Since that day, Darius has not slept well.

The accusation has been hot in his chest. Every time someone somewhere mentions Detroit, Darius remembers it like a perfect fatal shot. In his nightmares, he dreams of holding his comrade's head in his trembling palms, his fingers digging into his facial skin. It crumples, bursts, pieces are pulled out of his face, trying to get into this under the skull, pull out the bullet that he himself launched, it seems to help revive his comrade. But it is too late to think about life when you fly off the bridge.

Darius fell off this bridge. Under the abyss of cold water called "serial killer! Alaska maniac terrorizes the city again!" Where did he come from? Why did he appear? Why did he climb into the head and himself, like a bullet, rummage around inside, apparently looking for something there. There is nothing more to look for there. Under the white bone of the skull, the brain had long since turned into mold, Darius would have thrown it out.

The first corpse did not surprise him at first. A man was found under a layer of ice. The first version was suicide. But when the body was brought to the department for the opening and the jaw was opened, there were forget-me-nots inside. A hundred, no, thousands of small blue inflorescences in the mouth. He remembered this frame, and for some reason forget-me-nots became a symbol of death in winter for him.