The black car's taillights, like the crimson eyes of a beast, were swiftly swallowed by the damp neon lights of the Paris night, leaving Aria alone in the foul-smelling alley. Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.
Cold sweat soaked her thin clothes, clinging to her skin and causing a wave of shuddering cold. She clutched the utility knife she wasn't even sure she'd have the courage to use in a pinch, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip.
Who was that?
The low, cold, and commanding French voice was like a tempered steel needle, instantly piercing the fragile shell she had built from exhaustion and numbness. It drove a deeper, more primal fear directly into her mind.
It was absolutely not a coincidence.
No passing driver would speak that way, with that tone that sounded as if they were born to give orders and be in control. And no car, which appeared ordinary but had a hint of expensive quality, would just happen to stop at the entrance of such a filthy alley, precisely to help a strange Asian female stocker.
A terrifying, almost suffocating guess surfaced uncontrollably—Léon Delacroix.
But she immediately shook her head forcefully, trying to dispel the absurd thought. Impossible! A man like him, sitting at the very top of Paris's financial and social pyramid, how could he possibly appear in a chaotic corner like the 18th arrondissement? And how could he pay any attention to her, a mouse struggling for survival in a gutter? It was ridiculous, a complete delusion brought on by stress.
Maybe it was someone the owner knew? A supplier with a bit of influence? Or... was it someone the Gallardo family had sent to keep an eye on her, who didn't want her to get into trouble and lose the lead?
Countless thoughts swirled in her mind, but she could not find a definite answer. The unknown was the greatest fear. She felt like an insect tangled in an invisible thread, no matter how much she struggled, the end of the thread is in the hands of an unseen manipulator.
Aria spent the rest of her working hours that night in a state of extreme mental tension. Any little noise—the screeching of the warehouse shutter, or even the rustle of a mouse running by—would make her jump. The owner also seemed to notice her distraction, frowning and picking on her a few more times before tossing her the day's pay, the edges of the bills greasy.
Clutching those few wrinkled euros, Aria did not feel any sense of security for the first time. Instead, they felt incredibly hot in her hand. This job, this hiding place, no longer seemed safe.
In the days that followed, the feeling of being watched did not disappear; it intensified. It was no longer just a vague intuition but began to infiltrate the small details of her life.
She felt as if there were footsteps following her on the street, not too far behind, but every time she turned around, she only saw the hurried faces of strangers. While stocking shelves at the supermarket, she would occasionally feel a cold gaze on her back, but when she looked around, there were only mountains of cardboard boxes and the dim, yellow light. The streetlamp in front of her shared apartment building, which had been broken for a long time, was suddenly fixed. Its bright light clearly illuminated her figure every time she came home at night.
Was it all in her head? Or were the watchers' techniques becoming more sophisticated, or perhaps, were they intentionally letting her know she was being watched?
The "small accidents" at the supermarket also began to increase. A batch of goods would have the wrong labels, or the inventory count of another batch would not add up. The owner's face grew more and more sour, and her insults became more and more unpleasant. She even began to subtly inquire about Aria's identity, asking why she was always so evasive and if she was "in some kind of trouble."
Aria could only use her clunky French to repeatedly assure her that she just needed money for school and was not in any trouble. She worked even harder, trying to make up for the inexplicable "errors." But she knew in her heart that something was wrong. It felt as if an invisible net was slowly tightening, and the person who cast it was leisurely standing outside of it, enjoying her predicament and her struggles.
She began to seriously consider quitting this job and finding another place to hide. But how easy was that? Without a legal identity, without references, and with her limited language skills, leaving here would mean losing even this dirty nest and her meager income.
Despair washed over her in waves. Revenge felt impossibly distant, and even basic survival had become a challenge. Late at night, she would curl up on the cold floor of her tiny room (the mattress smelled indescribably bad) and bite her arm to stop herself from crying out loud. Her gray eyes were wide open in the darkness, burning with a mix of defiance, anger, and the fierce glare of a cornered beast.
She could not fall here. Absolutely not.
The Top Floor Office of Delacroix Capital
Léon Delacroix was reviewing the daily briefs that had been delivered. One of the encrypted files from Max detailed the "target's" movements over the past seventy-two hours, including work specifics, meager spending records, and even a transcript of the key conversations she had with the supermarket owner.
His gaze lingered on the lines that read, "exhibiting a high degree of vigilance," "attempting to find new accommodation (unsuccessful)," and "emotional state: anxious, exhausted, but not broken."
"The pressure is not enough," he said suddenly, his voice exceptionally clear and cold in the vast office.
Max, who was standing by, bowed slightly. "You mean, sir?"
"The supermarket job is too stable." Léon put down the tablet, his fingertip lightly tapping the smooth surface of the desk. "Create an irreversible loss of employment for her. Make her feel what it's like to be truly desperate."
A look of understanding flashed in Max's eyes. "Understood. I'll arrange it. What method?"
"Something plausible and natural. Let her attribute it to her own mistake or bad luck, not outside intervention." Léon's tone was flat and even, as if he were discussing the weather. "After that, temporarily cease active pressure, but maintain strict surveillance. Let's see which direction a young animal, completely deprived of its nest and food, will instinctively flee to."
"Yes, sir." Max made a note of the key points, then hesitated for a moment before adding, "The Gallardo family, it seems, has expanded their investigation through some unofficial channels to several towns in southern France adjacent to Spain. They have not yet directly targeted Paris."
"A bunch of headless flies," Léon said disdainfully. "Ignore them. Maintain information isolation to ensure their people don't foolishly stumble into our observation range."
"Understood."
After Max left, Léon returned to the window, looking down at the brilliant city lights below. But what was reflected in his eyes was a surveillance image of a dirty alley in the 18th arrondissement and the pale figure gritting her teeth as she moved boxes in the dim light.
Pain and desperation are the best catalysts. They strip away a person's facade the fastest and reveal their most fundamental core. He wanted to know what kind of resilience and danger were hidden beneath that seemingly fragile exterior.
This test was just entering its interesting phase.