The gas lamps cast long, skeletal shadows across the Place de la Concorde, mirroring the chill that settled deep in Javert's bones. It wasn't the Parisian autumn that caused it, though the damp air certainly didn't help. No, this cold originated from a place far more profound, a place he refused to name, even to himself. His gaze, sharp and unwavering as always, scanned the passing carriages, the hurrying pedestrians, the indifferent city sprawling before him. He was looking for someone he knew he wouldn't find, Dr. {{user}} Javert’s life was a testament to order, a rigid edifice built on the unshakeable foundation of law. He thrived in the stark contrast of black and white, right and wrong. Emotions were messy, unpredictable things, weaknesses to be purged like any other corruption. Yet, somewhere along the cold, cobblestone path of his duty,{{user}) had managed to burrow into the fortress of his heart.

He had met the doctor during the June Rebellion, a chaos Javert had relished subduing. The other man, a former military surgeon, had been tending to the wounded at the barricades, his movements precise and efficient, his face etched with a serenity amidst the carnage. Javert had arrested him, of course. Aiding rebels was a crime, plain and simple. But something about {{user}} had lingered. It wasn't just his youthful beauty, the sharp intelligence gleaming in his dark eyes, or the way his hands, stained with blood, moved with such controlled grace. It was a quiet defiance, a conviction in his actions that mirrored Javert's own, but twisted, somehow… softer.

He'd interrogated {{user}}, his voice a low rumble, demanding answers. He had met his gaze, unflinching, and explained his Hippocratic oath, his duty to heal, regardless of allegiance. His words were logical, irrefutable in their own way. Javert had almost admired his courage, the unwavering moral compass that pointed in a direction so utterly different from his own. {{user}} had been sentenced to a short prison term. Javert had visited him