Emil Dufort adjusted his tie in the dim light of a Paris cafe, the air thick with cigar smoke and the low hum of war talk. The place was a hive of activity—officers in crisp uniforms, merchants haggling over contracts, waiters dodging elbows with trays of coffee and wine. His hands, still rough from last night's work recalibrating factory machines, felt out of place among the polished tables. Across from him sat General Moreau, a grizzled veteran with a chest heavy with medals and eyes like polished steel, weathered by decades of war. Louis Dufort, Emil's father, sat to his left, his gray mustache twitching as he sipped coffee, his presence a quiet anchor. Claire, Emil's fiancée, was at his right, her freckled smile a beacon of warmth as she offered Moreau a plate of bread. "Emil's got something special for the soldiers," she said, her voice soft but deliberate, cutting through the cafe's din.
Jacques Lefevre lounged nearby, pretending to read a newspaper but clearly eavesdropping, his lips twitching with a smirk. Emil slid his grenade sketch across the table, its lines precise from hours of late-night drafting. The design was simple yet revolutionary: a grooved casing for even shrapnel spread, a delayed fuse tweaked with chemical insights from his 2025 engineering knowledge. It was a weapon that could save lives by reducing friendly fire, a small but real edge in the Great War's brutal grind. "Improved grenade," Emil said, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach. "Controlled shrapnel, safer detonation. We're making fifty a day now, but with funding, we can hit a hundred by next month."
Moreau leaned forward, his fingers tracing the sketch's grooves, his expression unreadable. "Promising," he said, his voice like gravel churned by tank treads. "This war's a meat grinder—soldiers die from bad throws as much as enemy fire. Your design could spare some lives, maybe win us ground. But it's costly. Ten thousand francs to start production, and I want a hundred grenades daily within thirty days. Can you deliver?"
Emil's mind raced. Ten thousand francs was a mountain of debt on top of the forty-two thousand four hundred he already owed. But the contract could gross twelve thousand francs a month for a hundred grenades at sixty francs each, netting four thousand after materials (six thousand) and labor (two thousand). It was a lifeline for Dufort Ironworks, enough to chip at the debt and keep the workers from striking. "Deal," Emil said, meeting Moreau's gaze. "I need the contract signed today."
Moreau's eyes narrowed, then softened with a rare glint of respect. "You're like your father—stubborn as a mule but sharp as a bayonet. I'll sign." He pulled a pen from his coat, scribbling his name on the contract Emil had prepared, a single sheet outlining terms and delivery.
Jacques folded his newspaper with a dramatic flourish, grinning. "Careful, General. Emil's grenades might outshine your medals. Next, he'll invent a cannon that sings opera and dances the can-can."
Moreau chuckled, a low rumble that startled the table. "Keep your friend in line, Dufort. He's more trouble than a German trench."
Claire laughed, her hand squeezing Emil's under the table, her warmth grounding him in the smoky chaos. "You're doing this for France," she whispered, her green eyes fierce with pride. Emil nodded, his chest tight. He knew from his 2025 history books the war's toll: millions dead, France nearly broken, with corrupt officials and bickering generals fueling the chaos. He wasn't ready to fix a nation—hell, he barely wanted to run a factory—but saving his workers, his family, was a start. For France, quietly.
Louis leaned in, his voice gruff but warm. "Good work, son. Moreau's one of the few who doesn't take bribes. Don't waste this chance."
Emil nodded, the weight of his father's pride settling on him like a heavy coat. Back at the factory, he and Henriette retreated to the cramped office, its shelves sagging with ledgers and faded maps of pre-war France. Henriette spread out the books, her pen scratching as she calculated. "Moreau's contract is gold," she said, "but ten thousand francs means another loan. We're already bleeding—forty-two thousand four hundred in debt, and the coal man's threatening to cut us off."
Emil rubbed his temples, the numbers a relentless drumbeat. "We need another investor. Dad mentioned Madame Dubois, right? War Ministry ties?"
Henriette nodded, her dark hair falling loose from its pins. "She's rich as sin, but sharp. Louis says she's got more influence than half the ministers. We can meet her tomorrow, but she'll want a piece of the factory."
Emil grimaced. Giving up equity felt like selling a piece of his soul, but he had no choice. "Set it up. And get Claire—she's better at charming than I am."
Henriette smirked. "You're not wrong. She had Moreau eating out of her hand."
That afternoon, they met Madame Dubois at her Paris townhouse, a gaudy palace of velvet curtains and gold-trimmed furniture. Dubois was in her fifties, her sharp eyes framed by a cloud of perfume and a smile like a fox sizing up a hen. Jacques tagged along, claiming he was there for "moral support," but Emil suspected he just wanted her wine. "I'll invest eight thousand francs," Dubois said, swirling a glass, "but I want twenty percent of your factory."
Emil's jaw tightened. Twenty percent was robbery. "Ten," he countered, his voice firm.
She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Fifteen, or I walk, dear."
Jacques leaned in, whispering, "She's got more lovers than francs, Emil. Say yes, but guard your blueprints like they're your firstborn."
Emil relented, signing for fifteen percent. The eight thousand francs pushed debt to fifty thousand four hundred, but it meant production could start. He shook Dubois' hand, her grip cold and calculating. "For France," she said, but her eyes gleamed with greed.
Back at the factory, Emil worked late, overseeing the retooling of two lines. Workers hauled in crates of alloys, their faces smudged but hopeful. Pierre, the loyal one, stayed by his side, tightening bolts. "Boss, you're keeping us alive," he said, his voice rough from smoke. "My kids thank you."
Emil clapped his shoulder, hiding a swell of pride. "We're not done yet."
That night, Claire cooked dinner at Louis's flat—stew, crusty bread, and wine watered down by war rations. Louis shared stories of his engineering days, building bridges for the army in the 1870s. His voice cracked when he mentioned Emil's mother, lost to a factory accident a decade ago. Henriette teased Emil's stubbornness, her laughter easing the room's tension. Jacques, uninvited but welcome, mocked Dubois' gaudy jewelry. "She's like a chandelier on legs," he said, dodging a swat from Claire.
"Behave, Jacques," she said, but her eyes sparkled.
Emil laughed, the sound rare and warm. Family was his refuge, but betrayal loomed like a storm. The next morning, Henriette burst into the office, her face pale. "Dubois' aide was caught snooping in the yard, sketching your grenade designs."
Emil's blood ran hot. He stormed to Dubois' townhouse, Jacques at his side for backup. "You're stealing from France's war effort," Emil said, his voice low and dangerous. "Call off your dogs."
Dubois shrugged, unruffled, her smile razor-sharp. "Business, dear. Prove it."
Jacques leaned in, his grin wicked. "I know your banker, Madame. One word, and your accounts vanish."
She paled but didn't budge. Emil cut ties, forfeiting her eight thousand. Debt remained at fifty thousand four hundred, but Moreau's contract was still in play. Back at the factory, Emil worked till midnight, hands raw from adjusting presses. Claire brought coffee, her eyes worried but fierce. "You're carrying the world," she said, brushing his cheek. "Let us share it."
Henriette joined, helping with sketches, her presence a quiet strength. Louis sent a note: "Proud of you, son. Keep fighting." Emil clutched it, his resolve hardening. The war was closing in—Germans advancing, Paris whispering of siege. Corruption choked the War Ministry, with men like Roux and Dubois profiting while soldiers died. Emil didn't want to lead France, but if thieves kept stealing, he'd have no choice. For now, he focused on grenades, family, and survival. The factory's pulse was his own, and he'd keep it beating.