??, ?? – ?? ?? ????
Darkness.
That was all he felt. His eyelids were bound by cloth, drowning him in total black. No colors, no shapes. Only nothingness pressing from every direction.
Cold. The night wind pierced his skin, seeping in from unseen cracks. His hair shifted slightly with each gust, as if to remind him he was indeed outdoors. His hands were tied tight, rough and unyielding, the ropes biting into his wrists. He tried to struggle, but it was useless.
Time seemed to stop. Seconds stretched into endless minutes. All he could do was listen. The crunch of footsteps on gravel, the swish of a suit brushing against the wind, and now and then the faint clang of metal—perhaps a door, perhaps a gate, he couldn't tell.
He tried to think. With his background in psychology, he forced himself to stay calm, to control his breathing, to search for patterns in those sounds. But the more he tried to reason, the murkier everything became. Like a puzzle with missing pieces.
The only thing certain was that he was alone, helpless, and in a situation that was no accident. Not a dream, not a hallucination. His body was too aware of the pain in his wrists, the chill that cut through him, and the heartbeat pounding too fast.
No clear voices, only distant whispers, too far to understand. He strained to catch fragments of words, only to lose them again when the wind rose suddenly. Now and then, footsteps approached and then retreated. As though someone was watching him from just beyond the shadows.
In that darkness, he had only one companion: fear. A fear that crept in slowly, like threads winding around his throat, making each breath heavier. And within that fear, he realized… he was in danger.
Paris, France – September 7, 2025
That morning, Paris was still damp with leftover dew. The streets were quiet, broken only by the flapping wings of pigeons circling the small square near the modest apartment of Sunny Laurent. The twenty-one-year-old man began his day as usual—white running shoes laced neatly, earphones in place, his stride steady along the sidewalk.
Sunny was not someone who stood out. He was not rich, nor did he live under the spotlight. His face was ordinary, his demeanor casual. Just a young psychology graduate living uneventful days. Morning jogs, a stop at the supermarket for simple groceries, a leisurely walk through the city park to breathe fresh air. Everything was ordinary, routine, almost boring.
But beneath that simplicity, Sunny hid something no one else knew.
Each time he returned home, he would descend into the basement through a narrow staircase he rarely left open. A heavy iron door blended into the floor concealed it, nearly invisible to anyone but him.
That basement was not just storage. A dim yellow lamp hung from the ceiling, illuminating shelves filled with oil paints, canvases, and brushes scattered about. In one corner stood a special door, dark wood, which opened into a small studio—a second world untouched by sunlight.
It was there that Sunny's other identity lived. Not as Sunny Laurent, but as an anonymous painter under the name Noir Delacour.
His daily walks around the city, which seemed like nothing more than leisurely strolls, were in truth acts of observation. He read people's faces, studied expressions, body language, the subtle tremors in their voices. With his background in psychology, he understood human emotion well. Every smile could hide sorrow; every empty gaze could carry a long story.
He collected all of it in silence, then at night poured it onto canvas. Each brushstroke revealed emotions never spoken aloud—the gloom of loneliness, the sting of anxiety, the bitterness of hidden wounds.
No one knew who Noir Delacour was. No one knew the mysterious paintings circulating in Paris's underground art circles came from the hand of an ordinary young man. And for Sunny, that was enough. He didn't crave fame.
Paris, France – September 8, 2025
The next day began the same as before. Morning run, steady breathing, Paris streets growing busier. Sunlight broke through tree branches, casting light across Sunny's sweat-soaked face. After returning home, showering, and a light breakfast, he continued his routine—supermarket, then normally the park.
But that day, the first simple change occurred.
When he reached the park, the iron gates were shut. A small sign hung there: "Closed temporarily. Facility under repair." At a glance it was meaningless, but to Sunny, it was like a puzzle piece gone missing. The park was his daily window into human emotions; losing it meant losing his usual vantage point.
He stood still for a moment, weighing his options. Then decided: not to go home. He continued along the sidewalk until his eyes caught sight of a small café at the corner. Not too crowded, but enough for him to do the same—observe.
The scent of coffee and toasted bread enveloped him as the door opened. Sunny chose a table by the window, ordered an espresso, and let his eyes do their work. His gaze drifted from face to face: a young couple whispering playfully, a middle-aged woman absorbed in typing on her laptop, two men exhausted after a meeting. All normal, ordinary, almost boring.
