight. Tonight I cannot just listen.
I place my feet on the floor, body weak but determined. I am not a detective now. Not a cop. I am someone who has seen, who has heard, and who cannot ignore.
Barefoot, I walk quietly to his door. I raise my hand, but I don't knock. I press my palm against the wood. Close my eyes. If there is still a "help" buried in those cries, I am ready to be it.
I unclench my fist. And for the first time, I knock.

Dorin
I freeze. My mouth falls open. I can't breathe. Tears spill without permission, sliding down my cheeks. I wipe them away again and again, drawing deep breaths--over and over--but my body still trembles. My sobs rise, strangled in my throat. I press my face into the blanket, pushing it hard against my eyes, wiping away the burning tears. I whisper:
"Breathe... you've managed until now. You can do it again. Just open one door without breaking apart."
My palms drag across my face. I know my eyes are red. But I still hear her footsteps outside the door. I rise, open it softly. A faint light from the hallway spills in. That small smile rests on her lips again. I know she isn't here by accident. I know why. I know she heard. But she doesn't say it. She only looks at me, tilts her head, trying to shift her gaze away from mine.
"Did I wake you?"
Her smile remains: "Can I come in?"
I look at her for a moment. In her eyes, I see calm. I open the door wider. Enough for her to enter. She doesn't glance around--at the bed, the window, the tear‑stained pillow I forgot to hide. She simply sits at the edge of the bed. Her voice is gentle:
"Can't sleep, like me?"
"No."
"With your mind racing?"
I try to convince myself to answer. But I can't.
"No. Just too much coffee."
I sit too, keeping a respectful distance. Silence settles, strangely soothing. Her gaze drifts to the window. After a moment, she rises.
"I'll get some water. Want me to bring you one?"
"Yeah... thanks."
My voice is rough. She smiles faintly, leaves, then returns with two clear glasses. She sits again.

Eli
I wasn't thirsty. But I knew offering water would be seen as care--something simple, something human. When I returned and handed him the glass, my eyes caught his hands. Fresh wounds, raw and red. One finger split, still bleeding. For a moment my own fingers twitched toward his, but I stopped myself. Too soon. Not yet.
From the corner of my eye, I watched him hold the glass with those injured hands. Minutes passed in silence. Then I broke it.
"That man in the basement today... it didn't matter to me what he had done. What mattered was that you weren't alone when you faced him. And you're not alone now. That's enough."
My eyes fell again on his hand. The streak of blood, drying but still seeping, skin cracked and raw.
"You cut yourself? Looks like a grater wound. It's bleeding again."
His lips parted slightly, but no words came. I rose, returned with the cotton scarf I'd worn the first time I saw him.
"May I wrap it?"
His silence was consent. Gently, I unwound the scarf and tied it around his wounded fingers. The white fabric touched the warmth of his skin, slowly stained by red drops.
Dorin whispered softly:
"You really... heard me, and still stayed?"
I pretended not to hear. Smiled faintly, finished the bandage.
"It's done. No more dripping."
He gave a faint smile, eyes drifting to the scarf.
"It was white. Shame."
I smiled back.
"It's nothing."
He looked straight into my eyes.
"I'll get you a better one."
I glanced around the room, smiling. Dim light, clothes on the chair, and on the floor--beside the bed--a photo. I tilted my head.
"What's that?"
At first he didn't understand. Then, following my gaze, he froze. Whispered:
"Take it, if you want."
I reached down, picked it up. A little girl's face, wide eyes, innocent smile. Hair the same color as Dorin's. His voice was quiet:
"My sister."
He turned away, refusing to let me see his face. Something clawed at my chest. I looked again at the photo. Her smile was nothing like the darkness in his eyes.
"She's like the sun. Beautiful."
He shut his eyes tight. Whispered:
"She was. She's gone."
My breath caught. I lowered my head.
"I'm... so sorry."
I had no other words. After a few seconds, he turned his face to the farthest wall. And when I could no longer see him, he said:
"My father killed her."
The photo trembled in my hand. I froze.

