Paris in the spring was supposed to be a city of light, but to Seraphina, it was a city of reflections. At 1:00 AM, the rain-slicked streets of the 16th Arrondissement acted like a thousand dark mirrors, throwing her own violet-tinted gaze back at her from every storefront and puddle. The air was a damp 13°C, smelling of ozone and expensive perfume.
They had crossed the Channel on a private freighter, avoiding the biometric dragnet of the Eurostar. Seraphina sat in the back of a vintage Citroën—analog, mechanical, and silent to the digital ghosts.
"The Mirror," Seraphina whispered, her fingers tracing the edge of the Parent Drive through its lead-lined pouch. "His name is Jean-Luc Belrose. He was a pioneer in neural-mimicry. He didn’t just build firewalls for Silas; he built 'identity cl
