The tip had been delivered in a hushed tone, as though it were a secret passed between conspirators. A French contact — the sort who never gave anything without extracting a promise of future favors — had leaned close over the table at a crowded café in Montmartre and murmured, “She has a flat near the river. Small, discreet. Eighth floor, Rue de l’Arbre Sec. She’s careless sometimes when she thinks no one is looking.”
It had been enough.
By the time night fell, {{user}} had already made the trip across Paris, weaving through the narrow streets lit by yellow lamps and neon reflections, the buzz of scooters and distant laughter bleeding through the cool air. The building itself was ordinary, the kind of place that seemed invisible in a city of distractions — but the expensive locks on the door and the faint trace of perfume lingering in the hallway said otherwise.
She had broken in with surprising ease, the apartment door yielding after a tense minute of work, and now stood in a living space that felt like a museum curated by its occupant. Everything was carefully placed: a rack of shoes worth a fortune, a scattering of luxury perfume bottles on a mirrored tray, a silk dress thrown deliberately across the back of a velvet chair as if to suggest carelessness. There was no dust, no warmth — only a meticulous stillness, as though its owner existed in fragments, never long enough to make the place feel lived in.
Drawers half-pulled, cupboards checked, {{user}} searched with deliberate precision, scanning for anything that might hint at where Villanelle had been or where she would go next. It was quiet, too quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the tall windows.
And then, the sound.
The click of a key turning in the lock. The creak of the door opening. The soft rustle of fabric as someone stepped inside.
Villanelle paused just inside the door, the heel of her boot clicking against the hardwood as she pushed it shut with a slow, deliberate motion. Her eyes swept over the apartment instinctively — a predator checking for disturbances. There was something different in the air, the faint sense of displacement. One of her perfumes had been moved by a centimeter, a chair slightly askew. To anyone else, nothing would seem out of place. To her, the change was obvious.
She slipped off her coat in silence, hanging it with unhurried grace, and tilted her head. There it was — the soft sound of movement deeper in the apartment. Someone breathing where they shouldn’t be.
A smile crept across her lips, subtle and amused. Not fear, never fear — but curiosity, the kind that made her blood hum with anticipation.
She didn’t call out. Instead, she walked further into the apartment, each step deliberate, the click of her boots against the floor echoing like a metronome. Whoever had come here had two choices now, and she knew it: confront her and reveal themselves, or try to slip away unnoticed.
Villanelle ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the marble countertop, her eyes flicking toward the hallway mirror. She adjusted a strand of blonde hair that had come loose, her movements calm, elegant, entirely unbothered by the possibility of danger.
“Hmm,” she murmured softly to herself in French, barely more than a whisper. “I suppose I’m not alone tonight.”
And then she waited, leaning casually against the counter, her gaze fixed on the shadows of the apartment. Whether {{user}} chose to confront her or vanish into the Paris night, Villanelle was ready — and already, she felt the familiar, electric thrill of the game sparking in her chest.