The late afternoon sun draped itself lazily over the rooftops of Paris, giving the city that smug golden hue it always wore when it knew it was beautiful. Street performers competed for attention along the cobbled avenues. A saxophone cried near the metro. Lovers laughed too loudly. A tourist tried to order "baguette" as if it were a rare dish.
At a small restaurant tucked between a flower shop and an antique bookstore, a man sat alone at a table littered with crumbs, an empty wine bottle, and exactly seven types of cheese.
He was tall. Stylish. Slightly unhinged-looking in that confident, mysterious "I've fought a god before and still remembered to moisturize" way.
His name was Roux.
Just Roux.
No surname. No passport. And if he'd ever paid taxes, it was probably in a past life.
He leaned back in his chair now, chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of sourdough, his long coat draped over the seat beside him. He wore round sunglasses too big for his face, a scarf he didn't need, and an air of unearned authority.
"Mmm," he sighed dramatically. "That's it. That's the one. That bread just kissed my childhood trauma and told it to heal."
The waiter passed by. Roux raised a single finger. "Mon ami, another bottle. And please—if you bring me another Brie that tastes like regret, I shall report you to the culinary tribunal."
The waiter blinked. "There is no tribunal, monsieur."
"Yet," Roux whispered.
Then—his fork rattled.
Ever so slightly.
The wine in his glass shimmered. A low, subtle vibration rolled through the ground, almost like a bass note from beneath the Earth.
Roux stopped mid-bite.
He straightened slowly, like an animal sensing an oncoming storm. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, narrowed.
And then… it happened.
A blinding beam of raw light exploded into the sky.
Far away—not over Paris, but rising from the southeast, from the direction of Egypt. A colossal column of energy pierced the clouds, cracking open the blue heavens with white fire and gold lightning swirling around its core.
The sky around it dimmed unnaturally. Birds scattered. Car alarms blared without warning. And even the pigeons, those eternal Parisians, stopped their endless strut and fluttered away.
Roux stood slowly, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
"Ah. Merde."
All around the café, people panicked—phones whipped out, tourists shouted, someone started screaming something about aliens. But Roux didn't flinch. He just stared at the sky.
"No way," he muttered. "That wasn't supposed to happen for another century at least."
He fished into his pocket, pulled out a tiny compass that spun wildly, glowing red at its edges.
"The seals… they were broken?"
Another rumble passed through the ground. A second flicker of light burst along the beam's base, this time with tremors that reached even the café windows.
Roux looked down at his wine.
It had spilled.
He closed his eyes. "Well, now it's personal."
He pulled his coat off the chair, slinging it over his shoulder with theatrical flair. Then he turned to the waiter, who had frozen in place with a tray of pastries.
"Tell the chef the Camembert was life-changing," Roux said. "Also tell him I may never come back."
"Wha—why?"
"Because," Roux said, tightening his scarf. "The world just remembered it's dangerous again."
He took two steps away, then turned back and added, "Oh, and if anyone asks where I went… tell them Roux went east."
The waiter frowned. "East?"
Roux smiled as he pulled his sunglasses down. His eyes were glowing faintly.
"Egypt. Something woke up. And if it's what I think it is... we're all going to need bigger firewalls."
He turned, casually strolling down the street as people panicked and pointed behind him. As he passed a busker, he flipped a coin into their violin case and added, "Play something fiery, would you?"
Then, just like that, he vanished into the crowd, weaving through terrified tourists and stunned locals as the sky continued to burn.
The world had shifted.
And Roux—who had sworn he'd never get involved again—was on the move.
---
The hotel room was as extravagant as it was unnecessary.
A marble floor polished to a mirror's gleam. Velvet curtains drawn halfway across a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower. Half a bottle of unfinished champagne sat in a silver bucket, quietly sweating.
Roux stepped in, tossed his coat on the armchair, and walked straight to the ornate desk by the window. His phone blinked silently on the surface, as if it already knew what was coming.
He picked it up.
Dialed.
No hesitation.
The call connected almost instantly.
For a moment, there was only silence on his end. Roux's face, so often a theater of smirks and snide remarks, was suddenly calm. Focused.
He spoke quietly. Fast.
Whoever was on the other end, their voice didn't carry far—just a muffled echo.
Roux nodded once. Then again.
The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He exhaled.
And said, "It's time. Let's have… a little reunion."
The call ended.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and crossed the room to the closet, where a leather travel bag already sat packed. Roux opened a drawer, pulled out a dark pair of gloves, and slipped them on with a theatrical little snap.
"Paris, as always, you've been a dream," he murmured, glancing once out the window at the fading city.
He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and strode out of the room.
By the time the receptionist looked up, Roux was already at the door.
"Taxi to Charles de Gaulle," he said with a grin. "And do be quick. I've got a flight to catch and some very old friends to surprise… maybe too old."
The automatic doors hissed open.
Roux vanished into the evening.
And by nightfall, he was on the first flight headed straight for London.
The reunion had begun.
And somewhere across the world, the storm was waking.
---