Dorin
My jaw locks tight. I said it. How could I let it slip--out loud, to her? My heart pounds harder. I keep my face turned to the wall, refusing to let her see me. I hold my breath, lips pressed shut to keep any sound from escaping. But my eyes betray me, filling without permission. Pain finds its way. My arms fold inward. Eyes closed, so no tear can fall across my cheek. My voice stays buried, because I don't trust it not to break. I breathe, deep and ragged.
Then I feel it--her hand, close beside me. My breath shudders, chest full of sound. I exhale, laying my wounded, bandaged hand gently over hers. My lips tremble. But no tears fall. I won't allow them. Her fingertips brush across mine, soft as comfort.
"Do you want to talk?"
My lips quiver. Inside, a voice screams: No. Not now. I'm falling apart. But outside, I stay silent. My eyes fix on a meaningless point on the wall. I can't speak with my throat full of the voice I've always strangled. I won't let it sound like a frightened child. I must stay quiet. Until the shaking fades. Until the words don't shatter like glass.
Her hand remains, steady. She doesn't let go, even when I say nothing.
"My father... was always drunk. Since I was a child, he beat me for the smallest things. I thought that was all. But it wasn't."
I can't draw a full breath. The words squeeze through narrow spaces. Her hand still rests on mine, soothing.
"One night... I was asleep. My sister's scream woke me."
My voice shakes. My teeth clench. In that moment, I hear her scream again. Her grip tightens on my hand. My vision blurs. If I continue, I might break. If I stop, I may never speak again.
"When I ran to my father's room, she was still screaming."
My voice falters. My throat burns. I don't want to say it. But it's here, pressing against my tongue.
"She stood before him, crying, struggling. She had no pants."
Two cursed tears slip down my face.
"I was thirteen. I ran to the kitchen... grabbed a knife. I rushed in, and to save her, I killed my father."
Now I tremble.
"I lost her anyway. By morning, she never woke. But her scream... I still hear it. Every night. Like the night I was too late."
I don't know which word broke me. But suddenly I couldn't hold it. My voice rose from my throat, sobs spilling one after another. Weak, shameful. I tried to pull away, but before I could, she drew closer. Her arms wrapped gently around me. I didn't resist. She pulled my head against her chest. And in that moment, everything I feared happened. Crying, aloud, sobbing--in someone's embrace.
Before I could retreat, her hands lifted to my face. This time, instead of circling my body, they circled my head, shielding me from sight. Hidden between her arms and chest, I cried freely for the first time. To the rhythm of a heartbeat that said nothing, only held my broken pieces together.

Eli
His sobs still echo inside my chest--half‑broken sounds, like pebbles dropped into a deep well. Slowly, his breathing calms, then fades into silence. My arms remain around him, his head resting against me. His breaths are steady enough that I know he's fallen asleep. I don't move. I slow my own breathing so I won't wake him. I don't know the hour, but the sun hasn't risen yet. I cannot rescue him from his past. But tonight, I didn't leave him alone. And maybe... that's enough to begin mending a broken heart.

He frowns at me, more serious than I expected.
"You can't stay awake until morning anymore. You can come to me--but only if you sleep. Truly sleep."
"It was worth it."
He can't hide his smile. I swear I saw his lips whisper, thank you.

Dorin
Days have passed since that night. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I glance at Eli, her face lit by the glow.
"It can't go on."
I feel if I lose words, I'll have to shout the rest. After a pause, her voice comes, calm and steady as always:
"I'm coming with you, Dorin. I chose to stay by your side."
I want to say you don't understand. But no--she does. Too well.
"Eli, enough. Victims aren't all the same. Some talk. Some fight. I know exactly where to strike. You don't yet know how to work with blood."
But she doesn't listen. She opens the car door, sits beside me. No fear in her face. So I confess:
"If something happens to you--if I lose focus for even a moment--I couldn't bear it, Eli."
But she doesn't retreat:
"You said you didn't want to be alone. I won't let you go alone now. In defeat, in killing, in justice--it doesn't matter."
I sigh. Once again, she wins.

