Chapter 3
## CHAPTER ONE: THE CONVOY OF COMPLACENCY
The sun crept reluctantly over the decaying buildings of Sofia. The sky hung grayish, dusty, and joyless, as if time itself were preparing for something sinister. Along the avenues, people with tired eyes dragged their feet, while cars lined up in the tangled morning nervousness of the capital's traffic.
But in an instant, the roar of horns was split by a peculiar sound – the screech of a siren, piercing and commanding. Out of nowhere, a dark SUV with a flashing police beacon squeezed between the rows of cars. It wasn’t just passing through – it was pushing time and space away with it, growling, flashing, forcing people to panic, pull into the side lanes, hit the brakes, and cast quiet, angry curses.
Behind it – as if in a procession of a modern deity – glided a black sedan. Gloomy, gleaming, and ruthless, with heavily tinted windows that did not reflect the sun but swallowed it. Inside, leaning back casually, sat he – Martin the Notary.
With a cigar in the corner of his lips and eyes hidden behind golden glasses, he observed the street as if it belonged to him. And perhaps it truly belonged to him. In his mind, the city was a piece of bureaucratic meat that could be torn apart and resold. And the people – extras, pawns, noise.
— Move it, you sheep! – he cursed at a woman with a small child who was crossing the pedestrian walkway. – Didn't your mother tell you that gods pass through here!?
She didn't hear him. Her door was closed, the music in her car was blasting. But he knew that the curse was part of the role – the role of a man who didn't need to be polite. Who had power. Who could.
Chalga music thundered in his car – one of those tracks played on private channels, featuring "tough guys," stacks of cash, and silicone bodies. Exactly this world was his – a world where everything could be bought, except humility. And he didn't need that.
The third car – a white civilian SUV, but with the familiar blue beacon – closed the column. They weren't driving – they were penetrating through the city. Like a knife through decomposed meat. The traffic around them tore apart with disgust.
At "Eagle Bridge," a man showed them his middle finger. He had been stuck in his taxi for more than an hour and watched the convoy with resentment accumulated over the years. But the Notary only laughed.
— Look at him! – he said to his driver. – That one also thinks he has a right to an opinion! Haha!
He was president. Not of the country. Higher. President of judicial corruption. That’s what he called himself, without shame, without a smile, with the confidence of a man who knows that there is no prosecutor who can touch him.
They called him "The Cashier." Not just because he held money – but because he distributed it. Bribes, appointments, indictments, and acquittals. Everything went through him – like through an invisible shadow.
Tonight, however, fate had stepped out of its clumsy shadow and stood in front of his home.
The convoy turned off the boulevard and headed up toward the western slope of the city. Gorna Banya welcomed them with a strange mixture of rural peace and urban kitsch. The old pine trees whispered in the wind, and between them appeared the new concrete castles of the new masters.
Martin lived in a luxury apartment building with a view of Vitosha Mountain, built with money drained from the lawsuits of the poor. A building made of glass, mortar, and arrogance. With security, an automatic barrier, and the scent of disinfectant and expensive perfume.
In front of the entrance – silence. The cameras were watching. But nobody suspected that in the shadows under a chestnut tree stood a man.
Young. With his face hidden under a hood. In his hands – cold German steel. Glock 17. Muffled with a silencer. Without emotions. Only will. Only a mission.
He wasn't crazy. He wasn't random. He wasn't desperate.
He was sent. By those who
The convoy stopped in front of the building. The SUVs – to the side. The black sedan – in front. The door opened. Martin stepped out with the stride of a man who feels immortal.
In that moment, time froze.
A shot.
One. Precise. Clean.
The bang was muffled, as if coming from another world. The bullet passed through his skull like a retribution that had been aging for decades.
The Notary's head snapped back, the cigar fell into a puddle, and life poured out into the mud at the entrance. The bodyguards shrieked. One wet his pants. Another stumbled and vomited onto the SUV. Nobody shot. Nobody dared.
And the killer simply turned around and vanished among the streets of Gorna Banya – toward the pines, toward the silence, toward the darkness that had left only for a moment.
11m
### CHAPTER TWO: TIMELESSNESS
Nobody shouted.
Nobody ran.
Nobody pulled a weapon, ordered "Get down!", shouted "Fire!", or "Hold him!".
The bodyguards in the black SUV stared with blank eyes, as if the bullet had hit reality itself instead of the body. The Notary's driver remained motionless – with his hands on the steering wheel and smoking breath, as if waiting for another order. But such an order did not come. Never again.
The security of the luxury building – the same one where apartments cost as much as the lives of dozens of families – did not move. The man at the barrier continued to look at the monitor, where the smoking body of Martin the Notary was now just a thermal spot that was cooling down.
The police – those from the civilian SUV – got out only after a few minutes. Without rushing. One of them yawned. The other scratched his neck and shrugged. As if this was just another piece of news that would be buried by noon with something cheaper.
And the killer?
He didn't run. He didn't escape. He simply dissolved into the morning shadow of Gorna Banya, like mist retreating among the first rays of a helpless sun. He was gone. Neither camera, nor eyes, nor instinct caught him. It was as if he had never existed.
