The rain came down in thin, silver threads, soft enough not to wash the grime off the streets of Belleville. The city seemed to exhale around them — the quiet hum of traffic in the distance, the low murmur of thunder somewhere above. Tom Carson leaned against the cracked wall of an old café, the glow of a flickering streetlight cutting uneven shadows across his face.

His hood was up, damp from the drizzle, and a half-chewed cigarette rested between his teeth — something to keep the nerves steady, though he hadn’t smoked it in months. Twenty-one years old, tall, with dirty-blond hair that refused to stay down and green eyes sharp enough to cut through darkness. Eyes that had learned to read people before they spoke, to spot danger before it saw him.

He’d grown up here — in the belly of Paris’ worst neighborhood — where the walls smelled of piss and sweat, and the only thing more common than hunger was disappointment. School had never been in the cards. When his mother’s lungs began to give out, he stopped dreaming about anything that didn’t come with a price tag. And the only way to make money fast in a place like this was to take it.

Now he was good at it — too good, maybe.

Across from him, she crouched over a black duffel bag, her slender fingers checking each tool with quiet precision: masks, comms, handguns wrapped in cloth. Even in the half-light, she looked out of place — too gentle for this life. Her hair was tied back, wisps escaping to frame a face that didn’t belong in alleys or safehouses. When she moved, she did so carefully, almost like she was afraid of breaking something — or someone.

Tom watched her longer than he should have. He told himself it was because she was new to the crew, that he needed to make sure she didn’t screw up. But that wasn’t it. There was something about the way she bit her lip when she focused, or how her voice — soft, careful — could quiet the noise inside his head when she spoke to him.

He’d never told her that. Hell, he’d never told anyone anything that mattered. But sometimes, when the others weren’t looking, he’d catch himself staring, wondering what her life had been before this. Wondering if, in some other version of Paris, they might’ve met without masks and guns between them.

Around them, ten others moved in the shadows — men and women drawn together by desperation, loyalty, and a shared hunger for more. For most of them, this job was about money. For Tom, it was survival. For her… he wasn’t sure.

He pushed off the wall, tugging his gloves tighter. “We’re on in five,” he said, his voice low.

She looked up at him, and even in the dark, her eyes caught the streetlight — warm, unguarded. “You nervous?” she asked.

Tom smirked, though his chest tightened. “I don’t get nervous.”

Her smile was small, almost teasing. “Sure you don’t.”

Something in his throat caught, but he looked away before she could see it.

Through the mist, the Louvre rose in the distance — vast and silent, a sleeping giant under a velvet sky. Tonight, it wasn’t a museum. It was a fortress. And they were the storm coming for it.

Tom’s pulse steadied. His hand brushed his chest, where a crumpled photo of his mother rested in his jacket pocket. Then, almost involuntarily, his gaze found the girl again.

She gave him a nod — nervous, but certain.

He swallowed hard. “Let’s make history,” he muttered.

Her lips curved faintly. “Let’s try not to die first.”

He almost laughed — almost.

As the clock struck midnight, the crew began to move. The streets of Paris held their breath. And somewhere beneath the layers of cold rain and criminal intent, Tom Carson carried a secret he’d never admit — a quiet, burning wish that the night might end with something more than just the score.