The drip from a rusted pipe breaks the silence. Neither the victim nor I speak. My hands are warm, but my fingers cold. He sits bound before me, eyes closed, lips split. My focus locks on him. Yet part of me keeps glancing toward Eli, guarding her.
I step forward, my shoes echoing on the cement. From the corner of my eye, I see Eli move closer. I raise my hand sharply. No. Stay back. She stops, exactly where I want her.
I draw the knife from my pocket, letting its sound cut the air. The victim stirs, struggling. I glance back at Eli. If I saw even a flicker of fear in her eyes, I swear I'd break the scene apart. But I don't.
With one motion, I rip away the blindfold. His first glance is at Eli.
"What a beautiful lady... Shame she's trapped in this basement with a beast like you."
My pulse surges, blood pounding in my skull.
"What the hell did you just say, bastard?"
My voice is calm, but sharp in his ear. I drag the knife shallow across his skin, leaving only surface cuts--enough for screams. By the fourth strike, his cry pierces the room. I repeat:
"What did you do?"
I press the blade beneath his throat.
"Death would be too easy for you."
I carve more shallow wounds, his body drenched in blood. I sneer.
"If you look at her again, I'll tear your eyes out. Then even your corpse won't deserve the soil's respect."
I glance at Eli. The man stares at me in terror. And in that moment, I end his life.

Eli
We lie side by side, staring at the ceiling. Our shoulders close, but not touching.
"Eli. You can't come with me anymore."
At first I laugh. But when I see his profile, there's no jest. Something in his face wasn't even there in the basement. I turn slightly.
"You're serious? Just because that bastard said those words?"
His gaze stays upward, jaw tight.
"Not just for that. For me. For you. Because when he looked at you, when he spoke, you became my weakness."
"I want to be with you. Not just at night. Everywhere."
His tone hardens:
"No. The more you come, the more you share this with me, the more I fear you'll be hurt."
He hasn't raised his voice once. Angry, but controlled. I lean closer, my forehead brushing his arm.
"Say you want to go alone. Not that I can't come. Then I'll stay away from the basement."
For a moment, his jaw loosens. But no answer. Minutes pass. He exhales deeply.
"Eli. The 'no' I gave was final. Not because I don't want you. Because I want you far more than you know."
I say nothing. But I can't hide the faint smile on my lips. I turn my back to him.
Time passes. Then his voice, rough, half‑asleep, but still firm:
"Are you angry now?"
My heart skips. Without turning, I answer:
"No."
Then, with a trace of a smile in his tone:
"May I hold you, miss?"
My smile grows. His arm slides gently around me, pulling me close. No words. Just his breath against my hair, his heartbeat steady with mine.

Dorin
As soon as sleep takes me, I fall into the same familiar dark. The cursed room. Screams. Blood. My body jerks awake, breath ragged, heart pounding. Ten more seconds and I would have shattered. But before I can gasp or let tears fall, an arm wraps around me. Her breath warms my ear, her whisper soft and certain:
"It was just a dream, Dorin. I'm here."
No shock. No fear. As if she was made for these nights. I say nothing--not because I can't, but because I don't need to. My breathing eases. My body calms in the embrace that saved me last night, and tonight again.

Eli
My eyes open slowly. At first, I feel only the cool emptiness where Dorin's shoulder should be. I turn. The bed is empty, blanket folded. I step into the hall.
On the table, I see a bouquet--grand, radiant, the kind that glows in shop windows. Before I reach for it, his deep, rough voice comes from the kitchen.
"You're awake?"
I turn. He leans against the wall, coffee in hand.
"It's yours. Last night... I went too far. It's an apology."
I say nothing. My hand touches the flowers. Dorin steps closer. No smile, but his eyes tremble. He stands before me, then speaks:
"Eli... they mean something else too."
From his pocket, he draws a small box. He doesn't open it at first, just holds it, eyes locked on mine.
"I never sought anyone. I was certain whoever entered my hell would leave one day. But since you came, you've been my breath. You turned hell into heaven."
He breathes deep.
"I love you, Eli."
Then he opens the box. Inside, a ring--simple, yet precious.
"I want you with me. In that cursed thing they call tomorrow. If I'm to survive, I want you to be part of the reason. Eli... will you be mine?"



**Dorin**
My hand reached for my pocket, and suddenly it felt heavier--not from the ring's metal, but from the weight of possibility, the fear that one frown could end everything. Even the sound of the box opening startled me. For a moment, I looked at the angel before me--the woman who once hid my sobs in her arms without asking for anything. And then... those cursed seconds when Eli said nothing. My hands trembled, but then she smiled--soft, real--and reached out.


