The morning sunlight over Grenoble arrived pale and cold, the kind of muted winter glow that crawled slowly across rooftops and left long, thin shadows behind every chimney. Inside the Bernard family apartment, the world woke with a cautious quiet. Claude sat at the kitchen table, a half-finished cup of coffee cooling beside him, his thoughts turning in relentless circles like a wheel stuck in mud.
Three days had passed since the explosion at the factory.
Three days since he had dragged Marianne from the brink of death.
Three days since something inside him had changed in ways he still couldn't fully understand.
He wasn't alone anymore. That presence — that cold, whispering echo — had followed him everywhere, like another heartbeat beneath his own.
And today, for reasons he couldn't yet explain, the presence felt restless.
Claude rubbed the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand. He hadn't slept more than a couple of hours each night since. Every time he drifted off, the same dream returned: a hand reaching from the darkness, thin and pale as bone, tugging at the fabric around him. It wasn't a nightmare in the traditional sense — no monstrous figure, no violence, nothing chasing him. Yet he always woke with his chest tight, as if something had tried to climb inside his ribs.
He exhaled slowly.
If this is what "awakening" feels like, I want a refund.
He pushed the thought aside as he checked the small stack of documents on the table — the preliminary insurance forms for the factory victims, including the ones he still couldn't save. He had quietly stepped in to cover parts of the costs with the discreet funds he'd been gathering. Nobody needed to know. Not even his family.
The kitchen door creaked.
Marianne stepped inside, wrapped in a thick morning robe. She still moved carefully, slightly stiff from the bandages hidden under her clothes, but she was alive. Her golden-brown hair was tied in a loose braid over her shoulder, and she offered a soft smile at seeing Claude awake so early.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I love your honesty," Claude replied tiredly. "Good morning."
She poured herself a cup of tea, then sat across from him. "Bad dreams again?"
"Something like that."
"You don't have to carry everything alone, you know."
He gave a hollow laugh. "If it were that easy."
For a moment, silence settled between them — comfortable, fragile, warm.
Marianne watched him closely, concern visible in her eyes. "I've been thinking… Once the investigation ends, once things calm down, maybe we could take that trip you talked about? Paris, maybe even Lyon? You sounded excited about the idea before the accident."
Claude blinked.
Trip.
Right. The "trip" he had suggested to create an alibi should anything go wrong in the coming weeks.
Except now things had escalated in ways he never predicted. The conspiracy surrounding the factory ran deeper, someone else was pulling strings behind the scenes, and there were whispers — literal whispers — brushing the back of his mind like a cold fingertip.
Still, he smiled gently. "Yeah. We should go."
Her relief was obvious. "Then let's plan it together. Something good to look forward to."
Before he could answer, a sudden sharp knock echoed through the apartment.
Three short taps.
One long.
His entire body tensed.
That pattern — he had heard it only twice before, both times tied to events he wished he could forget.
Marianne frowned. "Who is that?"
"No idea," Claude murmured, though his voice betrayed the lie.
He stood and walked toward the door, each step heavy with tension. It felt too early for official investigators, and his grandfather's acquaintances wouldn't bother with formalities.
When he opened the door, the cold hallway breeze swept in—
—and with it, a tall, narrow-faced man with silver-rimmed glasses and dark, slicked-back hair stood waiting.
He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal coat, tailored suit, and gloves he hadn't removed despite being indoors. His eyes — piercing, calculating — examined Claude in a single sweeping motion.
"Good morning, Monsieur Bernard," he said with a polite, almost artificial smile. "My name is Étienne Voclain. I believe you might have heard of me."
Claude's stomach dropped.
Voclain.
Enemy of his grandfather.
Influential enough to move political tides. Ruthless enough to bury rivals. Smart enough to know exactly where pressure should be applied and what strings to pull to get the desired outcome.
"What do you want?" Claude asked, keeping his tone neutral.
Voclain tilted his head. "May I come in?"
