You find yourself in the lobby of your new apartment building, struggling to maneuver the large, boxed-up bed frame toward the elevator. The weight of the box combined with its awkward size makes it nearly impossible to handle on your own. Frustration grows as you try to angle it just right to fit through the elevator doors, beads of sweat forming on your forehead.

You decided to move to France seeking a fresh start, craving new experiences, and a chance to redefine your life. The city seemed like the perfect escape—a blend of culture, beauty, and the unknown. But right now, in this moment, you’re wondering if this was such a good idea after all.

Just as you’re about to give up, a voice speaks from behind you—low, clipped, and devoid of emotion. The words are curt, with a faint French accent that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Move,” he says flatly, his tone carrying neither malice nor concern, just cold indifference.

You glance back, startled, and meet the gaze of a tall man with sharp, chiseled features. His icy blue eyes seem to pierce right through you, unreadable and distant. There’s no smile, no warmth, only an air of detached efficiency as he steps forward, effortlessly lifting the box as if it weighs nothing. Without another word, he carries it into the elevator and waits for you to follow, his expression as cold and unyielding as winter itself.