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‎The weight of the satchel dug into my shoulder, its contents rattling with every cautious step I took through the alley. It was past midnight, the streets of Paris quiet but never truly empty. The stench of damp stone and rotting wood clung to the air, masking the scent of blood that had dried on my gloves hours ago.
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‎I moved like a shadow, keeping to the walls, avoiding the pools of moonlight that spilled onto the cobblestones. In the distance, the heavy boots of patrolmen echoed, their torches flickering like fireflies in the dark. My heart drummed a steady rhythm, but my breath was even. This was routine. Danger was routine.
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‎I reached the meeting point—a crumbling wine cellar beneath a decrepit inn. With a swift glance over my shoulder, I slipped inside, my steps soundless as I descended into the musty gloom.
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‎He was waiting.
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‎A man in a worn velvet coat lounged against a barrel, his gloved fingers rolling a coin over his knuckles. His eyes flickered toward me, sharp as a blade. "You're late."
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‎I let the satchel drop onto the table between us with a heavy thud. "No. You're just early."
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‎He smirked but said nothing, reaching for the leather straps. With deliberate slowness, he unfastened them, revealing the cache within—flintlock pistols, powder, and blades, all stolen from the very soldiers patrolling above us. He picked up a pistol, examining its craftsmanship. "Impressive haul."
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‎"You pay for quality," I said flatly.
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‎The man—known only as Rousseau—chuckled. "And you never disappoint, my dear. A beautiful girl with a talent for thievery and a heart full of vengeance. How poetic."
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‎I stiffened at his words but didn't react. I had learned long ago that men like Rousseau enjoyed the illusion of control. It was easier to let them believe they had it.
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‎Rousseau tossed a small pouch onto the table. Coins clinked together. "Your payment."
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‎I snatched it up without counting. I didn't need to. He knew better than to short me. "I'll be in touch."
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‎As I turned to leave, his voice cut through the darkness. "A word of caution, ma belle. There are whispers that the nobility are tightening their grip. Someone is asking about a certain young smuggler with an angel's face and a devil's touch. Be careful."
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‎I didn't pause, didn't acknowledge the warning. I had been hunted before. It wouldn't stop me now.
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‎---
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‎Outside, the streets felt colder, the night pressing in as I made my way back to the only place I could call home—a forgotten attic above a bakery, the scent of old bread lingering in the rafters.
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‎I didn't light a candle. Darkness was a comfort.
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‎Slipping off my coat, I traced my fingers over the scars on my arms, faint reminders of past lessons learned the hard way. My mind drifted back—back to a time when I was not a smuggler, not a ghost in the city, but a girl with a family, a name that meant something.
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‎I clenched my fists.
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‎That noble—his name was seared into my memory like a brand. He had taken everything. My home. My blood. My future.
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‎I had survived. And I would make sure he didn't.
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