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Etienne's voice drifted through the small lounge like shredded paper before finally settling into a hollow silence. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if he were trying to swallow a throat full of thorns.
"Lost contact..." he whispered. "At first, I didn't realize how bad it was. Sophia's work was... special. Pulling double shifts or being unreachable for a few days during a critical experiment had happened before."
There was a self-deceiving calm in his tone, the sound of a man clinging to a lie to keep from shattering.
"I told myself she was just busy. It's common in our field, isn't it?" He looked at Noah and Claire, seeking a validation they couldn't give.
"That day, I drove my old Fiat to the school bus stop to pick up Angela. The sun was setting, painting the street orange. I saw the other kids throwing themselves into their parents' arms. I saw the golden ponytails and the shallow dimples of other daughters. But I didn't see mine."
His heart had been struck by a cold, sudden dread. He had stopped the bus driver, a kind man who recognized him.
"Angela didn't ride to the final stop today, Mr. Bellini. Her mother picked her up halfway."
Etienne began to panic. He dialed Sophia's private office over and over, the busy signal echoing in his ear like a devil's whisper. He went to the police. The officer, disinterested and smelling of instant coffee, had merely yawned.
"Maybe she wants time apart, Mr. Bellini? Did you have an argument? Maybe she just left you."
"No one believed me," Etienne said, his voice cracking. "I wandered the streets of Paris for days like a ghost. At night, I returned to a silent apartment. One night, I was staring at our 'Memory Wall'—graduation, Rome, Angela's first steps—when I saw a photo I didn't remember."
The background was the magnificent Palais Garnier. In the photo, Angela was hugging Sophia, both smiling.
"But Sophia's smile... it gave me chills. It wasn't joy. It was a mask. There was no light in her eyes, only an unspeakable fear. As if someone were holding a gun behind the camera."
Sophia had taken that photo and hung it there herself. It was a signal.
"In the photo, Sophia is stiff. Her right hand is pointing straight at the Palais Garnier in the background. But her left hand... it's hanging at her side, fingers pointing toward the bottom left of the frame. In our apartment, that pointed toward a corner where a pot of ivy sat."
Etienne had rushed to the plant, moved the heavy pot, and found a package wrapped in kraft paper. Inside was a letter in Sophia's panicked, scrawled handwriting.
"Dear Etienne, if one day you find that your most beloved 'collectibles' have disappeared from your 'display case,' do not panic and do not call the police. Go to the building where we once enjoyed 'Swan Lake' to find the answer. The answer is in the photo, where my finger is pointing. I love you, forever."
Etienne's tears burst forth. Sophia knew. She knew the danger, and she knew the Palais Garnier was where he had to go.
"May I see the letter?" Noah asked calmly.
Etienne handed over the crumpled paper as if it were a lifeline. Noah unfolded it and his expression froze. He stared at the flamboyant, looping letters for a full three seconds, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
He couldn't understand a word. It was written in fluent Italian.
A tiny, subtle twitch appeared in Noah's facial muscles. He maintained his profound, serious expression, refolded the letter with practiced grace, and handed it back without a hint of embarrassment.
Claire, standing behind him, saw right through the performance. She let out a "pfft" and laughed—a crisp, bright sound that cut through the gloom. Noah glanced at her helplessly, his eyes promising to settle the score later.
Etienne didn't notice. He was back on the floor, holding his head. "The Palais Garnier is huge... Umbrella's influence is everywhere. If I go there, they'll find me. I'm trapped in this underground iron coffin."
Claire's smile vanished. She knelt beside him, patting his shaking shoulder. "You aren't fighting alone."
Etienne looked up, seeing in their eyes a resilience that only comes from having walked through Hell and back. He stood, wiped the glass of the photo frame on his desk, and handed it to Claire.
"I beg of you," he pleaded. "If you find them... help me. I'll give you everything I have."
Claire took the photo, looking at the intellectual elegance of Sophia and the innocent smile of Angela. Her heart squeezed. She thought of Chris. She thought of Sherry.
She and Noah shared a look. Noah nodded solemnly. "Don't worry."
The simple weight of the promise finally allowed Etienne to vent. He leaned against the wall and wailed, the suppressed agony of weeks finally breaking free. Noah and Claire stood by quietly, giving him the time he needed.
When he finally composed himself and saw them to the door, a faint light of hope had been rekindled in his bloodshot eyes.
Just as they were about to step out, Noah turned back with a dead serious expression.
"By the way, buddy. In that pile of boxes? There really isn't any pineapple pizza. Rest easy."
Etienne's face twisted—a bizarre cocktail of gratitude, exhaustion, and an instinctive, cultural aversion to heretical fruit toppings.
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