The early morning hours still clung to the building when Volkov and Novak arrived at the hospital. The bright white lights outside couldn't mask the sense of decay that seemed to emanate from the walls. The air smelled of fresh disinfectant, too fresh, as if someone had tried to clean more than just surfaces. Volkov walked with a purposeful stride, his dark coat barely moving with each step; Novak carried a folder under his arm and his phone ready to record every detail. A security supervisor awaited them at the entrance, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes, his hands fidgeting as he constantly adjusted his belt.

  "We need to review the cameras in the north wing, corridor 3, room 312," Volkov said bluntly.

  The supervisor swallowed.

  "Detective… there was a technical failure last night."

  Novak gave him a cold look.

  "A technical failure specifically in the section where Gabriel Ibarra died?"

  The man nodded stiffly and led them to the small monitoring room. The room was filled with screens displaying empty hallways, silent elevators, and closed doors. But in the box corresponding to Gabriel's hallway, only a black bar appeared.

  "The system restarted at 10:41 p.m.," the supervisor explained. "It was back online at 11:05 p.m."

  Volkov stared at the blank screen as if trying to see through the digital darkness.

  “Gabriel died at 10:47 p.m.”

  The supervisor lowered his gaze.

  “That’s what the medical record says, yes.”

  Novak began reviewing the system logs, his fingers moving quickly, his breath held. The history showed more than just a simple power outage: there was remote access, administrative credentials, a manual intervention.

  “It wasn’t a failure,” Novak murmured. “Someone got into the system.”

  Volkov didn’t take his eyes off the black screen.

  “Who has high-level access?”

  “Only management and contracted external support,” the supervisor replied.

  Volkov looked at him with heavy calm.

  “External support linked to whom?”

  The man hesitated for too long.

  “To a partner technology company… subcontracted by Helix.”

  Silence settled in the room like a third investigator.

  Then they left the security room and walked down the corridor where Gabriel had spent his last hours. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, creating an almost imperceptible sense of instability. Volkov stopped in front of door 312. Closed. Clean. New label on the frame. The interior already prepared for another patient, as if nothing had happened there.

  Stolen story; please report.

  They headed toward the nurses' station. Several eyes met theirs. Some tense. Others evasive.

  "We want to speak with the team that was on duty last night," Volkov said.

  An older nurse stepped forward.

  "We did everything we could."

  "We're not questioning that," Novak replied. "We want to know if anyone other than the staff entered that room before the cardiac arrest."

  The woman hesitated.

  "There was movement… but there's always movement here."

  Volkov held her gaze.

  "Did you recognize everyone who passed through that corridor?"

  She shook her head slowly.

  "There was someone in uniform. I didn't see him before."

  "Can you describe him?" Novak asked.

  "Normal. That's what caught my attention. Normal."

  Volkov nodded slightly. That was the perfect word for someone who didn't want to be remembered.

  They spoke with two more doctors. Both insisted that the cardiac arrest was sudden, aggressive, and difficult to reverse. One of them mentioned that the reaction was strange given Gabriel's clinical presentation. Too fast. Too clean.

  Volkov made a mental note of every hesitation, every silence.

  They left the hospital as the sun was beginning to rise. The city remained indifferent.

  In the office, Novak connected the laptop to the central system. He analyzed the remote access logs, traced IP addresses, and searched for connections to Helix. The dashboard was full: names, dates, arrows linking hospital, construction company, medical foundation.

  "The remote access was done with valid credentials," Novak said. "It wasn't a hack. It was internal authorization."

  Volkov looked at Helix's old documents: acquisition contracts, insurance policies, closed lawsuits.

  "When a company learns to lose money," he said quietly, "it also learns not to lose it again."

  Novak looked up.

  “They’re covering up human risks as if they were structural failures.”

  Volkov nodded.

  “First they paid employees with families. Then they hired workers without safety nets. Then they acquired a hospital. Now they control the evidence.”

  The office phone rang. Novak looked at the screen.

  “It’s Captain Rivas.”

  Volkov answered.

  “In my office. Now,” the voice on the other end ordered.

  Minutes later they were standing in front of Elena Rivas. The captain was holding a different, thinner folder, but her expression was heavier than any file.

  “I received a direct order,” she said bluntly. “The Helix case is out of our jurisdiction. It’s being transferred to higher authorities.”

  Novak’s jaw tightened.

  “Higher authorities or buried?”

  Elena ignored the comment.

  “And you have a new assignment. Domestic homicide. Clear evidence. Needs immediate attention.”

  He placed the folder on Volkov's desk.

  Volkov didn't open it.

  "Who gave the order?"

  "Don't ask what you already know."

  The silence was long. Heavy.

  “Captain,” Novak said, “we have evidence of digital manipulation, repeated deaths, silenced witnesses.”

  Elena met Volkov’s gaze.

  “And you’re not authorized to continue. If you do, you’ll be doing so without backup.”

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  The office fell silent.

  Novak slumped back in her chair.

  “They’re pushing us out.”

  Volkov finally opened the new folder. Ordinary photographs. An ordinary case. Blood in the kitchen. An argument gone wrong.

  He closed it.

  And in her mind, the noise was louder than any siren. She thought of Gabriel, of the twelve nameless ones, of the foreign workers no one would ever claim. She thought of how Helix didn’t just build buildings, but systems: systems where death was a clause, where identity was optional, where memory was a financial risk. She thought of the hospital as an extension of the construction company, as an invisible second floor of the same structure. And he understood something deeper: they weren't fighting against human error, but against an architecture designed to absorb consequences. Every accident was a calculated crack. Every relocation, a reinforcement. Every death, a budgeted silence.

  Volkov rested his fingers on the board covered in names.

  He said nothing for several seconds.

  Then he spoke softly, almost to himself.

  "Structures don't just fall apart."

  Novak looked at him.

  "What do we do?"

  Volkov looked up, resolute.

  "We keep going."

  Because even if they had officially dismissed the case, the lines on the board were still connected.

  And structures, however solid they may seem…

  Always have a breaking point.