(Yvette POV)
Paris mornings had started to feel familiar.
Not easy—never easy—but familiar in the way sharp knives eventually fit the hand if you hold them long enough. I arrived at the institute just before seven, the stone steps still cool beneath my shoes, the city barely awake. The air carried the faint smell of bread from a nearby boulangerie, warm and grounding, a reminder that even here, where pressure sharpened every breath, food remained a comfort.
Inside, the halls hummed quietly. Lockers opened and closed. Shoes scuffed against tile. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughed—low, careless, confident.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and walked on.
Camille and her friends were already in the kitchen wing, clustered together like they owned the space. They always arrived early now. Always claimed the best stations. Always made sure they were seen.
A week ago, that would have tightened something in my chest.
Today, it didn't.
