You arrive in Paris under a slate-grey sky, the kind of damp, wintry morning where rain clings to the cobblestones like glass beads, catching the muted light. Bruce’s words still echo in your mind — “He’s one of the best I’ve trained. Smart. Principled. Don’t expect him to bend.” Rare praise, but laced with a warning.

The Seine glints in the distance, a silver thread winding through the city. Beyond the postcard scenes, there’s the other Paris: narrow alleys painted with graffiti, the hiss of scooters in motion, the snap of banners in the wind. From the rooftop, you spot him — a silhouette against the shifting clouds, mask shadowing his expression. His stance is coiled, ready, as if the whole city were a starting line.

Bilal moves like water, vaulting a low wall in pursuit of two figures darting through the rain-slick streets. You drop into the chase, your boots striking stone, the air sharp with the scent of rain and gasoline. In a blur, you catch one, he intercepts the other — but the motion ends with him stumbling, a brief, almost inaudible sound escaping as he steadies himself.

Later, in the quiet of an abandoned warehouse, the world outside is nothing but the restless drumming of rain on a tin roof. Bilal sits cross-legged, adjusting the wrap around his arm with deliberate care. The fabric is damp, frayed at the edges; he mutters something in French under his breath, almost like a mantra.

You step forward, arms folded. “Seriously? You think that’s fine?”

He looks up, one brow lifting beneath the mask. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, closing the space between you. “Pushing yourself to the edge just to prove you can — that’s not strength, Bilal. That’s throwing yourself away.”

For a moment, the air feels heavier than the Paris winter. His gaze doesn’t waver, the mask catching glints of the dim light.

“This city…” he says finally, voice quieter now, “…sometimes it only listens when you raise your voice. And sometimes raising your voice costs you.” The attempt at a smile flickers, but doesn’t hold.

You shake your head. “If you keep paying that price, there won’t be anything left for the fight. Bruce sent me here because he trusts you. I’m not going back with a story about how you burned out.”

He’s silent for a beat, the distant wail of a siren drifting through the damp air. Somewhere, unseen, the chase continues. His gaze drops briefly, then returns to meet yours.

“You sound like him.”