Incorporated with DeepSeek
## Housarrest Heatwave (A Paris Shadows Story)
The Parisian heatwave wasn't just oppressive; it was a living thing. Past midnight, the air in the banlieue of Stains hung thick and wet, a suffocating blanket soaked in the exhaust fumes of gridlocked maglevs and the greasy scent of desperation. Rain wasn't relief; it was a lukewarm curse, hammering the cracked permacrete, turning the gutters into sluggish rivers reflecting the migraine-inducing neon bleed of holographic ads – cheap simsense parlours, synth-kebab joints, and the ever-present, predatory glow of organ-legging clinics promising "Discreet & Competitive Rates." Steam rose in spectral tendrils where the downpour met the heat-baked streets.
Anya Dubois, perched on a cracked vinyl stool in the "Chez Maurice" diner, felt utterly, terrifyingly out of place. She *looked* like she'd stepped off a Lyon Corp executive shuttle – designer neo-linen dress clinging slightly in the humidity, hair artfully arranged despite the damp, her subtle chromed data-jack gleaming near her temple. Her wide, dark eyes, however, scanned the grimy interior not with the thrill of slumming it, but with the dawning horror of a rabbit realizing the brambles are actually a snare. The air inside Chez Maurice was a miasma of stale smoke, cheap soy-proteins frying, and something vaguely chemical. The other patrons – hard-faced men with faded gang tats peeking from synth-leather jackets, a woman whose eyes held a thousand-yard stare, a pair of gangers whose cyberarms whined faintly – didn't stare openly, but their sidelong glances were like physical touches. She’d taken a wrong turn off the main transit artery, lured by the promise of "authentic" street art in a dimly lit alley. One wrong door, past flickering glyphs she hadn't bothered translating, and the vibrant, edgy banlieue pulse had curdled into this predatory stillness. This wasn't adventure; it was the edge of an abyss. The flickering holoscreen above the counter wasn't showing news; it was cycling through medical diagrams with chillingly vague labels.
Her father, Etienne Dubois, Lyon Corp middle-management with a protective streak a kilometre wide, hadn't raised a fool. He'd known Anya's taste for the "authentic" bordered on reckless. So, he'd invested in *La Sentinelle*, a security AI. Not the kind advertised in gated community bulletins, polished and PR-sanctioned. No, *La Sentinelle* drew its data from darker wells. Its primary feed came from "Détectives Indépendants Montreuil" – a company whose registered address was a crumbling warehouse in Montreuil, a location that automatically disqualified them from corporate security contracts, but screamed volumes to those who knew the shadows. It meant they operated *here*, in the grime, knew the players, smelled the traps. Their reputation wasn't built on fine suits; it was etched in the wary silence that fell when their name was mentioned in the right (or wrong) bars.
Etienne hadn't delegated. His first call to Montreuil was personal. He’d shown them a holo of Anya – vibrant, smiling, achingly vulnerable. He’d wanted to *know*. Instead of a simple quote, he’d received a curt, free lecture from a voice like gravel scraped over concrete: "That place? Chez Maurice? Top of the 'Don't' list, Monsieur Dubois. Tourist trap for nightmares. Organs go in coolers out the back before dawn. Pay the premium. Or bury your daughter." The chilling precision of it had frozen Etienne’s blood.
So, when *La Sentinelle* pinged an alert – Anya's biomonitors spiking with panic, her location static in the heart of Maurice's territory – the call went out. Not to corporate security. To Montreuil.
Five figures materialized from the rain-slicked darkness outside Chez Maurice like vengeful wraiths condensed from the steam. They didn't burst in; they *flowed*, parting the beaded curtain with a sound like rattling bones. Rainwater streamed from heavy, non-descript jackets, pooling on the already filthy linoleum. The oppressive heat inside seemed to recoil from their sudden presence.
All eyes snapped to them. Conversation died mid-sentence. The fry cook froze, tongs hovering over sputtering grease.
Details registered in the stunned silence:
* **Legacies:** Heavy pistols, worn but meticulously maintained, rode openly on tactical thigh rigs, grips facing inward for a cross-draw. The matte black metal drank the diner's sickly light.
* **Precision:** Slung across backs or riding low on hips were sheathed blades – not showy katanas, but brutal, functional monofilament swords or vibro-machetes, tools for close, quiet work.
* **Authority:** Beneath the bulky jackets, the unmistakable angular bulges hinted at submachine guns. Not sleek corporate models, but heavy-caliber street-sweepers – Panther XXLs or Ares Vipers – capable of turning the cramped diner into a charnel house in seconds.
