Emil Dufort stood on the factory balcony of Dufort Ironworks, the dawn light struggling to pierce the thick curtain of smoke rising from the chimneys below. The air was heavy with the tang of coal and molten iron, the factory's pulse a steady roar of presses and pistons. A hundred grenades rolled off the lines daily now, each one a small defiance against the Great War's chaos: grooved casings for precise shrapnel, delayed fuses drawn from Emil's 2025 engineering knowledge, saving soldiers from their own throws. General Moreau's contract demanded this pace, and Emil had delivered, but the cost was relentless—debt at forty-five thousand four hundred francs, workers teetering on the edge of a strike, and betrayals from men like Roux gnawing at his resolve.
He gripped the balcony railing, his hands still blistered from recalibrating machines after the coal shed fire. The latest delivery—a hundred grenades at sixty francs each—had grossed six thousand francs, with three thousand for materials and fifteen hundred for labor, netting fifteen hundred in profit. Debt had dropped to forty-five thousand four hundred, a small victory, but coal shortages and payroll loomed like vultures. Scaling production had stretched the factory thin, and whispers of German advances—Verdun battered, Paris bracing for siege—darkened the horizon. Emil's modern mind, steeped in history books, knew the war's toll: millions dead, France nearly broken, with corrupt officials profiting off the blood. He didn't want to lead a nation, but keeping his workers fed, his factory alive, was his fight for France.
Below, workers moved like ants, hauling crates of grenade casings, their faces smudged but determined. Pierre, the loyal one, caught Emil's eye and waved, his grin a flicker of hope. "Boss, we're keeping up!" he shouted over the din. "Your devils are saving boys at the front!"
Emil nodded, a swell of pride cutting through his exhaustion. "For them, Pierre!" he called back, his voice hoarse.
In the cramped office, Henriette hunched over her ledger, her dark hair falling loose as she scratched numbers in red ink. "We're barely afloat," she said, her voice tight. "Fifteen hundred profit helps, but payroll's ten thousand, due tomorrow. Coal's running low again—two thousand francs to secure more, or we shut down."
Emil rubbed his temples, the numbers a relentless weight. "Moreau's contract is our lifeline," he said. "We keep delivering, we'll climb out. But we need another investor to cover the gap."
Henriette nodded, her eyes weary but sharp. "Louis mentioned a new name: Madame Lefèvre—no relation to Jacques, thank God. She's a widow with War Ministry ties, owns half the textile mills in Paris. She's tough, but fair. Claire's already on board to meet her—she's better at this than either of us."
Emil's chest warmed at Claire's name. His fiancée's freckled smile and fierce support were his anchor in this smoke-choked world. Last night's dinner at Louis's flat replayed: her hand in his, planning a small engagement party despite the war, Henriette's teasing, Jacques' relentless quips. Family kept him sane, but the pressure was crushing. Corruption in the War Ministry—men like Roux stealing designs, officials diverting supplies—threatened everything. Emil wasn't ready to take on the government, but each betrayal pushed him closer.
Jacques Lefevre burst through the office door, his suit pristine despite the factory's grime. "Emil, you brooding genius!" he called, waving a telegram like a trophy. "Moreau's pushing your grenades to the front lines—soldiers are singing their praises. They're calling them 'Dufort's Devils' now. My 'trench cleaners' was catchier, but I'll survive." He grinned, tossing a half-eaten apple to Henriette, who caught it with a scowl.
Emil chuckled, Jacques' humor a spark in the gloom. "Any real news, or just here to steal our fruit?"
"Real news!" Jacques said, flopping into a chair. "Madame Lefèvre's in town, and I got you a meeting tonight at her estate. She's got more francs than sense, but she's no fool. Also, bad news: Roux's at it again. His factory's undercutting your prices with shoddy knockoffs. Soldiers are complaining—his grenades misfire half the time."
Emil's fists clenched, his blood hot. "Roux's killing soldiers with his greed," he said. "We exposed his duds. What's his game now?"
