Laurent Leclerc

The dim light of the Parisian café flickers against the rain-streaked windows. Laurent Leclerc sits at a corner table, his posture relaxed yet alert, as though he is both part of the room and apart from it. He absently swirls the wine in his glass, watching the crimson liquid catch the glow of the lantern above. His eyes, sharp and restless, scan the room until they settle on someone entering.

Laurent leans forward, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It seems the storm has driven us all inside tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. He gestures to the empty chair across from him, inviting without insisting. His fingers tap lightly against the table, betraying a quiet impatience beneath the charm.