Pale daylight is barely rising over Paris-Nova when Gabriel steps out of Commissioner Valmont's office, his ears ringing. The meeting had been explosive. The echoes of raised voices still pound inside his head.
"What madness to act without orders!" Valmont had thundered, his face flushed with anger—and fear? "Two dead, Moreau! Your partner shot, and two unidentified individuals taken down by you. It's a complete disaster!"
Gabriel had stood in front of the desk, his arm still stiff from a graze caused by a bullet fragment, absorbing the reprimand in silence. At his feet, a faint stain of dried blood still marked the spot where he had arrived hours earlier, carrying Mathieu's body into the station lobby, eyes wild, shirt soaked in red.
Valmont had seen him in that state. Yet this morning, the commissioner showed no compassion—only fury and bureaucratic concern.
"I ordered you not to stir up this Prometheus matter," he had hammered on. "And you go charging in like a cowboy on some half-baked lead and provoke a bloodbath!"
Gabriel had clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"It wasn't a half-baked lead, sir. Kraft was right—there's an extremist group behind this. They set a trap for us."
"An extremist group?" Valmont retorted sarcastically. "Do you have tangible proof, Moreau? Apart from the ramblings of a missing engineer and a phantom informant who appeared out of nowhere?"
The memory of the woman at Magnacour market pierced Gabriel like an icy blade. He had believed her. Trusted her—blinded by his own thirst for justice… and perhaps by something else, a fascination he refused to acknowledge. And in the end, she had led him straight into the ambush.
Had she knowingly sent Mathieu to his death?
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
"She seemed sincere," he muttered, aware of how naïve it sounded. "She put me on Kraft's trail."
"And Kraft led you into a trap!" Valmont snapped, slamming his fist onto his cluttered desk. "Open your eyes, Moreau. You were manipulated from start to finish. And now we have two bodies, a dead officer, and a potential scandal."
The commissioner stood and walked around his desk to face him, gaze hard.
"I want your badge and your weapon on my desk by tonight. You're suspended pending an internal investigation."
Suspended.
The word fell like a blade. Gabriel had expected it, yet helpless anger surged through him.
"Internal investigation? What about the other investigation, Commissioner? The one about the bastards who did this? The group that killed Mathieu? You're not going to—"
"Enough!"
Valmont's voice cracked like a whip.
"I don't want to hear another word about secret cells, Prometheus, or conspiracy theories. You've gone off the rails, Moreau. Take some time off. That's an order."
An icy silence followed. Gabriel held his superior's gaze, searching for something beyond cold authority. Doubt? Fear? Was Valmont hiding something?
Impossible to tell.
Gabriel removed his badge from his belt and placed it on the desk. Then his service weapon.
"I will find those who did this," he said hoarsely as he turned toward the door. "With or without your support."
Valmont said nothing.
---
Now Gabriel stands alone before his open locker in the empty break room. He slowly removes his jacket stained with brownish patches—Mathieu's dried blood. His hands tremble as he unbuttons it, as if his body is only now registering the loss and exhaustion.
On the locker shelf, a yellowed photo is pinned up: the team five years ago at an impromptu party. Gabriel, younger, laughing beside Mathieu clowning around, surrounded by two other colleagues. A time before scars and ghosts haunted their eyes.
He slips the photo into the inner pocket of his clean shirt.
Suspended.
It doesn't matter, he thinks. Now nothing will stop him from hunting them down without answering to anyone.
He walks through the corridor. Other officers lower their eyes in a mixture of pity and discomfort. No one dares approach him.
He leaves the station, pushing open the heavy doors.
Cold morning air greets him.
Something inside him is broken beyond repair. And the only thing he has left is the promise he made on the docks.
They will pay.
---
In a remote corner of the old Paris-Nova catacombs—now a clandestine refuge—Nadia collapses onto a rickety chair, nerves frayed. A bare bulb flickers overhead, casting restless shadows on damp stone walls.
Lucien has been pacing in silence for long minutes. Vernet, slightly apart, carefully stores computer equipment salvaged from the port hideout.
At last, Lucien stops and fixes Nadia with a piercing look.
"Explain it to me again," he demands, his voice calm but strained. "How did you let him escape?"
Nadia swallows. She knows who he means—Inspector Moreau.
"It all happened so fast… Two of our men were down. The inspector was carrying his partner. I had a second to shoot…"
She lowers her eyes, remembering Gabriel's face in the moonlight, holding his dying friend, grief etched into every line.
"…but a patrol car was approaching the docks. I chose to disengage before they spotted me."
Lucien remains still, jaw tight.
"You had a clear shot," he says darkly. "I assigned you that position precisely to ensure no cop walked away. Instead, one survived."
He leans closer.
"Do you understand what that means? We now have a direct witness—furious and dangerous—who knows we exist."
"He doesn't know our plans," Nadia replies carefully. "He only knows an armed group is behind Prometheus. Nothing more."
Vernet approaches, placing a calming hand on Lucien's shoulder.
"We were already evacuating equipment when it happened," the professor reminds him softly. "The location wasn't safe anymore after Kraft leaked information. We have what we need. And neutralizing those officers was a powerful message. The system may dismiss it as a gang shootout."
Lucien laughs bitterly.
"A gang shootout? The killing of a police inspector? You think they'll swallow that?"
He runs a hand through his hair.
"They'll investigate. Dig deeper. We need to accelerate."
Nadia stiffens.
"Accelerate? There are still preparations. The inauguration is in two days."
Lucien's gaze turns icy.
"You'd rather wait for Moreau to come back with a special unit to arrest us?"
Silence.
Vernet sighs.
"Very well. We move it up to tomorrow night. The official ceremony won't have taken place yet, but the council will still be gathered in the complex. Enough targets."
A cold sweat runs down Nadia's spine.
Tomorrow night.
Lucien steps toward her and unexpectedly lifts her chin gently, forcing her to look at him.
"Nadia… I hope I can count on you. You've always been loyal. Don't disappoint me now."
Her throat tightens. Gabriel's shattered face flashes before her. His cry of despair echoes again in her memory.
"You can count on me," she says firmly.
He studies her, then nods.
"Prepare the team. We strike at dusk."
He walks away to confer quietly with Vernet.
Nadia remains still, trying to steady the tremor in her hands.
Loyal.
She has been. She shares Lucien's rage against the system. She has sacrificed everything, committed the irreparable, convincing herself that the final goal—ending oppression—justified it all.
Yet now, only the image of Inspector Moreau holding his friend returns to her mind.
Years of hatred had not prepared her for this.
This doubt.
In the shadows of the catacombs, Nadia lowers her head, feeling the crushing weight of betrayal—the one she orchestrated… and the quieter one within herself, as her convictions begin to fracture.