Stellan straightened, his posture shifting from a casual lean to something rigid, like an ancient monolith. Jolka felt the temperature of the air drop another degree. He merely inclined his head, a subtle gesture that managed to convey both acknowledgment and utter disinterest. “Inspector. I’ve already provided a statement. My schedule is tight.” Orzech’s lips thinned. She dismissed Jolka and Miro with a flick of her gaze, but neither moved. “Our initial findings indicate Mr. Kordel’s fall was no accident. The railing broke under… unnatural circumstances. We’re ruling it a homicide.” Her words hung heavy, each syllable a precisely aimed stone. She paused, letting the implication settle before delivering the next blow. “And given the nature of the property, the ongoing dispute over its ownership, and certain… financial irregularities surrounding this project, you, Mr. Voronin, are our prime suspect.” A low hum seemed to emanate from the vast, aggregate shell of the Spire itself. Jolka watched Stellan’s face. It remained a mask, but a flicker—a cold, almost imperceptible tremor—passed through his eyes. He opened his mouth, but Jolka cut him off, a sharp, unbidden impulse overriding her caution. “Homicide?” Jolka scoffed, stepping forward. “That’s absurd. Stellan Voronin might be a lot of things – a stiff, an ice statue, a man with dubious taste in architecture – but a murderer? Please. You think he got his hands dirty?” Orzech’s gaze snapped to Jolka, sharp as shattered glass. “And you are?” “Jolka Sienko. The architect. And frankly, the only reason this Spire hasn’t dissolved into a puddle of melancholy and bad design choices.” Jolka’s voice dripped with bravado, a shield she knew well. “And I can tell you exactly where Stellan was when your poor foreman… ‘fell.’ He was with me.” Stellan turned his head slowly, his eyes, the color of a winter sky, locking onto hers. A question, an accusation, a warning – all unreadable in their depths. Orzech, however, saw only defiance. “Indeed? And what precisely were you two doing, Miss Sienko, that would provide Mr. Voronin with an alibi for a murder that occurred at 3:17 AM?” Jolka met Orzech’s stare without flinching. “He was, regrettably, keeping me up all night. Pestering me with pedantic inquiries about load-bearing calculations, the optimal placement for a gallery window overlooking the marshes, and whether the primary beam could withstand a… let’s say, a philosophical collapse.” She gave Stellan a pointed look. “He’s a nightmare client, Inspector. Absolutely relentless. We were poring over Albin’s blueprints, arguing about structural integrity. He practically chained me to the drafting table.” Miro, ever the practical one, cleared his throat. “She’s not wrong, Inspector. He’s meticulous to a fault. They were… debating for hours. I was there for part of it, until my eyes glazed over.” Orzech’s expression tightened into a grimace. Her gaze flickered between Jolka, Miro, and Stellan, searching for a crack. Finding none, she finally sighed, a sound of profound irritation. “Very well. Your alibi, flimsy as it sounds, will be noted. But this investigation is far from over, Mr. Voronin. I suggest you reconsider your ‘tight schedule’ and make yourself available for further interrogation. Both of you.” Her parting stare at Jolka held a promise of future scrutiny. With another crisp nod, she turned and strode out, her footsteps receding into the Spire’s vast emptiness. A heavy silence descended. Jolka let out a slow breath, realizing her heart was thrumming a frantic rhythm. She glanced at Stellan, half expecting a lecture, half expecting… something else. His face was still unreadable, but the subtle tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, just a fraction. He finally spoke, his voice low, a gravelly murmur. “You didn’t have to do that.” “Didn’t I?” Jolka retorted, feigning indifference. “You’re my client, Voronin. If you’re hauled off to some damp holding cell in the Revensk Gaol, who’s going to approve my budget for reinforced glass and bespoke lighting fixtures? Besides, I heard your ‘philosophy’ rants. Tedious, but hardly murderous. Consider it an investment in my sanity, and this project’s future.” She paused, then added, softer, “Also… Albin wouldn’t have wanted this.” Stellan’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something unidentifiable in their depths. A fragile pact settled between them in the shadow of accusation. He nodded once, a curt, almost imperceptible gesture. “We need to accelerate. Find out what Albin was hiding. Now.” “My thoughts exactly,” Jolka said, turning to Miro. “That ghost chamber. Let’s go. I want to see if Albin left any other surprises.” They spent the next few hours meticulously combing through the Spire’s lower levels. The air grew colder, heavier, as they descended, the concrete walls amplifying every rustle of their clothes, every distant creak. Dust motes danced in the anemic light from their portable lamps, creating shifting, ghostly patterns. Miro, with his structural engineer’s eye, identified the precise area indicated by Albin’s hidden schematic. It lay behind a partition of reinforced stone in the deepest basement, an area that, according to the official plans, was solid bedrock. As they approached, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows, startling them. He was a burly man, his work clothes stained with grime, his face a roadmap of hard living. A former construction worker, judging by the scowl etched into his features. He clutched a worn canvas bag. “What are you two poking around for?” he growled, his voice thick with resentment. “Thought you’d be scared off, just like the rest.” “We’re the new crew,” Jolka stated, her voice firm. “Jolka Sienko, architect. This is Miro Rostova, my engineer. And you are?” “Doesn’t matter who I am,” the man spat, gesturing vaguely around the cavernous space. “Just get out. This whole place is cursed. It ain’t a museum. It’s a tomb. For whoever built it. For whoever dares finish it.” His eyes, bloodshot and wary, narrowed. “Listen to me. Leave. Don’t end up like Kordel.” “What do you know about Kordel’s death?” Miro pressed, his voice sharp. The man scoffed, a bitter sound. “Nothing I’d tell the likes of you. But I know this: the Voronins… they’re poison. They take everything. They ruin lives.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The Sienkos weren’t the only ones the Voronins destroyed.” Jolka froze, a cold dread snaking through her. The man’s words were a punch to the gut, echoing her own family’s tragedy. “What do you mean?” she demanded, stepping closer. But the man merely shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes. “You’ll see. Some things are best left buried.” He gave them one last withering look, then turned and lumbered away, disappearing into the labyrinthine shadows, leaving Jolka with a chilling sense of foreboding. “He knows something,” Miro muttered, his gaze tracking the man’s departure. “And he’s scared.” Jolka, still reeling from the man’s cryptic warning, shook her head. “No, not just scared. He’s seen it happen. He thinks this place is going to claim us too.” She gestured towards the wall where Albin’s hidden chamber was supposed to be. “Come on. Let’s see what Albin decided to bury.” They reached the specified section. Instead of the older, weathered concrete they expected, they found a fresh, smooth patch. It was too pristine, too new. Jolka ran her fingers over the surface, a knot tightening in her stomach. “This is… recent. Very recent.” Miro confirmed, tapping the surface with a small hammer. “Barely cured. Someone came down here and sealed this up. After Albin’s death, I’d wager.” Just then, Jolka’s lamp beam caught something embedded in the still-wet concrete near the bottom edge of the newly sealed wall. A flash of white against the grey. She knelt, scraping dry grit from her thumb. Partially visible, as if discarded in a hurry and then carelessly entombed, was a single, pristine white glove—the kind Stellan’s mother famously wore in every archival society portrait. It was a message planted directly in the fresh mortar. It was a silent, chilling message, planted for them to find.

Whispers in the Concrete