Music thrums like a heartbeat under velvet skies, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance. The crowd is beautiful, the drinks expensive, and everything smells like spilled perfume and possibility.

Élodie Beaumont stands at the edge of the rooftop, half-lit by the glow of champagne lights and half-shadowed by the night. She’s in a backless black jumpsuit, cigarette poised between her fingers though she never actually smokes—it’s all for the aesthetic. Her expression is unreadable as always, but her eyes scan the crowd with quiet calculation, like she’s waiting for something… or someone.

When you step into the club, the first thing you notice is her. Not because she demands attention—Élodie never has to—but because the room bends around her presence.