The air in Charles de Gaulle Airport was crisp and cool, laced with the muted clamor of arrivals and the melodic tangle of French, English, and hurried footsteps. Tim tightened his coat and took a breath, stepping into the flow of travelers.
Paris.
He should have been awed—the grandeur of the city, its skyline teased through the airport's glass walls—but instead, he felt only the weight in his chest. Not fear, not excitement. Dread, tempered with hope.
Somewhere in this city, he might learn what happened to Eva.
Sera walked a step ahead, moving through the crowd with graceful ease, a soft scarf wrapped around her neck. She didn't speak much during the flight, but Tim noticed the way her eyes tracked people, subtly, constantly. Like she could sense the undercurrents others missed.
Damian, by contrast, looked like a man at war. He walked with purpose, shoulders tense, every step measured. His eyes, hidden behind sunglasses despite the overcast morning, scanned their surroundings with tactical precision.
Tim felt out of place between them, dragging his modest suitcase, already sweating under his coat. Lawyers didn't do this. Not in real life.
"Try to look less guilty," Damian muttered.
Tim blinked. "What?"
"You look like you're about to be arrested."
Tim straightened up. "Maybe because I'm walking into a human trafficking operation without a badge, backup, or a plan that doesn't involve getting shot."
Damian cracked a rare smirk. "Welcome to the job."
Outside, a sleek black Peugeot SUV pulled to the curb. The driver stepped out—a tall man with a shaved head and the posture of someone who never stopped standing at attention.
"Bastien," Damian greeted him.
The man nodded. "Still alive, I see."
"I manage."
Tim extended a hand. "Tim Delaney."
Bastien's eyes flicked over him, calculating. "You don't look like you belong."
Tim sighed. "Story of my life."
The drive into the city took them past the Paris that Tim had seen only in books and Eva's coloring pages. The Eiffel Tower loomed over slate rooftops, and the Seine sparkled beneath arched bridges. Cafés spilled into the streets, alive with morning chatter, clinking glasses, and the smell of bread and coffee.
Tim stared out the window, eyes distant.
Eva's coloring book had been her favorite. She used to scribble the Notre-Dame in bright purple, the Louvre in orange, and the Eiffel Tower in every color but black.
"No black, Timmy. It's too sad."
His hand clenched. He could almost hear her voice.
Sera glanced over from the front seat. "Are you okay?"
Tim blinked. "Yeah... just thinking."
She tilted her head. "You're scared."
He didn't answer.
She didn't need him to.
They arrived at a nondescript townhouse tucked on a quiet street just three blocks from the Hotel Lumière, the venue of the gala. Bastien led them through a back entrance and into a room that looked more like a command center than a hotel suite.
Blueprints, maps, and security schematics lined the walls.
Damian was already pacing. "Two days until the gala. Security's tight. The auction's in the basement—locked, guarded, off the books."
Tim looked at the blueprints. "How tight is tight?"
Sera answered. "Cameras, guards, biometric locks. Even the guest list is encrypted."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "Encrypted guest lists? Fancy."
Damian shot him a glance. "It means they're hiding who's coming. We're not dealing with backroom thugs here. These are people in power."
Tim sighed. "And you still want me to sit this one out?"
Damian didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"I'm not going to."
"You're not trained."
"I'm not stupid either."
Silence.
Sera stepped between them. "Tim can help. He can gather intel. Names. Permits. Legal fronts. They'll talk to a suit before they talk to us."
Tim smiled faintly. "Glad someone sees the value of a law degree."
Damian grumbled. "Fine. But if you screw up, we're gone. No rescues."
"Understood."
Tim turned to the map, eyes narrowing.
Time to work.
That night, Paris glowed under silver moonlight, but Tim barely noticed.
In the dim light of their safehouse, he sat by the window, watching rain slide down the glass, the streetlamps casting long shadows across the cobblestones below. In the distance, he could see the illuminated tip of the Eiffel Tower, slicing into the night sky like a needle.
It should have been beautiful. Eva would've loved this view.
Sera approached silently, carrying two mugs. She handed one to Tim.
"Chamomile," she said.
He took it with a faint smile. "Didn't peg you for an herbal tea type."
She sat across from him. "It helps with tension."
"Is that your way of saying I look tense?"
"You feel tense," she replied, tapping a finger to her temple.