And only the body remained.
The rest – silence, like dust.
He lay there – Martin the Notary – with his head thrown back, with an expression of surprised contempt frozen in his features. The cigarette had already gone out. Blood dripped down his expensive suit like dark silk, crawling toward the curb, where it met a chewing gum once stepped on by a child.
In that moment, Sofia stopped.
Not in a literal sense. The buses kept moving, the horns were still heard, music entered through open windows. But something inside the city itself was interrupted. A blood vessel had been cut – invisible, but vital.
People felt it. Not with a thought. But with silence. With that sticky sensation that enters through the skin when something truly cruel happens. When it is not just a murder taking place, but the fall of an illusion.
There was no justice.
There was no retribution.
There was only cruelty, performed with the coldness of a surgical incision.
This was not anger.
This was not a revolution.
It was the art of pain. Sent by the nameless executioner of time.
From that day on, nobody believed that things would get better.
The death of the Notary did not open the door to a new world.
It only opened the abyss that everyone carried inside themselves.
And the world looked down.
12m
### THE DEATH OF LUCIFER: THE MEDIA ORGY AFTER THE MURDER OF MARTIN THE NOTARY
On that night when fate, or rather some ruthless executioner, caught up with Martin the Notary, Sofia grew quiet. The air, which until recently was full of smoke from the cigarettes of admired policemen and the horns of angry taxi drivers, suddenly grew heavy with anticipation.
The date was January 31, 2024. Shortly before 19:30. A cold Wednesday. A report of a shooting in the luxury gated complex "Gloria Palace" in Gorna Banya, a sanctuary for the influential and untouchable. The victim – Martin Bozhanov, better known as the Notary. The man who "ruled the judiciary with an iron fist." The man who considered himself Lucifer.
### CHRONOLOGY OF THE MEDIA STORM
### 19:30 – 20:00: THE FIRST LIGHTNING BOLTS
The first, timid news of an "incident" in Gorna Banya began to creep into the airwaves. Radio stations, which until minutes ago were broadcasting cheerful music or boring political debates, suddenly changed their tone. A short message: "A report has been received about a shooting in a luxury complex in Gorna Banya. Police are on the scene." There were no names, no details. Only the ominous premonition that something big had happened in the dark underworld of power.
### 20:00 – 21:00: FANNING THE FLAMES
The news broadcasts, which usually started at 20:00, turned into breaking news. The screens of BNT, bTV, Nova TV – all lit up with flashing red signs: "Breaking News," "Murder in Sofia." Reporters on live broadcasts, standing in front of the cordoned-off complex, breathed in the cold, their voices trembling with tension. The first unofficial information, creeping from "reliable sources" in the Ministry of Interior and the prosecutor's office, began to whisper the name: "Martin Bozhanov. The Notary." The confirmation came quickly. "Martin Bozhanov - The Notary has been killed," thundered the headlines of leading news websites. The first photos began to appear – frames from security cameras showing the death of the Notary literally seconds before he was shot.
### 21:00 – 23:00: THE ORGY BEGINS
All media – television, internet portals, radio stations – threw themselves like hyenas onto the news. Tens, hundreds of reports. The same frames, the same words, repeated to the point of nausea. Every anchor, every reporter tried to extract a new detail, a new piece of gossip.
Television channels broadcast live from the scene while police teams worked under the lights of spotlights. Special editions began to come out one after another. In the studios sat "analysts," "criminologists," "former police officers" – all of them with important faces, trying to decipher the complex web of connections and dependencies in which the Notary had been involved. They spoke of property scams, of influence in the judicial system, of the so-called "Notary's Club" – that "den" where magistrates used to meet.
News websites erupted with headlines like "Gangland Execution!", "The Puppeteer of Justice Shot Dead!". Chronologies of the life and "exploits" of the Notary appeared minute by minute. Articles about the Commission for Forfeiture of Illegally Acquired Property, about his cases, about the investigations of the Anti-Corruption Fund, in which he had been the main character.
Radio stations did not stop informing, interrupting their music blocks for new and further details. Telephone interviews with people who knew him, or claimed to have known him.
Eva, a desperate law student who until recently dreamed of washing windows in England, now watched the screen with a horrifying realization. Here is Bulgaria – not in the textbooks of European law, but in the raw, ruthless reality. There, where Lucifer is killed, but not by God's hand, but by someone's bullet, and where the media, like bloodthirsty ravens, tear his carcass apart.
### AFTER MIDNIGHT: CYNICISM AS THE NORM
After midnight, when most people were already asleep, the media continued to work at full speed. The first "versions" of the murder appeared – revenge, settling scores, eliminating a man who knew too much. The tone became increasingly cynical, increasingly alienated from any normalcy.
The murder of a man who was part of the muddiest schemes in the country was already being presented as the logical conclusion of a criminal career. And nobody asked why he hadn't been investigated until now, why he had been so untouchable.
