Concrete moon. vol. 1

“Enough with this crooked-cops talk,” Engel grimaced.

“Am I wrong?” My fingers tightened around the cup. “Can’t anything be done? Can’t you influence it? You’re the commissioner.”

“Don’t be a child, Klos. You know how it works. I can’t fire anyone. I barely influence anything. And the Oracle doesn’t care — he’s busy hunting secessionists.” Engel glanced at the clock. “All right. Time to go. We’ll talk in the car.”

I threw on my suit, started the car, and we drove to the precinct. Outside it was already dark — streetlights cast long bars of light, wind pushed leaves across the asphalt. Ahead waited the city, glittering with lights, suffering from insomnia.

“Herr Becker…”

“What now?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhausted.

“Do you think Judge Libert really lets people walk if they pay enough? I saw something on the news the other day…”

“Klos,” the commissioner cut in, “you’re blowing my mind tonight with how naive you are. I’d bet that piece of shit has a price list. Otherwise why would Burgomaster Meisner shove him into that job? Head of the city…” Engel snorted. “You know, I never really believed in elections, democracy… but after the Americans, the circus got too obvious. I miss the former burgomaster, Siegfried Muller — have you heard anything about him since he resigned?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly. No proof, but from what I’ve heard, the Oracle forced him out. Then they fixed the election and Christopher Meisner became burgomaster, and Muller vanished, leaving a public resignation letter on his desk at City Hall. And now that bastard sits in the chair, doing whatever his owners tell him. As long as he’s here, no real work gets done — just pretty reports on paper and stuffing his pockets.”

Engel fell silent, staring up at the sky through the windshield. Then he added, calmer:

“So drop your insane fantasies about putting the city in order. Forget justice — it doesn’t exist. Protect whoever you can. Don’t overstep. Nobody expects more from us.”

“Would you want to be burgomaster?” I asked. “To change all this…”

The commissioner looked at me, then burst out laughing. We drove in silence for a while, but eventually I still took the risk and said what I’d been holding in.

“Have you ever thought about how a criminal is made?”

Engel snorted, leaning back.

“You feeling nostalgic for the academy? All right. Go on.”

“I mean… what we do — it’s like we scrub society instead of stopping crime at the root. We lock up one, another pops up, a third gets released. It’s a closed loop. Why not build a system where the very thought of breaking the law feels absurd? Where people understand: punishment is so inevitable and so harsh that it’s simply smarter to stay on the right side of the law.”

Engel didn’t answer. Lost in thought, he stared straight ahead, the city’s flickering lights reflected in his eyes. The headlights pulled an abandoned playground out of the darkness — broken swings hanging like gallows.

“Our problem is that the police fight criminals as a consequence, not a cause,” I continued.

“Not our problem,” Engel snapped. “Parents. Teachers… politicians, for Christ’s sake. We’re the ones stuck shoveling the shit.”

“I’m saying society grows its own monsters. When someone ruins another person’s life, they don’t think they’re leaving trauma behind. And I’m not only talking about the obvious ones — killers and robbers — we know what they are. I’d put sadists, bribe-takers, thugs, drifters… even unfaithful lovers on that list too.”

“Oh, here we go,” Engel muttered, pulling out a cigarette.

“We label people like that ‘abnormal.’ So who made them that way? One person breaks another’s mind. That one goes on to ruin the next… an endless chain reaction of damaged people.”

“Jesus Christ,” Engel said. “You’re on fire tonight. Just like your father…” He cut himself off. “You can’t cut it out at the root. Trauma can start in childhood. We can’t control every person’s life from birth.”

“We can’t?”

A long pause settled in the car again.

“Klos…”

“What?”

“Crime is rot. You cut rot out with a scalpel. That’s why society invented the police. For safety. That’s us. That’s our job. And no matter how much you want better, we’re already doing everything we can for this city — everything within our power. Maybe we’d do more, but instead of doing real work, officials keep breeding more officials and inventing busywork for each other. Thank you, Mr. Parkinson4. There’s a murder — what do we do? We write the goddamn paperwork. For one desk, another desk, deputies, deputy-deputies… and if you don’t write something, you write why you didn’t write it. The machine eats itself. You know it.”

