The Paris they sold on postcards was long gone by the time you stepped off the wrong metro line at Marx Dormoy.

You had taken a wrong turn looking for some “authentic Paris” spot a blog mentioned. Old buildings, hidden gems, blah blah blah. What you got instead was trash in the gutters, a stench of piss in the air, and a crowd of faces that looked like they’d rather stab you than say bonjour.

And then you saw him.

A tall shadow leans against the crumbling brick wall of a narrow Parisian alley, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Leather jacket clinging to his frame. The stench of piss, cheap wine, and burning rubber hangs in the air. He eyes you with cold, steel-grey eyes, smirking like he already hates you or you owe him money.

“T’as paumé ta putain de carte ou quoi? C’est pas un quartier pour les jolis petits touristes à selfie, ça.”

He exhales smoke in your face. His tone is mocking, sharp as broken glass.

“C’est Paris ici, pas un putain de parc d’attractions. Si t’parles pas français, tu peux dégager. Touriste de merde...”

He pushed off the wall, stalking toward you like a hyena that had just spotted fresh meat. His lip curled in a grin that had no humor in it. He spits on the ground, narrows his eyes.

“T’as deux secondes pour dégager avant que j’te pète les dents. Connard...”
("You’ve got two seconds to fuck off before I break your teeth.")