Martin the Notary, the man who considered himself almighty Lucifer in the hell of Bulgarian justice, had fallen. But not into the abyss of oblivion, but under the spotlights, turned into a media spectacle. And while thousands of people read, watched, and listened about his death, Yordan, Petko, Ivan, and Eva knew – this was not the end of a story, but just another chapter in the endless saga of the absurdity that Bulgaria refused to leave. And this was both sad and scary.
13m
### CHRONICLE OF A HELPLESSNESS: THE INVESTIGATION AFTER THE DEATH OF THE NOTARY
The death of Martin the Notary on January 31, 2024, shortly before 19:30, in the luxury complex "Gloria Palace," did not just shake the media, but revealed like a kaleidoscope the abyss of Bulgarian justice. For those who were witnesses to his unceremonious power on the streets of Sofia – Yordan, Petko, Ivan, Eva, the old taxi drivers, and the children – the actions of the investigators were a cynical performance rather than a true search for justice.
### CHRONOLOGY OF POLICE AND PROSECUTORIAL "ACTIVITY"
### THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER (JANUARY 31, 2024, AFTER 19:30): THE SHOW BEGINS
The police from the Ministry of Interior: Operational teams arrived first on the scene. They cordoned off the area, started examining the crime scene, collecting casings, looking for tracks. Standard procedure. Television cameras captured their silent figures under the spotlights, creating an impression of serious work.
The prosecutors: Soon after, duty prosecutors appeared, their faces expressionless, though seemingly serious. They directed the examination, giving instructions to the police officers. Everything looked according to the textbook.
### THE MORNING AFTER THE MURDER (FEBRUARY 1, 2024): THE OFFICIAL DECLARATIONS
Ministry of Interior: The first official briefings followed in the morning. The Director of the Chief Directorate "National Police" and the Director of the Sofia Metropolitan Directorate of Interior, the very same ones who only hours ago admired Martin the Notary on cameras, stood before the media with tense faces. They declared "zero tolerance" to crime, promised a "fast and uncompromising investigation." It sounded like a well-rehearsed refrain.
The Prosecutor's Office: A prosecutor from the Specialized Prosecutor's Office, quickly re-qualified, came out before the media with a grim expression. He stated that the case was of "extraordinary public importance," that all efforts would be made to uncover the truth. The words were heavy, but seemingly without real substance.
### FIRST DAYS AFTER THE MURDER (FEBRUARY 2-5, 2024): THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
The investigators: Interrogations of witnesses began – neighbors, security guards, people who had contact with the Notary. Fragmented information leaked into the media about a "wide range of activities" of the victim, about "schemes," about "high-level connections." But no concrete results. No arrests.
The prosecutors: Imposed an information blackout so as not to interfere with the investigation. A classic tactic that often served oblivion.
### WEEKS LATER (FEBRUARY - MARCH 2024): THE MEDIA RETURNS TO "THE NOTARY"
The Ministry of Interior and the Prosecutor's Office: Against the backdrop of public pressure and media revelations about the "dark deeds" of the Notary, the prosecutor's office began to "investigate" several magistrates and police officers who were alleged to have been part of his "group." All of this looked like a smoke screen, an attempt to divert attention from the essential problems.
The police officers acquainted with the Notary: The same duty police officers who used to worship him now smoked cigarettes and discussed with the same cynicism how "he got what he deserved." The first frames from other cameras also appeared, showing these same police officers who previously admired him and now remained silent.
### HOW WAS ALL THIS PERCEIVED BY OUR CHARACTERS?
For Yordan, the elderly passerby, the actions of the police and prosecutors were just a theater. "Look at them!", he smiled wryly while watching the news. "Now they are supposedly investigating, but until yesterday they served him. Utter hypocrites! Clowns! As if we don't know who is who." He remembered the blue beacons that crushed him on the streets, and his powerless feeling that nobody could deal with these people. Now, when one of them was killed, the "system" played the role of an outraged party.
Petko, the taxi driver, changed the radio stations with disgust so as not to listen to "prosecutorial promises." "Now they will start acting grand!", he snorted. "But they won't reveal anything. It's all a sham. Utter monsters! While he was alive, they protected him, now they will investigate him. On every kilometer such monsters have bred, and now they will look for the killers. Hilarious!"
For Eva, the law student, the situation was even more painful. She sat in front of the TV, and a mixture of anger and despair could be read in her eyes. "This is a parody!", she roared. "A parody of justice! Nothing changes. They kill one, and the system continues to rot. Why didn't they investigate him while he was alive? Why did they let him rule with an iron fist? Because they were part of it! Because it was profitable for them!" Her lectures on European law looked like a distant, unreal fairy tale. Here in Bulgaria, justice was simply an instrument for power, not for justice.
Ivan and Petko, the boys who had despised the Notary's convoy, now listened to the news with a strange, sad understanding. "Did you see, Petko? Didn't we tell you they are afraid? Here now, someone paid it back," Ivan said. Petko nodded. "And now they will pretend to investigate. But in the end, nothing will come out of it again. That's why we must run away from here. This country has no fix." In their childish eyes, which until recently were full of innocent faith, a sad but clear realization of alienation from normalcy could now be read. They understood that the death of the Notary was not the end of something bad, but just a change of actors in an endless and cynical spectacle.
14m
