Chapter 57: CH10: Paris Recruitment
The April air in Paris held a damp, mineral coolness, the smell of wet asphalt and blooming chestnut blossoms clinging to everything. Zoruk stepped from the black car onto the curb of the quiet 7th arrondissement, the building before him a classic Haussmann façade of pale stone and wrought iron. He paid the driver with a swipe of his wrist-comm, a human gesture performed with alien fluidity, and tilted his face up.
The light was a thin, pearlescent grey, diffused through high cloud cover. It didn’t blaze. It gleamed. It caught the grit on the carved stone cornices, the slick black of the Seine visible at the end of the street, the polished brass of a door handle. He’d passed it all on the drive in from Charles de Gaulle: the wide, arrogant curve of the Pont Alexandre III, gold statues glaring at the slate-colored water; the cramped, bookish chic of Saint-Germain-des-Prés; the self-consciously cool hustle of Le Marais. He’d seen the distant, skeletal spike of the Eiffel Tower, a logo against the sky. Los Angeles screamed to be seen. Barcelona burned with a hunger to possess. Addis Ababa carried love like a tangible weight. Paris, he observed, simply assumed you were already admiring it. It curated its own beauty with a ruthless, centuries-old discipline. Hunger here wore a tailored jacket. Jealousy quoted philosophy. Desire was a perfectly composed photograph, all careful framing and implied meaning.
His suite was on the top floor, accessed by a small, silent elevator lined with aged mirror. Inside, it was all high ceilings, herringbone parquet, and floor-to-ceiling windows that presented the city like a living painting. He placed his single bag—human luggage for a human cover—on a velvet settee and walked to the window.
The rooftops of Paris spread out, a sea of zinc grey and chimney pots under the vast, pale sky. A church bell tolled somewhere, the sound flat and final in the damp air.
“Activate secure channel. Olmer Archive, frequency theta-nine,” he said, his voice calm in the empty room.
A soft, green-gold luminescence spilled from the center of the room, particles of light coalescing into a three-dimensional, shifting data panel. It cast no reflection in the windows. To any human surveillance, the room would show only a man standing silently, looking out at the city.
“The soil is different here,” Zoruk began, speaking to the archive. His tone was conversational, analytical. “The East team was forged in public wreckage. Starfall House, Llum de Mar, Addis Hearts… they were projects that collapsed, exposing the cracks in people. Public shame, leaked footage, broken trust. The pressure was external, a ecosystem of observation failing.” He touched the cool glass of the window. “Paris doesn’t work that way. The pressure is interior. It’s the tension in a quiet apartment after the door closes. It’s the words not said over a beautifully set table. It’s the envy that dresses itself as aesthetic critique.”
He turned from the view, facing the luminous data stream. Images began to flicker within it: dossiers, surveillance captures, social media feeds.
“The candidates are not linked by a failed enterprise. They are linked by a single gravitational center. Alya Dumont.” Alya’s face resolved in the light—angelic, with a smile that was both innocent and knowing. “Twenty-two. Three million followers. She cultivates a princess-like aura, a delicate thing that makes people want to both protect her and possess her. They see the sweetness, the playful charm. They mistake it for simplicity. I suspect she understands the power of being adored far better than she lets on. She is the sun around which these other planets, all male, all straining in their own orbits, revolve.”
The image shifted to Remy Bernier, caught in a moment of stillness on a football pitch, his expression focused yet distant. “Remy. The boyfriend. Twenty-nine. The athlete who plays piano alone in the dark. He is kind. He is disciplined. He loves her, but he loves a woman who belongs to the world. His fear is quiet, a constant hum beneath the kindness. The fear of being erased by her light, of becoming merely ‘Alya’s boyfriend,’ a footnote in her story. That is a potent kind of loneliness.”
Next, Georges Bernier, caught laughing in a crowded bar, his eyes sharp and dancing. “The brother. Twenty-five. Adaptable. Rebellious. He loves Remy but lives in his shadow. Where Remy is steady, Georges is spark. He provokes to feel seen. He would likely deny any interest in his brother’s famous girlfriend, but the attention she commands… that is a language he understands. He wants a spotlight of his own, but he’s always comparing its wattage to hers.”
Then Briv Rodin, his face thoughtful behind a camera, a sketchpad in his lap. “Briv. The artist. Twenty-five. Creative, stubborn, emotionally meticulous. He has built a cathedral in his mind around Alya Dumont, brick by brick, over five years. A crush sustained by distance, by comments on posts, by birthday wishes. He believes in the specialness of his unseen connection. It is a fantasy, but fantasies are powerful things. They are entire worlds. And he is an architect of worlds. The collision of that fantasy with reality… that will be his breaking point or his foundation.”
