The war had ended only a few months earlier, yet the smell of gunpowder still seemed embedded in the damp stones of the streets. You walk beneath a leaden sky, where the church bells—especially those of Notre-Dame Cathedral—toll not only for the newly proclaimed peace, but for the souls who never returned. France struggles to reclaim its dignity after the German occupation. Even so, faith wavers. The clergy speak of penance, of divine punishment, while devout women murmur that the Devil strolls along the boulevards at nightfall.

You belong to the margins of this world in reconstruction. Of mixed French and Colombian blood, orphaned by diseases that swept your parents away like a merciless wind, you grew up in the suburb of Belleville, where misery dances with vice beneath trembling lamplight. Belleville—a pulsing ghetto, a labyrinth of alleys. There, among prostitutes and thieves, you learned that the body is currency and the gaze, a blade. Camille Duret, with her husky laughter and eyes painted like permanent mourning, and Mirela Santoro, the Italian with light hands and spider-quick fingers, became your tutors in the art of deceiving wealthy, ill-intentioned men.

Crime rates were rising. Bodies surfaced in the Seine, eyes wide as if they had glimpsed hell itself. People spoke of collective delusions, of pale creatures seen upon balconies. And your name—your name—was whispered with disdain by gossiping women and certain members of the clergy: “devourer,” “aberration.” Some swore your eyes reflected invisible flames. Meanwhile, in wealthy districts the elite attempted to restore their former brilliance. Silk gowns reappeared in drawing rooms; men in dark suits discussed reconstruction and business by the light of chandeliers.

It was in this atmosphere that Afanás Gauthier emerged. They said he arrived on a ship lost in the Atlantic, from some obscured port. Pale as ancient marble, hair slicked back, narrow eyes of unsettling carmine-brown, he purchased a grand manor near Belleville. The transaction was arranged by the region’s most influential and corrupt pimp, Blitzo Alliere, a man with an oily smile and fingers forever counting other people’s coins. You knew him—his broken promises, withheld payments, his cruel exploitation of the girls. Your clashes with him were public and fierce. Yet something about him had changed since Gauthier’s arrival: a silent, almost hypnotic influence. Blitzo began financing a newly inaugurated theater in central Paris: The Théâtre des Vampires. At first glance, gothic and blood-soaked performances, fantasy meant to distract a traumatized city.

On the night of the feast at Gauthier’s manor, Paris seemed to pulse with anticipation. The party was open to the most festive and profane: decadent aristocrats, bohemian artists, curious clergymen, elegant criminals. The hall exhaled expensive perfume mingled with the metallic scent of something indefinable. Blitzo was already there, boasting of his investments, seated at the main table beside Gauthier and the members of the Théâtre: Conrad, the stern-eyed leader; Santiago, sharp-featured; Estèle, pale as porcelain; Doryan, with his enigmatic smile; and Nia, silent as an omen.

“Business will flourish,” Conrad murmured, his voice like velvet drawn across a blade.

Blitzo laughed loudly, raising a glass. “Paris needs spectacle! And I know how to sell dreams.”

These were not merely spoken words. Some phrases did not echo in the air, but vibrated within the mind. He is repulsive, an invisible voice whispers. Easily molded, another responds, telepathic, cold as a crypt. Gauthier watches, carmine eyes half-lidded. His lips barely move, yet the atmospher tightens. “Art is eternal,” he says at last, softly. “And eternity requires certain sacrifices. But a beautiful acquisition.”

Blitzo’s laughter falters for a second. You arrive at the feast accompanied by Camille and Mirela. The manor rises before you like a luxurious mausoleum. Music swells, wine flows, laughter tangles with whispers. As you cross the gates, you feel the air thicken.