“I want to report a theft,” he said, his voice hollow.
Bucharest, Sector 3. A grey, communist-era building with cracked marble steps and a flickering neon sign that reads Poliția . The locals just call it “Secția 7.”
Stancu hesitated, then obeyed. Ana grabbed her coat and a heavy flashlight. “Come on, Domnule Munteanu. Show us where you lost it.” sectia 7 politie
He was right. Sectia 7’s territory included the Dudescu cemetery, the abandoned factory on Vitan-Bârzești, and a stretch of the Dâmbovița riverbank where fog formed even in July. Officially, they were a standard precinct. Unofficially, they were the last stop before the city’s nightmares became real.
“Secția 7 never closes. We don’t just protect the living. We keep the peace between both sides of the night.” “I want to report a theft,” he said, his voice hollow
“Three nights ago, I fell asleep in the armchair. When I woke up, the light from the streetlamp came through the window. It cast my silhouette on the wall. But the silhouette… it moved. First, it just twitched. Then it stood up. And walked away. It’s been gone since then.”
Ana took the Polaroid. She aimed it at the wall, at the space where his shadow should have been. She pressed the shutter. The camera whirred, spat out a black square, and slowly, the image developed. The locals just call it “Secția 7
Ana gestured to the plastic chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat. What’s your name?”