"No."
A soft laugh. "Direct. I appreciate that."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "I'm not here as an adversary. In fact… I'm here because I believe we might share a mutual enemy."
Claude didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. "If you're referring to the factory explosion—"
"Ah," Voclain interrupted lightly, "you already assume I'm informed. Excellent." He slipped one gloved hand into his coat and produced a small sealed envelope. "Consider this… an invitation to a conversation you cannot afford to ignore."
Claude didn't take the envelope immediately.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
As the winter wind brushed his face, the presence inside him stirred abruptly, sharper than ever before. A whisper curled at the edge of his consciousness:
He knows.
He sees.
Careful…
Claude blinked hard, his fingers twitching.
Voclain's expression shifted as if he sensed something — curiosity, maybe suspicion. "You're… different than I expected," he murmured. "Your grandfather would have hidden you better if he knew."
Claude stiffened. "You don't know anything about me."
"On the contrary," Voclain said softly, "I know you saved twelve workers from that factory before the fire reached the chemical storage. I know you were the last to leave the premises, even though your medical record shows a history of severe respiratory weakness since birth. And I know," he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "that the explosion wasn't an accident."
Claude's pulse spiked.
Voclain smiled.
Before he could speak again, Marianne approached cautiously from behind Claude. "Is everything all right?" she asked, eyeing the unfamiliar man with visible confusion.
Voclain looked at her with polite acknowledgment. "Mademoiselle. My apologies for disturbing your morning."
Claude subtly stepped between them. "You got what you came for," he said coldly. "Now leave."
Voclain raised the envelope again.
"This contains information your grandfather would never give you," he said. "And a location. Tomorrow. 9 p.m. You can choose to come or not. But be warned, young Bernard—" His voice grew darker. "Someone far worse than me is already watching you."
He slipped the envelope into Claude's hand before he could refuse.
Then he turned and walked down the hallway without another word, disappearing around the corner.
Claude remained frozen, grip tightening around the envelope until the paper creased under his fingers.
Marianne whispered, "Who was that?"
Claude inhaled slowly. "Trouble."
Claude wandered the outskirts of Grenoble alone, trying to quiet the churning storm inside his head. The snowy fields stretched endlessly, the distant mountains rising like jagged teeth beneath the gray sky.
The presence in him pulsed faintly.
He finally tore open the envelope.
Inside were:
A photograph — grainy, black-and-white, showing the factory three days before the explosion. A figure stood near the chemical storage tanks… unloading something.
A list of names, some crossed out — senior managers, political figures, a few unknown.
A location and time:
December 2nd. 21:00. Pontcharra. Warehouse C.
Claude's breath caught.
Pontcharra.
That was almost the same area where the first accident in his previous life had taken place — the one that had changed everything. The one that had pushed him down the path he swore he'd never repeat.
Coincidence?
No.
Nothing was a coincidence anymore.
As he studied the photograph, a cold wind swept across the field.
Then he froze.
On the back of the photograph, written in an elegant, looping hand, was a message:
"Your grandfather's secrets didn't die with time. And neither did mine."
Claude's hands shook.
The presence inside him whispered urgently, louder than ever:
Not alone.
Not safe.
He spun around.
Someone else was standing at the far edge of the field — a silhouette draped in a long coat, face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat.
Silent.
Still.
Watching.
Claude took one step forward.
The figure vanished.
Not walked away.
Not ran.
Simply vanished, dissolving like smoke in the cold winter air.
Claude's heart pounded.
This was no longer human politics. No longer factory conspiracies. No longer petty rivalries tied to old men in hidden rooms.
Something else had entered the equation.
Something tied to the whispers clawing inside him.
Something that had watched him save Marianne.
Something that had been waiting for him to break fate.
Claude clenched the photograph in his hand.
"Fine," he murmured to himself. "If you want me to come… I'll come."
And with that promise, he walked back toward the city — unaware that from the treeline, unseen eyes followed his every step.