The black Audi RS6 cut through the night.
No music.
No talking.
Just the engine… and tension.
Yvan's hands were tight on the wheel, his jaw locked.
Beside him, Mélo checked the magazine of a Glock 17.
Click.
Smooth.
Automatic.
Two hours ago, he was laughing.
Now—
He was something else.
"The Old Man sent the entry code," Mélo said quietly.
"Old garage. Near the canal. Guy's name is Ludo."
A pause.
"Small player. Thought he could play both sides."
Yvan didn't look at him.
"And my client?"
Mélo exhaled.
"If Ludo talked about the cigars… he talked about your deal too."
Silence.
"Everything's connected."
Another pause.
"We remove him… we survive."
They parked two streets away.
Industrial zone.
Dead lights.
No witnesses.
They stepped out.
Their clothes didn't belong here.
Too clean.
Too expensive.
Too late to care.
The garage was half-collapsed.
Mélo gave a signal.
Yvan moved around the side, slipping through a broken window.
Mélo went for the back entrance.
Inside—
Oil. Dust. Rot.
And in the center—
Light.
A single bulb.
A man tied to a chair.
Face swollen. Blood dried.
Two silhouettes around him.
Waiting.
"There you are," one of them said as Mélo stepped in.
"The Old Man said this one's your test."
A smirk.
"You wanna be a man?"
A step closer.
"Show us."
Ludo lifted his head.
Eyes wet.
Broken.
"Mélo… please… I had debts… I didn't have a choice…"
In the shadows—
Yvan watched.
Heart racing.
He hated this.
This wasn't business.
This was… something else.
Mélo stepped into the light.
Slow.
Controlled.
"Did you talk about the docks?" he asked.
Flat.
No emotion.
Ludo shook.
"I just warned customs… I didn't know it was your guy… I swear—"
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Crushing.
A train passed somewhere far away.
Time stretched.
This was it.
No coming back.
Then—
A vibration.
Sharp.
Loud.
Wrong.
All heads turned.
Yvan.
His phone.
Still on.
Still alive.
"Who's there?" one of the men growled, reaching for his gun.
Yvan stepped out of the shadows.
Too late to hide.
"Relax. It's me."
"Turn that shit off," the man snapped. "We're working."
Mélo glanced at the screen.
And froze.
Michou.
Her name.
Her picture.
Smiling.
Alive.
Normal.
Everything they weren't.
"Do it," Yvan said quietly.
Mélo didn't move.
"If he lives… he talks," Yvan continued.
Each word colder than the last.
"He talks about you."
A pause.
"He talks about me."
Another.
"He talks about them."
Mélo's grip tightened.
"You want them to see this?"
Silence.
The world shrank.
To a screen.
To a name.
To a choice.
"Pardon…"
Barely a whisper.
A suppressed shot.
Dry.
Final.
Silence.
01:30 AM — Inside the Audi
The city passed in blurs of light.
No one spoke.
Mélo's hands trembled slightly on the wheel.
Yvan stared ahead.
A small red stain on his sleeve.
He kept rubbing it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Like it would disappear.
Buzz.
The phone again.
Voice message.
Michou.
Yvan pressed play.
"Yvan… you're not answering… I hope everything's okay…"
Her voice was soft.
Warm.
"Tonight was really fun… we should do lunch tomorrow… sushi near the school?"
A small laugh.
"Text me when you wake up… okay? Good night…"
Silence.
Yvan turned it off.
Looked at Mélo.
No smile.
No mask.
Just… emptiness.
"We'll have to be good actors tomorrow."
Mélo kept his eyes on the road.
His voice was hollow.
"I know."
A pause.
"I know."