The fog had returned, clinging to the streets of Paris like the breath of something half-asleep and ancient. It crept low along the gutters, curling against the wheels of taxis, ghosting through alleyways. The soft patter of rain slicked the pavement, casting reflections of dim streetlamps like melted candle wax.
Detective Isabelle Laurent leaned against a cold brick wall outside the café on Rue des Martyrs, her coat buttoned high, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers though unlit. The taste of earlier revelations still lingered on her tongue. The photograph Luc had shown her had cracked something open—something old, and dangerous.
She stared across the street at the flickering neon sign of Café Lumière, waiting. She had agreed to meet a journalist, Isabelle Cormier, known for pushing boundaries and exposing corruption in high places. It was more than coincidence that both women missing—Camille Dubois and Isabelle Leroux—had crossed paths at some point with someone in power. She needed context. And Cormier claimed to have it.
When the door opened, the other Isabelle stepped out. Tall, angular, and dressed in a long black coat that seemed stitched from shadows, Cormier approached with eyes like razors. Her walk was deliberate, every step calculated, a presence that drew attention and discouraged it all at once.
“You don’t know how deep this goes,” Cormier said in lieu of a greeting. She lit a cigarette of her own, smoke curling like whispered confessions between them. “You think this is about an artist who vanished? It’s not. It’s about the men in masks. The ones who pretend to be patrons but collect people like art.”
Laurent said nothing, watching her. The rain made their breath visible in the chill, white clouds dissolving between sentences.
Cormier exhaled. “There’s a club. Not listed, not public. A masquerade. Velvet masks, red wine, and secrets wrapped in silk. Camille was seen there. So was Leroux.”
Laurent’s brow tightened. “You’re sure?”
“I stake my name on it. I tried to get in once. Never made it past the front door.” She paused. “You know why?”
Laurent didn’t answer.
Cormier’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Because someone high up—someone old money—had my name on a list. A list of people not to let in. Because I was already sniffing around. Because I asked the wrong question.”
Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “And you think the club’s connected to the disappearances?”
Cormier looked around, her fingers trembling slightly as she took another drag. “I think someone there collects women like them. Smart. Isolated. Beautiful. Artists. No one notices when they vanish because they’ve already trained the world to look away.”
The words sank like stones into water. Laurent's mind jumped back to the blood in the sculpture. The rose petals. The camera hidden behind the painting. She thought of Leroux’s studio—pristine and sterile, except for that one shattered piece. And now the idea that someone might have been watching her for weeks, perhaps months, planning something like a performance.
A hunt in velvet.
Cormier handed her a photograph—blurry, grainy, clearly taken in low light. It showed a ballroom, baroque and glowing in candlelight. People in masks danced, drank, whispered. But at the center of the photo, unmistakably, stood Isabelle Leroux—her black mask trimmed with red lace, her posture tense, shoulders slightly turned as though she didn’t belong.
“Where is this?” Laurent asked.
“I don’t know the exact address. It changes. But I know someone who supplies them—costumes, masks, the aesthetic. They’re obsessed with performance. With illusion. He might talk to you. But I’m warning you—he's scared. People who ask questions don’t last long around these wolves.”
Laurent folded the photo and slid it into her coat pocket.
Cormier’s eyes turned glassy, reflective. “There’s one more thing. This... group. They use names. Not real ones. Titles. Like roles in a play. The one everyone fears is called The Curator.”
Laurent’s breath hitched. The word echoed. It was too calculated. Too personal. Like an artist’s signature in blood.
Cormier continued, voice cracking just slightly. “I heard that name years ago. Whispers in stories passed around by victims who survived. They say The Curator doesn’t kill in rage. He kills in design.”
Laurent leaned back against the wall. Her thoughts spiraled—Camille, Leroux, the club, the blood that didn’t belong. Was it possible there were more victims? That the silent witness wasn’t a person at all, but a camera in every room, every wall, each one capturing silent performances?
She checked her phone—no missed calls, no new leads from Lucie at the lab. The chill was getting deeper, the air thinner.
Cormier dropped her cigarette and ground it out with her boot. “This is where I vanish, detective. If you hear from me again, it’s either good news—or my last message.”
Laurent nodded, watching her disappear into the mist, the streetlamp casting her shadow long and tall before the darkness swallowed it whole.
She turned back toward her car. The streets were quieter now, the city folding itself into the blue hours of night. Her hand reached for the door handle when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
One message.
“You’re being watched. Don’t look behind you.”
Her blood ran cold. Her breath stopped.
The silence behind her thickened. No footsteps. No sound. But something in her spine prickled—an instinct too primal to ignore.
She didn’t turn. She forced herself to breathe, her eyes scanning the reflections in the rain-slicked glass of her car window. At first, all she saw was herself.
Then a second shape. Blurred. Still. Just behind her left shoulder.
Laurent turned the car key without turning her head. Engine growling to life. Her hand hovered near the gearstick, her heart thudding like war drums.
But when she flicked her gaze back to the reflection—
The shape was gone.
Just rain, just fog.
But something else had been there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And now—it knew she knew.
To be continued...
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