A rickety copper sign hung at the entrance of the Twelfth Bureau of the Paris Police General Headquarters.
Even before stepping inside, the overpowering stench of tobacco wafted out, nearly making Vivienne sneeze right onto Cicero’s trench coat.
“This smells awful!”
Vivienne covered her nose, recoiling in disgust.
“You’ll get used to it,” Cicero said calmly as he pushed open the mahogany doors.
The moment the doors swung wide — *Boom!*
A massive wall of sound nearly blew the two of them back.
The sharp ringing of telephones mingled with the rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* of typewriters, punctuated by the roars and bellows of numerous men and women.
“The water spraying out of my toilet is red! It turned my Persian cat into a flamingo!”
“My milk was stolen again! I want to report a crime!”
“When are those idiots at City Hall going to clear the sewers? There are crocodiles living in my basement!”
Vivienne stared at the hellish scene before her, dumbstruck.
The lobby was packed with citizens waving letters of complaint, while the poor police officers looked like little lambs thrown into a pack of wolves, their hats knocked askew in the frenzy.
“It seems Jacques hasn’t been having a good time lately.”
Cicero stepped aside to avoid a flying water glass, leading Vivienne straight to the office at the very back of the second floor.
That was the domain of Jacques Dubois.
Or rather, it used to be.
Now, there was only a mountain.
A towering mountain of documents, files, complaint letters, and reports. The pile was about 1 meter high, blocking the window and emitting a faint, rhythmic sigh.
“Jacques?” Cicero called out tentatively, poking the mountain of paper with his cane.
“… I’m dead.”
A weak voice drifted from the depths of the paper pile, sounding like a zombie crawling out of the earth for air.
*Crinkle-crash!*
A corner of the document mountain collapsed, revealing Jacques’s large face, which looked as though it had been trampled by life 100 times.
He sported 2 large dark circles under his eyes, his stubble was as wild as weeds, and he gripped a stamp in his hand with a glazed expression.
“Don’t talk to me… Don’t ask me to sign anything…”
Jacques stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering like a man possessed.
“… As long as I don’t think, the pain can’t catch me…”
Vivienne’s lip twitched. “Um… Inspector? Why did you call for us? Is it about the river water?”
At the mention of the words “river water,” Jacques sprang from his chair like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
“The river water?! Oh, right! The water. You’re finally here.”
Jacques scratched his scalp frantically, sending flakes of dandruff and bits of paper flying through the air.
“Do you know how many complaints I’ve received about the river in the past 3 days? 3,500! 3,500!!”
He grabbed a handful of documents at random, shaking them violently.
“These citizens have gone mad! Someone said that after drinking the water, they saw Napoleon waving at them from their bathtub! Another said bathing in it cured their chronic joint pain! And some claim it’s an aphrodisiac, so they’ve filled every bucket in the house and stashed them under their beds!!”
Jacques pointed despairingly at the room full of paperwork.
“The higher-ups demand that every single complaint be filed, verified, approved, and archived! And I have to fill out three different colored forms according to that damned Administrative Decree No. 89! I’m not a goddess with a thousand arms!”
With that, Jacques collapsed back into his chair, radiating an aura of utter defeat.
Cicero shrugged and turned to Vivienne with a look of helplessness.
“It seems we’ll have to take the illegal route. How about we break into the archives’ safe tonight?”
“Break into your head.”
Vivienne rolled her eyes.
She stared at the chaotic mess of documents, her brow gradually furrowing. She reached out and picked up a file with two fingers, looking confused.
“Why is this kind of standardized response handwritten? Are you people still living in the Stone Age?”
Jacques froze, staring at her blankly. “Huh? How else would we do it?”
“Move aside.”
Vivienne rolled up her sleeves, her beautiful almond eyes burning with the fierce fire of a “Queen of Overtime.”
She shoved Jacques out of his chair and sat down with an air of absolute authority.
“Cicero, get me a glass of water. Jacques, go make me something to eat.”
Vivienne’s aura shifted.
A moment ago, she was just an assistant who did nothing but complain. Now, she was the ruler of the workplace.
“What are you standing around for? Move!”
10 years later—or so it felt—but in reality, only 10 minutes passed.
Jacques and Cicero huddled in the corner, watching the scene before them in stunned silence.
Vivienne had one foot on a bellows-driven sorter while her hands flew through the stacks of documents like she was playing a piano.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump!*
The sound was as dense as heavy machine-gun fire.