Jacques shrugged, his grin sly. "He's got friends in the Ministry. I heard it in a bar—his aide was boasting. You stung him, but he's doubling down."
Emil's mind raced. He'd outsmarted Roux with fake designs, but the man was relentless, a symptom of France's rot. Emil planned to confront him, but first, he needed Lefèvre's funds. The meeting was at her estate, a sprawling mansion of marble and chandeliers. Claire was there, her simple dress outshining the gaudy decor. She smiled at Madame Lefèvre, a stern woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and a voice like a whip. Louis sat beside Emil, his gruff presence steadying, while Jacques lounged nearby, sipping wine and winking at a maid.
"Your grenades are making waves," Lefèvre said, studying Emil's sketch. "I'll fund ten thousand francs for two hundred grenades a day, but I want a ten percent stake and weekly updates."
Emil hesitated. Another stake hurt, but the contract could gross twenty thousand francs a month, netting eight thousand after costs. "Deal," he said, shaking her hand. "We'll deliver."
Jacques raised his glass. "To Emil, making mustaches jealous and wallets lighter!"
Lefèvre's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Keep your friend in check, Dufort. He's incorrigible."
Claire laughed, her hand on Emil's arm. "He's our incorrigible," she said, her eyes warm. Emil felt her strength, a reminder of why he fought. Back at the factory, production ramped up. Lefèvre's ten thousand bought alloys, chemicals, and labor, pushing the lines to a hundred grenades daily. The first week grossed twelve thousand francs, with six thousand for materials and two thousand for labor, netting four thousand. Debt dropped to forty-one thousand four hundred, a rare win.
But trouble struck at dawn. A worker rushed to Emil, face pale. "Boss, the main press is down—jammed solid. We're losing hours."
Emil dove in, wrench in hand, sweat mixing with grease. The press was critical, stamping grenade casings. Fixing it cost five hundred francs in parts and overtime, pushing debt to forty-one thousand nine hundred. He worked till dusk, Pierre at his side. "You're one of us," Pierre said, his loyalty fierce.
Emil nodded, exhausted. "For the boys at the front."
That night, family dinner at Louis's flat was a refuge. The table was sparse—stew, bread, watered wine—but the warmth was real. Louis shared stories of his engineering days, his voice cracking when he mentioned Emil's mother, lost to a factory accident. Claire planned their engagement party, her optimism a beacon. "Something small," she said, squeezing Emil's hand. "Just us, family, maybe Jacques if he stops flirting."
Henriette snorted, tossing a crust at Jacques. "He'd flirt with a lamppost."
Jacques caught it, winking. "Only if it's a pretty lamppost." His tale of a minister's speech—"like a cow choking on hay"—had them laughing, a brief escape from the war's weight.
Emil leaned back, watching them. Family was his anchor, but the war's shadow grew. A telegram arrived during dinner: Roux had bribed a War Ministry official to block Emil's next delivery. Emil's blood boiled. He and Jacques confronted the official at a gala, Claire dazzling in a borrowed dress to ease tensions. "Your greed's killing soldiers," Emil said, his voice low. "Back off, or I'll expose you."
The official smirked. "Prove it, Dufort."
Jacques leaned in, his grin wicked. "I know your mistress. One word, and you're ruined."
The official paled, retreating. Emil knew it wasn't over. Back at the factory, he worked past midnight, tightening security with more guards—another five hundred francs, debt now forty-two thousand four hundred. Claire brought coffee, her eyes worried. "You're carrying France," she said, brushing his hair back. "Don't lose yourself."
Henriette stayed, helping with production logs, her teasing a reminder of their childhood. Louis sent a note: "Proud of you, son. Keep fighting." Emil clutched it, his resolve hardening. The war was closing in—Germans advancing, Paris bracing. Corruption choked the War Ministry, and men like Roux profited while soldiers died. Emil didn't want power, but if thieves kept stealing, he'd have to act. For now, he focused on grenades, family, and survival. The factory's pulse was his own, and he'd keep it beating, no matter the cost.