The morning air in Rouen clung to her coat like dew on steel-cold, slick, and full of warnings. Lila adjusted the collar of her black wool trench coat and glanced at her reflection in a pharmacy window as she passed. Just another early-morning professional. Just another woman heading to work in heels that clicked too sharply on the cobblestone.
She liked it that way.
They didn't know the woman in the reflection wasn't only a doctor, or a grieving daughter.
She was Rousseau's heir. And she was dangerous.
The hospital sat like a grey behemoth on the hill, still half-asleep, its windows blinking with early risers and exhausted night staff. Her ID badge bobbed from her coat pocket as she walked, her stethoscope tucked into the leather satchel by her side.
The name on her badge read Dr. Lila Moreau.
The city knew her as that-Forensic Pathologist at Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Rouen. But in the dark corridors of power, whispered in bars and backrooms, they spoke her real name like a curse: La Rousseau.
Lila. Daughter of the King. And now Queen of the damned.
A metallic tap echoed from behind her.
Her boots slowed.
Rouen was no stranger to the unsettling-drunks, beggars, dealers-but this wasn't that. It was calculated. Smooth. Coordinated.
A second footstep.
She didn't look back. Instead, she turned into a narrow alley beside a boulangerie, pulled by instinct-her fingers brushed the cool steel of the surgical scissors she carried-not for surgery today, but just in case. Old habits.
Her father taught her never to walk unarmed.
A shadow passed behind her.
Then another.
She kept walking.
Then-
Thud.
A bottle rolled into her path and shattered.
Lila paused.
"Lost?" she asked the air.
From the shadows, five figures stepped out. Three men. Two women. Black gloves. Scarves pulled over their mouths. Eyes cold. Purposeful.
"We've been looking for you, Rousseau" one of them said, voice low and French-accented, but laced with cocky venom.
She smirked. "Congrats. You found me. But I'm not feeling very social today."
The leader-a tall man with a jagged scar on his cheek-stepped forward. "This isn't about being social. This is about closure. Your father killed men we respected. We're here to return the favor."
" Take it up with him then why bother me?"
" He's dead!"
" And?" She asked cocking a brow.
" Bitch" He pulled a blade from his coat.
The others followed.
Lila sighed, then took off her satchel and gently laid it on the cobblestone like it was a baby.
"I'm going to count to three," she said, cracking her neck.
The man with the scar laughed. "You think-?"
"One."
Two of them lunged.
Tch. Amateurs.
Lila ducked and slammed her elbow into the first man's ribcage-crack-then pivoted and swept the second woman off her feet with a perfect spinning leg sweep. She went down hard, head cracking the stone. Out cold.
"Two," she said, standing fully upright, expression like ice.
They weren't laughing anymore.
The third man pulled a knife and charged. Lila sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and jammed the surgical scissors into his shoulder with precise, terrifying efficiency. He howled.
Scar-face hesitated-but then flung himself at her. This one was trained.
Their bodies collided.
She grunted as his weight slammed her back into the wall, but she recovered fast-palm to his chin, knee to his gut, and a headbutt to his nose. Blood sprayed. He stumbled.
Then she felt it-a fist from behind, straight to her ribs.
Shit.
She turned and slammed her palm into the attacker's throat.
The fifth figure-the second woman-saw her opening and rushed her with a shriek.
Lila spun and caught her by the scarf, yanking her sideways into the brick wall. The woman dropped like a marionette with cut strings.
All that was left now... was Scar.
He was bleeding, breathing hard, knife still in hand.
"You're just a girl," he rasped.
Lila's eyes were twin coals.
"No," she whispered. "I'm a Rousseau."
She disarmed him with a twist and struck-fist to jaw, elbow to temple. He collapsed, groaning.
The silence after the last body hit the pavement was almost louder than the fight itself.
Her heart thumped hard against her ribcage as she wiped the blood off her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing it into her already ruined blouse. There were five people groaning on the floor-some still twitching, some not. She didn't check if they were dead. Honestly, she didn't care.
She didn't move when she heard the unmistakable low growl of a car engine rolling to a stop behind her. She already knew who it was.
"Lila."
The voice sliced through the charged air.
She closed her eyes briefly. Of course it was him. He would've smelled the violence from miles away.
She turned slowly, and there he was-Matthieu, stepping out of the car in a dark coat that flared in the wind like a cape. His expression was a mask of cold fury.
"You promised you'd take the damn bodyguards."
"And I promised I'd punch the next man who questioned my capability in the face." She raised an eyebrow, cocky even now, despite the blood on her knuckles. "Do you want to line up too?"
"You said you could handle yourself. I agreed-reluctantly. But Lila..." He paused. "You took on a full squad without backup. That's not bravery. That's recklessness dressed in leather."
She crossed her arms, cocking a hip. "Don't lecture me like I'm a child, Matthieu. You trained me, remember? I'm not some porcelain doll to tuck behind armored windows, or am I?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the distance between them in quick strides and grabbed her wrist, turning her hand to inspect the swollen knuckles and split skin.
"Jesus, Lila," he muttered, softer now, as if the rage had drained out of him and only worry remained. "You dislocated your finger."
"It's back in place." She tried to tug her hand away, but his grip didn't loosen.
"You could've been killed."
"Maybe," she replied. "But I'll look good doing it."
"Fuck, I'm serious Lila" he grunted.
"But I wasn't." Her voice dropped, all the bravado peeling back to something sharper-colder. "And they won't be walking for a while. What does that tell you?"
"That you're reckless," he said tightly. "And arrogant. And stupid."
"And alive." She pulled free at last. "Unlike them."
He looked down at the men sprawled on the road, two of them still writhing in pain. The rest... very still. Then he looked back at her.
"Cover up. You've got a slice down your back."
Lila blinked. "I do?"
Matthieu pointed. "Yeah. Right there."
She twisted slightly, then winced. "Damn."
"Told you."
She slipped on his jacket without protest. It was warm. Smelled like him. Like gunmetal and aftershave and something safe.
"I'm calling someone to clean this up."
"You think I'd leave them here like art pieces?" She scoffed and walked toward her car, limping slightly now. The adrenaline was fading.
Matthieu caught up. "You're hurt again."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You're limping."
"I'm also bleeding. You wanna list all the obvious or drive me to the damn lab?"
He stared at her for a long beat. "You're still going to work?"
"Yes."
"After that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I don't get days off, Matthieu. Especially not when someone just tried to kill me." She opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. "That means I'm getting closer."
Matthieu leaned against the frame, looking down at her. His voice was lower now, more careful. "You need to slow down, Little Tigress."
Her eyes flicked to him, her jaw tight. "I need to find out who sent them."
"We will. But you don't have to do it alone."
She looked away.
"I mean it, Lila. You're not your father. You don't have to fight every war with your fists."
She let that sit for a moment, then glanced back at him. "My father didn't use his fists. He used people. And look where that got him."
Dead. Betrayed.
Matthieu didn't flinch, but he also didn't reply.
She started the car.
"Meet me at the lab after you clean this mess up. And bring coffee. Real coffee. Not that tar water you brew in your kitchen."
"You're not going to clean up?"
She gave a tired smirk. "I did the messy part. I'm delegating now."
Then she drove off, leaving him standing there in the middle of blood and broken men.
There was a pause, then he sighed and walked back to the SUV.
"Little Tigress, my ass," he muttered. "She's a damn hurricane."
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