26-03-2025, 05:45 PM
The room was cold. Not the kind of cold that bit at your skin, but the kind that seeped into your bones, designed to make someone uncomfortable, pliable.
Scarlet sat in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, back straight, as though she were waiting for a drink to arrive at an upscale bar rather than being interrogated by the most feared secret police in Kundrati.
Across from her, a man with a severe face and a poorly concealed sense of self-importance tapped a folder against the table. Commissar Gregor Kasinov. A typical cog in the Commissariat machine—efficient, ruthless, convinced of his own omnipotence.
“We have been looking into you, Miss Prikrylov,” Kasinov said, his voice like sandpaper on steel. “Your finances, your acquaintances, your residence. You keep…interesting company.”
Scarlet sighed theatrically. “Oh, Gregor, darling, I do hope you didn’t go rifling through my lingerie drawer. That would be such a scandal.” She smirked, watching his eye twitch. “But please, do continue. I find the thoroughness of your government absolutely inspiring.”
Kasinov ignored her quip. “You have been seen interacting with known criminals, smugglers, even individuals tied to foreign intelligence agencies.”
Scarlet tilted her head. “Guilty of networking, am I? It’s a dangerous world. A girl needs friends.”
“And yet,” he continued, opening the folder, “there is nothing. No official records beyond a handful of dubious identity documents, no birth certificate, no family history.” He closed the file. “You do not exist, Miss Prikrylov.”
Scarlet chuckled. “Oh, that old thing? Honestly, you should know better, Gregor. The revolution was so terribly messy. Bureaucrats burning documents, changing names, purging records—it’s a wonder anyone exists at all. Poor little me just got lost in the shuffle.”
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, do you know how many times I’ve had to answer that question? When I was five, my mother caught me standing beside an empty cookie jar. ‘Marie,’ she said, ‘Did you take the cookies?’ And you know what I told her?”
Kasinov stared at her blankly.
“I said, ‘How can you be sure the cookies ever existed?’” Scarlet smiled at the memory. “She wasn’t amused. But I learned a valuable lesson—perception is everything.”
Kasinov exhaled sharply, barely containing his frustration. “We also searched your apartment.”
Scarlet feigned a gasp. “You did? Oh, Gregor, I hope you left everything just as you found it. You have no idea how hard it is to keep a place tidy when you entertain as often as I do.”
“You are a ghost, Miss Prikrylov. Every lead, every suspicion, vanishes into the ether. Either you are the most careful criminal in Kundrati, or you are exactly what you claim to be: an enterprising woman with an unfortunate talent for making powerful friends.”
Scarlet sighed. “And yet, here we are. You with your oh-so-serious file, me missing my jacket—which, by the way, I do expect back. It was a rather expensive piece.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress. “At least this little number keeps me on theme.”
Kasinov frowned. “Theme?”
Scarlet stretched out a leg, admiring the sleek red of her high-heeled boots. “Oh, darling, surely you’ve noticed? My dress, my boots—perfectly in line with the Commissariat’s signature red. Consider it my way of showing appreciation for your department’s…hospitality.”
For a long moment, Kasinov simply stared at her, as if trying to decipher a puzzle missing half its pieces. Finally, he shut the folder and stood up.
“You’re free to go.”
Scarlet clapped her hands together. “Oh, wonderful. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to offer me dinner. Alas, a lady must eat elsewhere.”
As she stood, he gestured to one of his subordinates, who returned with her jacket. Scarlet snatched it back with a pleased hum. “See, Gregor? I knew you were a gentleman.”
He said nothing as she slid it over her shoulders, turned on her heel, and strutted toward the exit.
She didn’t even have to look back to know he was still watching her, still trying to figure out if he had missed something.
Poor Gregor. Some mysteries simply weren’t meant to be solved.
Scarlet sat in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, back straight, as though she were waiting for a drink to arrive at an upscale bar rather than being interrogated by the most feared secret police in Kundrati.
Across from her, a man with a severe face and a poorly concealed sense of self-importance tapped a folder against the table. Commissar Gregor Kasinov. A typical cog in the Commissariat machine—efficient, ruthless, convinced of his own omnipotence.
“We have been looking into you, Miss Prikrylov,” Kasinov said, his voice like sandpaper on steel. “Your finances, your acquaintances, your residence. You keep…interesting company.”
Scarlet sighed theatrically. “Oh, Gregor, darling, I do hope you didn’t go rifling through my lingerie drawer. That would be such a scandal.” She smirked, watching his eye twitch. “But please, do continue. I find the thoroughness of your government absolutely inspiring.”
Kasinov ignored her quip. “You have been seen interacting with known criminals, smugglers, even individuals tied to foreign intelligence agencies.”
Scarlet tilted her head. “Guilty of networking, am I? It’s a dangerous world. A girl needs friends.”
“And yet,” he continued, opening the folder, “there is nothing. No official records beyond a handful of dubious identity documents, no birth certificate, no family history.” He closed the file. “You do not exist, Miss Prikrylov.”
Scarlet chuckled. “Oh, that old thing? Honestly, you should know better, Gregor. The revolution was so terribly messy. Bureaucrats burning documents, changing names, purging records—it’s a wonder anyone exists at all. Poor little me just got lost in the shuffle.”
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, do you know how many times I’ve had to answer that question? When I was five, my mother caught me standing beside an empty cookie jar. ‘Marie,’ she said, ‘Did you take the cookies?’ And you know what I told her?”
Kasinov stared at her blankly.
“I said, ‘How can you be sure the cookies ever existed?’” Scarlet smiled at the memory. “She wasn’t amused. But I learned a valuable lesson—perception is everything.”
Kasinov exhaled sharply, barely containing his frustration. “We also searched your apartment.”
Scarlet feigned a gasp. “You did? Oh, Gregor, I hope you left everything just as you found it. You have no idea how hard it is to keep a place tidy when you entertain as often as I do.”
“You are a ghost, Miss Prikrylov. Every lead, every suspicion, vanishes into the ether. Either you are the most careful criminal in Kundrati, or you are exactly what you claim to be: an enterprising woman with an unfortunate talent for making powerful friends.”
Scarlet sighed. “And yet, here we are. You with your oh-so-serious file, me missing my jacket—which, by the way, I do expect back. It was a rather expensive piece.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress. “At least this little number keeps me on theme.”
Kasinov frowned. “Theme?”
Scarlet stretched out a leg, admiring the sleek red of her high-heeled boots. “Oh, darling, surely you’ve noticed? My dress, my boots—perfectly in line with the Commissariat’s signature red. Consider it my way of showing appreciation for your department’s…hospitality.”
For a long moment, Kasinov simply stared at her, as if trying to decipher a puzzle missing half its pieces. Finally, he shut the folder and stood up.
“You’re free to go.”
Scarlet clapped her hands together. “Oh, wonderful. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to offer me dinner. Alas, a lady must eat elsewhere.”
As she stood, he gestured to one of his subordinates, who returned with her jacket. Scarlet snatched it back with a pleased hum. “See, Gregor? I knew you were a gentleman.”
He said nothing as she slid it over her shoulders, turned on her heel, and strutted toward the exit.
She didn’t even have to look back to know he was still watching her, still trying to figure out if he had missed something.
Poor Gregor. Some mysteries simply weren’t meant to be solved.