Paris – November 11, 1937 – 6:13 AM
The car barely stopped. Claire was already out before it halted, boots slipping on the wet asphalt of Rue Lepic. Émile followed close behind, revolver tucked beneath his coat.
— "Up there!" she shouted, pointing toward the growing crowd at Place du Tertre.
Montmartre looked different. It was no longer the bohemian quarter of blue mornings. It was a stage. And someone was managing the backstage with military precision.
Flyers with the split rose littered the ground. The streetlights flickered in uneven pulses. At the top of the staircase, three men spoke to a crowd that kept swelling.
Claire turned to Émile.
— "They're trying to spark a reaction. One shot here, a torn flag there, and we've got an uprising."
Émile nodded.
— "And all of it lands on Reiner's shoulders. France versus Germany. Exactly what they want."
—
Top of the hill – minutes earlier
Madeleine stood in the shadow of a shattered newsstand. Wide-brimmed hat, bold lipstick, eyes sharp as blades.
— "They're using our symbols now," she muttered.
Beside her, Solène read one of the flyers.
— "That Split Rose... it's revolution now."
— "No longer magic. It's politics. And that's more dangerous."
Solène subtly pointed at a man among the agitators.
— "That's Dorian Mercier. Former officer of the Republican Guard. Fallen from grace. Perfect type to lead chaos disguised as patriotism."
Madeleine crushed her cigarette with her heel.
— "Then it's time to remind them who really strikes the match."
—
6:18 AM – Base of the hill
Claire spotted Madeleine and Solène in the distance. A subtle nod. The team was together — but this time, Paris felt like it was against them.
A scream pierced the crowd.
— "Murderers!"
And then, the first Molotov flew.
Glass shattered.
Flames rose.
Claire ran.
Émile drew his weapon.
And through the smoke, Dorian's voice rang out:
— "Today is not about governments. It's about us. The people!"
Madeleine whispered to Solène:
— "If they want fire... let's give them real flames."