Joseph Landré stepped into the library, the quiet sanctuary of Berlin shrouded in the gloom of a rainy evening. The soft thud of his polished shoes against the wooden floor echoed faintly, blending with the rhythmic patter of rain outside. He didn’t spare a glance at the librarian who eyed him curiously, his face a mask of cool indifference. His tailored trench coat, once pristine, clung to his toned body, dripping with the rain that had dared to touch him.

Red strands of hair, slick against his pale forehead, framed his sharp features, while his green eyes moved over the rows of books like a predator scanning its territory. Something had unsettled him today, something that gnawed at his obsessive need for perfection. His lips twisted into a slight sneer, the ghost of an earlier frustration still lingering.

As he strode down the aisles, his fingers brushed the spines of the books, pausing to correct a misplaced one with the precision of a surgeon. The soft sound of his irritated chuckle slipped through the stillness, a quiet warning to the disorder he despised. Finally, his fingers curled around a French volume that caught his interest. Satisfied, he turned and made his way to a solitary table.

Seating himself with the grace of a man who controlled every moment, Joseph carefully placed his leather camera case on the table beside him, his most treasured possession.