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The notification sound signaling the end of the shift felt like a temporary suspension of a long imprisonment.
Noah and Claire walked out of that steel fortress. The cool morning air of Paris rushed into their lungs, carrying a faint scent of sycamore leaves mixed with toasted bread, washing away the smell of disinfectant. They returned to their rented apartment where the Seine River shimmered outside the window, reflecting the city's early morning light.
Noah placed the black IBM ThinkPad on the table. Claire took off her jacket, revealing a black sports tank top, and grabbed a lemon soda from the refrigerator. She walked up behind Noah and pressed the cold can against his cheek.
"Noah, while you're at it, have Mr. T help look into Etienne..."
Before she could finish, she saw the search box already on the screen with "Etienne Bellini" typed inside. Noah smiled and held her hand against his face. "We're thinking alike again. In my country, we call this 'Souls in tune need no words to connect.'"
Claire tossed her ponytail like a happy kitten. Noah's fingers tapped the keyboard, and green characters refreshed rapidly against the pitch-black background.
Etienne Bellini. University of Bologna credentials, genetic engineering patents, marriage certificate to Sophia Rossi. A family photo of their daughter, Angela. And finally, a police report for a disappearance—insufficient evidence, case temporarily not filed.
"Etienne wasn't lying," Noah said. "One lie requires a thousand more to cover it. His story stands up to scrutiny."
On the third day, Etienne sat across from them in the cafeteria, looking even more haggard. He opened his mouth to speak, but Noah casually raised his voice to drown out any suspicion for the microphones.
"Hey, Etienne. You mentioned last time you'd take us to the opera. Why haven't you followed through on that yet?"
Etienne froze for a second before the realization hit him. The photo. Palais Garnier. He forced an exaggerated Italian apology. "Haha, sorry! I've been so busy. How about tonight? We'll go after work!"
That night, Etienne's old Fiat stopped in front of their building. Noah and Claire emerged dragging two massive black hard-shell suitcases.
"What's inside?" Etienne asked, struggling with the weight as they loaded the trunk.
"Inside is nothing but the truth," Noah replied.
They drove to a deserted spot where Noah popped the latches. Etienne's breath hitched. One case was a surgical layout of lethality: a Silver Desert Eagle, a Magnum, a Beretta, and a tactical dagger. The second layer was packed with ammunition, grenades, and flashbangs.
Claire opened her case: a quadruple-barrel grenade launcher, an MP5 submachine gun, and her custom S.T.A.R.S. "Samurai Edge" pistol.
"Who... who on earth are you people?" Etienne stammered.
Claire twirled her pistol expertly. "We are the incarnation of justice!"
The shock in Etienne's eyes turned into a burning fire of hope. They merged into the brilliant traffic of Paris until the magnificent Palais Garnier appeared—a Baroque dream of a palace.
Noah led them to the staff entrance. Claire flashed a forged identification for an Advanced Researcher of Umbrella.
"Hello, we are with Umbrella. We'd like to rent your stage for a while."
The name "Umbrella" worked like a magic spell. Within minutes, the operations manager was shaking their hands, leading them into the dimly lit backstage corridors filled with the smell of dust, old wood, and greasepaint.
"Is there an old stage here that isn't being used?" Noah asked. "We want to rehearse somewhere private to get a feel for the acoustics."
The manager looked puzzled, but an old employee named Jean-Pierre stopped his prop cart. "There is one. It dates back to the Napoleonic era."
The manager signaled Jean-Pierre to lead the way. The old man nodded silently and gestured for them to follow him into the deeper, darker corners of the opera house.
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