Jacques hauled himself out through the hatch, the metal groaning as he pushed it shut behind him. The air hit him first—thick, damp, and laced with a smell he couldn't quite place. Not rot, not exactly; something stale, like the city had been left to sit too long without anyone around to air it out. He stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. Fog clung to everything, curling around the ground and buildings in heavy curtains that swallowed shapes and muted edges.
Paris wasn't rubble—no broken towers or shattered glass, just... empty. Streets stretched out before him, intact yet gutted of life. Storefronts still had their signs hanging above them; vehicles sat abandoned at odd angles as if the drivers had stepped out mid-errand and never come back. It didn't feel right. Nothing about this felt right.
