Chapter 8
### LOST FAITH: SOFIA, THE UPSIDE-DOWN CITY
Voices from the country that let him reign
Mariya (pensioner, at the bus stop)
Clutching tightly the plastic bag with groceries for 10 BGN, Mariya watches a black SUV with tinted windows zoom past. On her face – fear, on her lips – a whisper:
"Wasn't everything supposedly changing? Didn't they say there would be justice? And the Notary... he was still there, until the very end. I saw it with my own eyes – the police, the mayor, and those in suits – everyone bowed. Not a single fine, not a single arrest. We here can't pay for our heating, and he just flies above everyone. How can we not be afraid, child? When you see such a person, you don't think you are in a state – you think you are in a jungle."
Kaloyan (security guard of a private building)
His voice is quiet, his gaze – hopeless. He stares into nothingness while sipping cheap coffee from a plastic cup.
"I used to see him... every month he came with a new car. Guards, women, suits – at the entrance, like in a movie. And I... I stand with a baton and am supposed to protect, supposedly. Only, we don't protect anyone from him. Everyone protects themselves from people like him. Neither the police bother him, nor any of our bosses – as soon as he arrived, everyone went silent. You look and you know – he is above everything. It's not just a person, but a demonstration that here the law applies only to the poor. The others write it themselves."
Milena (young mother)
She sits on a bench next to a playground. Her child is playing, but she keeps a restless eye on him.
"I feel like a prisoner, do you understand? A prisoner in a state where people like this guy – the Notary – do whatever they want. I can't leave my child in peace – I'm afraid. How do I explain to him that at school they will talk to him about 'honesty' and 'legality', while on the streets the criminals' SUVs will pass with impunity? How do I teach him to be good when he sees that the bad guys win?"
Nadezhda (judicial employee)
She is drinking her second beer in a small bar on "Graf Ignatiev" Street. Her eyes are puffy from sleeplessness. She speaks slowly, as if every word weighs heavily on her.
"I work in the judicial system. You cannot imagine what we know and what we cannot say. Everyone knew – prosecutors, judges, even the cleaners in the corridor. The Notary was not hidden, he was accepted. He entered the offices with the same insolence with which others get a coffee. They didn't touch him because he had them all tied up. Through money, compromising materials, fear... What is left of us? Fear, cynicism, and a convoy that became a symbol of betrayal."
Rosen (teacher)
He stands in front of the blackboard, but his thoughts are elsewhere. It is afternoon, the students are noisy, and he speaks almost to himself.
"We teach children about the 'rule of law'. We write it on the walls. And then on TV they see the Notary, they see how all institutions remain silent. This is not just a failure. This is poisoning. You poison the future when you allow evil to wear a suit and receive honors."
Timelessness after evil
Nobody pursued him.
Nobody shouted "Stop!".
The bodyguards did not move.
The security guards of the cooperative shrugged their shoulders.
The policemen looked at each other and turned their eyes away.
The killer walked away.
Disappeared into nothingness.
Without fear. Without guilt. Without consequences.
The rest was the body.
Cold. Mute. Lifeless.
A creation of the system that didn't just fail – it created him.
"This is how things end – not with a bang, but with a whisper. Not with a revolution, but with apathy. Evil does not always come with blood – sometimes it comes with a tuxedo, security, and its own notary."
51m
A tale of a dark network and an unfair investigation
Once upon a time, there was a city where people lived who dreamed of justice and truth. In this city, a terrible and mysterious death occurred – of a man named Martin Bozhanov, known as the Notary. He was a man of great power and influence, but also with many enemies. The people wanted the truth; they wanted to know who took his life and why.
However, the investigation that was supposed to reveal this truth was in the hands of the prosecutor's office – an institution called upon to protect the law and uncover crimes. But something strange happened.
At the top of the Sofia City Prosecutor's Office was a woman – Iliyana Kirilova. She was not just an employee, but the acting head of this important institution. Iliyana was part of a close and closed circle called "the eight dwarfs" – a group of people connected to each other by long-standing ties, friendships, and interests, who kept secrets and protected their own.
Petio, known as Petio the Euro, was also part of this circle. He was a close friend of both Iliyana and Martin the Notary. And what was even more interesting, Petio's wife and Martin's wife were also friends – like two mirrors reflecting each other.
Thus, it turned out that these two groups of people – "the eight dwarfs" and the friends of Petio the Euro and Martin the Notary – were connected to each other like a network of invisible threads that guarded each other and did not allow the truth to come to light.
