The sewers beneath Paris had no time.
Only water.
And footsteps.

Ziya moved without sound, without light — the hem of her cloak wet, her eyes burning brighter than torches.

Behind her: three guards.
Well-fed. Well-armed.
But they didn’t know the tunnels like she did.

Every twist, every stone, every secret.

She wasn’t running from them.
She was leading them.

Like a hunter.
Like a cat.

Up ahead, a string dangled from a crack in the ceiling. Ziya flicked it with one finger as she passed.

A silent click.
A trigger pulled.

Three steps later —
A wall collapsed behind them.
Then another.
Trapped.

The guards cursed. One fired a pistol into the darkness.

But there was no echo.
Only a voice.

Ziya’s.

“This city isn’t yours anymore.”

The guards turned, weapons raised.

But the corridor was empty.

Only a single bell, tied to a thread, swung slowly in the dark.

And far above them —
the city listened.