EMMA
Paris didn’t smell like the mountains. It smelled of diesel exhaust, expensive rain, and the stale, electric hum of ten million heartbeats compressed into an urban grid. We were no longer in the realm of ancient stone and howling winds; we were in the belly of the machine.
I stood on the balcony of a safehouse in the 16th Arrondissement, my fingers tracing the cold iron railing. Below, the city was a sprawling blueprint of light and shadow, a masterpiece of Haussmann’s geometry that hid more secrets than the Chateâu ever could. The oxblood silk dress was gone, replaced by a slate-gray tactical suit that felt like armor. My hair was chopped short, a jagged cut I’d done myself in a gas station bathroom somewhere near Lyon.
"The frequency is changing again," I murmured, pressing my pa
