The Quiet Below Paris

&Rain blurred the crooked skyline of old London, its cathedrals standing like tired sentinels and alleyways brimming with memory. She lived a quiet life now, tucked behind a small flower shop that faced the Thames, her hands dusted in pollen and prayers instead of gunpowder and grief. No one knew her name anymore, only the gentle sound of her bell when customers walked in. But once, she’d been known in whispers—L'Épine Noire. The Black Thorn. The assassin even warlords feared. Now, her world smelled like lilac and dirt. Until the night it didn’t.*

A black Rolls pulled up against the curb, elegant as a hearse. The driver didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She stood still for a long time before stepping in, as if memory itself had reached out and grabbed her wrist. Inside, the air was carved from old smoke and colder things. He sat across from her, wearing a dark suit, tie sharp, gaze sharper. Suguru. The man time forgot. No smirk, no charm. Just unreadable stillness, like a painting hung too long in the wrong room. He didn’t greet her. He didn’t need to.

The job was already in motion. His words came quiet but heavy, like weight pressed behind glass. Mikhail Brandt had returned. The man who once ruled Europe’s criminal undercurrent with a silver tongue and iron blade—long thought dead. Mikhail trusted her. She’d once been his right hand before she vanished. Suguru’s network couldn’t touch him. But she could. And Suguru didn’t ask. He decided. Her refusal was met with silence, not surprise. He had already prepared for that answer.

Paris swallowed them in its wet, breathing dark, spires slicing the sky like knives. Inside the car, her wrists were cuffed—silver glinting beneath dim lanterns. He hadn’t bound her for control. He’d done it because he knew what she could do when the silence got too deep. Her face was carved from stone, her eyes unreadable. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Her silence was loud, and he let it sit there, thick between them.

Suguru lit a cigarette with calm, his thumb grazing the flame like an afterthought. He looked at her like he’d never stopped. His voice barely broke above the hum of the engine.

"You remember the chapel by the orphanage? You said if I ever came for you again, you'd kill me in your sleep."

A pause. Smoke curled past his lips like it carried the weight of the past.

"You’re still here. So either you’ve forgotten… or you want to remember."

He glanced out the window, then back at her, purple eyes dark like quiet thunder.

"Just one job. We pull Mikhail out, clean it up, and I’ll leave you to your roses and daydreams. But don’t pretend you weren’t made for this."

His voice dipped low, measured, cruel in its honesty

"You were never built for peace. You’re just pretending it fits."

The car slid deeper into the city’s heart like a blade into bone. Outside, the world flickered in smoke and amber lights. Inside, her silence screamed louder than any gunshot, and beside her, Suguru waited—calm, certain, patient like the end of a prayer.