Footsteps approached from the door.
The room's chatter suddenly replaced by whispers and glances.
"Oh my God, is that her?"
"No way—Amélie Duval?"
"Look at her—she's stunning even in person!"
"Heard she's the daughter of Abelard the association's president.."
Loki's expression remain the same, he kept his eyes on his phone, taking another bite of the steak.
Entering was the famous rising pop star actress, Amélie Duval, slid in the chair.
Aged in her early 20s, she had long wavy auburn hair, a warm smile at the fans, and hazel eyes.
Dressed in a stylish oversized sweater and skinny jeans, with a scarf draped casually around her neck, she looked like a blend of girl-next-door charm and celebrity allure—the kind that turned heads without trying.
Beside her was her manager, a woman in her 30s named Lavoie with sharp bobbed hair and a tablet in hand, dressed in a tailored blazer.
Flanking them were two massive bodyguards—hulking men in dark suits, earpieces in place, one with a shaved head and the other sporting a neat beard.
They scanned the room, positioning themselves to block any overeager fans, their presence a silent wall.
The whispers grew: "That's Amélie Duval—her new single 'Étoiles Perdues' is everywhere!" a young woman at the bar gushed to her friend.
"And that movie she's filming? Romantic drama with that hot actor—gonna be huge." An older man nodded knowingly.
"Daughter of the Association prez, Abelard Duval. No wonder she's rising fast—talent and connections." A teen snapped a discreet photo, only for a bodyguard to shoot him a warning glare.
Lavoie slid into the table opposite Amélie, opening her tablet.
"Okay, the reshoots for 'Whispers in the Wind' are scheduled for tomorrow—director wants more emotion in the confession scene."
Amélie nodded, removing her sunglasses to reveal those captivating hazel eyes. "Agreed. It felt a bit flat last take."
"And the album promo? That single's climbing charts, but I want to tie it into the movie soundtrack."
Claire tapped notes furiously. "Smart. We'll pitch it. Oh, and your dad's office called—Association's ramping up exams after Dieppe."
"He wants you to do a PSA spot for recruitment—'Join the heroes, like my family' angle."
Amélie laughed softly, her voice melodic. "Dad's always mixing business with family. Fine, but keep it short—I've got rehearsals."
The bodyguards stood vigilant, one murmuring into his earpiece: "Clear so far. No paparazzi tails."
The restaurant's stole glances, the energy buzzing with starstruck awe, but no one approached—the guards' stares were menacing enough.
Except the waiter. A young man in a crisp white shirt and black vest, he approached the table professionally, notepad in hand and a polite smile on his face that masked any starstruck nerves.
He gave a slight bow, addressing Amélie and Lavoie with cakmness tone. "Bonjour, mademoiselle Duval, madame. Welcome to our restaurant. May I take your order?
"Perhaps some appetizers to start—our escargot is fresh today, or the foie gras if you prefer something lighter?"
Amélie looked up with a genuine smile, her charm disarming. "Bonjour. The foie gras sounds perfect, and a glass of Chardonnay, please."
Lavoie nodded without looking up from her tablet. "Black coffee for me, strong. And the charcuterie board to share."
The waiter jotted it down quickly, his hand steady. "Excellent choices. I'll have that out right away."
He backstepped with a nod, the table's conversation resuming as if the interruption hadn't happened.
Loki, at his table, overheard whispers but didn't really care.
He finished his meal, paid with his last euros, and slipped out of the restaurant.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing against the few crumpled euros left—barely enough for a coffee, let alone another meal.
"Damn that restaurant," he mumbled under his breath.
"What was that, 50 euros for steak frites? Could've bought a week's groceries. Absolute broke now—Great."
He wandered, the city's rhythm flowing around him: vendors packing up their stalls with calls of "Dernières baguettes!"
Headphones in, he queued up a random playlist, the beats drowning out the world as he turned down a quieter side street, away from the crowds.
The alleyway loomed ahead.
Loki barely noticed it—until a scream echoing from the depths of the alleys shattered the quietness.
He wasn't a hero. Never claimed to be. People got mugged, assaulted, or worse every day in every city.
It wasn't really his problem.
Let the adventurers or the cops handle it.
But... 90 cents on his wallet.
His mind flashed to the bandits he hunted in the past—back when money was tight.
Rob the robbers. Easy money, no guilt.
If there were thugs in that alley shaking down some poor soul, they probably had wallets fatter than his.
And if not? Well, he could always walk away.
"I guess it's her lucky day," he said to himself, he let out a small smile within his lips.
In the alley way between the bakery and a bookstore...
It was the kind of a place where bad things happened quietly.
The scene unfolded about forty meters in: four rough-looking guys, single girl eating bread in her mouth in hoodies and jeans.
Bandit 1, a wiry man with a scarred face and red eyes, had his hand pinned the woman against the brick wall.
His dagger pressed just under her chin. "Come on, lady, hand over the jewelry,"
He snarled, his voice low and raspy. "Make it easy, and we won't—"
"Stop..." Marie's voice cracked begging for a plea.
Bandit's 1 hand clamped over her mouth, shutting her mouth mid-word. "Don't you dare resist!" He yelled.
He drove the dagger into her left wrist, while pinning her hand to the wall behind her.
The blade sank in with a sickening thunk, blood welling up immediately around the wound.
Marie's eyes widened in agony, as pain shot through her arm.
"Mmmmh—" she whimpered through his hand, tears falling down her cheeks and her palm dripping blood slowly onto the ground.
Bandit 3, had a smirking grin on his face, he has patchy beard.
He leaned against a nearby crate, watching the scene unfold with amusement while a massive axe leaned against his shoulder.
Bandit 4, guy with hoodie was the tallest of the group, his hoodie zipped up to hide the necklace he has stolen long ago amplified with water magic.
"Hey, hey, relax, dude," he said, chuckling lazily.
"You're hurting her. We want her stuff, not a corpse. Boss will chew us out if we bring back damaged goods."
Bandit 5, short guy, nodded in agreement, his arms crossed as he leaned casually against the opposite wall.
His green eyes stoic, poisonous dagger hung loosely from his belt, its blade coated in a greenish sheen that promised a slow, agonizing death.
"We're not here to mess." He muttered.
The only woman in the group, Bandit 6 sat perched on a overturned trash bin a few feet away, munching on a loaf of bread.
Her bow slung across her back, she watched the assault with boredom.
She was the youngest out of the group, with sharp features and a quiver of fire-enchanted arrows at her hip, her eyes held the cold indifference of someone who'd seen too much violence to care.
Bandit 2, the leader—stood a bit apart, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
He was the most composed of them—tall, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a scar down his cheek.
His voice cut through the air like ice, cold and serious. "You better hurry," he said, glancing toward the alley's entrance.
"We don't have time all day. Cops or some adventurer could show up any second."
Bandit 1, yanked the dagger free from Marie's wrist, letting out another muffled cry from her.
Blood poured freely now, soaking her sleeve and pooling at her feet.
"Okay, okay—" he started, wiping the blade on his pants, his voice laced with irritation.
But before he could finish, his words cut off abruptly.
Limbs separated from torso in a fatality display—arms, legs, head—all dismembered in an instant.