The Paris government considered locking down the city. After several rounds of hesitation, they ultimately decided against it.
However, inspections for tourists leaving the country were extremely strict. The official explanation cited "tourist safety." In reality, they were hunting for the culprits behind the bloodbath.
In theory, perfect crimes don't exist. So-called locked-room murders require a massive number of external conditions to cooperate—and even then, that only applies to killing one or two people, under the premise that police resources and manpower are limited.
The more advanced technology becomes, the harder it is to achieve anything close to a perfect crime.
Now, with more than five hundred dead in one night, the morgue couldn't even hold them all. Corpses packed the streets. No matter how you looked at it, this was anything but clean work.
One man and two women were the killers—that was the testimony from guests at the reception.
Not all the Albanians were dead, either. A few lucky ones had stayed up late, gone out to steal motorcycles, and escaped the massacre entirely.
By combining survivor accounts with intelligence gathered by French security services, investigators pieced together the general course of events.
Cause, process, outcome—all straightforward. The traffickers had tried to play games with the wrong people and paid the price. The French Security Bureau received orders to find the culprits at all costs.
These culprits, however, were proving extremely difficult to track.
Consulates from various countries were organizing tourist evacuations. At least eight hundred thousand people met the departure criteria. How were they supposed to find anyone among that many?
The deputy director of the French Security Bureau who had previously met Bryan Mills could have provided useful leads—but unfortunately, Natasha had killed him during the chaos.
Mom and Dad kept urging them relentlessly, as if staying a few extra days meant falling into the hands of vicious Frenchmen. Despite the pressure, Bella and Natasha remained in Paris for another day and night.
Plane tickets were hard to come by. French authorities were acting like they were guarding state secrets—every departing tourist's passport was examined eight times over, cross-checked against databases, as they tried to determine which country's agents had come to commit crimes on their soil.
Their focus on agents made sense. Ordinary people simply didn't have that kind of capability. The Albanians might not have been particularly formidable, but many of the bodyguards who died at the reception were active-duty soldiers—including elite military specialists. With high-level professionals lying dead everywhere, could the killers really have been tourists?
They had to be agents. Top-tier agents.
While French intelligence desperately searched for suspects, Bella lounged on the sofa looking completely unconcerned, flipping through materials 006 had sent her.
"You're really planning to invest in that supercar company?" Natasha's voice carried a hint of excitement as she ate the hotel's dessert. "Are we going to Sweden?"
Following Bella often meant running into trouble. But it was thrilling. And Natasha liked thrills.
Bella continued reading seriously, answering casually. "Probably not necessary. Their company is very small right now—all the cars are hand-built. You wouldn't learn much from a day or two of visiting."
She was still thinking about investing in Koenigsegg. At this stage, the brand was only well-known in small circles, still far from reaching the top tier. Whether as a long-term hold or a short-term flip, it was an excellent opportunity.
The entire company had only twelve employees. The background investigation had been simple—just a group of tech enthusiasts banding together.
The company was currently based in Sweden. In Bella's memory, this group of gearheads seemed to have spent their entire lives there without ever leaving.
The owner and founder was the middle-aged bald man she'd seen at the exhibition: Christian von Koenigsegg.
At present, all company shares remained in the founder's hands.
External interest in investing wasn't strong. The furthest progress had been made by a local Swedish investment bank, but Christian von Koenigsegg himself showed little interest.
He was Swedish, already renowned among supercar engineers. He didn't lack local connections. The resources held by investment banks weren't limitless or as omnipotent as advertised. Aside from providing some R&D funding, they offered very little real help.
Other interested parties had all given up after one or two rounds of contact. Nobody's money grew on trees. Throwing cash in without hearing even a splash wasn't something anyone wanted.
Bella used her fingernail to draw a line under the word "connections." She didn't have money—but she could leverage her face. Her Stanford network. 006's connections. A small portion of Victoria Hand's web. Even Tony Stark. All of it was leverage.
On the third day after the Paris bloodbath, Bella visited Koenigsegg's founder.
She stated her intention to invest outright. When the bald engineer asked how much she planned to put in, she dodged the question and changed the subject.
"Forgive my bluntness, but from what I can see, your company doesn't actually seem short on money."
Christian von Koenigsegg nodded. That was indeed the case. His employees were friends from the same industry—salary expenses stayed low. His relationships with parts suppliers were excellent, keeping costs down. They only hand-built one supercar every two years. Production expenses weren't high. Aside from developing new models, the company faced minimal financial pressure.
All he wanted was to build the fastest car in the world. Going public to cash out had never crossed his mind.
Simply injecting capital didn't really mean much.
"Then, Miss Swan—what can you provide to Koenigsegg?" he asked. "What technical patents do you have?"
Her supernatural car-repair methods couldn't be shown. Far too horrifying. Bella had no technical patents whatsoever. If asked to repair a car by following a manual, she might end up with extra parts left over. Mechanical talent simply wasn't in her skillset.
Yet her expression remained confident.
"What you lack are sales channels. Your hand-built supercars are famous in competitions. Performance data is exceptional. But you can't convert those achievements into revenue and reinvest it into R&D."
Bella pointed at herself. "Your cars need buyers. People with ordinary incomes don't buy supercars.
"I come from Stanford. From Silicon Valley. Right now, there are 143 billionaires in the tech sector, and half of them come from or live in Silicon Valley. What you need are my connections. Without wealthy patrons, it doesn't matter how good your cars are in Sweden. If you can't form a virtuous cycle of manufacturing, sales, and R&D, Koenigsegg will only be overtaken by latecomers."
Her words clearly struck a chord.
For car-building enthusiasts like him, being surpassed by competitors was unbearable. Only first place mattered. Second place was nothing at all.