8 Politie — Sectia

He hung up. Outside, a stray dog howled. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. Sectia 8 was old, tired, and dirty. But tonight, it wasn't a place where justice slept. It was the place where it finally woke up.

Munteanu sighed, the sound scraping his dry throat. He grabbed his flashlight and heavy keyring. The station was understaffed—as usual. His partner, a fresh-faced recruit named Popescu, was out chasing a ghost report of a stolen tractor from the agricultural cooperative. sectia 8 politie

Agentul principal Andrei Munteanu didn't need a clock. He could feel the weight of the hour in his bones. He was on his third coffee, a thick, bitter sludge from a machine that had been old when he joined the force a decade ago. The station smelled of bleach, old cigarette smoke, and the faint, sour tang of fear. He hung up

He looked back at the stopped clock. 3:17 AM. The hour of truth. Sectia 8 was old, tired, and dirty

He made a different call. Not to the captain. To the parchet – the prosecutor’s office. To a woman named Procuror Ionescu, who hated Secuiu with a quiet, burning passion. She answered on the second ring.

“What happened, Ghiță?” Munteanu asked, his voice calm.