Markus sat on the edge of his daughter’s hospital bed, staring at the beige wall. His wife, Lena, had been on train number 741. The one that derailed three days ago. A brake failure, the news said. A tragic, random accident.
That night, they didn’t charge the clubhouse with guns blazing. Markus was a soldier, but he was also a father. He had a daughter waiting at home—a girl who had just lost her mother. He couldn’t give her a corpse for a father.
Markus picked up his old service knife from the bedside table. “Then we’ll need better variables.”
Otto unfolded a chaotic web of numbers, timestamps, and photos. “Train 741 had a routine brake inspection four hours before departure. The probability of a sudden, catastrophic failure across all four braking systems is 0.003%. But if someone wanted it to fail…” He tapped a photo of a man in a gray coat standing near the maintenance shed. “This man is Lennart Brix. He’s a former mechanic. And he’s a member of a biker gang called the Riders of Justice.”
The snow fell like static on a broken screen.
“You want to come with me,” Markus said. It wasn’t a question.
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