This time I kept quiet.

Engel. Chronic stress had burned him from the inside out — leaving irritability, cynicism, emotional exhaustion. His passivity was proof of how trauma can paralyze. I hoped it would never get me.

“I believe that one day we’ll live in a different society.”

“WELCOME TO ROSENBERG!” I read on a sign riddled with bullet holes.

“It’ll be a bright, clean world of equality and justice!”

* * *

Sunday, October 2

At midnight we reached Downtown, where glass skyscrapers, like grim titans, reflected the weak streetlights. Their cold facades stared down at us through tinted windows. Above that artificial canyon hung a pale moon — the only witness to the night’s events.

Ahead rose the massive building of Rosenberg Police Headquarters — a monument to the law.

Leaving the car in the underground garage, we took the elevator up to the precinct. The commissioner went to his office, and I moved fast down a long, faceless corridor where the air carried the sharp stink of cheap coffee mixed with cigarettes — straight to Homicide.

In a cramped, dim room, one of the desks held a guy my age — tall and lean, Maurice Neumann. Thick chestnut curls framed his tan face, and his eyes held that familiar focus. He smiled often, but even more often he sat in silence, thoughtful.

“Hey.” I offered my hand.

“Hey,” he replied without looking up from the paperwork. His desk was always chaos: stacks of folders, loose documents, and beneath the glass a collection of yellowed newspaper clippings. Above the monitor hung a modest certificate declaring him the best in our cell. Not just in ours, I was convinced — Maurice was destined to become commissioner one day.

“How’s it going?”

“Last night in Karbon someone blew up a deputy’s aide’s car. Hank and I went out,” he rattled off, barely glancing at me. “The Oracle sent us Heinz — turned out to be pointless. No evidence, no witnesses… But motives? Plenty.”

“We were at the docks,” I said. “A psychopath took hostages in an abandoned warehouse. Reinhold Wulf — does that name ring a bell?”

Maurice nodded.

“Among the hostages were… relatives of our guys. Reinhold set up another death game, and then…” I swallowed. “He blew the building. The warehouse collapsed with everyone inside.”

“Yeah, I know,” Maurice said calmly. News in the police travels faster than official bulletins.

The door banged open and my friend and partner walked in — Detective Heinrich Zimmermann, known to everyone as Heinz. Heinz was average height, with short hair, piercing blue eyes, and sharp features. His constant grin and dry humor cut through the precinct’s gloom. Kind, reliable, and maybe too human for this place, he was a year younger than me. “Hey, buddy,” he said, grinning wide. “Hey, Maurice!”

He dropped into his seat — my desk’s polar opposite. No papers, not one unnecessary item — just a computer, printer, scanner, clock, and a cactus aligned with geometric precision. The tower hummed; his fingers flew over the keyboard.

With a sigh, I sank into my own chair — tidy, but still with a touch of mess.

Maurice and Heinz were excellent detectives, which didn’t match the usual caliber sent to nights. I figured the brass dumped them here so someone would actually work after dark. Otherwise we could build a second Berlin Wall out of open cases and finally separate ourselves from citizens bold enough to bother the police at night.

“This is bullshit!” Heinz cursed, slamming a fist down on the keyboard.

“Tell me about it,” Maurice murmured without lifting his eyes from the monitor. He’d been rewatching camera footage for days. The neural net had spat out results long ago, but the stubborn detective always double-checked everything himself.

“Klos — do me a favor, boil some water,” Heinz yawned. “I swear I won’t survive if I don’t get caffeine right now.”

“Hank will do it,” I said, suppressing my own yawn.

And sure enough, a minute later the door opened again and — late as always — Detective Hank Bauer stumbled in: tall, solid, long blond hair, oval face, an open forehead. He was a master with a sniper rifle and the same kind of master on guitar. Hank could’ve followed Ralph’s path and become a musician, but some curse kept him in the police. He rarely smiled, though he loved to crack jokes. Like me, he was already twenty-seven.

“What, Klos, falling asleep already?” Hank asked. “Coffee?”

“Me!” Heinz cut in immediately.