Tim raised an eyebrow. "So you read minds now?"
"No. Just emotions." Her eyes softened. "And yours are... heavy."
He looked away. "Nine years. I've been chasing shadows for nine years. Every time I get close, I find dead ends—or people who want me to stop asking questions. And now, I'm in a foreign country, hunting answers that might break me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: "You're afraid of what you'll find."
He laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Afraid I'll find her too late. Afraid I won't find her at all."
Sera leaned forward, her voice low but steady. "Tim... whatever happens, you won't face it alone."
That caught him off guard.
She stood. "We should rest. Tomorrow, we start moving."
As she walked away, Tim realized something—Sera wasn't just an ally. She understood him in a way few ever had.
Across the room, Damian sharpened a combat knife, the rhythmic scrape filling the silence. His gaze locked on Tim.
"You're not ready for this," Damian said flatly.
Tim met his eyes. "I'll be ready enough."
They stared at each other for a moment. No more words.
Just the silent agreement of two men walking into the unknown.
.
.
.
The next morning arrived with a grey sky and a chill in the Parisian air. Tim stood on the balcony of their safehouse, sipping coffee, watching the world wake up. Below, the streets bustled with Parisians—vendors setting up market stalls, couples walking hand-in-hand, and cars weaving through narrow lanes.
It all seemed... normal. Peaceful. Ordinary.
But just two blocks away, behind the grand façade of Hotel Lumière, something dark and monstrous was waiting to be revealed. And in just forty-eight hours, he, Damian, and Sera would be inside.
Tim turned as Damian entered the room, already geared up—black tactical clothing, earpiece, and a small case filled with surveillance equipment.
"We move," Damian said simply. "Today, we learn everything we can."
They split up. Damian and Sera would recon the hotel perimeter, while Tim would do what he did best—leverage charm and wit to dig for intel.
Armed with a forged ID and a custom-tailored suit—because presentation mattered, as always—Tim walked into Café Montblanc, just down the street from the gala venue. The café was popular among hotel staff, a perfect place to start.
He took a seat, ordered an espresso, and waited. Within twenty minutes, he was chatting up a junior event planner from the Hotel Lumière, a young man named Philippe, who couldn't resist bragging about the upcoming gala.
"It's the biggest event this year," Philippe said. "Every major name in Europe's elite will be here. Fashion icons, tech giants, politicians... the whole city's talking about it."
Tim smiled. "Sounds exciting. Security must be insane."
Philippe rolled his eyes. "Ugh. Tell me about it. They brought in private firms. Very hush-hush. Even though we don't have full access. The basement's locked down. I heard they're storing something... valuable."
Tim's ears perked up. "Valuable?"
Philippe shrugged. "Rumors. Probably art or something. Rich people being weird."
Meanwhile, Damian and Sera moved like shadows.
Sera walked through the hotel lobby as a guest, noting camera placements, guard rotations, and staff entrances. Damian, disguised as a maintenance technician, slipped into service areas, mapping routes and exit points.
Later that evening, the three reconvened.
Tim laid out his notes. "They're running facial scans at every entrance. No one gets in without matching the guest list."
Sera added, "Guards rotate every twenty minutes. The basement has two entry points—one through the service elevator, the other through a back corridor that's sealed unless opened from inside."
Damian grunted. "Too tight. We need to blend in."
Tim frowned. "So we crash the party."
Gala night arrived like a scene from a film.
The Hotel Lumière glowed under spotlights, with a red carpet rolled out and luxury cars pulling up as dignitaries, celebrities, and power brokers stepped out in designer suits and gowns. Paparazzi flanked the entrance, flashes painting the night in bursts of white.
From a rooftop across the street, Tim adjusted his tie, staring down at the spectacle. "Hell of a show."
"Focus," Damian said, checking his earpiece. "We're not here to enjoy it."
They descended into the service entrance, slipping in with other staff—waiters, technicians, and coordinators. Their forged IDs held, and their timing was perfect.
Inside, Sera split from them, changing into a sleek evening gown she acquired from an unattended wardrobe. She moved into the gala proper, blending effortlessly.
Damian and Tim made their way toward the basement corridor, timing their movements, ducking past security, and slipping through maintenance access points.
Soon, they were above the auction chamber, hidden in the rafters, looking down.
