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Paris, Charles de Gaulle International Airport.
The massive Boeing 747 airliner finally groaned to a steady stop after taxiing along the runway. The roar of the engines faded, replaced by the relieved whispers of passengers and the sharp, rhythmic clicks of unbuckling seatbelts.
The cabin door opened. A gust of French air—a mixture of early morning humidity and the sharp tang of aviation fuel—flooded into the cabin. Noah and Claire followed the flow of travelers down the jet bridge, stepping onto unfamiliar soil.
Their pace was measured, their expressions calm. To any onlooker, they were just another pair of tourists eager to see the Eiffel Tower. They passed through the bright immigration corridor and emerged into the bustling arrivals hall, where a tide of faces and the melodic hum of French conversation rushed toward them.
Noah's gaze, as precise as a radar, scanned the sea of pickup signs. He locked onto a figure.
It was a strikingly elegant French lady in a tailored Chanel suit. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her emerald eyes were as deep as the Mediterranean. In her hand, she held a simple white cardboard sign:
Noah & Claire Redfield
Found her.
Noah signaled to Claire with a slight movement of his eyes. They stepped forward. As they approached, the scent of high-end perfume became unmistakable. The lady's emerald eyes flickered over Claire first—a moment of silent, calculating scrutiny—before landing on Noah.
She gave Noah a soft, playful wink with her right eye.
Noah's entire body went rigid. He hadn't expected the contact to be so... expressive. Before he could react, he felt a small hand grip the soft flesh at his waist and twist it a full 180 degrees.
A sharp, piercing pain shot straight to the crown of his head. Noah hissed, his facial muscles twitching in a silent grimace. He didn't dare look at Claire.
The French lady's lips curled into a playful arc. She let out a light, bell-like laugh. "Don't worry, Miss Claire," she said in fluent English with a light Parisian accent. "It was just a harmless little joke. I don't know your boy, and I have no interest in him."
Claire released her grip, but her blue eyes remained fixed on Noah, glowing with a warning that didn't need words.
The lady's smile faded, her face returning to a mask of professional indifference. She lowered the sign and spoke at a volume intended only for them.
"Mr. T."
Noah and Claire felt a jolt of focus and nodded solemnly.
"Follow me."
She led them through the crowd, her high heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. They reached a black Citroën C6 parked in the VIP lane. She took the wheel herself, and soon they were merging into the early morning traffic of Paris.
Outside, the city was a blur of Gothic architecture and modern glass curtain walls. Inside the car, the air was frozen. The lady—their contact—stared straight ahead, focused on the road. Noah sat stiffly in the back, his side still throbbing. Claire had her arms crossed, staring out the window, the line of her profile tight and unforgiving.
This time, she's really not going to be easily appeased, Noah thought, wailing internally.
"My code name is Fox," the lady said suddenly, her voice cold and metallic. "The original safe house has been compromised."
"Compromised? We just landed," Noah said, his heart sinking.
"Just twenty minutes before your flight touched down," Fox said, turning into a quieter side street. "Mr. T sent an emergency directive to initiate Plan B."
Claire finally turned her head, her moodiness replaced by the sharp vigilance of a survivor. "What is Plan B?"
Fox didn't answer directly. "Welcome to Paris. Here, trouble often finds you before you find it."
Half an hour later, the Citroën pulled up in front of a cream-colored apartment building in a quiet, high-end district. Fox handed the keys to Noah.
"This is your temporary lodging. Daily necessities are provided. The internet is connected." She pointed toward the TV cabinet in the living room. "If you need to disappear, press the red switch behind the cabinet."
She left without another word, her car disappearing around the corner.
The apartment was spacious but cold—a minimalist black, white, and gray decor that felt more like a safe house than a home. The air smelled of fresh paint.
Claire sank into the sofa with a sigh of relief while Noah immediately pulled the IBM ThinkPad from his pack. He found the phone line, waited for the screeching, rhythmic static of the 56k dial-up connection, and logged in.
A new email sat in the inbox from a string of garbled characters.
[There is a safe in the nightstand of the bedroom. Password: 1028. Inside is something important. You will understand when you see it.]
Noah and Claire shared a look.
[Additionally, there is bad news. Sherry Birkin has drawn the attention of Mr. C.]
Claire tensed, her eyes filled with unease. Mr. C? Umbrella? Or something worse?
[Don't worry, I've temporarily blocked them. However, this requires chips. Your performance in Paris will determine if Sherry stays safely by your side.]
Trant's words were a scalpel, cutting into their only vulnerability. He was using Sherry to drive them.
[Furthermore, we are looking forward to seeing how the techniques of an ancient nation combine with our cutting-edge technologies. If the result is weighty enough, I will ensure the little one stays with you forever.]
"I'll get it!" Claire sprang from the sofa and rushed into the bedroom. She emerged carrying two boxes.
The first was a cold, alloy briefcase. When Noah clicked the latches, a burst of white vapor gushed out. Inside lay two spiral test tubes nestled in black velvet.
One contained a viscous, eerie deep purple liquid: the G-Virus. The other was a clear, transparent Anti-Virus agent.
Trant had laid bare Umbrella's core secrets. It was a weapon, a shield, and a toxic bait all at once.
Noah then opened the second box—an ancient-looking red sandalwood case. Inside, resting on bright yellow silk, was a set of silver acupuncture needles of varying lengths. Trant had investigated Noah's medical background down to the smallest detail.
Suddenly, Noah's black phone beeped with an SMS. It was from Leon.
[Noah, something strange is happening with Sherry. She fell at school and scraped her knee badly. When I went to treat it tonight... the wound was completely gone. No scar. Nothing.]
Noah's knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone.
[Also, her teacher says her IQ is off the charts. She's self-studying high school material and understands it. She's a genius. She says she misses you both very much. Be careful.]
Noah stared at the screen, the weight of the scheme pressing down on him. Sherry was changing. And in Paris, the "sparks" Trant wanted were about to fly.
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