When the time came to investigate the death of Martin, the prosecutor's office, under the leadership of Iliyana Kirilova, did not conduct a full and comprehensive investigation. They did not want to look deeply, to question all witnesses, to uncover the hidden corruption schemes that were already being talked about in the city.
This meant that:
All the facts that would shed light on the mysterious death were not investigated.
The connections between Martin, Petio, and the other members of "the eight dwarfs" were not checked.
The corruption schemes that these people might have been protecting were not uncovered.
The orders to stop or delay the investigation came precisely from Iliyana Kirilova, who was the "captain of the ship" of the prosecutor's office.
In this way, the truth remained hidden, and the guilty were not only unpunished but also continued to hold power in their hands.
For the ordinary person, this meant a very simple thing: the institution that should be the most honest and the strongest in the search for justice was turned into a tool for those who wanted to cover up the truth. Iliyana Kirilova, who should have been the guardian of the law, actually guarded the interests of her friends.
Every crack of truth was smeared over, every suspicion – hushed up, and public discontent – ignored. This network of friendships and interests was stronger than justice.
And so, the tale ends with a bitter truth: when the people who are supposed to seek the truth turn out to be part of a dark network of connections and interests, justice takes a back seat, and the ordinary person is left alone with the question: "When will the real order come?"
52m
The sun was beating down over Sofia, and the city noise did not subside even for a moment. But behind the high walls of the buildings housing the Specialized Criminal Court and the Specialized Prosecutor's Office, a strange, almost sepulchral silence reigned. These were the places where the law had to speak, where justice was expected to triumph. But for many, especially for people like Grandpa Yordan and the taxi driver Petko, these buildings had long lost their sanctity.
Suddenly, amid the flow of cars, a silhouette appeared – a black, shiny car that seemed to radiate arrogance. On its roof, a blue beacon flashed, that blue light that usually marked police cars or ambulances. But this was not a police car. And it was not an ambulance.
Behind the wheel sat Martin Bozhanov-The Notary. He was not a prosecutor, he was not a judge, he was not even a lawyer who had a scheduled hearing. There was no official reason for him to be there. Not a single state document led him to these temples of justice. But his face, cold and self-assured, betrayed a sense of complete command. His eyes seemed to say: "I am here because I can be."
His convoy, consisting of several other expensive cars, seemed to part the space ahead of it. The police officers at the entrance, accustomed to the routine, did not even move. There was no check, there were no questions. The gates of the secured parking lot, intended only for employees and people with explicit permission, opened quietly. The Notary’s car smoothly glided inside, as if it were his own, opened personally for him.
Not a single policeman stopped him. Not a single prosecutor came out to ask: "What business do you have here, Mr. Bozhanov? By what right do you enter this state institution?" Silence. Only the weight of unannounced power that made even those in uniform lower their gaze.
For the Notary, this was not just a parking lot. It was his personal entrance to a world that he had entangled in a network of contacts, arrangements, and secrets. The world in which justice was supposed to be dispensed had become his private property. He did not come here to seek justice, but to assign it tasks. To alter it. To sell it.
Imagine the horror of Eva, the law student who believed in the laws, as she read about these invisible threads. Or the indignation of Petko, the taxi driver, who fought every day for his livelihood while watching someone buy their way into the judiciary.
The convoy disappeared into the underground parking lot, but the blue beacon continued to flash in people's minds. It was a symbol of a terrifying truth: that in the heart of justice, a ghost had settled, dictating the rules without obeying a single law. And nobody dared to stop him. At least not then.
53m
The Whisper of Money: How the Notary Danced with Justice
The day dragged heavily in the suffocating corridor of the Specialized Criminal Court. The air was heavy with unfulfilled hopes and the fatigue of justice. But for a chosen few, including him, this day carried a different feeling – a feeling of power, of control.
Suddenly, in front of the building, the familiar black silhouette appeared – a shiny car radiating cold, ruthless self-confidence. On its roof, like a blue glare in the murky morning, a blue beacon flashed. Not for an emergency, but for an urgent arrangement.
This was Martin Bozhanov-The Notary. Nobody asked him what he was looking for here. The gates of the secured parking lot, which for the ordinary person were a barrier, opened submissively before him, as if programmed to recognize only his power. He was not a prosecutor, he was not a judge, but he was there to do a "job". And this "job" had a name: the "Killers 2" case.
The car smoothly glided inward, as if Martin were not a guest, but the host. With every turn of the tires, with every quiet creak of the elevator door, he was not just entering the building. He was entering the very heart of justice, but not to protect it, but to manipulate it.
