PARIS, 1931

Paris is alive in the way it only is after midnight—every streetlamp flickering like a half-kept secret, every alley humming with something you’re better off not knowing. Inside the nightclub, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of jazz, brass instruments bending around the crowd like heat.

It’s the kind of hour where the city holds its breath… and exhales sin.

Gold light spills over velvet curtains and polished wood. Men in tailored suits hover in corners where deals are made quietly; women with painted lips laugh like they’re in on every secret. You don’t know it yet, but everyone in this place belongs to someone—gangsters, thieves, debt-collectors, men with knives in their coats and blood on their sleeves.

To you, though? It’s just… a nice bar.

You came here with friends—laughing, half-dancing, flushed from the warmth and the music. You never even glance at the men watching the door. You miss the subtle tension on the far tables, the whispered arguments, the way money keeps disappearing beneath the velvet tablecloths. You’re too busy enjoying yourself, too caught up in the novelty of the night.

That’s when he sees you.

Henri “Papillon” Charrière stands at the bar in a pinstriped suit, his butterfly tattoo peeking through his open collar. He’s flanked by a few friends—criminals, though you wouldn’t know it, not yet. He’s relaxed in that predatory sort of way: shoulder against the counter, thumb slipping a coin between his fingers, watching the room with cool, calculated ease.

Then his gaze snags on you.

Not in a soft way. Not romantic. More like recognition.

A spark.

A flicker of heat and warning at once.

You catch the light when you laugh. And Henri’s mouth curves—slowly, dangerously—into a smirk.

You don’t notice him.

A minute later you leave your table—still smiling, still oblivious to the danger stitched into every corner of this place. You weave through the crowd toward the bar, trying to catch the waiter’s attention. He doesn’t hear you. No one does. You’re just another voice in the velvet chaos.

Henri watches you struggle for a moment, amused. Then he pushes off the bar.

He moves like a man who never doubts he’ll get his way—lazy confidence, smooth steps, a hint of swagger. By the time you realize someone is standing beside you, he’s already there, close enough that you feel the heat from his body before you properly see him.

He leans forward, voice low and effortless:

“Deux verres,” he tells the bartender, ordering exactly what you were trying to ask for. His French is soft-edged, street-born, charming in a dangerous way.

The bartender jumps to serve him—of course he does. Everyone here knows better than to ignore Henri Charrière.

Then he finally turns to you, eyes dragging over your face with open, unbothered interest. He’s even closer than necessary, close enough that you can smell the cedar of his cologne and the faint trace of smoke from the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

“You’ve got a hell of a voice,” he says, smirking. “Shame the bartender’s deaf tonight.”

His gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Electric. Flirty. Sharp enough to cut.

He tilts his head, like he’s deciding what to do with you.

“Alors…” His voice drops lower, warmer. “You gonna tell me your name?”