Except for one man.
In the café's corner sat a man with trembling hands. His eyes darted anxiously to the door again and again, as though waiting for something—or someone. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air, and his fingers clutched the cup as though to crush it. Sunny recognized the signs instantly. This was no ordinary nervousness. This was fear.
His instincts as a psychologist flared. Something was wrong. But he held back, only watching. Time crawled. Hours slipped by, the Paris sky shifting to orange. Sunny nearly gave up; perhaps he had wasted his time. He even stood, ready to leave.
Then the café door opened.
Two men walked in together. Black suits, immaculate, strides firm. Their faces expressionless, cold. They went straight to the trembling man's table, sat without greeting. The atmosphere at that corner grew tense.
Sunny feigned indifference and sat back down. Too far to hear clearly. Yet his curiosity gnawed at him. Rising again, he pretended to head to the restroom, passing close by their table.
He caught fragments of speech. Just two words, but enough to halt his step for a moment.
"Black Meridian."
The words sliced through the air like a knife. Sunny didn't know what they meant, but his instincts screamed: danger. Just as his thoughts wavered, his eyes met those of one suited man.
That gaze—cold, sharp, threatening.
Sunny quickly lowered his head and continued toward the restroom. His hands shook, his heart raced. Inside, he waited, forcing calm. But when he returned, the table was empty. The fearful man, and the two in suits—gone without a trace.
Paris, France – September 9, 2025
The following morning, Paris felt colder than usual. Sunny tried to resume his routine, jogging through familiar streets. But his mind couldn't shake yesterday's scene—the café, the panicked man, and the two men in black with that threatening gaze.
He stopped when a television screen in an electronics shop window caught his eye. The news anchor's voice boomed, accompanied by a photo of a face he immediately recognized.
The man from the café.
The report said he had been found dead in his apartment the night before. Police ruled it a suicide. Hanging. Simple. Clear.
But Sunny knew better. His memory was too fresh: the trembling hands, the wild eyes, the raw fear. Then the arrival of the suited men, and now—coincidentally—he was dead? No. Not suicide. Execution.
Sunny's body stiffened. His breath came shallow. He ran home quickly, locking the door tight. For the first time, his small apartment truly felt like a refuge.
But the refuge was fragile. Dark thoughts rushed in: what if they remembered his face? What if that cold stare yesterday wasn't just a threat, but recognition? If they knew he was there, then every step outside could make him their next target.
Panicking, Sunny searched for something to hold onto. His mind darted—then landed on the basement, the studio, the waiting paints.
A weapon.
He had no gun, no knife, nothing to fight two killers. But he had something stronger: canvas.
If he painted them, captured those black shadows with details only he knew, laced with symbols, clues, anagrams… the world could see. Social media could spread it. People would start asking questions. Conspiracy theories would emerge. And little by little, the truth would surface.
His hands trembled, no longer with fear, but with newfound resolve. He could fight—his way.
That night, he sat before a blank canvas. His brush dipped in black paint, and in his mind, the two suited figures began to take shape.
Paris, France – September 13, 2025
Days passed since the news broke. Sunny barely left home. All his time was spent in the basement studio. He only went upstairs to eat meager meals before returning below, as if the outside world no longer felt safe.
The air reeked of paint. A large canvas dominated the room, nearly complete. The painting showed two men in black suits. Not realistic portraits, but human shadows with blurred faces, as if never truly identifiable. Yet in their posture, the faint outlines of their gaze, it was clear—they were a threat.
The painting's walls were filled with symbols. Broken lines, fragmented numbers, letters rearranged. He crafted them as an anagram. For those who solved it, a single name would surface: Black Meridian.
Sunny worked with an intensity he'd never felt before. Every stroke of the brush was an escape from fear, a quiet rebellion. His hands ached, his eyes reddened, yet he pressed on. Finally, after three days, he stood before the finished work.
It was not just art. It was a message. A silent cry waiting to be discovered.
Sunny lifted his phone. He would photograph the painting, upload it to the anonymous forums where Noir Delacour shared his work. The world needed to see this.
But just as he aimed the camera, the studio lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room. Sunny froze, startled, then panicked. His hand groped for the switch, but before he could move, the creak of a door sounded behind him.
His heart leapt. The iron basement door should have been locked.
