Paris smelled of cold coffee, wet cobblestone, and unspoken truths.
Lina Moreau pulled the curtain aside, watching the narrow alley outside her Montmartre apartment. The early morning drizzle cast everything in muted grey, and yet her heartbeat thudded with color—red, bold, frantic. She wasn't sure if it was from last night's passion, or the way Zaid had looked at her before drifting off into sleep, like a man memorizing something he expected to lose.
He was still asleep, tangled in her sheets. Bare-chested, dark hair tousled, a soft scar running from his collarbone to his ribs like a story untold. God, she hated how much she was starting to fall for him. Zaid wasn't like other men she'd known—he didn't just kiss her, he studied her. With his hands, his lips, his silences.
But there was a mystery stitched into him, one she couldn't name yet.
Lina turned away from the window and walked over to her cluttered writing desk, still littered with newspaper clippings and old case files. She was supposed to be chasing leads about a corrupt defense contractor. Instead, she'd spent the last three weeks chasing Zaid. Or maybe, just maybe, she was chasing her brother's ghost through the scent of cologne and the echo of Zaid's voice.
Karim had been missing for over two years now. Officially declared dead. Unofficially… well, no body, no closure.
She bent down to pick up her notebook and froze.
Something had been slipped under her door while she wasn't looking.
She crouched down and picked it up—an unmarked envelope, yellowed at the corners. Inside, a single black-and-white photo.
Her breath caught.
In the photo, two men stood shoulder to shoulder in desert gear, rifles slung casually. One of them was her brother. Karim. Alive. Smiling.
The other?
Zaid.
She blinked. Stared. Blinked again.
Same eyes. Same smile. Same scar along his collarbone.
Lina's fingers trembled.