Vivienne’s hands moved so fast they were practically a blur.
Her left hand snatched a document, her right categorized it, she thrust it into the center—*Bang!*—stamped it, and then flicked it to the side in one fluid motion.
“This one is a mental breakdown, transfer to the asylum, rejected!” *Bang!*
“This one is attempted extortion, transfer to the security department, rejected!” *Bang!*
“This one saw a ghost, archive it!” *Bang!*
The documents seemed to take on a life of their own, soaring through the air in perfect arcs and landing precisely into the corresponding bamboo baskets 2 meters away.
“What kind of speed is this?!” Jacques’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
Cicero took a calm sip of tea.
“Don’t ask. Just call it talent.”
Half an hour later.
With a final, crisp *Bang!*
Vivienne let out a long breath and kicked the bellows aside.
The mountain on the desk had been transformed into twenty neatly organized document baskets on the floor, each categorized and clearly labeled.
“Done.”
She slapped a document with wet ink onto Jacques’s chest.
“Here is the summary table you wanted, organized by region, time, and sighted species. And this…”
Vivienne pulled out another sheet of paper and waved it in front of Jacques.
“This is our investigation warrant. I went ahead and stamped it for you. You’re welcome.”
Jacques clutched the neat report, his hands trembling.
He looked up, his bloodshot eyes filling with tears.
“Holy Mother…”
Jacques reached out shakily, attempting to grab Vivienne’s hand.
“Miss Vivienne… No, Goddess Vivienne! Will you… will you stay at the station? I’ll give you half my salary! If you only help me process files for 2 hours a day…”
“Dream on.”
Before Vivienne could speak, Cicero slapped Jacques’s hand away and took the warrant from Vivienne, nodding in satisfaction.
“Good work. I’ll give you a raise when we get back… er, a prestige raise.”
“I knew it,” Vivienne said, giving him a dirty look.
“Alright, now that we have the permit, it’s time to get to work.”
Cicero adjusted his collar, preparing to leave.
“Wait.”
Vivienne suddenly stopped.
She didn’t rush out. Instead, she turned back to the baskets labeled “Abnormal Sightings” and pulled out a few reports that looked unique.
“What is it?” Cicero asked.
“When I was stamping them, I ran the data through my head.”
Vivienne frowned, quickly flipping through the reports and pointing at certain sections.
“These complaints about ‘humanoid wraiths’—the locations are scattered across various districts, but the timeline is strange.”
Jacques was still drooling over the perfect summary table. He looked up blankly. “Huh? What’s strange?”
“They all occurred between 2:00 AM and 3:00 AM.”
Vivienne spread several reports on the desk, pointing to the recorded times.
“Furthermore, the descriptions of the wraiths are eerily consistent across all witnesses.”
“What’s the description?” Cicero leaned in.
Vivienne pointed to a line of scribbled handwriting and read softly:
“… Wearing a filthy, blue, old military uniform. No face. Carrying a broken rifle on his back. Constantly asking for directions.”
The air in the office suddenly turned cold.
Jacques’s face went pale. “A blue old military uniform… That’s the uniform of the National Guard from the Commune twenty years ago.”
“And they all ask the same question.”
Vivienne looked up, meeting their eyes.
“They ask: ‘Which way to the Belleville barricades?'”
Cicero’s gaze darkened slightly.
Belleville Heights.
That was the site of the final, fierce battle during the Bloody Week, the end point where countless members of the Commune fell.
“It seems the things boiling in this pot are even older than I thought,” Cicero said with a light chuckle. “Even the rotten bones from twenty years ago are being dug up.”
“Could… could this be a prank?” Jacques wiped away cold sweat, trying to offer a rational explanation.
“If one person sees it, it’s a hallucination. If three people see it, it’s a coincidence.”
Vivienne rolled up the reports and tucked them into her trench coat pocket.
“But if there are fifty-eight reports all pointing to the same thing…”
She patted her pocket and winked at Jacques.
“Inspector, this is no prank. By the way, there’s another report here—is it true the old man at the riverside newsstand refuses to cooperate with the investigation?”
With that, she turned and headed for the door.
“Looks like we have a lead.”
Cicero raised an eyebrow as he watched her back.
*Thump.*
The door closed.
Jacques was left alone, standing in a daze amidst his neatly organized paperwork.