The morning light barely pierced the heavy curtains in Francois Delacroix's Parisian apartment.
The room was sparse but elegant, the kind of place that didn't draw attention.
A single leather armchair faced a small table where an ashtray sat, half-filled with the remnants of last night's cigarettes.
Francois lit another cigarette, the match flaring briefly before dying in his hand.
His mornings were always like this: quiet, deliberate, calculated.
He didn't rush into the day.
There was no need to.
He operated in shadows, and the shadows waited for him.
The phone on the desk buzzed once, a discreet vibration that barely disturbed the stillness of the room.
He exhaled, smoke curling around him as he reached for it.
It was a secure line, encrypted beyond the reach of curious ears.
"Yes," he said, his voice low and even.