In his lap, hidden under his jacket, lay the weight of money. His "job" today consisted of delivering the instructions and the corresponding bribes and kickbacks to the ever-hungry prosecutors and judges. They were like insatiable shadows that wanted their share for every "service" rendered. For every doubt cast, for every delay, for every "vanished" piece of evidence, for every "innocent" eye closed to the obvious truth.
This money was not his. It was allocated by the Cartel – a huge, invisible network that pulled the strings of the underworld. And Martin? He was just a cashier. But a cashier with power. Power stronger than any official position. Because in the eyes of those who received his money, he was not just a messenger. They perceived him as the owner of this place. Of this sanctuary. Whatever he said, happened. And whatever was paid for, of course.
When Martin Bozhanov appeared in the corridors, the atmosphere changed. The magistrates, whose faces were usually stone masks of seriousness, now looked... submissive. Some hurried to greet him with a slight bow, others pretended to be busy, but they felt his presence. Everyone knew that he was a representative of the Cartel. That he was the link between the world of dirty money and the supposedly clean halls of Themis.
He did not speak much. He just gave instructions, as if assigning the daily tasks to his subordinates. There was no need for threats. His power was felt in the air, in the silence with which they received him. The money, its weight, seemed to hang in the air, an invisible cloud that suffocated every spark of justice.
As he left, again in his black car, under the flashing blue beacon, Martin the Notary did not look at anyone. He knew that today he had "done the job". And as the sun set over Sofia, a bitter feeling arose in the hearts of ordinary people that in this country justice had become just another commodity sold and bought on the market of influence. And that the Notary had been the chief merchant.
54m
The sun was scorching over Sofia, but a chill blew through the corridors of the Specialized Criminal Court. Here, where Themis was supposed to be blind and impartial, the air was heavy with tension and unspoken expectations. The only sounds were the quiet tapping of shoes on the marble floor and the distant humming of air conditioners. The day promised another dose of long-planned justice in the "Killers 2" case – one of those high-profile cases of contract killings and robberies that alternately froze and outraged society.
But today was not just another day. Today a visitor was expected.
Suddenly, the silence of the external parking lot was pierced by a quiet but decisive sound. A black, shiny car, as if poured out of the night, glided toward the strictly guarded entrance. On its roof, like the cold eye of a predator, a blue beacon flashed. Not for an emergency, but for urgent control.
Behind the wheel sat Martin Bozhanov-The Notary. His face was calm, almost bored, but a old, familiar fire danced in his eyes – the fire of power. He was neither a judge, nor a prosecutor, nor even an ordinary witness in the case. Nobody had officially summoned him; there was no scheduled hearing for him. And yet, he was here because he had to "do a job".
The police officers at the entrance, usually strict and inflexible, stood motionless. There were no questions. There were no checks. The gates of the staff parking lot, where only judges and prosecutors were allowed, opened quietly, as if by an invisible hand. The Notary’s car smoothly glided inside, to the very heart of the building, as if this were his private property and not a state institution.
Nobody stopped him. Nobody asked him why the blue light was flashing on the roof of his private car, mimicking a police escort. Because everyone knew: he is not here to seek justice. He is here to manage it.
His movements were slow, measured. Entering the building, he did not rush. He knew they were waiting for him. In the pocket of his jacket lay the weight of money. His "job" in the "Killers 2" case consisted of delivering the "instructions" – unspoken guidelines that could change destinies – and the corresponding bribes and kickbacks. They were intended for the ever-hungry prosecutors and judges who were ready for anything in exchange for money. For every delay, for every distortion of facts, for every "vanished" piece of evidence, for every "innocent" eye closed to the obvious truth.
This money was not his. He was only a cashier, a representative of the Cartel – that shadow that pulled the strings of the underworld. But the Notary was not just a messenger. He was the embodiment of power. In the eyes of those who received his money, he was the owner of this place. Of this sanctuary. Whatever he said, happened. And whatever was paid for, of course.
When Martin Bozhanov appeared on the floors, the air seemed to grow even heavier. The magistrates, whose faces were usually stone masks, now looked... submissive. Some hurried to greet him with a slight bow, others New York pretended to be busy with documents, but they felt his presence. Everyone knew that he was a representative of the Cartel. That he was the link between the world of dirty money and the supposedly clean halls of Themis.
He did not speak much. He just gave short, clear instructions, as if assigning the daily tasks to his subordinates. There was no need for threats. His power was felt in the air, in the silence with which they received him. The weight of the money, its dirty energy, seemed to hang in the air, an invisible cloud that suffocated every spark of justice.
After an hour or two, the black car reappeared at the exit of the parking lot. The blue beacon flashed again, then went out. Martin Bozhanov-The Notary left the court without looking back. He knew that today he had "done the job" on the "Killers 2" case
55m
