8. The First Name

The interior of the Veronian Police internal affairs division was a labyrinth of fluorescent-lit corridors and windowless offices, the kind of place where secrets went to be filed away and forgotten. Inspector Renaud led Camille through a series of security checkpoints, each requiring a retinal scan and a palm print, until they reached a small conference room at the end of a long hallway.

The room was sparse: a metal table, two chairs, and a single surveillance camera mounted in the corner. Renaud gestured for her to sit, then took a seat across from her, his hands folded on the table.

"You're safe here," he said. "This facility is off the grid—no external network access, no phone lines, no windows. Mercier's people cannot reach you."

Camille placed her laptop on the table but did not open it. "You said you were assigned to the Mercier case. Who assigned you?"

Renaud's expression remained neutral. "The Deputy Commissioner of Internal Affairs. She has been building a case against Mercier for three years, but she lacks the evidence to move forward. When she learned about your investigation, she decided to reach out—through me."

"Through an encrypted channel that I've been using for months. How did you find that channel?"

Renaud smiled—a thin, practiced smile. "We have our methods. You are not the only one who knows how to trace digital footprints. The Deputy Commissioner is a woman of considerable resources. She identified your anonymous messenger as a former Veronix employee, and she tracked the channel from there."

Camille absorbed this information. It was plausible, but it also felt too convenient. The encrypted channel had been her lifeline, her only connection to the truth. If the police had compromised it, then they had been watching her for longer than she realised.

"Who is the anonymous messenger?" she asked.

Renaud hesitated. "We believe it is a man named Lucien Marchand. He has been in contact with our office sporadically over the past two years, providing tips about the Mercier network. He is a fugitive of sorts—he has been avoiding both the police and Mercier's agents. We have not been able to locate him."

Camille kept her face impassive. She knew Lucien's location—or at least, she had known it. But she was not about to reveal that information to a man she had just met.

"If you already knew about Mercier," she said, "why didn't you act sooner?"

Renaud's smile faded. "Because he has diplomatic immunity, as you know. And because the evidence we had was circumstantial. But with your dossier—especially the signed authorisation—we have enough to request an extradition hearing. The Deputy Commissioner is preparing the paperwork as we speak."

"A hearing. Not a trial."

"Extradition is the first step. Once he is back in Veronia, we can build a criminal case. But we need your cooperation. We need you to testify, to present your evidence in a formal setting."

Camille leaned back in her chair. She had spent years working outside the system, using civil suits and public opinion as her weapons. Now she was being invited into the system itself—to become a witness, a cog in the machinery of justice. It was a tempting offer, but it also meant surrendering control.

"I need time to think," she said.

Renaud nodded. "Of course. You can stay here as long as you like. There is a small bedroom adjacent to this office, with a cot and a washroom. You will have food, water, and privacy. But I must warn you: you cannot leave. Not until the extradition is complete. It is for your own protection."

Camille felt a chill. She was not a prisoner—she was a guest. But the door was locked, and the camera was watching, and the only way out was through Renaud's goodwill.

She spent the next three days in that room. She did not sleep well; the cot was hard, and the silence was oppressive. She reviewed her dossier obsessively, searching for any flaw, any gap that could be exploited. She also analysed Renaud's behaviour: the way he checked his watch every time he entered, the way his eyes darted to the camera when he spoke, the way he never once mentioned Lucien's name without a slight pause.

On the fourth morning, she received a visitor—not Renaud, but a woman in a crisp police uniform, with grey-streaked hair and a face that had seen too many interrogations. She introduced herself as Deputy Commissioner Isabelle Fournier.

"Ms. Laurent," she said, taking a seat across the table. "I apologise for the delay. We have been verifying your evidence, and I must say—it is extraordinary. You have done the work of a dozen investigators."

"I didn't do it for the praise," Camille replied.

"No, you did it for your brother. I understand. I lost a sibling myself—a sister, to a drunk driver. The driver was never prosecuted. I know what it feels like to carry that weight."

Camille studied the woman's face. There was genuine sorrow in her eyes, but also a hardness that suggested she had long ago learned to compartmentalise her emotions.

"What happens next?" Camille asked.

"Next, we file the extradition request with the Aldorian government. It will take time—weeks, perhaps months—but we have a strong case. In the meantime, I want to offer you something: a position as a consultant to our office. We could use someone with your skills, and it would give you legal protection. Mercier would think twice before targeting a police consultant."