Rachelle Lebas appeared, her expression caught in a rare unguarded moment—a frown of impatience, quickly smoothed. “The friend. Twenty-three. Reliable, direct, impatient. She is the one who carries the phone charger, who remembers the interview time, who tells Alya when her smile looks forced. Her loyalty is absolute, and it is also her cage. She matters, but only in relation to Alya. That resentment is a slow acid. She loves her friend and hates her own supporting role. A conflict that makes her dangerously honest.”
Finally, Corinne Chagnon, elegant, mid-laugh, a glass of wine in hand, her eyes shrewd even in mirth. “The manager. Thirty-three. Caring, naughty, controlling. She is the adult in the room who sometimes enjoys playing the enfant terrible. She protects Alya with a ferocity that is both genuine and professionally vital. Her affection is tied to her purpose. If Alya no longer needs protection, what is Corinne? Her fear is of becoming obsolete. That makes her manipulative, playful, and potentially ruthless. She sees everyone’s desires clearly. Especially her own.”
Zoruk paced slowly before the display, the green light painting his human face in otherworldly hues. “You see the pattern, Lord Olmer? It is not a project that failed. It is a solar system in perfect, tense equilibrium. A boyfriend fearing obscurity. A brother craving distinction. An artist worshipping an ideal. A friend choking on devotion. A manager clinging to relevance. All their tensions are social, intimate, human. Their vulnerabilities are not in leaked footage or financial ruin. They are in the quiet fear of being unimportant to the person who makes them feel most alive.”
He stopped, his hands clasped behind his back. “Los Angeles was about spectacle. Barcelona was about desire. Addis Ababa was about love’s morality. Paris is about the architecture of attention. Who gets it. Who gives it. Who is destroyed by the lack of it.”
The archive pulsed softly, awaiting instruction.
“The approach will be surgical,” Zoruk continued. “Each first contact must mirror their existing dissonance. Briv, near the Canal Saint-Martin. He will be sketching, building his fantasy. I will be the stranger who appreciates his art, who speaks of connection made across distances. Remy, at the Parc des Princes after training. The solitary figure. I will be the observer who notices not the athlete, but the man who carries silence with him. Georges, in a bar near Rue Oberkampf. He will be performing. I will be the audience who sees the performance for what it is, and challenges it.”
He looked back at Alya’s image. “Alya, in the Jardin du Palais Royal. Among the black-and-white striped columns, the perfect geometry. She will be photographed, admired. I will be the one who does not ask for a picture. I will speak to her as if she is the only real thing in a world of copies. Rachelle, at the Jardin du Luxembourg. She will be taking a moment for herself, away. I will be the one who acknowledges her fatigue, who speaks to the friend, not the satellite.”
A final look at Corinne’s dossier. “Corinne, at Café de Flore. She will be working, watching, managing the world from a café table. I will be the intriguing anomaly who cannot be managed. Who sees the manager, not the brand.”
He gave a final, faint smile. “The recruitment begins not with an offer, but with a reflection. I will show each of them a clearer picture of their own hunger. By the time they understand the hand that holds the mirror, they will already want what is on the other side.”
With a flick of his wrist, the green-gold archive dissolved, the light sucking back into a single point before vanishing. The room was left in the muted grey Parisian afternoon.
Zoruk remained at the window, watching the first evening lights begin to prick on across the city, a thousand tiny stars igniting in the dusk. Below, the city edited itself for the night, swapping pale elegance for gilded romance. The stage was set.
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Canal Saint-Martin, Paris. April afternoon, after Zoruk begins the Paris recruitment.
The afternoon light over Canal Saint-Martin was the color of brushed steel, cool and diffuse, catching the gentle ripple of the green water beneath the iron footbridges. Briv Rodin sat on a stone bench, a worn leather satchel at his feet, a sketchbook open on his knees. His pencil moved in quick, sure strokes, capturing the arched back of a bridge, the slumped posture of a fisherman further down the bank, the way the light bled into the water like diluted ink. He was dark-eyed, sharp-featured, his concentration a physical quietude amidst the soft buzz of bicycles and distant café chatter.
A shadow fell across the page, long and still. Briv didn’t look up immediately, finishing a line. “If you’re selling something, I’m allergic to commitment,” he said, his voice dry. “If you’re buying, I accept money, coffee, or mysterious alien sponsorships. My rates are surprisingly flexible.”
“Your linework is confident,” Zoruk said, his voice a calm, pleasant baritone. “But the perspective on the northern arch is slightly off. You’ve compensated with shading, but the foundational geometry is a lie.”
Briv finally glanced up, a witty retort dying on his lips. The man standing over him was unlike anyone on the canal. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal coat that seemed to absorb the grey light, his posture unnaturally still. He looked human, but his stillness felt other. “Are you an architect or an assassin?” Briv asked, closing his sketchbook with a soft snap.
