Thirty-three days later—Paris, France.
I let the fake blonde fringe fall across my forehead and buttoned my coat as I walked. The noise made me feel safer. Empty alleys and deserted streets scared me—long, silent nights, the drip-drip from the sink. I preferred to spend my whole day in a crowd—inside the hum of tourists keeping this city alive. I wanted to walk the Champs-Élysées every day, watch the plane trees, study every glossy window and spot the smallest change. On this street, in this city, I became someone else. As if I had no past. As if I could pretend I was alive. In the current of voices and footsteps, the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, I felt like part of them—moving the same way they were.
I tore my gaze from the red café awnings and fixed on a man singing above the crowd. His voice was beautiful—the kind you could listen to for hours and cry to. I slipped past, dropped a few coins into his guitar case, and headed to my favourite café of the minute. I chose a table on the terrace—under the red awnings, in a wicker chair. It was one of the best people-watching spots on the Champs-Élysées. I could sit there for hours, just watching—cars, strangers, lives spilling out second by second.
When a warm croissant and a cup of coffee landed in front of me, I smiled, thanked the young waiter in his black-and-white uniform, and rubbed the back of my neck. I pulled a cigarette from my bag, set it between pink-painted lips, and lit it with a Zippo. I took a drag and watched cyclists stream down the street. I thought about how I'd never learnt to ride a bike.
This was my last day in the city. I figured they'd find my new address soon. I hadn't been able to reach Zombie, or even find her. I hoped she was okay—that she hadn't been hurt for helping me. I looked around, aching. Strange how quickly I'd grown used to this city, to the way it breathed. It felt like I was saying goodbye to a piece of myself. I blew smoke and watched the young couple at the table opposite, wrapped around each other.
"Madame, is this your phone?"
I turned, surprised. The waiter stood by my table, holding out a small, old-model phone. I frowned, sat up, and glanced around. I crushed my cigarette in the stone ashtray and said, low and flat, "No."
He flicked his gaze from the phone to me. "A gentleman said to give it to you… told me to call you 'bride'."
My brows knit. I scanned the terrace, then the street: an old man reading a newspaper on a bench; a mother gently wiping chocolate from her little girl's mouth; a couple making out. I checked the passers-by and then looked back at the waiter—big brown eyes, surprised.
I swallowed hard. I should've expected this. That motorbike I'd seen last month outside my building—Organisation, obviously. They'd found me. My hand slid to my bag; the gun was there. No way they'd take me easily. I took the cheap little phone from him and murmured, "Thanks."
He gave me a puzzled look, nodded, and moved to the next table. The phone rang in my hand. I stared at my cooling coffee, swallowed, clenched my jaw, and cursed the timing. I pressed the button. An unfamiliar voice filled my ear.
"Bonjour, Jellyfish."