Camille considered the offer. It was a way out of the room, a way back into the world. But it also meant binding herself to an institution that had failed her brother, that had let the conspiracy fester for a decade.

"I'll think about it," she said.

Fournier nodded and left. Camille sat alone, staring at the camera in the corner. She had the strange feeling that she was being watched not just by the police, but by someone else—someone who knew her better than she knew herself.

That night, the encrypted channel pinged. She had not used it since arriving at the facility, but she had kept her laptop open, just in case.

The message was brief:

"Renaud is not who he claims to be. He works for Mercier. He brought you to this facility to keep you contained while Mercier's lawyers prepare a counter-action. The Deputy Commissioner is clean, but she does not know about Renaud's allegiance. You need to escape tonight."

Camille's pulse quickened. She had suspected something was off, but this confirmed it. Renaud was a double agent—a plant within the internal affairs division, placed there to neutralise her before she could expose Mercier.

She needed a plan. She scanned the room: the metal table, the two chairs, the locked door, the camera. The camera was her biggest obstacle—it was recording everything, and any sudden movement would trigger an alert.

She thought about her training. She had once read a book about escape techniques, written by a former intelligence officer. One of the methods was simple: feign a medical emergency. If she appeared to be in distress, the guards would have to enter, giving her an opportunity to overpower them.

She lowered herself to the floor, clutching her stomach, and began to moan. She made it loud enough to be heard through the door, but not so loud as to seem theatrical.

Within minutes, the door opened. A guard in a blue uniform rushed in, his hand on his holster. Camille lunged, sweeping his legs from under him and driving her knee into his temple. He crumpled. She grabbed his keys and his sidearm—not to use, but to threaten.

She stepped into the corridor. The facility was quiet at this hour; most of the staff were off duty. She moved swiftly, following the signs to the main exit. She passed through a security checkpoint, using the guard's badge to open the door, and emerged into the cool night air.

She ran. She did not stop until she had reached a bus stop a kilometre away, where she boarded a late-night coach heading to Brynwood.

She sat in the back, her heart racing, her mind already planning her next move. Renaud would discover her escape within hours. He would alert Mercier. The safe houses, the encrypted channel, the police protection—all of it was compromised.

She needed a new strategy. She needed to move faster than they could react.

She pulled out her phone—a burner she had kept hidden—and typed a message to the encrypted channel:

"I escaped. Renaud is Mercier's man. I need a new contact, a new place."

The response was not immediate. She waited, staring at the dark landscape outside the bus window, the lights of Montclair glimmering in the distance.

Finally, the reply came:

"Go to the old railway station in Belleville. There is a locker under the third bench. Inside you will find a new identity, a new phone, and a train ticket to Port-Vernon. A boat will meet you at the harbour. It will take you to Aldoria, where you can find Mercier yourself. Be careful—this time, you are truly on your own."

Camille read the message twice. Aldoria. Mercier's adopted country. She would be walking into the lion's den, without protection, without allies. But she also knew that the only way to bring him down was to confront him directly, to gather evidence that no diplomat could ignore.

She arrived at the old railway station at 3 AM. The locker contained a passport in the name of Claire Renaud (ironic, she thought), a prepaid phone, and a ticket for the 6 AM train. She changed her clothes, adjusted her hair, and boarded the train as the sun began to rise.

As the train rolled through the countryside, she opened the new phone. It had a single contact saved: "The Ferryman."

She sent a text: "I am on my way."

The reply came: "The boat leaves at midnight. Don't be late."

Camille leaned back in her seat, watching the fields and forests slide past. She was leaving Veronia, leaving her apartment, leaving everything she had known. She was chasing a ghost into a foreign land.

But she was also finally, truly free.

The train arrived in Port-Vernon at 10 PM. She walked through the deserted streets to the harbour, where a small fishing trawler was moored at the end of a dilapidated pier. A man in a thick coat waited on the deck, his face obscured by a hood.

"Claire?" he called.

"Claire," she confirmed, using her new name.

He helped her aboard. The boat cast off, its engine humming softly as it cut through the dark water.

Camille stood at the rail, watching the lights of Veronia fade into the distance. She was leaving behind the country that had failed her brother, the system that had betrayed him, the mob that had crucified him. She was entering a new world, one where the rules were different and the stakes were higher.

But she was not afraid. She had been afraid for ten years. Now, she was simply determined.

The boat sailed on, toward the unknown.

And somewhere in the distance, a new light appeared on the horizon—the coast of Aldoria, where Auguste Mercier was waiting, unaware that the reckoning was finally coming for him.