The night air clawed at Isabelle's skin as she stumbled through the station's desolate entrance. Gare de Lyon loomed ahead, hollow and yawning like the mouth of a dying beast. The city behind her felt like it was dissolving, each step toward the platform shedding pieces of her past.
Luc Lefevre's voice still echoed in her mind:
"There's one last chance, Isabelle. One informant. He's too scared to speak inside the city."
"Where?" she had demanded, voice shaking.
"Mourillon. Small town near Toulon. There's one last train. Midnight. Be on it—or you'll lose her forever."
She hadn't hesitated.
She couldn't.
Even if blood still stained her sleeves, even if Estelle was unconscious in the safehouse now, tended to by Théo, Isabelle knew she couldn't stop. Couldn't allow the guilt, or the terror, or even common sense to root her in place.
Vivienne was alive.
She could feel it, deeper than instinct, deeper than reason.
Somewhere, Vivienne was still reaching out to her.
And tonight, Isabelle would reach back.
The station was eerily empty. The usual clatter of late-night travelers had thinned to a mere whisper. A few stragglers sat hunched on benches, their faces pale under the flickering fluorescents. An old woman fed crumbs to invisible pigeons. A man with a stained duffel bag muttered to himself in a language Isabelle didn't recognize.
The departure board above groaned and flickered.
—Train 9977. Mourillon. Final boarding.
She hurried toward the platform, her boots slapping wetly against the concrete.
Beyond the ticket barriers, the last train idled—a long, skeletal shape against the black velvet sky. Its windows glowed dully, casting long reflections across the slick tracks.
Luc had promised to meet her at the platform—but he was nowhere in sight.
A spike of unease lanced through her.
She checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls.
The battery icon blinked red: 1%.
Swallowing her dread, Isabelle pulled her coat tighter around herself and boarded.
Inside, the train smelled faintly of rust and old paper.
She moved through the narrow corridor, past empty compartments. Her footsteps were absorbed by the thick, stained carpeting. The overhead lights buzzed and sputtered occasionally, casting long stuttering shadows that made her flinch.
Third car, Luc had said.
Compartment 3C.
She found it halfway down the carriage.
Sliding the door open, she sagged into a seat, heart hammering against her ribs.
She was alone.
The train gave a low shudder, then a mechanical groan as it lurched forward.
They were moving.
There was no going back now.
Isabelle leaned her head against the cold window, watching Paris unravel itself behind her. The city's lights bled together in the mist, becoming nothing but memory.
A memory she wasn't sure she would survive.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Or maybe only seconds.
Time folded strangely here, inside the stale air of the train, between the promise of salvation and the certainty of betrayal.
The compartment door creaked.
Isabelle sat bolt upright.
Luc.
It had to be.
But it wasn't.
The corridor beyond was empty.
Only the faint sound of wheels grinding against steel.
She swallowed hard and sat back down, muscles trembling with held-in fear.
It was just the motion of the train, she told herself.
Just nerves.
Just...
Movement caught her eye at the far end of the carriage.
A figure.
Slow, deliberate.
Walking between the compartments.
Isabelle pressed herself back into the seat, breath shallow.
The figure drew closer, illuminated in flickering slices by the dying overhead lights.
Something about it was wrong.
Off.
The figure was tall, wrapped in a long black coat.
Their hands gloved.
And over their face—
A porcelain mask.
White and gleaming.
Expressionless.
Eyes hollowed out into gaping voids.
Isabelle's mind raced.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Luc hadn't mentioned anything about a masked figure.
Was it a warning?
A message?
Or a trap?
Her instinct screamed: Hide.
She shoved herself deeper into the seat, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The figure paused outside her compartment.
Listening.
Waiting.
She could hear their breath rasping shallowly behind the mask.
A hand, gloved and pale in the dim light, hovered over the door handle.
For one paralyzed second, Isabelle imagined it turning, imagined the figure stepping inside, reaching for her, dragging her into whatever nightmare she had barely escaped so many times before.
But then—
The figure moved on.
Silent.
Flowing down the carriage like smoke.
Isabelle didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Until the soft hiss of another compartment door opening and closing echoed down the corridor.
Only then did she allow herself to exhale.
She knew she should stay hidden.
Should wait for Luc, or signal someone—anyone—to help.
But something deeper gnawed at her.
The figure hadn't come for her.
At least, not yet.
But maybe they had come for the informant.
The one person who might know where Vivienne was.
If Isabelle lost that chance, it was over.
Everything was over.
Gritting her teeth, she slid the compartment door open and slipped into the hallway.
The train rocked and swayed beneath her, the rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels drilling into her ears.
The masked figure had disappeared further down the car.
No sign of them.
But a faint light glowed under one of the other doors.
Compartment 5A.
She crept closer, every nerve screaming.
A muffled voice inside.
Two people.
Arguing.
One low and gravelly.
One thin and desperate.
She pressed her ear to the door.
"I told you everything!" the desperate voice pleaded. "I kept my side of the deal!"
The gravelly voice snarled back: "You know the rules. Silence. Feed. Witness."
A crash.
A choked-off scream.
Silence.
Pure, suffocating silence.
Isabelle's hand shook as she reached for the door.
Before she could open it—
The train lurched violently.
She was thrown sideways, slamming into the opposite wall.
Pain exploded through her shoulder, but she forced herself upright.
The door to 5A was open now.
Inside—
Only darkness.
The lightbulb swung wildly from the ceiling, casting manic shadows across the empty compartment.
Empty except for a smudge of red smeared across the window.
And a scrap of fabric caught on the doorframe.
A white handkerchief.
Delicate embroidery at the edge.
V.D.L.
Vivienne Delacroix-Leblanc.
Isabelle's stomach dropped.
She snatched the handkerchief and staggered back, mind spinning.
Vivienne had been here.
Recently.
Alive.
But so had the masked figure.
And now the informant—Luc's contact—was gone.
Maybe dead.
Maybe worse.
A voice crackled over the intercom system above her head, garbled by static.
She could barely make out the words.
"...final stop... Mourillon... ten minutes..."
The train would be stopping soon.
And when it did, Isabelle knew the real hunt would begin.
If she wanted to survive—if she wanted to find Vivienne—she had to move now.
She turned—
And nearly screamed.
The masked figure stood at the far end of the corridor again.
Still.
Watching.
Waiting.
This time, they raised a hand.
And beckoned her forward.
To be continued...