“Damn night shifts,” I muttered, feeling my eyelids turn to lead.

“Don’t say it…”

But sleep evaporated instantly: at two-thirty we got a call. Then another. Two murders that would haunt us in the reports.

The long-awaited end of the shift — and I was home, in bed. It felt like one more second and I’d drop into sleep. But the moment I closed my eyes, something started knocking insistently at my eardrums. Somewhere — maybe the bathroom — a drip began. My patience snapped fast; I had to get up and shut off the tap.

And as soon as I got back into bed, a new irritant appeared — sunlight. Its stubborn rays pushed through the curtains, refusing to let me relax. I buried my face in a pillow. Didn’t help.

Cursing quietly, I got up, scooped Vikki into my arms, and trudged into the living room. The TV filled the silence, mumbling about political scandals while the clock hands crawled toward nine a.m.

Sleep never came.

In Rosenberg, time flowed by its own laws — accelerating in chases, freezing in smoke-filled offices among stacks of paper. Today it wasn’t in a hurry. It took the day off and decided to laze around… Oh, right. I’d almost forgotten Engel promised me a day off. Maybe tomorrow. Or never.

I ate a quick breakfast, then called Melanie — we agreed to meet in the evening. All I could do was hope I wouldn’t fall asleep by then.

Actually — no. I was hoping for the opposite…

* * *

Sunday, October 2

At exactly six p.m., I stood at the Beckers’ gate. The door opened almost immediately, and my best friend, Melanie, appeared in the doorway.

“Hey! Nice dress!” I couldn’t help myself, pointing at her favorite house robe.

“Klos!” She rushed into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Missed you too.”

“Tell me everything. Actually — wait — I’ll change fast and we’ll talk on the way. Where are we going, by the way?”

I just nodded toward the narrow path that vanished into the woods right between our properties.

“We won’t get lost?” she asked, a small anxious edge in her voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mel…”

“Then I’ll just — throw on my ‘hobo outfit’ — and let’s go.” She disappeared into the house.

I knew this forest well. I’d left so many thoughts here among the whispering leaves that they seemed to seep into the air, becoming part of it — its soul. My refuge.

Mel returned, and we stepped into a world completely unlike Rosenberg. Though it had one thing in common: life was loud here as well. Sounds reached us from everywhere — rustles, skitters. We took a few steps and froze, watching a squirrel: glancing around, it hurriedly buried its stash in soft earth. Somewhere high in the branches, birdsong still rang out — soon to be replaced by an owl’s low hoo-hoo.

When we entered the shade of the trees, Melanie took my hand.

“Let’s keep going,” I said with an encouraging smile.

The last lights of the settlement disappeared behind us, and she squeezed my palm tighter.

“Don’t be scared,” my voice came out so calm I felt the tremor in her hand begin to fade. “You know I’m at home here.”

We’d spent almost our whole childhood in this forest — little fearless explorers… But after Melanie’s mother died, something in her cracked. She lost her bond to it: the forest, once familiar, became foreign, full of anxious shadows. For me it was the opposite — I came here more and more, finding comfort.

“How are things with Alice?” she suddenly asked, stepping carefully over a rotten stump.

I slowed down without meaning to.

“Overall… fine. It’s just…” The words didn’t come right away.

“What happened?”

“We barely see each other. Way less than at the start. She has so much going on she almost has no time… And the main thing is, Alice doesn’t want, or can’t, move in with me.”

“Klos, try to understand her.” Melanie stopped, making me turn back. “Her life can’t be only you. She has family, friends, work. Hobbies…”

“Sometimes it feels like Lis has everything you listed — but not me. Like we’re not a couple at all, just… acquaintances. I get what you’re saying, Mel, I just… If we lived together, I wouldn’t feel so alone. Even when she’s at work. Even when she’s with friends. Or someone else… I’d feel us. You know? What we have now…” My voice thinned. “It’s hard for me to be alone. I need people near me. I need her…”

“Klos.” She touched my wrist softly. “In life, not everything happens the way we want…”

“Man proposes, and God disposes,” I whispered, looking into the dark thicket ahead.

