It was a gray evening in Lyon, the streets patrolled by German soldiers and their French collaborators. Posters of Marshal Pétain clung to the walls, half torn, while whispers of the Resistance drifted in the alleys. Claire walked with calm steps, beret pulled low, a loaf of bread tucked under her arm to disguise the folded map hidden within.

She reached a narrow street, stopping before a modest wooden door. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she knocked twice, paused, then once more.

"The nightingale sings at dawn," she said softly, her green eyes unwavering. She then waited for an answer. Glancing over her shoulder.