“An observer,” Zoruk replied, easing onto the far end of the bench with a fluid grace. “Like you. Though you observe from a distance. You’ve loved an image for five years without ever touching the life behind it.”
The air left Briv’s lungs. The canal sounds—the lapping water, a laughing couple passing—seemed to recede into a dull roar. He knew immediately. There was only one image that fit that description. His guard slammed up, wrapped in his usual humor. “That’s a dramatic way to say I follow an influencer. Lots of people do. I don’t send creepy DMs.”
“You comment. You joke. You wish her happy birthday every year without fail,” Zoruk said, his gaze not on Briv but on the water, as if discussing the weather. “You’ve never met Alya Dumont. You’ve never stood in her physical space. Yet your emotional investment is a sustained, five-year architectural project. Why does something so respectful weigh so much?”
Briv’s fingers tightened on the sketchbook’s cover. “She answers. Not always, but sometimes. And when she does, it’s like… a person, not a brand manager. Once, I made a dumb joke about a pretentious art film she’d posted about. She replied with a laughing emoji and said ‘you get it.’” He shrugged, the gesture too casual. “Sometimes a few words land exactly when you need them to. It’s not a crime to appreciate that.”
“No, it’s not,” Zoruk agreed, turning his head to meet Briv’s eyes. His gaze was steady, unnervingly absorbing. “But I’m curious. Do you love her? Or do you love the version of yourself who believes she could understand you?”
The question was a needle sliding between ribs. Briv flinched, then laughed, a short, defensive sound. “Jesus. That’s a hell of a question from a stranger dressed like a beautiful court verdict. Who are you, a therapist for the chronically online?”
“I’m someone who understands the value of a well-crafted fantasy,” Zoruk said, unperturbed. “You’ve built a splendid one. Quiet, respectful, pure. It requires no risk of rejection, no messiness. No Remy Bernier.”
The name hung between them, concrete and inconvenient. Briv’s jaw tightened. “I don’t resent him. He seems like a decent guy. Solid. Probably plays the piano beautifully in a dark room somewhere.”
“But?”
Briv looked away, towards a little bookshop with green-painted shutters. “But I envy the simplicity,” he admitted, the words quiet, almost lost to the water. “I envy that he gets to be tired next to her. That he gets to see her annoyed, or bored, or with morning breath. He gets the mundane, real thing. I get the curated light. And yeah, part of me thinks my version might be… cleaner. More meaningful because I built it from scraps.”
“And the others?” Zoruk pressed gently. “Georges, the brother, who gets to tease her and be in the room. Rachelle, the friend, who carries her spare phone charger and hears her real complaints. Corinne, the manager, who guides her career and knows her contracts. They exist inside her world. You remain outside, turning distance into the entire meaning.”
“Distance is respect,” Briv insisted, heat finally coloring his voice. “I never showed up at a café she posted. I never tried to ‘accidentally’ meet her. That has to count for something.”
“It does,” Zoruk conceded, his tone making it sound like a small, sad fact. “Respect is valuable. But fantasy can grow even in clean hands. It can become a gilded cage you’ve built for yourself. The question is, what happens if the door were to open? If you stood in the same room as Alya Dumont, not as @briv_sketches, but as Briv Rodin, what would you want?”
Briv was silent for a long time. A barge puttered slowly down the canal, its engine a low chug. “I’d want her to see me,” he said finally, the confession sounding raw in the open air. “Not just recognize a username. I’d want her to look at my work, or hear me say something, and for her to… see the person who made it. To recognize that I’m someone. Someone important.” He scoffed at himself, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, that sounds pathetic.”
“It sounds human,” Zoruk corrected, standing up. The movement was seamless. “Creativity, that ability to build worlds from perception, is a trait of immense value to my employer. Lord Olmer Larothus appreciates architects of meaning.” He looked down at Briv, his expression unreadable. “But stubborn longing, the kind that outlasts five years of silence, is a dangerous material. It can warp the design when reality refuses to match the blueprint.”
He placed a single, plain black card on the bench between them. There was no name, no number, only a subtle, embossed symbol that seemed to shift under the light. “Think on the difference between building a shrine and building a bridge. The offer, when it comes, will be for the builder, not the worshipper.”
Zoruk walked away, his footsteps silent on the cobblestones. He didn’t look back. Briv stared at the black card, the chill of the stone bench seeping through his jeans. He picked it up. The material was warm, unlike any cardstock he’d ever felt. He turned it over. Nothing.
In the distance, the iron bridge framed Zoruk’s retreating figure for a moment before he turned a corner and was gone, swallowed by the Parisian afternoon. Briv looked at his sketchbook, at the flawed perspective of the bridge. He’d known it was off. He’d chosen to shade it anyway, to hide the flaw with technique.
He slipped the black card into his sketchbook, closed it, and sat very still as the grey light deepened towards evening.