Paris – November 15, 1937 – 6:18 AM
The letters arrived before the newspapers.
Over eighty envelopes — some signed, others anonymous. Inside: promises, threats, praise, confessions. Claire read in silence while the sun barely touched the windows of the safehouse.
Solène poured coffee, wordlessly.
Émile watched.
Madeleine smoked, restless.
— "You've become an icon," she finally said.
— "And icons don't breathe. They burn."
Claire held a letter with a dried flower pressed inside.
— "This one's from a nurse in Warsaw. She says she felt alive for the first time since 1918."
— "And this one's from Marseille," Émile said, handing her another envelope.
— "Calls you a traitor."
Claire looked at both letters.
— "Maybe I'm both."
—
Paris-Lyon Train Station – 7:03 AM
Lorelei stepped off the train without luggage.
Only a briefcase.
Inside: three identities, two vials of poison... and a copy of Claire's letter, carefully folded next to a map.
She walked with purpose.
Like someone who knew there was no more time for hesitation.
—
Safehouse – 7:44 AM
The door opened without warning.
Claire turned, hand on her holster.
But she didn't shoot.
— "Am I late?" Lorelei asked, stepping in as if she had never left.
Silence.
Until Solène whispered:
— "What are you doing here?"
Lorelei placed the briefcase on the table.
— "Helping you stay alive."
— "Since when do you help?" Madeleine shot back.
Lorelei looked at Claire.
— "Since she became more dangerous alive than dead. And because... now I have something to lose too."
Claire held her gaze.
— "Then tell the truth, Lorelei. All of it."
Lorelei took a deep breath.
Opened the case.
And said:
— "LUX wasn't created... it was copied."