One week later. By the banks of the Seine.
The weekend sunlight was uncharacteristically gentle, spilling across the red and white checkered tablecloths of the outdoor café. The air was filled with the aroma of roasted chestnuts and hot coffee.
“The total comes to 3,582 francs and sixty centimes.”
Vivian slammed a bill that looked like a roll of parchment onto the table with a loud *thwack*.
Manager Leroux, who sat opposite her, saw his naturally ruddy, fat face turn as white as a freshly painted wall.
“Three… 3,000?” Leroux trembled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “This… this isn’t right, is it? Didn’t we agree on 500?”
“That was just the base labor fee.”
Cicero elegantly lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. He had changed back into his crisp priest’s attire and looked entirely harmless.
“Mr. Leroux, you must be reasonable.” Cicero pointed to the fine print on the bill. “Look at this item: ‘Mental Anguish Compensation.’ Do you have any idea how much of a psychological shadow your ‘Phantom’ cast on us? Miss Vivian still suffers from stress-induced twitching whenever she hears ‘Two Tigers.'”
Vivian immediately cooperated by letting her lip twitch, though she was currently busy stuffing a cookie into her mouth.
“And this item: ‘Stage Effects Fee,'” Cicero continued his bluff. “The jet-powered swan performance that night was high-tech equipment we procured from the black market out of our own pockets. You can’t expect us to cover that, can you?”
“But… but the stage was smashed to pieces that night!” Manager Leroux tried to protest. “I spent a fortune just fixing the floor —”
“But the box office exploded.”
Vivian interrupted, her voice muffled as she chewed on a cookie.
“I read today’s newspaper. Everyone is calling it ‘the greatest immersive experience of the century.’ I heard your tickets are pre-sold through next year?”
Manager Leroux choked on his words.
It was true. Although the scene that night had been a complete mess, the unexpected “tragic ending” (referring to the soprano being sent flying by a swan) had triggered a frenzy across all of Paris. Everyone assumed it was a cleverly designed satire of capitalism.
Furthermore, Celestine was surprisingly durable; that impact had only resulted in a broken bone.
“Pay up, Manager,” Vivian said with a smile, extending her hand.
“Fine.” Manager Leroux sighed, pushing the remaining stack of francs toward them. “This is the final installment. Also…”
Before leaving, he pulled a newspaper from his coat, his expression turning a bit strange.
“This is today’s *Le Figaro*. You two… are famous.”
Vivian snatched the paper.
On the front page, a massive bold headline nearly blinded her:
**THE CARNIVAL OF THE UNDERGROUND! GENIUS OR MADMAN? MYSTERIOUS TROUPE SETS PARIS ABLAZE!**
The accompanying image was a blurry photograph—it was Bastien. No one knew when the fellow had taken it, but in the photo, he was striking a bizarre pose as if trying to wrap his leg around his neck, set against a backdrop of fireworks and collapsing stone pillars.
“The greatest immersive experience of the century!” — Famous theater critic Bastien Saint-Valois (who had shamelessly interviewed himself).
“The pinnacle of deconstructionism! A perfect fusion of violence and aesthetics!”
Vivian: “…”
“That guy really is…” Vivian’s lip twitched as she tossed the newspaper back onto the table.
“At least he gave the incident a label—an ‘avant-garde performance,'” Cicero remarked, glancing at the headline with a faint tone. “This makes things easier for everyone. The police station is spared the trouble, and we don’t have to write those damned statements.”
Vivian happily tucked all the money into her coat. The heavy weight against her chest gave her more security than any breastplate ever could.
“Oh, right,” Vivian pulled a letter from her pocket that carried a faint scent of lavender. “This arrived this morning. It’s from Armand.”
“Oh?”
“She said she went back to her hometown in Brittany. She bought a small farm there and plans to raise a few geese and plant some apple trees.” Vivian opened the letter and pointed to the last line. “She said if we ever go there to visit, remember to write ahead of time. She’ll save the best cider for us.”
Cicero looked at the letter, his gaze lingering for a second on the “A.P.” signature.
“That’s good.” He shook a cigarette out of his case and placed it between his lips. “Raising geese is certainly better for one’s physical and mental health than guarding the shadow of a dead man in a basement.”
As the two chatted, a gust of wind blew across the riverbank.
The wind was a bit cold, carrying a faint scent of gunpowder.
The smile on Cicero’s face vanished. He snapped his head around, looking toward the Seine.
The originally clear river water was now churning with a layer of eerie, dark-red foam. If one didn’t look closely, they might mistake it for the reflection of the sunset.
But in Cicero’s eyes, the river was boiling.
“Do you hear that?” Cicero whispered.
“Hear what? The sound of us getting rich?” Vivian was still eating.
“No.” Cicero’s eyes grew solemn. “It’s the sound of cannons. And…”
Vivian froze for a moment, tilting her head to listen.
There really seemed to be something. The sound was muffled, as if coming through a thick layer of water.
Just then, a piece of yellowed parchment drifted over with the wind, landing right at Vivian’s feet.
Vivian picked it up.
The parchment was soaking wet, its edges charred with burn marks. It was stamped with a red cross. In the center of the paper was a blurry charcoal sketch.
The drawing depicted a young priest wearing black robes. Beneath it was a line written in French:
**[Those who violate the Divine Law shall be judged, no matter where they flee.]**
Though the sketch was crude, Vivian recognized him instantly.
‘Wait, isn’t this the bastard sitting right across from me, Cicero?’
“Boss…” Vivian swallowed hard, turning the paper around. “This looks like your…”
Cicero glanced at it, looking somewhat surprised.
“Oh, what’s this?” Cicero said nonchalantly, picking up his coffee for a sip. “Don’t worry about it. The Church draws hundreds of wanted posters a day. It’s normal for people to have similar faces.”
Vivian looked back down, and the long “extorted” bill from the manager was gone. She blinked, thinking she had miscounted. Looking again, it was definitely gone.
‘Did the wind blow it away?’
At that moment, a wet hand suddenly reached out from beneath the stone steps of the riverbank. It was a bloated hand, and around the wrist was a red armband.
The hand silently grabbed the bill that had been blown away by the wind. Then, it slowly retracted back into the shadows of the embankment.
All that remained was a puddle of dark-red water, like a tear of undried blood.
“Let’s go.”
Cicero stood up and tossed a few coins onto the table.
“The wind is picking up.”
He pulled up the collar of his trench coat, concealing half of his face, and turned to walk into the bustling crowd.
“Wait for me! Boss! What are we eating tonight? I want red wine braised beef!”
“You’re eating air.”
“Noooo—!”
The silhouettes of the two gradually disappeared into the flourishing streets of Paris.
The waters of the Seine continued to flow quietly, carrying the secrets sunk at the bottom toward an unknown horizon.
**[Volume One: End]**