Chapter Text
The Plague Doctor had just been caught, and it turned out to be none other than Sergei Razumovsky.
Philanthropist, millionaire, and criminal.
Perpetrator of the attacks that had shaken the Capital.
An example that was now crumbling in unexpected ways.
Oleg had heard the reports; hurried by the news, he returned home earlier than planned.
Here was Seryozha, recently locked away in a mental asylum.
Away from the rest of the world, alone, in the silence of his mind.
Volkov asked to see him, but the police forced him to testify in the Razumovsky case.
It was a difficult act to open up and speak out against Sergei, but it was something he had to do if he wanted to see him.
Thus it was; Oleg chose to take sides with society rather than his friend, in words for police posterity.
Sergei was no longer the same; this grim version, who maintained a chilling smile, was no longer the boy who had once touched his heart.
This was "Doctor Plague."
A shadow, one of Seryozha's many faces.
Getting Volkov to the psychiatric hospital would be a task of patience.
Many murmured behind him as he left the police station, but for Dima, it was all a terrible misunderstanding.
Dubin's goodwill allowed him to catch up with Oleg half a block away.
—Maybe you don't care, but I think you're going to need help.— Dima whispered, taking a deep breath before taking a card out of his pocket —If you ever find yourself in a difficult situation, here's my number.—
Oleg let out a small, ironic sound from his throat.
—You uniformed officers are selective with your friends. Knowing who I am, you don't fear for your life? You need more evidence against Sergei?— Oleg hesitated with a distrustful smile.
—I'm trying to do the right thing, Mr. Volkov. You're free to believe me or not.— the blond replied, holding the paper insistently.
Oleg nodded silently before taking the card in his hand and walking down the same street he'd left early that morning.
A fact that didn't go unnoticed by many.
—Are you crazy? That's the devil's friend, kid. You can't offer him any help.— one of the police officers at the entrance reproached him.
—You shouldn't worry about that. I can take care of my own neck.— Dubin denied, walking straight to his desk.
—Yes, but even so, we don't know to what extent Oleg Volkov is not implicated in the crimes.— another officer reproached on the way to Prokopenko's office.
Dima snorted to himself as he returned to his paperwork.
How little sympathy could they have in here? Aren't the police supposed to help people?
>•<•>•<•>•<•>•<•>•<
Igor had set out to unravel the mysteries behind Razumovsky's criminal mind, even though the medical report spoke of a dissociative identity disorder coupled with a narcissism marked by a desire to "save the world."
The psychiatric hospital was a rather unpleasant place; Grom was sure that if he investigated, he would find many reasons for its closure.
Sergei remained isolated from the rest, a threat even here, among people who were no longer in control of their sanity.
The straitjacket was necessary in case Razumovsky tried to escape or harm himself.
Because at this point, it was also mandatory to prevent him from harming himself.
Igor entered this cage that separated Sergei from the rest of the patients to see him smile sickly.
—Officer Grom, what brings you here? I thought the Plague Doctor case was solved.— Razumovsky said, sitting on the floor.
—Closing the case was a mistake. I can't argue with the police station, but I'm almost certain they could put you in jail if I could prove you're playing crazy.— Igor complained, descending the few steps down.
—I started a riot in the city, covered up my own crime, and hit you over the head with a bottle. That's enough evidence to accept that I have problems. The medical report calls it "Dissociative identity disorder."— the redhead enumerated, still on the floor.
—It was difficult dealing with the psychiatric hospital, but I have an order to take you to house arrest.— Grom stated, throwing a file folder in front of Razumovsky.
—What?— the boy muttered, his attitude changing slightly.
—Your friend, Oleg Volkov, returned from the undercover mission he was working on to present statements in the case. He flatly denied that you were the kind of person who would feign insanity to carry out such a despicable plan and asked to speak with you. His request was initially denied, but the situation would change if we declared you sane and guilty of the crimes. It's your decision. If you want to talk to your little friend, you'll come with me.— Igor informed, placing his hands on his waist.
—No, that's not... it's not possible. Oleg is dead; you showed me the death certificate yourself.— Sergei denied vehemently.
—I'm just a policeman; there are things that escape my attention, too.— the Major replied.
—Is Oleg alive?— Razumovsky whispered to himself.
—I'll be honest with you, Seryozha. I don't think you deserve the chance to redeem yourself, but if you want, I can get you out of here, it's up to you.— Grom pointed out, certain that the offer was too tempting to pass up.
—Go where?— the criminal questioned suspiciously.
Igor smiled, certain that Razumovsky was going to reveal all his plans to escape from the place where he was going to transfer him.