"Who's there?" His voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper.
No answer. Only slow, heavy footsteps approaching. The wooden floor groaned beneath an intruder's weight. Sunny grabbed a brush—the only object within reach—as if it could serve as a weapon.
Then a voice spoke. Calm, yet cutting.
"Noir Delacour."
His alias. A name he had never spoken aloud in the real world.
Sunny froze, trembling. How did they know?
Suddenly, something yanked his arm violently. A cloth clamped over his mouth, a sharp chemical stench filling his nose. He struggled, dropping the brush, but strength drained from him. Consciousness slipped away like a candle starved of air.
Before all went dark, he caught a glimpse: two silhouettes in black suits. The same faces, the same cold eyes, from the café.
Then nothing.
??, ?? – ?? ?? ????
Consciousness crept back, like light breaking through the depths of the ocean. Sunny opened his eyes—or tried to. A thick cloth still blindfolded him, leaving everything black.
He could only feel. His hands and feet were bound, his body forced onto a hard chair. The wind whipped cold against his skin, sharp and relentless. A clear sign: he was outdoors, maybe on a rooftop, maybe in an abandoned warehouse yard. He couldn't tell.
A faint creak. Not a door— a phone being lifted. Through the wind's hiss, he caught familiar voices: the two men in black. Their tones low, formal, like military reports. They were speaking to someone—their superior.
Sunny strained his ears. Snippets of words slipped through their rapid speech. And there—he heard them.
"Argent."
"Vert."
Not names, but code names. Argent—silver. Vert—green. Cold, mechanical, devoid of humanity.
The call ended. Silence thickened, broken only by Sunny's pounding heart. He wanted to speak, to shout, to plead, but his mouth was dry. His tongue heavy.
Footsteps approached. Heavy shoes crunching gravel. Steady breathing, emotionless.
Then something cold pressed against his temple.
A gun.
Sunny froze. His whole body trembled, breath choked. His muscles screamed to fight, but the ropes held him, as if the world itself demanded silence.
"Goodbye."
Just two words. Calm. Light. Meaningless.
The gunshot cracked.
Heat seared his head, then vanished. His body fell into a darkness deeper than the blindfold. He didn't know if he was dead, or simply unconscious. The world collapsed, sound vanished, time stopped.
But within that blackness, something else emerged.
A boundless space, empty and cold, slowly filling with dazzling white light. He felt weightless, unbound. No ropes, no chill, no gun.
Only light.
And within it, faint voices. A woman's soft tone, followed by a man's steady voice—calm, assured, like a doctor. They weren't speaking to him, but about him.
Sunny wanted to answer, to ask, but his mouth wouldn't move.
The light grew brighter. As though something awaited him.
??, ?? – ?? ?? ????
The light was so bright, piercing, blinding. Sunny tried to raise a hand to shield his face, but quickly realized—he couldn't. His body felt stiff, small, as if it wasn't his own.
The voices surrounded him. First the woman's voice, gentle but strained, like someone struggling through pain. Then the man's, deep, steady, reassuring, offering words of encouragement. Between them, a third voice: a doctor's, giving brisk, professional instructions.
"Just a little more… hold on… almost there."
Sunny tried to speak, to scream, but only a cry came out. The cry of a baby.
He froze. His mind reeled in denial, but his body betrayed him. His tiny fists clenched, and all he saw was pink, fragile skin.
Panic and confusion collided. What had happened to him? He'd been shot. He should be dead. Yet now… he was born again.
His blurry vision slowly sharpened. The light dimmed into a modest room with pale stone walls. A beautiful woman with tousled brown hair held him close, her face tired yet radiant with joy. Beside her stood a young man in old-fashioned clothing—not modern suits, but a long coat and ruffled shirt. Relief shone in his smile.
Sunny—or the infant he now inhabited—turned his hazy eyes. Everything was foreign. The language they spoke was still French, but more formal, older in tone.
The doctor announced the birth loudly, congratulating the father. The woman—his new mother—whispered a name softly, though Sunny was too shocked to understand.
His cries broke out again. Not just the reflex of a newborn, but the scream of a soul trapped between two worlds.
As he struggled to grasp what had happened, his gaze fell upon a tattered calendar hanging on the wall. The numbers were clear, though the ink was old and faded.
December 25, 1759.