Yuri Viktorovich walked down the corridors of Mount Sinai Hospitals toward a room that most people avoided—the morgue. The shiny white floor beneath his feet reflected the softly humming neon lights. The sharp smell of disinfectant stung his nose—an aroma already far too familiar to him. Along the corridor, he occasionally passed nurses or doctors walking quickly, busy with their own affairs. When he passed a coroner's assistant, he asked, "Do you know where the body of the man recovered from the riverbed two weeks ago is?"
The morgue attendant seemed to think for a moment, then said, "Yes, follow me."
When Yuri arrived at the morgue, a man his age was already waiting. The man was Dmitry Vorobev, Yuri's colleague at the FSB. Dmitry stood beside a stainless steel table, both hands gloved in latex, his expression as flat as usual. They had been in places like this too many times—in Moscow, in Saint Petersburg, and now in New York. The sight of corpses was no longer disturbing.
The man lay in a metal drawer in the freezing morgue. The temperature in this room was deliberately kept cold, around two degrees Celsius—enough to slow decomposition but not freeze the tissue. Black-haired and in his late thirties, his body was bloated; several parts, such as his fingers, toes, and skin surfaces, had begun to deteriorate due to being submerged in water for so long.
Yuri was used to seeing many murder victims who had died in various ways, so he didn't feel nauseous, disgusted, or anything of the sort. Even so, Yuri was still human, sometimes haunted by the condition of the corpses he saw. He remembered one case in Moscow, back in 1996—a man found in his apartment after two weeks with no word. His stomach was gaping open, intestines unraveling until his ribs were visible. The body around the thighs, arms, and face was full of holes, emitting maggots wriggling inside the rotting flesh. Those creatures had eaten him from the inside out.
Well, what can you do, it's part of the job, Yuri thought.
Dmitry had been examining the body for some time. "I've examined the corpse and found no signs of bruising or physical trauma, only a single gunshot wound. Can a single shot kill someone instantly?" Dmitry began the conversation in a soft voice, as usual—a habit formed from years of working in places like this.
"Possibly. I've also read the autopsy report on this man. The results indicate the killer shot him only once, hitting a vital organ. After he was dead, the man was dumped into the river along with the perpetrator's car," Yuri explained. He took a document from his jacket's inner pocket, opening it page by page with slow movements. "Have you seen this man before?" He asked Dmitry.
"Not yet. But from the documents we have, it's known that he was a member of the Donnano mafia. A direct subordinate of Vincent Basciano."
Yuri sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Mafia again... mafia again."
Dmitry shrugged. "Other members have already examined the crime scene where the brutal shooting occurred at the Cock and Ball club. All those found dead there were from the mafia group led by Vincent Basciano."
"Vincent Basciano? Shouldn't he be..."
"He's free."
Yuri was surprised to hear Dmitry's account. His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed. Vincent Basciano was a name well-known in law enforcement circles—a mafia boss who should still be serving a decades-long sentence.
"After spending several years in prison for murder, illegal firearm smuggling, and heroin trafficking to Europe, he was released unconditionally a year ago. I don't know who got him released, but the law these days can be bought. It's not surprising he could be released so easily."
Yuri shook his head slowly, not because he didn't believe it, but because he was disgusted. He had seen justice bought and sold too many times—in Russia, in America, wherever money talked.
"Were there any casualties outside their group?" Yuri asked to confirm.
"None. All those who died were Donnano mafia guards, including this man."
Yuri seemed to think for a moment, his eyes returning to the corpse lying stiff on the stainless steel table. The gunshot wound on the man's chest was so neat—one small, clean hole, without any signs of struggle. This wasn't an amateur killing. Eventually, a suspicion arose in his mind. "This killing seems to have been planned."
"How could it be? We don't know. Maybe it's a coincidence." Dmitry still didn't believe it. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at his partner with a half-doubting expression.
"Coincidence or not, we won't know the answer until all of this is over."
Yuri flinched when his phone vibrated. He took the phone from his jacket pocket, looking at the name displayed on the screen—Gina Martinez, an attaché stationed at the Russian consulate in New York. For the past three months, Gina had been their liaison with local police, helping access information that foreigners couldn't reach. A second after the man answered the call, a voice was heard.
"I've found the information."
"Alright, we'll be back at the office soon," Yuri answered, sighing.
"What's going on?" Dmitry asked, already beginning to remove his latex gloves.
Yuri put his phone back in his pocket. His face relaxed slightly—not because he was relieved, but because there was a glimmer of light in the fog. "Gina has gotten information about them. Let's go back!" he said, turning and leaving the room, followed by Dmitry with his mouth forming an O shape—an expression that rarely appeared on that man's face.
*
Outside the hospital, the Manhattan air felt heavy even though it was still morning. Yuri lit a cigarette, letting the smoke rise before finally getting into their rental car—an inconspicuous black sedan, chosen for the same reason as the Brooklyn hotel: to avoid drawing attention.