Dusk thickened, wrapping the forest in a soft haze. We’d switched topics several times, but the thought of Lis stuck in my mind like a splinter, dragging behind it the same unspoken question about our relationship. When I drifted too hard, Melanie lightly punched my shoulder.

“Klos! Are you even with me?”

This time she smacked the back of my head. I jumped, and before she could process it, I slipped behind the trunk of an old oak.

“Klo-o-os!” Her shout carried through the forest. “I’m going to kill you!”

My laughter echoed among the trees.

“Are you insane? Come out and I’ll bury you right here!” she threatened.

My back slid down the bark and I sat on the ground. It smelled of moss, wet earth, and rotten leaves. I hugged my knees — and then it came back. The other thought. It returned and wiped out everything else.

Relationships… aren’t they supposed to be an island of joy? A place where you understand each other without words, where you’re in the same union, walking the same path through fate. And we… for a year now we’ve been standing still, or even stepping backward.

Suddenly the world went dark — someone’s palms gently but insistently covered my eyes, cutting off the stream of thought.

“Melanie,” I breathed, almost certain.

Silence. No answer.

“Mel?” I tried again, more serious now, catching her wrist.

“Found you!” she beamed with victory. “Scared?”

“Sure,” I smirked.

“And what about this?” she said with a sly grin, scooped up an armful of dry leaves, and dumped them down the back of my jacket.

“Congratulations,” I said calmly, shaking autumn out of my collar. “You gonna wash it yourself, or take it to the cleaners?”

“Dream on,” she replied, lifting her chin.

We walked a little more, until we reached the edge of the woods and — on a sudden impulse — spun into a ridiculous dance to the applause of the branches. Then, when night had fully fallen, I walked my friend home and headed back to mine, carrying a strange mix of warmth and unease in my chest.

The forest fell asleep. Only my thoughts — like fallen leaves — kept circling quietly through it: about happiness, friendship, and half-dead human relationships.

* * *

Monday, October 3

Ceiling. Shadows. Branches outside the window, swaying in the wind, drew bizarre patterns across the white surface — faces, animals, or just chaos. I turned on my side, then my back, then my side again. Exhaled.

Where are you, kingdom of Morpheus?

Time stretched painfully. I paced the house, trying to trick my own body. I tried sitting on the windowsill. Lying on it. Then on the floor. On the living-room couch. Finally I went back to bed. Nothing worked.

I barely recognized myself in the mirror: a worn-out man stared back with inflamed eyes, dark circles beneath them like charcoal smudges. A little more and Rudy from Narcotics would start asking questions.

“Damn,” I breathed.

The reflection said nothing.

I grabbed my phone and texted Lis good morning. We agreed to meet at three in Donner. Usually she came to me in Stern, but today we decided to go shopping — maybe a change of scenery would help.

Outside was a gray, overcast autumn. Leaving the settlement, I couldn’t take my eyes off the forest burning gold. When you see something too often, you stop noticing its beauty…

I crossed a small bridge, picked up speed, and soon dissolved into the restless life of Rosenberg. The huge Americana Mall greeted me with the cold shine of its display windows. After parking, I went to meet the woman I loved, hoping her presence would make my condition even slightly better.

Lis stood at the entrance, and even in all that gray she looked like a sunlit spot — shoulder-length hair under a strange visor cap, a faint smile, green eyes.

As I got closer, her familiar sweet perfume wrapped around me. I pulled her in. People hurried past, paying us no attention.

“What’s with you?” she asked softly.

“Thinking,” I said, not letting go.

Lis looked up at me and smiled.

“Thinking too much is bad. We’re blocking traffic.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Arguments with her could go on forever. And I loved them — her stubbornness, her will, that living spark that always flared in her eyes when she started to argue. And when Lis said “yes,” nodding slightly, it looked like she was agreeing with herself — confident, independent…

“Want to grab something to eat?” I asked, trying to hide my fatigue.

“That’s why I came!” she winked.

We went in and rode the escalator up to the food court.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Mostly fine. Just really tired. Work is a total nightmare. You?”

If Lis had a “nightmare,” then what was mine?

“What’s going on?”

“It’s just a hard day,” she frowned. “I hate when you dodge the question.”

