The square fell into absolute silence. Not the respectful quiet of an attentive crowd, but the breathless hush that follows a lightning strike.
Pierre stood in the middle of the cobblestones, his red hair catching the morning sunlight like flames. Every head turned toward him—sailors gripping their rifles tighter, civilians shrinking back, officers on the platform freezing mid-motion.
A young sailor on the stage raised a trembling finger, his voice cracking with shock and recognition.
"It's him! The Red-Haired Menace!"
The words hit the crowd hard. Mothers pulled their children closer. Men who had been standing straight suddenly found reasons to study their shoes. The Navy personnel snapped to attention.
Pierre watched the color drain from Captain Hardy's face, only to be replaced by a blotchy, rising crimson.
"You," Hardy breathed into the speaking horn, his voice barely controlled. "YOU!"
