The Paris Metro was a labyrinth of white tile, damp echoes, and the heavy, metallic scent of electricity. To the thousands of commuters rushing through the Châtelet–Les Halles station, it was just a transit hub. To Ren Laurent and Jace Vanderbilt, it was a subterranean battlefield.
"It's too crowded, Jace," Ren whispered, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt lower. Every time a pair of gendarmes walked past in their navy blue uniforms, Ren felt his breath hitch. "If someone recognizes me from the news, we're trapped. There are no exits down here that they don't control."
Jace didn't look back. He was carrying the wooden crate and the drum pads, his eyes scanning the tunnels with a predatory focus. "That's why we're here, Princess. The noise is constant. The faces are a blur. In the Palais Garnier, you were a target. Down here, you're just another soul trying to get through the day."
They found a spot at the junction of Line 1 and Line 4, a wide tunnel where the reverb was massive. Jace set up in the shadow of a massive pillar. He didn't wait for Ren to be ready. He started with a low, rolling beat on the pads—a deep, rhythmic pulse that mimicked the sound of an approaching train.
Ren took out the five-euro melodica. His fingers were cold, but as the first commuters began to slow down, he felt that familiar, electric spark. He wasn't playing for his father. He wasn't playing for a contract. He was playing for the coins that would buy their next meal.
He blew into the instrument, and the "Underground Echo" began.
The music was darker today. It carried the frantic energy of the chase and the cold reality of the French countryside. Jace leaned into the percussion, his hands moving so fast they were a blur, his rhythm syncopated and aggressive. Ren followed, the reedy sound of the melodica cutting through the roar of the arriving trains like a desperate cry.
A crowd began to form—not the polite, seated audience of the opera house, but a living, breathing wall of people. Students, workers, and street performers alike stopped to listen. The acoustics of the tunnel amplified Ren's melody, turning the plastic toy into a haunting, orchestral force.
Then, Ren saw him.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, partially obscured by a ticket kiosk, was a man in a dark charcoal suit. He wasn't clapping. He wasn't reaching for his wallet. He was holding a tablet, his eyes locked onto Ren with the cold, analytical precision of a zookeeper.
It wasn't Elias Thorne. It was someone younger, sharper—one of the new "recovery specialists" Arthur Laurent had hired to replace the failures of the past week.
Ren's notes faltered. The melody broke into a sharp, discordant squeak.
Jace noticed immediately. He didn't stop the beat, but his eyes followed Ren's gaze. When he saw the man in the suit, his expression shifted from musical trance to pure, unadulterated violence.
"Don't stop," Jace hissed under the rhythm. "If you stop, we're done. Keep playing. Move toward the Line 4 platform."
They began a "walking set," Jace kicking the crate forward while keeping the beat alive on the portable pads. It was a chaotic, beautiful dance. They moved through the crowd, the music acting as a shield, the commuters unwittingly providing a barrier between them and the man in the suit.
As they reached the edge of the platform, a train pulled in with a deafening screech of brakes.
"Now!" Jace yelled.
They didn't wait for the doors to fully open. They lunged into the crowded car just as the warning chime began to ring. Ren looked through the glass as the doors slid shut, seeing the man in the suit sprinting toward them, his composure finally breaking.
The train lurched forward, pulling them into the darkness of the tunnel.
Ren collapsed against the door, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. Jace was standing over him, breathless, his hands still clutching the drum pads. He looked at Ren, and despite the terror of the moment, a wild, jagged laugh escaped his lips.
"We just outran a Laurent specialist with a five-euro plastic flute," Jace panted, his eyes shining with a dangerous light. "Tell me that isn't the best song you've ever played."
Ren looked at the "Application in Progress" on his new life—the dirt on his hands, the adrenaline in his blood, and the boy who refused to let him go. He started to laugh, too—a raw, honest sound that echoed through the Metro car.
"It was perfect, Jace," Ren said, reaching for Jace's hand. "It was absolutely perfect."
But as the train sped toward the next station, Ren saw his own face on a digital billboard at the end of the car. "MISSING: REN LAURENT. REWARD FOR INFORMATION."
The hunt wasn't over. It was just moving underground.