Rows of elite figures took their seats. On stage stood masked auctioneers. Behind them—caged human beings.
Tim's heart stopped.
Eva could be down there.
Damian whispered, "Get the footage. We expose this. We end it."
But Tim didn't move.
He scanned the captives, eyes wide, searching... hoping.
.
.
.
Inside the Hotel Lumière, the world glittered in gold, crystal, and the careful choreography of wealth. The grand ballroom swelled with music and movement—orchestral strings weaving through the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. The air itself seemed perfumed with power.
Sera moved with practiced ease, blending into the tide of silk gowns and tailored suits, her silver dress catching the chandelier light like moonlight wrapped around her. But behind her calm smile, her senses were on edge.
She wasn't just watching people. She was feeling them.
Waves of emotion washed over her—greed, amusement, lust, and pride. Surface-level distractions. But beneath it all, she felt it: something deeper. Denser. Familiar.
Her breath caught for half a second.
A presence. Powerful. Not visible. Not identifiable.
It wasn't an emotion—it was an echo, something she hadn't felt in years. It brushed against her mind like a whisper too faint to understand.
Avatar energy? No... that's not possible.
She scanned the room again. No one stood out. Just politicians, celebrities, and corporate moguls, laughing, drinking, and pretending the world wasn't built on quiet atrocities.
Sera couldn't place it. It was there—and then it was gone.
She pressed two fingers to her temple, steadying herself.
Damian's voice came through the earpiece. "Sera. You alright?"
"I'm fine," she whispered, moving to the edge of the ballroom. "Something's off. Just keep going."
The ballroom ceiling stretched high above, covered in gold-leaf motifs of angels and celestial scenes, circling the massive central chandelier of crystal and brass, which cast shimmering light in every direction. A live orchestra played from a raised dais in the corner, the musicians in pristine black, their instruments glinting under stage lights.
Waiters glided across the floor like ghosts, offering champagne in tall flutes and small plates with delicacies Tim couldn't pronounce even if he cared to try. The crowd shimmered in every color—emeralds, sapphires, gold, and more black ties than Tim had seen in his life.
And beneath all the wealth, the charm, and the laughter, Sera felt it again.
Not fear. Not anger. Something older, heavier. The faint hum of a presence watching them, unknown but not unfamiliar. It didn't make sense.
She forced herself to move, slipping between guests, eyes sharp.
Below, the glamour vanished.
.
.
.
Tim and Damian crouched in the steel rafters of the underground chamber. The room beneath them was cold and sterile, carved into the hotel's foundation, and designed for function, not comfort.
But that didn't stop it from being luxurious in its way.
Polished black floors, rows of high-backed leather chairs, and personal tablets mounted to each seat. Every guest—roughly forty of them—was clean-cut, high-powered, and dressed to impress. Not a mask among them.
No shame. No need to hide.
They weren't criminals in hiding—they were the elite, confident they'd never be exposed.
Tim felt bile rise in his throat.
At the center of the room stood a raised platform, lined with low lighting and flanked by two guards in dark suits. A man in a white jacket, poised like a host at a luxury event, stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice smooth, amplified through hidden speakers. "Thank you for joining us. Tonight's collection is a rare one—each subject vetted, tested, and... viable."
Tim froze.
Subjects.
From a side door, the captives were led out, one by one, each in simple clothing, some barefoot. Their faces were blank, resigned, and terrified. Men, women, teenagers. Each stood under the lights as the host recited medical stats, genetic profiles, and unique traits.
Like livestock.
The host continued, "Subject 4. Female. Age 21. Cognitive stability: high. Physical conditioning: excellent. Previously unregistered. Opening bid: €500,000."
The crowd murmured.
Tim's camera shook in his hands.
Tim and Damian remained perched in the rafters of the underground chamber, watching in tense silence.
Captive after captive was paraded out, each one described in clinical terms—no names, only numbers, ages, and "viability scores." The audience murmured and tapped on glass tablets mounted to their chairs, placing bids without a word.
Tim's camera continued rolling. His knuckles were white.
Damian leaned in. "Get the auctioneer's face. That's the leverage."
Tim's eyes scanned the captives again—desperate, but no familiar face.
No Eva. Not yet.
His heart pounded louder with each passing second.
Damian whispered, "We can't stay long. One slip, and we're done."
Tim didn't respond.
He couldn't.