The antique clock in the parlor struck eleven at night when Mr. Von Hohenwald, descendant of one of Germany's old noble families, rose from his leather armchair. The fire in the fireplace barely lit the vast library, casting long shadows over the portraits of his ancestors. He held a glass of brandy, though he had hardly touched it.
A creak of hinges broke the silence. The side door opened, and a man dressed in a dark cloak and hood stepped inside without asking permission. He wore a clown mask; one eye rimmed with a diamond, the other with a clover. His footsteps made no sound as he crossed the carpet. Von Hohenwald had been expecting him.
"Well?" he asked dryly, extending an envelope stuffed with bills. "I want you to find him."
The hooded man took the money without uttering a word. His silence was unbearable, almost insulting, but Von Hohenwald did not dare to demand more. He had learned that such people did not respond to unnecessary questions.
"Find him…" the noble murmured, his voice trembling, betraying his desperation.
The stranger gave a slight nod, then turned on his heel and vanished as quickly as he had arrived, leaving the door ajar and the smell of damp night air seeping into the room.
Von Hohenwald was left alone. He took a long sip of brandy, but the drink did not ease the burn running down his throat. He walked to the window, pulled back the curtains, and gazed into the darkness of the garden, as if expecting some answer to rise from the trees.
For an instant, his face—hardened by age—revealed the fragility of a broken man. He slammed his fist against the window frame.
The afternoon of January 5th, 2019, in Berlin was gray, with a heavy sky threatening rain. Niklas watched the urban landscape from the car window while Michael drove. Hans and Susanne sat in the back, conversing quietly. The trip had been long, and though they were all exhausted, the tension of the mission kept them alert.
They lodged in a secluded cabin on the outskirts of the city. It was a modest place, made of dark wood, with creaking floors and a faint smell of dampness. Niklas liked it: far enough from Berlin's noise to reflect without distractions. That afternoon, while unpacking, he pulled out his leather notebook and wrote a few lines: Every case seems more tangled than the last. The more steps we take toward the light, the deeper the abyss becomes.
That same evening, Niklas and Michael headed toward the nobleman's mansion. The car followed a tree-lined path until it reached wrought-iron gates. Two guards checked their invitation before letting them through. The mansion, lit by golden lamps, stood as a symbol of wealth and power.
The nobleman welcomed them into a wide hall with high ceilings and walls covered in family portraits. He wore an impeccable suit and smiled with the cold courtesy of someone used to receiving supplicants.
"Gentlemen, I appreciate that you came on such short notice," he said, guiding them toward velvet armchairs.
Niklas observed every detail: the servants avoiding eye contact, the fireplace burning though it wasn't that cold.
"You pay considerable sums for information about the missing," Niklas began. "Why such a specific interest?"
Von Hohenwald pressed his lips together, clearly displeased by the question.
"The police are inadequate. I prefer to trust discreet professionals."
Michael intervened:
"It's not just efficiency. You offer amounts that any investigator would accept without hesitation. That makes us think there's something more behind it."
The man smiled coldly.
"I advise you not to waste your time on theories. Besides, I've already found others to help me. Therefore, your services are no longer very necessary."
The conversation didn't last much longer. The nobleman dodged their questions with elegance—enough to sow doubt. When they left the mansion, rain had begun to fall, tapping softly against the car's windshield.
"I don't trust that man," Michael muttered.
"Neither do I," Niklas replied. "Someone who hides that much always fears the truth coming out."
The next day, their investigations bore no fruit. Berlin was too vast, the testimonies too vague. But at night, they recalled a detail the nobleman had mentioned: a bar where strange people often gathered.
The place turned out to be a basement hidden behind a metal door in a damp alley. A red light flickered above the entrance. Inside, cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of cheap alcohol and old wood. A pianist played a tune while patrons whispered among themselves.
Niklas and Michael sat at a table in the back, ordering a couple of drinks. The detective pretended to relax, but every fiber of his body was alert. That was when two men, sitting near the bar, caught his attention.
"They say the merchandise left the country yesterday," one murmured, speaking with a heavy accent.
"Better that way," the other replied. "As long as people think we're lunatics, no one will suspect the truth."
Niklas and Michael exchanged a quick glance.
"Did you hear that?" Michael whispered.
"Yes. They're not talking about ordinary merchandise."
When the men rose to leave, Niklas discreetly signaled Michael. They followed from a distance, hiding in the shadows of the wet streets.
One of the men arrived at a modest house on the outskirts, where his wife greeted him at the door. It looked like the picture of a normal life. The other headed in a different direction, but they lost him at a crossroads.
"They seem like ordinary guys," Michael said, frustrated.
Niklas shook his head.
"No one talks about 'merchandise' in a clandestine bar if they're living a normal life. They're hiding something."
For five days, Niklas followed the suspect he had deemed most promising. He observed his routine: work, lunch at the same café, return home. Nothing unusual. But his instincts screamed that the man was not innocent.
Meanwhile, Mr. Schneider called almost daily, his voice breaking with desperation.
"Please, find my daughter. I'll do whatever it takes, but don't let her vanish as if she never existed."
Niklas stayed silent after each call. He felt the weight of time, the weight of not being able to provide answers.
Finally, on a Saturday night, the suspect broke his routine. Instead of going home after work, he took the highway, driving nearly an hour into the outskirts of Berlin. Niklas followed from far back, switching off his headlights whenever possible.
The man turned onto a rural road, surrounded by dark fields. At the end stood a massive metal gate, flanked by concrete walls stretching in every direction. The place was locked down tight.
Niklas stopped his car before getting too close. He lowered the window, feeling the cold night air, and watched the suspect's vehicle vanish behind the gate. A guard let him in, and the gate closed with a metallic screech.
The detective lit a cigarette, trying to calm his anxiety. He couldn't see what was behind the walls, but he could sense it. This wasn't a sect. It was something far worse.
Something organized. Something that breathed power and impunity.
He put out the cigarette in silence, knowing that tonight he had only uncovered the surface of a much darker secret.