Paris, January 2nd, 1935
From the outside, Paris looked like it was sleeping under a heavy winter blanket.
But inside government buildings, inside the ministries and embassies, there was no rest.
The past year had cut too deep.
Major Étienne Moreau stood silently near the frost-kissed window of his apartment, sipping lukewarm coffee from a tin cup.
He wasn't in uniform yet just in his undershirt, suspenders stretched over his shoulders.
The air was cold enough to make his breath visible, but his mind was elsewhere.
January had arrived, and with it, 1935.
Nearly a year.
He had been in this world nearly a year.
He set the cup down and rubbed a hand over his face.
The man staring back at him from the windowpane looked older now.
The bruises of battle had faded.
Moreau wasn't just a soldier anymore.
He was becoming something more an influence.
A symbol.
And it was time to push further.