I don't know when I stopped breathing. It felt as if the whole world gained color. Everything calmed. I lifted the ring. Her hand didn't shake, but mine did. Slowly, I slid the ring onto her finger. For a few moments, I just looked at her--not at the ring's beauty, but at hers. Then I bent down, held the back of her hand, and kissed it gently, as if it were my safe place.


---


My thumb brushed her lower lip. My voice dropped to a whisper:
"Your lips are the sweetest reward I've ever earned."


Our breaths tangled. Her hands rose to my neck, and the world shrank--only to the space between us. She didn't resist, didn't pull closer, didn't pull away. My hand slid behind her neck, fingers weaving through her hair. Her skin was warmer than morning sunlight, her scent the fragrance of my life.


When our lips parted, I rested my forehead against hers.
"With you, I'm learning how to stay alive."


She smiled. And in that moment, I knew--even if I had nothing else in the world, this woman, this kiss, and this ring would be enough.


---


**Eli**
I never spoke of feelings at the police station. Logic always decided faster than the heart. I saw cases, not victims. I built files, not relationships. No one was allowed inside without permission. Until Dorin walked in without knocking.


I look at the flowers. My hand still warm from the ring. All my career security, my ethics, the criminal code--crushed beneath it. This man is a killer. But none of the criminals I've ever seen breathed after crying in my arms. None called my name with respect, with trembling hands. None said, "If anything happens to you, I won't survive."


And me--the law itself, the detective who should arrest him--I only look at him and think: *He has moved past blood, but not past me. He asked me to stay--with his eyes, his body, his smile that blooms for no one else.*


Maybe somewhere in my mind, a voice still screams:
"Detective Silora, you're breaking duty!"


But that voice was weaker than the moment he said:
"I love you, Eli."


---


My eyes are closed, but I'm awake. His hand still in mine, waiting. His breaths start calm, but by the third, I feel the tremor. His skin warms beneath my touch. His exhale breaks. Without thinking, softly, as if walking on glass, I lean closer and whisper:
"Dorin... wake up, my love."


His eyelids flutter open. Heavy, blurred, but not afraid. His breath steadies. I haven't let go of his hand. Inside, I tell myself: *This time, I reached him before the scream. This time, I saved a piece of his heart.*


---


**Dorin**
Hot coffee in my hand, still half‑asleep. Eli's footsteps in the kitchen bring a smile to my lips.
"Today it's my turn. Sit down, sir. I'm making pizza."


I look at her, then laugh.
"Alright, Detective. But if the pizza comes alive and walks, I'll blame you."


She laughs, and I set the cup on the counter.
"I'll help. It'll be a good memory."


And so the project begins. Flour everywhere, me sneezing across the room. Eli shapes a heart in the dough with tomato sauce, then blushes at herself. I mimic mozzarella cheese:
"Don't put me in the oven--I've got kids!"


She wipes flour from her face with her sleeve. I frown playfully.
"Detectives should work clean, not messy."


She tosses an olive at me. I catch it, eat it, smiling.


When the pizza goes into the oven, we sit side by side on the floor, backs against the cabinets, sleeves rolled up, faces dusted with flour, laughter real. Eli rests her head on my shoulder. Me--in a damned kitchen, making pizza with someone who's seen my scars. And it feels like everything. It feels enough.


---


That night, no nightmares. For the first time--no blood, no screams. Each time my mind drifted toward them, Eli's hand tightened. Enough to pull me back from the edge. Enough to let me breathe, to stay. Tonight, for the first time, I slept without nightmares.


---


**Eli**
At first, it was in my dream--like sirens passing through my mind. But when Dorin leapt from the bed, his breath trembling near my ear, I knew it was real.
"Get up, Eli. We have to go."


My legs chase after him. He masks his face, leaps from the window.
"Jump!"


But then he hesitates. Before I can think, his arms catch me mid‑fall. I lose balance when we land. We run. Tires screech, radios crackle, shouts fill the street. Dorin ahead, tall, fast. Yet every step, he turns back to look at me. My heart stirs. The police close in.
"Stop! Or we'll shoot!"


