Paris was not a city that trembled easily.
But in early December, a tremor ran beneath the floor of the military quarter.
It began not with gunfire or scandal, but with a name whispered across corridors Delon.
Two years in exile hadn't softened him.
On the contrary he'd returned leaner, quieter, colder.
There were no memos, no announcements.
He didn't request meetings.
He simply arrived.
And when he did, people listened.
Or they remembered what happened the last time they didn't.
Inside the Defense Committee, twelve names sat on a single page bearing the Ministry seal.
Twelve men whose signatures could decide whether Moreau's invention would reach the battlefield or rot in a locked drawer.
Delon didn't need all twelve to agree.
He just needed them not to resist.
At a dim study off Rue Cler, Delon met with Barbier.
He placed the test dossier down on the desk. "You'll vote for this," he said.
Barbier folded his hands. "It's not that simple."
"It is now."