"Gina said she found something?" Dmitry asked from the driver's seat, the car engine already running.
"We'll see later," Yuri answered shortly, his eyes staring at the distant skyscrapers.
Dmitry didn't press. They had worked together long enough to know when to ask and when to remain silent.
*
"We have obtained information from the owner of the supercar that was sunk in the river with a body inside."
The Manhattan police headquarters office felt stuffy despite the air conditioning. Desks were cluttered with piles of files, computer monitors glowed with displays of data that hadn't been organized. Yuri and Dmitry sat on slightly sagging plastic chairs, facing Gina Martinez, who was standing beside a whiteboard filled with photos and diagrams they had made over the past three months.
In a room that served as the Manhattan criminal headquarters, a young woman in her late twenties with an ID card hanging on her chest reading 'Gina Martinez' was explaining, with several sheets of paper on the table and in her hand.
"Who owns it?" asked Dmitry.
Gina handed over a document along with two photographs of a man she had been holding. Her face looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, hair tied up hastily. "This is the information about them. You know? I had such a hard time finding it."
Yuri looked at the person in the photo, then read the profile written there. The photo showed two men—one with dark blonde hair, a firm jaw, and eyes that looked cold even just from a photo; another with brown hair, slightly older, with a calmer expression. "Nathaniel Baluev and Gregory Illéa?" His eyes narrowed as he read the names of the two men.
Gina nodded. "Nathaniel Baluev, alias 'Killer Rabbit.' An international hitman. On the FBI's most wanted list since 2004. Gregory Illéa, his right-hand man. Not much is known about this man—he handles operations, finds clients, makes sure everything runs smoothly."
"A Sheriff who was on patrol claimed to have seen them on the morning before the night of the shooting incident, but..." the woman's speech was interrupted.
"But what?" Yuri lifted his face to look at Gina with a confused expression.
"The fingerprints found in the car don't match the fingerprints of either of the two people in this document."
Yuri frowned. "That's impossible..."
"It's a fact," Gina emphasized. "The fingerprints found on the steering wheel, dashboard, and car door handles—all belong to the same person. But that person isn't registered in any database. Not a US citizen, not a legal immigrant, never been arrested, never had a driver's license. Like a ghost."
Dmitry whistled softly. "An international hitman working with a ghost. Interesting."
"One more fact. The apartment on the fifteenth floor where the shooting occurred two weeks ago was their residence for the past three years," Dmitry spoke this time about the incident two weeks ago, because at that time he had gone straight to the crime scene after a woman called 911.
Yuri nodded slowly. So for three years, an FBI fugitive had been hiding in a luxury Manhattan apartment without being discovered. That wasn't just luck—that was protection. Someone with enough power and connections to hide them.
"What about the CCTV at the club?" Yuri put the papers back on the table.
"Shot out. The perpetrator shot the CCTV from a distance before entering the club," Gina answered.
"Wow, wow, wow... looks like this time we'll be investigating a professional killer's case." Dmitry spoke while clapping his hands, his smile half-mocking. He would be getting a troublesome task this time.
After hearing Dmitry Vorobev's words, Yuri immediately massaged his forehead, his mind still focused on concentrating on this case. In his mind, pieces of information began to connect: the sunken car, the brutal shooting at the club, a hitman suddenly leaving fingerprints that no one recognized, and an apartment abandoned in haste. This wasn't just a mafia war. There was something bigger behind this.
Silence reigned for a moment before Yuri's sigh was finally heard. He glanced at Nathaniel Baluev's photo once more. That face—cold, expressionless, those seemingly empty eyes—reminded him of something. But he couldn't grasp what.
"Alright, I'll investigate this person named Nathaniel further for this case."
Hearing his colleague's decision, Dmitry also sighed. As expected—Yuri always took the most complicated part, leaving him with boring administrative work. That meant he would go home with his colleague, but not with a feeling of relief.
*
After Gina left, the room fell silent again. Yuri was still standing in front of the whiteboard, staring at the photos pinned there—photos of the sunken car, photos of the corpse in the morgue, photos of the abandoned apartment, and in the middle of it all, a photo of Nathaniel Baluev with cold eyes staring blankly at the camera.
"Are you thinking the same thing as me?" Dmitry asked from his chair.
"Depends. What are you thinking?"
"The name Baluev. I've heard it somewhere before."
Yuri didn't answer. He pulled the photo from the board, folded it, and put it into his jacket pocket. "We need to find out more about this man's past. His relationship with Russia, his family, who has been protecting him all this time."
"Do you think this is related to our main case?"
Yuri sighed deeply. "I don't know. But I don't believe in coincidences."
Outside the window, the sun was rising higher, illuminating the skyscrapers of the never-sleeping Manhattan.
[•°]