The officer shook his head.
“No.”
“There was another person with him.”
“Can you identify them?”
“Not yet. The second individual kept the hood of a sweatshirt pulled low over their face, so the cameras couldn’t capture any clear features.”
He paused before adding,
“But we did uncover something interesting.”
“What?”
“The second person used a bank card registered under a completely different name.”
My heart began pounding again.
“So… they’ve done this before?” I whispered.
The officer nodded.
“Many times.”
“And if we hadn’t intervened today, they probably would have continued.”
A chill crept down my spine.
Nothing about this operation was random.
Every step had been carefully rehearsed.
Every move calculated.
Suddenly another memory surfaced.
“Wait…”
I looked up.
“He told me he’d just returned from a photography trip.”
I hesitated.
“He even showed me some of his pictures…”
The investigator leaned forward immediately.
“What kind of photographs?”
“I…”
I reached for my phone, opening my gallery as I desperately tried to remember.
Had he sent me anything?
Shared an album?
Forwarded a picture?
I searched through every folder.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The horrifying truth struck me all at once.
He hadn’t left behind a single trace.
No photographs.
No messages.
No social media profile.
No email.
Nothing that proved he had ever existed.
It was as though he had walked into my life, stolen everything he wanted, and erased himself completely.
The officer looked at the blank screen in my hands before speaking.
“This isn’t an ordinary scam artist.”
His voice was unusually serious.
“Whoever he is, he knows exactly how to disappear.”
Outside, the hallway suddenly grew noisy again.
Voices echoed through the corridor.
Another team had finished searching the surrounding rooms.
Nothing.
No witnesses.
No belongings.
No evidence.
He had vanished.
Simply dissolved into the morning.
The only proof that he had ever crossed my path was the devastating hole left in my bank account.
Slowly, I stood and walked toward the window.
“But I saw him,” I whispered.
“I talked to him.”
“I spent hours with him.”
The investigator watched me quietly before answering in a softer voice than before.
“Valentina Petrovna…”
“People like him survive because they become exactly the person their victims are hoping to meet.”
Those words hurt more than anything else she had said.
I stared out the hotel window.
Morning had fully arrived.
Cars rolled through the streets.
People hurried past carrying coffee cups.
Someone laughed.
Someone hailed a taxi.
Life outside continued as though nothing had happened.
Somewhere among those ordinary faces…
He could still be walking freely.
Or perhaps he was already pretending to be someone entirely different.
My phone suddenly vibrated.
An unknown number.
Again.
For several long seconds, I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
Finally, I pressed the green button.
“Hello?”
The same man’s voice calmly spoke.
“You still haven’t remembered everything.”
The call disconnected.
I remained frozen, staring at the dark screen.
For the first time, I truly understood.
This nightmare wasn’t over.
It was only beginning.
Chapter 4. The Man With No Face—and the Cost of Trust
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
Every sound in the hotel hallway made me flinch.
My phone lay beside me on the pillow, a constant reminder that none of this had been a dream.
The bank had frozen my account.
The unauthorized withdrawals had stopped.
But the money that had already been taken was gone.
By noon, the police asked me to come to the station.
Walking into the building made everything feel frighteningly real.
The investigator was waiting with several folders spread across his desk.
“We’ve finally identified him,” he said as he organized the documents.
“But there’s something you should know.”
“He isn’t a photographer.”
“And ‘Andrey’ isn’t his real name.”
“He has operated under at least six different identities that we’re aware of.”
I sat in silence.
Six identities.
The words sounded surreal.
It no longer felt as though we were talking about one man.
It felt as if we were chasing a ghost capable of changing faces whenever it pleased.
Finally, I found the strength to ask the only question that mattered.
“Have you arrested him?”
The investigator slowly shook his head.
“Not yet.”
His expression remained calm, but I could tell there was frustration behind it.
“But we’re getting closer.”
He paused for a moment before leaning slightly forward.
“There’s something important you need to understand.”
“He didn’t just steal your money.”
I looked at him, confused.
“He was watching you.”
“Watching me?”
“Yes.”