“I’m good.”

She fell silent, staring at an ad sign, then asked:

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Next to you I’m always warm. Remember? ‘Little sun — particles that are in your body right now once burned inside the stars…’”

For a moment our first Christmas flashed before me: the smell of pine, tangerines, and her perfume. Soft string lights. And the card I’d put in her gift — handwritten lines still full of faith that happiness was ahead. Music from those days played quietly in my head, and deep inside a forgotten warmth spread.

I tried to smile, but she abruptly looked away, down. My beat-up face probably said enough.

“Then why are you shaking?” she asked at last.

I held out my hand and noticed a slight tremor.

“Oh, that… Night shifts. I can’t sleep.”

“And you say you’re fine. You haven’t seen a doctor?”

“Not yet. I think I’ll take a day off and just sleep. I’m sure that’s all I need.”

We stepped into our favorite café and took a table by the panoramic window overlooking all the floors of the mall.

“What do you want?” Lis asked. “And don’t tell me coffee.”

“I’d like coffee…” I began, but she cut me off instantly.

“You can’t.”

“But — ”

“No.”

We both stared at the menu in silence, even though we knew it by heart. When the waitress came, I ordered herbal tea and Lis ordered a latte.

“After this we’ll pick up the skirt I ordered,” she said, absentmindedly stirring the milk foam. “And then the pharmacy. You’ll buy sleeping pills.”

I nodded, watching the pattern in her cup. The lines looked unsettling, like a sign. Lis drifted off too, nervously biting her lip. I touched her hand carefully. She lifted her eyes and looked straight into mine — like she was searching for something there. Did she see the reflection of that fire from the night the warehouse exploded? Or the fire of love that burned in me every time I looked at her?

We smiled at each other. She looked away.

What happiness it is when Lis looks at me, when she smiles at me…

When she’s near.

We spent two hours together — an eternity for a mayfly, but for me only a moment. We never bought the sleeping pills — Lis was running late, and I promised I’d go to the pharmacy later. I walked her home, kissed her goodbye, and for a long time watched the silhouette of the woman I loved disappear.

Ambivalent feelings flooded me: the happiness of real love tangled with the ache of rare meetings. It was wrong, unfair, but nothing could be changed. She couldn’t.

I got in my car and drove aimlessly around the city, trying to quiet the emptiness inside. Rosenberg’s roads shimmered under streetlights, but their light never touched me.

I came home and collapsed on the couch in front of the TV. Images flickered by; my thoughts were elsewhere. Sleep still didn’t come.

* * *

Tuesday, October 4

By morning I was on the edge. Insomnia had eaten me from the inside out, leaving only a fragile shell. I had to go to the pharmacy and buy a blister pack of strong sleeping pills. I was so weak I could barely drag my feet; sounds came as if through a wall of water, and even the thought of food made me nauseous.

Worst of all, I had a shift that night. In that state I couldn’t focus on even the simplest tasks. I should see a doctor.

At one p.m. I swallowed the first pill. Nothing. Half an hour later — the second, without any hope left. Lying in front of the TV, I stared at the flickering screen, but my mind refused to shut off.

When the clock reminded me of duty, I exhaled hard, forced myself up, fell into the car, and drove to the precinct at a crawl. My hands, heavy and uncooperative, barely held the wheel. My feet pressed the pedals sluggishly, then felt like they dropped through the floor. Everything blurred. My temples pounded. Feverish heat spread through my body.

When I reached my desk, I collapsed, resting my forehead on the cold surface. Maurice, buried in paperwork, set it aside and gave me a measuring look.

“You okay?” he asked instead of greeting.

“Insomnia,” I muttered, lips barely moving.

Without a word, he pulled a pack of oddly shaped tablets from his drawer and held it out.

“Here. Strong stuff. Tested on myself. Get some sleep and you’ll feel better.”

“I already… took sleeping pills…”

“Don’t argue,” he snapped.

Too tired to resist, I obediently swallowed the large green tablet. Almost instantly a shiver rolled through me — but sleep didn’t come. Instead, reality began to split. My consciousness doubled, my thoughts tangled, and my body felt like it was dissolving into air.