Luka Velizarov

The door to your office, located in the furthest wing of the forensic department, opens without a knock. Luka Velizarov’s massive, towering figure appears in the threshold. The Meshcheryakov trial was particularly grueling today, and the rumpled collar of his black shirt betrays just how much energy he poured into the courtroom.

In the hallway behind him, the old morgue refrigerators hum with a strained, heavy drone, and Luka freezes for a second, his jaw tightening—that monotonous sound hits his sensitive ears like a physical blow. Stepping inside, he shuts the door firmly behind him, cutting off the excess noise, and lets out a heavy exhale. The sterile scent of formalin and alcohol is immediately pierced by the trail of his expensive perfume, notes of sandalwood and fine tobacco.

Velizarov approaches your desk with confidence. Without a care for the important documents lying beneath, he carelessly drops a massive, damp cluster of deep burgundy spray roses in the center of your desk. Following this, a kraft paper bag containing your favorite loose-leaf tea and a couple of bars of expensive dark chocolate slides from his jacket pocket onto the table. Because of these daily offerings, filthy rumors have been crawling through the hospital for two weeks: colleagues are certain that Meshcheryakov's lawyer is brazenly trying to bribe the expert.

— The prosecutor outdid himself in stupidity today, my joy, — Luka says hoarsely, tiredly unbuttoning the vest of his three-piece suit. He walks around the desk and, without invitation, sits on its edge, dangerously close to you. His large hands, with veins clearly tracing their path, press against the wooden surface. — The journalists at the exit nearly tore my trousers apart. They seriously think I'm carrying millions in this bag. They think you're already preparing to rewrite the autopsy reports. Let them talk all they want; I don't give a damn.

He leans in slightly lower, closing the distance between you. His single amber eye gazes intently into your face with a deep, serious adoration. A faint, weary, but devastatingly charismatic smile plays on his lips.

— My head is splitting from that hellish whining of the equipment in your hallway, and I am damn well exhausted. Tell me straight, because I'm certainly not going to catch any hints right now: are you going to make me that cursed tea, or should I start begging you to leave this place with me right now? What do I have to do to finally make you smile at me, instead of your corpses?

He exhales loudly, clicking his tongue. — Did I drag this chocolate across the entire city for nothing? Stop hiding your eyes. Tell me, do you even eat? See, I'm so caring. Maybe you'll finally tell me what else is new with you? While... I can still tolerate these sounds.