Yvan didn't show up at school the next day.
A simple message had been enough.
"Need to help my uncle with an urgent delivery. See you at the gala."
Another lie.
A necessary one.
He stood inside a private boutique on Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
A place where people didn't walk in.
They were expected.
Chosen.
Behind him, mirrors stretched from floor to ceiling, multiplying his reflection into an endless corridor of versions of himself.
None of them felt real.
Lyam sat comfortably in a velvet chair, an espresso in hand, watching the scene like a man observing a work of art.
— Tighter at the waist, he said calmly. He needs to look like a prince… not a notary.
The tailor adjusted the fabric with precise, almost surgical movements.
Yvan didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He just stared at his reflection.
The three-piece suit—midnight blue, perfectly cut—cost more than three years of a worker's salary.
And yet…
it felt like armor.
Cold.
Functional.
Not his.
Underneath the fabric, his body was tense, ready to react at any moment.
His fingers brushed the inside pocket.
Custom-built.
Enough space for a secured phone…
—or something heavier.
— You look troubled, Yvan, Lyam said without looking up from his cup. Is it the price of the suit?
Yvan let out a quiet breath.
— It's the price of the lie.
That made Lyam glance at him.
— Saturday… I'll be dancing with the girl I like the most in the world, Yvan continued, voice low, controlled… while preparing a diamond transfer for a criminal syndicate.
A pause.
— Don't you find that ironic?
Lyam placed his cup down.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then he stood up and walked toward him.
He stopped just behind Yvan… and adjusted his silk tie with careful precision.
— That's exactly what our world is, kid.
His voice was softer now.
Colder.
— We sell dreams… with dirty money.
He leaned slightly closer.
— Michou wants a gentleman? Give her one.
A slight pull on the tie.
Perfect.
— But never forget… the suit is just a disguise.
A beat.
— The real you…
His voice dropped.
— …is the one who silenced Ludo in that garage.
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
Yvan didn't react.
But his reflection…
looked back at him differently now.
Across Paris…
There were no mirrors.
No lights.
No elegance.
Only concrete… and rust.
Mélo sat inside an unmarked van near the port of Gennevilliers.
The air smelled like oil and metal.
The engine was off.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
The Old Man had assigned him to monitor a pre-convoy.
Simple job.
Observe.
Report.
Don't think.
But his phone was in his hand.
Unlocked.
Jecolia's name at the top of the screen.
Online.
He stared at it.
Thumb hovering.
He could send something stupid.
A joke.
A meme.
Anything… just to hear her laugh again.
For a second—
he almost did it.
Then his jaw tightened.
And the phone slowly lowered.
He couldn't afford softness.
Not anymore.
A car pulled up behind the van.
Black.
Unmarked.
Not part of the plan.
Mélo's eyes shifted to the rearview mirror.
Two men stepped out.
Calm.
Controlled.
Wrong.
They weren't here for logistics.
Every instinct in his body screamed it.
Slowly… without making a sound…
Mélo slipped his phone into his pocket.
His other hand moved under the seat.
His fingers closed around cold metal.
His breathing steadied.
His eyes hardened.
The boy who laughed over sushi…
was gone.
And what remained—
was ready.