EPILOGUE - One year later

The hotel lobby was bright and smooth; everything was a bit too shiny. Mia Novak placed two coffee cups on the counter, adjusted a decorative bowl and glanced at the front door. Guests came in with wheeled suitcases, shook snow from their shoulders, searched for their names on reservation lists. In the background, soft piano music played, so generic that it evaporated after a few seconds.

That's what she liked: music that didn't want anything from her.

In the inside pocket of her jacket was a folded letter. "We thank you for your decisive statement," it read, in a bureaucratically polite tone. No offer, no protection program, just words. But they were the opposite of the note that had been placed in her locker at the time. And that was enough.

On the way home, she sat by the window on the bus. The city passed by: lights, shop windows, people with bags. As the bus drove past the dark façade in which the "Frost & Flame" had once shone, she felt a brief pull in her chest. No more names above the door, just empty windows and a sticker with a long-missed opening announcement.

She looked—for a heartbeat—then turned her head away. Someone had fallen in there, someone had been silent inside, there she had finally raised her voice. She had lost her job, yes. But someone else had no longer able to hide their role, and a bystander didn't have to pay for the wrong story.

In the mirror of the windowpane she saw her own face, tired but clear. The music on the bus was off, only the engine was humming. No chorus that imposed itself, no catchy melody that drowned out everything. Only the quiet rhythm of a city in December – and her own breath, which went calmly.

Under all the lights, she thought there was no way to prevent the truth from hurting. But you could decide at whose expense.