It whistled across the empty fields, rattling the windowpanes in their frames. Wojciech sat at the table, lights dim, nursing a glass of tea that had long gone cold. The house was quiet. Marek had gone to bed hours ago. Only the faint ticking of the wall clock broke the silence.
Then, Three firm knocks.
Wojciech didn’t flinch. He set the glass down. The knock came again. He stood slowly and walked to the front door, his joints aching in the familiar way they always did when it rained. When he opened the door, he was met with the high beams of two idling cars glowing behind three figures.
A woman stood in front, dressed in a dark wool coat, badge visible on her lapel. Her expression was unreadable. Tall. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Black leather gloves. Sharp eyes. Detective Lisa.
“Good evening,” she said. “Detective Lisa Kowalska. International Special Crimes Division.”
Wojciech raised one brow. “Did something happen?”
Liza glanced past him, as if measuring the layout of the home. “We’re looking for a man. His name is Dr. Kazou Kuroda. A Japanese Scientist. Early forties. He may be injured. We have reason to believe he was in this area recently.”
Wojciech kept his expression flat, shoulders relaxed. “Can’t say I know the name.”
A second officer, a younger man behind her, stepped forward with a tablet in hand. “He’s wanted in connection with serial killings in Japan and Poland. His ex-fiancée, a civilian. Claims he was the killer behind the infamous Zenkai Quantum Research Institute murder over a decade ago...” Kowalska’s eyes never left Wojciech. “According to witnesses, he has been spotted in your area.”
Wojciech sniffed quietly and opened the door a little wider. “You’re welcome to look around. Not much here besides an old man, his son, and a bad roof.”
Lisa Kowalska didn’t move. Her eyes flicked across the man’s face. The way his left hand rested lightly on the doorframe. The deliberate ease in his voice. She was used to liars. Used to men who’d seen things they never told anyone.
She stepped one pace closer. The boots made no sound on the wooden porch.
“The man we’re tracking is highly intelligent. Former scientific researcher. Dangerous. Desperate. But not trained. You’d know if someone like that had come through here. Or stayed overnight.”
He's trained now... Wojciech thought.
Wojciech gave a slow nod. “Then maybe I haven’t met him.”
The younger officer shifted, clearly uncomfortable in the silence. The third—silent so far—watched the trees with his hand near his holster.
Kowalska finally offered a thin smile. Not warm. Just tight.
“Tell me, Mr...?”
“Szulc,” he said.
“Mr. Szulc,” she repeated. “You mind if we ask your son some questions?”
Wojciech didn’t blink. “He’s eight years old. Already asleep. Doesn’t speak much to strangers. Or anyone, really.”
Kowalska studied him for another beat, then reached into her coat. She handed over a printed photo. Black and white. Slightly smudged from the damp.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Kazou Kuroda.
She tilted the photo slightly. “Sure, this man hasn’t been by?”
Wojciech took the photo. Let his eyes linger a second too long. Not too long to raise suspicion, just long enough to seem fair.
Then he handed it back.
“Would’ve remembered that face,” he said. “Sorry.”
Kowalska hesitated. Her hand hovered over the photo like she might force him to look again.
But something stopped her.
Not certain.
But doubt.
She knew this man was lying. But not how.
After a few more moments, she finally tucked the photo back into her coat.
“We may be back. If you remember anything…”
Wojciech nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”
The detectives left without another word. The tires cracked over the gravel. The headlights disappeared into the trees. Wojciech didn’t move until the lights were completely gone. Only then did he step outside onto the porch, lighting a cigarette with practiced hands. The glow briefly lit the tired lines on his face.
He exhaled.
There was no tremble in his fingers. But his eyes drifted toward the empty hills where Kazou had disappeared the morning before.
He tapped ash into the cold dirt.
“You better find what you’re looking for, Doctor,” he muttered under his breath. “Before they find you... Good luck my friend... Good luck."
***
The train clattered along the cold Polish tracks, rhythmic and hollow, a sound that blurred into the night-time landscape, a barren stretch of fields and trees. The sky outside was grey, not stormy, but distant, as if the world itself was watching from behind a pane of glass.
Kazou sat near the back of the carriage, slouched low, trying to become part of the seat.
He wore a charcoal-gray hoodie with the hood up, the sleeves pulled down to cover the backs of his hands. His long black bangs were parted deliberately to the side, masking the sharper angles of his face. His glasses, normally perched squarely on his nose, now hung from the collar of his shirt. He’d rubbed a smear of soil into the knees of his jeans earlier. Changed his gait, too. More slouched. Less certain.
But none of it was enough to make him invisible.
Not here.
Not in a country where his features stood out.
The man across from him, an older fellow with cracked hands and a flannel jacket, kept glancing at him over the rim of his paper. A couple behind him murmured in low Polish, one sentence sticking out with clarity:“...that asian man... Wasn't there one on the news? A murderer?”
Kazou lowered his gaze. He tried to keep his breathing slow.
Don’t react. Don’t draw attention. Just make it to Warsaw.
But then—
The man in front of him folded his newspaper and turned around in his seat, smiling thinly.
“You want to see the important news?” he asked in Polish.
Kazou blinked, caught off guard. “Pardon?”
The man didn’t wait for a second reply. He handed the folded paper over the seatback.
Kazou took it with a nod, his hand trembling slightly. “Thanks.”
The man nodded and turned back around.
Kazou opened the paper slowly, carefully. It crinkled in his hands, and the words hit him before the image did:
"POLAND'S MOST WANTED: DR. KAZOU KURODA"
The subheader: “Murder suspect believed to be armed, dangerous. Japanese national and former researcher last seen near Otwock.”
And then—his face.
Old, yes. Maybe from before the Zenkai QRI disaster. Years ago. His hair was shorter then, neatly parted and academic. He wore a lab coat. He looked… clean.
Not like now.
Still, it was him.
Kazou could feel the blood leave his fingers.
He scanned the text.
“Dr. Kazou Kuroda, a former Genetic-biomedical researcher from Japan, is currently being sought for questioning in connection to the deaths of an individual linked to the ZQRI research site, multiplel individuals at a Tokyo museum, A private manslaughter in Sendai, etc and is ls nown to have recently fled Warsaw after the murder at the Tokyo museum, he is believed to be involved in a larger conspiracy involving genetic experimentation and illegal trials. Authorities caution civilians not to approach him. He is considered extremely dangerous.”
Kazou’s mouth went dry
He folded the newspaper neatly and held it on his lap for a moment before carefully slipping it between the seat and the wall, handing it to the couple sitting behind him, as if discarding evidence of his own name from himself.
He tried to keep calm, but the tremor in his hands wouldn’t stop. He gripped his knees, knuckles whitening, and stared out the window.
Casimir. It always led back to Casimir.
The train curved toward the city now. He could see the outskirts of Warsaw in the distance, rows of buildings with lights flickering to life in rows. The closer he got, the louder and brighter the world became.
Casimir was here. Or close.
Kazou swallowed hard and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He didn’t know how much time he had. But he knew where he needed to go next: The Polish Army museum in Warsaw. That place had to have something. Maybe there, someone remembered. Maybe someone had seen what he had.
He couldn’t run forever. That was Casimir’s game—disappear, let the witnesses burn themselves out. One by one.
Kazou adjusted his hood again. Then the man in front turned to him once more.
“Sad story, isn’t it?” he said in Polish, nodding toward the newspaper he’d handed off. “A scientist who kills. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Kazou forced a dry smile. “Yeah. Makes you wonder.”
The man looked at him for a long beat. Then turned around again.
Kazou looked out the window one last time.
The city was waiting.
And somewhere in it, was Casimir's trail.