The next day passed like a tightening noose around Claude's throat. Every hour inched forward with unbearable slowness, each minute beating like a drum inside his skull. The envelope from Voclain felt heavier than metal in his pocket, and the presence haunting him pulsed constantly, aware of what was coming.
By late afternoon, the winter sky hung low and gray above Grenoble, threatening snow. Claude walked the streets alone, hands in his coat pockets, his breath visible in the sharp air as he rehearsed the plan forming in his mind.
It was simple.
Dangerous.
Potentially stupid.
But simple.
He would go to Pontcharra.
He would meet Voclain.
And he would get answers about the figure in the grainy photograph — the one unloading canisters near the chemical storage tanks days before the explosion.
Whoever that was… they held the key to the entire conspiracy.
And perhaps something more.
Claude stopped walking, staring at the mountains in the distance — jagged silhouettes cutting against the sky like broken knives. His jaw tightened.
If fate tried to kill me once, I won't let it succeed again.
Behind him, two kids ran past laughing, their scarves fluttering behind them. The sound brought him back to reality. He had not told Marianne he would be leaving tonight. He had stood at her doorway earlier, watching her pack away textbooks on the bed, wanting to tell her.
But when she looked at him with that soft, patient smile…
He couldn't.
He refused to drag her into this any further.
8:12 p.m. — Bernard Apartment
Claude stepped quietly into the kitchen where Marianne sat writing on a notepad. A soft lamp illuminated her face, casting warm light across the room.
"You're heading out again?" she asked without looking up.
Claude froze. "Just for a bit. I need fresh air."
Marianne's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's the same tone you used before you disappeared on the night of the explosion."
He forced a half-smile. "This time, I promise, I'm only walking."
She didn't look convinced.
But she didn't push. Marianne had always known when to step back — and when to follow. Tonight, it seemed she chose to trust him… even if reluctantly.
"Be careful," she whispered.
Claude swallowed hard. "I will."
It was a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
9:00 p.m. — Pontcharra Industrial District
The train ride had been short but suffocating. Claude stepped onto the empty platform, the icy air slapping him like a wake-up call. Pontcharra at night felt abandoned — a ghost town swallowed by snow and silence. The industrial district was worse: warehouses lined up like silent tombs, windows dark, metal walls echoing the faint wind.
Warehouse C stood at the far end, lights completely off.
Nothing moved.
Claude approached cautiously, every muscle rigid. His boots crunched over the frost-covered ground as he reached the large sliding door. It was slightly open — just enough to slip through.
Perfect.
He pushed the door wider, the metal groaning softly.
Inside, the darkness swallowed everything. Only a single lantern hanging from a high beam provided light, casting long shadows across the enormous room.
And beneath that lantern stood Étienne Voclain.
No guards.
No assistants.
No entourage.
Just him — hands clasped calmly behind his back, coat draped perfectly around him, as if this freezing warehouse were a private office.
"You came," Voclain said without turning around.
Claude stepped inside and let the door slide shut behind him. "You didn't exactly leave me many options."
"I didn't force anything," Voclain replied, finally rotating to face him. "You're here because you want answers."
Claude didn't deny it. Instead he approached slowly, stopping a safe distance away. "Who was in that photograph?"
Voclain offered an amused smile. "Straight to the point. Good."
He reached into his coat and pulled out another envelope.
Claude stiffened.
Voclain handed it to him.
Inside were several clearer photographs — higher resolution, perfectly framed — of the same man unloading the canisters. The angles were different, capturing the profile, the hands, the clothing.
Claude's blood went cold.
The figure wore the unmistakable dark coat of an internal factory supervisor.
"I know him," Claude whispered.
"Of course you do," Voclain replied. "He worked directly under the regional director. Someone placed him there for a reason."
Claude lifted one of the photos closer to the lantern light. The man's expression was visible now — nervous, constantly checking over his shoulder.
Not the face of someone orchestrating a conspiracy.
But the face of someone acting under pressure.
"Who ordered him?" Claude asked.
"That," Voclain said, "is where our interests align."
Claude frowned. "Explain."
Voclain walked a few steps, the lantern light catching in his glasses. "Your grandfather made enemies in his time. Dangerous ones. People who believed he interfered too much in political currents he had no business steering."
Claude clenched his fists. "And you're one of them."
Voclain chuckled. "Once. But circumstances change." He glanced at Claude with a cold sharpness. "What's threatening you now threatens me as well."
Claude's heart thumped painfully. "What are you talking about?"
Voclain stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"There is a group," he whispered. "Old. Hidden. They have influence in places you cannot imagine. They caused the factory explosion."
Claude's breath stopped.
"They planned the chaos. The deaths. The economic shock that would ripple outward."
Claude pressed forward. "For what purpose?"
Voclain's eyes hardened. "To destabilize the region. To make room for a shift in political power."
Claude froze.
Power shifts. Industrial sabotage. Manipulated accidents.
This wasn't just some corporate conspiracy.
"This group…" Claude murmured. "…do they have a name?"
Voclain nodded.
Then he whispered it.
And the presence inside Claude flared violently — like a knife of cold, stabbing through his mind.
Claude staggered, grabbing his head.
Voclain didn't miss the reaction.
"So," he said slowly, "you really are different."
Claude forced himself upright, breathing through the sudden wave of dizziness. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because," Voclain replied, "I would rather face your grandfather's wrath than theirs. And if what I suspect about you is correct…" His eyes flashed. "You may become far more dangerous than any of them."
Claude's heart hammered.
"What do you mean?"
Voclain studied him for a long moment, then spoke with quiet gravity.
"Three nights ago, during the rescue, you triggered something. You survived fire inhalation that should have killed you. You performed feats no untrained young man should be able to perform. The doctors' reports were… unusual."
Claude felt the air freeze around him.
Voclain leaned in slightly. "Tell me, Claude… have you heard anything strange lately? Felt anything? Seen anything?"
Claude swallowed — too quickly.
Damn.
Voclain saw it.
A slow smile spread across his face. "I was right."
Claude's voice sharpened. "If you know something—"
The sound of footsteps cut him off.
Claude and Voclain snapped their attention toward the dark end of the warehouse.
Someone else was inside.
The lantern flickered.
Then the presence inside Claude whispered again, louder than ever:
Not him.
Not human.
Not safe—
A figure stepped into the lantern's glow.
And Claude's blood turned to ice.
It was the same silhouette he had seen at the edge of the snowy field — long coat, wide-brimmed hat, face hidden in shadow.
Voclain tensed beside him, voice thin. "Impossible. How did they—"
The figure raised its head.
Its face — or what should have been a face — was obscured by shifting darkness, like ink swirling underwater.
Claude took an instinctive step back.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The shadowed figure spoke — a distorted voice layered with echoes:
"You should not have interfered."
Claude's heart kicked violently in his chest.
Voclain stepped forward, desperation flashing across his features. "Claude! Listen to me—whatever happens, do not let it touch you. Do you understand? If it does—"
But Claude never heard the end of the warning.
Because the shadowed figure twisted its hand.
And the lantern's light shattered.
Darkness swallowed the warehouse whole.
And something ancient, cold, and inhuman stepped closer.