My legs tremble. My eyes fix on Dorin. I'm falling in love more than I thought possible. Then I see the officer behind the car, gun raised--not at me, at him.


I don't think. Not of rank, not of law. I leap forward. Before the shot--or maybe at the exact moment. Time slows. Then pain, sharp and burning. My knees buckle. I collapse into his arms. And just before the world goes dark, I whisper:
"I love you."


---


**Dorin**
Eli... My hands are bloody, but not from what I spilled. From what was spilled for me. My heart doesn't race--it burns. I whisper:
"Don't go. If you go... who do I live for?"


The sounds remain--sirens, shouts.
"Hands up! Step back!"


But I don't look. My knees give way. I fall to the ground. My hands cradle her face, watching the blood trail from her lips. An officer approaches with cuffs. I beg:
"Just one minute... let me speak to her."


My breath shakes. The officers hold back. Still surrounded.


My voice breaks, strangled by sobs.
"I never believed you could survive in my world... but you did. With your eyes, with that damned smile that never feared me. Remember what you told me? You said if I could sleep one night without nightmares, it would be worth it. I lived that night with you. You were what no one else was. The one who didn't just watch--you came, you stood, you even took a bullet... for me. Who am I to deserve that? I said this time I'd be saved... not buried. But again, I was too late. You promised to stay. Why did you leave, Eli... why?"


My teeth press into my lip.
"Don't leave me. You stole my loneliness, then threw it back in my arms. I can't kill this time, Eli... I can't."


My sobs shake me. One officer murmurs:
"Let him sit. A man trembling like this isn't dangerous."


Dorin Vale. The Silent Judge. In the street. Dirt on my face, forehead pressed to the forehead of the one I named hope.
"I wish I could tell you... every night I buried my cries in the pillow, I thought of you saying, 'It's over. Sleep now.' But who says it now? I was never a savior, Eli. You were. With your laughter, with the nights you reminded me, 'You're still the boy who tried to save his sister. Don't forget yourself.' But Eli... I lost again. Prison doesn't matter. Death doesn't matter. But know this--you were the only light I never burned. And now... everything is dark."


My trembling hands slip from her chest to the ground. No reason left to rise. Someone whispers:
"It's time."


But no one moves.
"You left... at the very moment I thought of living. How cruel. How easy. I still had a thousand words for you. A thousand nights only you could calm. What do I do now? With the nights only your voice could soothe?"


My elbows slide on the ground. No strength left to hold myself.
"Why did you become the last victim of my cursed hell? At thirteen, I failed to save my sister. At thirty‑seven, I lost you--for me. Why didn't you stay, so I could finally say 'I love you'? Every time, something inside me trembled, A voice inside me whispered: "You have no right. Not after all that blood."
You never saw me through my crimes... They all said judge, killer. But you asked. You listened. You gave me life, Eli. And now... now I don't even know how to die again. I never thought you would leave me alone in this damned world... alone, just when I finally learned how to cry with your voice.
One officer stepped forward, gloves and glasses on, gun still raised. But when he saw me kneeling, sobbing broken sounds through clenched teeth, he hesitated.
"Sir, stand up."
I didn't. I only lowered my head close to her face, as if recording the last image of my life. Two other officers grabbed me from behind. The moment the cuffs locked around my wrists, my lips trembled, and my tears no longer stopped. They bent my head forward, pushed me ahead. But I didn't resist. I only turned back--one last time--with blood‑shot eyes, to see her again. Even through the blur.

Nine O'Clock News
"Tonight, at the central prison, a report has cast many into a cold silence. The Silent Judge, the infamous killer behind the mysterious recent cases, Dorin Vale, has ended his own life."
Short footage shows the exterior of the prison.
"Dorin Vale, known for a series of murders, at 2:40 a.m. broke the mirror in his cell's washroom and cut his veins with one of the shards. Security officers, after hearing unusual sounds, entered and found the lifeless body of the accused in his own blood. Attempts to resuscitate him failed, and death was confirmed on site. His lawyer has yet to comment. Unofficial sources report unstable psychological conditions during recent days of his imprisonment. More details on this incident... in the next bulletin."
End