You stand on the Rue Saint-Denis, where the houses huddle so tightly together that the moon only manages a glimpse at midnight. Somewhere behind you, a cart rumbles over the cobblestones; the scent of stale booze and fried onions wafts from a tavern's half-open door, and on a corner, beneath the flicker of a streetlamp, two figures in cloaks pretend for far too long that they aren't watching one another. In this city, everyone has a second pocket and a third name. You do too—otherwise, you wouldn't be here. Tonight, your fate intertwines with another. Three fugitives—wounded, cornered, but far from broken—burst around the corner. One begs you not to interfere. The second is ready to draw his rapier. The third simply watches—and there is more meaning in that gaze than in any words. A minute later, the street is swarmed by scarlet uniforms. You have exactly as much time as you need to decide: who are you in this story—and who will you lie to first?
