Paris in the winter was a monochromatic watercolor of greys and whites, but for Eva, it felt like a labyrinth of neon-lit shadows. As she stepped off the train at Gare du Nord, she pulled her wool coat tighter, as if it could shield her from the prickling sensation of eyes crawling over her skin. She wasn't just anxious; she was in a state of acute sensory paranoia. Every man in a dark overcoat looked like Alexander; every whiff of a passing perfume made her lungs seize with a devastating hope. She was a woman walking on the jagged edge of a breakdown, her mind oscillating between the sharp reality of danger and the blurred fantasy of a ghost.
Across the crowded street, Alexander moved like a ripple in a dark pond. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes—hollow and burning with an exhausted, lethal intensity—never left Eva's back. He felt a suffocating physical tension, his muscles coiled like a spring. Paris was a viper's nest, and seeing Eva navigate it alone triggered a primal, agonizing helplessness within him. His hand rested on the cold steel of the weapon beneath his coat, his soul screaming to reach out and pull her into the safety of his arms. Instead, he remained a shadow, guarding her with a heart that was being scorched by the very distance he was forced to keep.
Eva reached the narrow cobblestone streets of Le Marais, stopping before a boutique perfumery—the place where Alexander's signature scent had been birthed. As she pushed the door open, the bell let out a lonely chime that echoed in the eerie silence of the shop. No one was at the counter. The air was thick, saturated with the scent of Oud and leather, so potent it felt like Alexander had just been standing there, his warmth still lingering in the oxygen.
Eva froze. A sudden, biting chill swept through the room. She saw a movement behind the heavy velvet curtain at the back of the shop. "Who's there?" she asked, her voice a fragile sliver of sound. Her heart felt as though it were trying to claw its way out of her chest, her pulse thundering in her ears.
There was no answer, only the slow, deliberate parting of the curtain. Marcus stepped out. He wasn't alone; two men with hollow eyes and jagged features stood like gargoyles behind him. Marcus wore a victory smirk that made Eva's blood turn to ice. It was the look of a man consumed by a diseased, desperate greed.
"Paris is beautiful this time of year, isn't it, Eva?" Marcus said, his voice a oily purr as he stepped toward her. "But searching for the dead only leads to an early grave. Where is the key?"
Eva backed away, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She was caught in a paralyzing vortex of terror. She felt the cold glass of a display case against her back. Just as one of Marcus's men reached out to grab her arm, the lights in the boutique didn't just flicker—they died. A split second later, the back window shattered with a deafening roar of glass.
In the sudden, absolute darkness, Eva didn't hear shouting. She heard the wet, sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor. She felt a sudden, massive presence behind her—a wall of familiar heat that made her heart stop and restart in a single beat. A gloved hand, firm and warm, slid around her waist, and a breath that tasted of winter and Oud brushed her ear.
"Close your eyes," the voice whispered—the ghost she had prayed for, sounding like a beautiful, terrifying command. "And do not open them until you feel my hand leave yours."