* **Presence:** No masks, but faces hardened by the banlieue's crucible. Eyes, some cybernetically enhanced with faint red glints, scanned the room with predatory efficiency, missing nothing. One, a tall woman with a scar bisecting her chrome eyebrow, fixed the fry cook with a gaze that could freeze plasma.
The sound was deafening in the sudden silence. Five distinct, metallic *snick-clacks* echoed as rounds were chambered in five heavy pistols. The message was unambiguous: *We are here. We are ready. You are not.*
The apparent leader, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes like chips of obsidian, didn't raise his voice. It cut through the tension like the mono-sword at his hip. "Listen close," he stated, his French accented with the harsh edges of the streets. His gaze swept over the frozen patrons, lingering on the gangers who subtly shifted their hands away from hidden weapons. "Next time she comes," he nodded fractionally towards Anya, who sat rigid, knuckles white on the counter, "you tell her you don't want trouble. You tell her the kitchen's closed. You tell her *anything*. But she walks out. Immediately. Understood?"
He paused, letting the implication hang heavier than the humid air. "Nod. Here. Now."
One by one, heads dipped. The fry cook, sweat beading on his forehead despite the AC's whine. The gangers, defiance crumbling under the weight of professional lethality. The woman with the dead eyes. Even Anya, caught in the terrifying gravity of the moment, found her head bobbing in terrified agreement.
The leader's eyes locked onto Anya. "Codeword," he said, the single word a command.
Anya's throat was desert-dry. She swallowed, the sound loud in the stillness. "H-Housarrest," she whispered, then forced the rest out, "2 weeks."
A flicker, almost imperceptible, crossed the leader's face. Not amusement. Acknowledgement. The contract was confirmed. The package identified. "Oh damn," he muttered, a low rumble that held more exasperation than anger. He gestured sharply with his chin. "Come. We drive you home. Now."
Anya scrambled off the stool, legs trembling. Two of the Montreuil operatives – a wiry man with neural jacks at his temples and the scarred woman – moved instantly, flanking her, their bodies angled to shield her. They didn't hustle her; they moved with controlled urgency, a human barrier between her and the hostile environment. The other three remained, pistols still held low but ready, eyes never leaving the room.
The leader and the neural-jacked man walked Anya towards the door. The scarred woman and another operative, a mountain of muscle with mirrored cyber-eyes, backed out slowly, pistols sweeping the room in smooth, practiced arcs. Their movements were economical, deliberate, radiating an aura of violence held in perfect check. Not a single shot fired. Not a word exchanged with the diners. Just the oppressive silence, the drumming rain, and the receding sound of heavy boots on wet linoleum.
The bead curtain rattled shut behind them, cutting off the view of the stunned, terrified faces inside Chez Maurice. The rain immediately plastered Anya's hair to her face as she was guided towards a battered, non-descript Renault Golem parked half on the sidewalk, its engine a low, impatient growl. The smell of wet asphalt and ozone was suddenly clean, vital.
The drive through the rain-lashed banlieue was a blur of neon streaks and looming tower blocks. Anya huddled in the back seat, flanked by silent shadows, the adrenaline crash leaving her shivering despite the Golem's efficient AC. The operatives didn't speak. The only sounds were the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the drumming rain, and the low thrum of the engine.
An hour later, the Golem pulled into the secure underground garage of Anya's upscale apartment complex in the 16th arrondissement. The transition from Stains' predatory gloom to the sterile, climate-controlled security felt jarring, unreal. The leader walked her to the private elevator, scanned her key, and gave her a final, unreadable look. "Stay inside," he grunted. The doors hissed shut.
Etienne Dubois was waiting in the foyer, face ashen, eyes red-rimmed. He didn't speak. He just pulled Anya into a crushing embrace, his body trembling. The tears that came weren't just relief; they were the floodgates opening after hours of unimaginable terror. He smelled of expensive cologne and fear-sweat. Anya buried her face in his shoulder, the sterile air of the apartment a stark contrast to the chemical-tainted dread of Chez Maurice. Safe. Impossibly, terrifyingly safe.
The next morning, as weak sunlight struggled through polarized windows, Etienne received two notifications. One was the invoice from Détectives Indépendants Montreuil – a significant figure, reflecting the premium for a rapid, no-questions-asked extraction from a Red Zone. The other was a confirmation for an even larger bonus transfer. The note attached was simple: "Client Satisfaction Guaranteed. Avoid Maurice's."
Tucked into the secure message packet, almost as an afterthought, was a digital file. Anya found it later on her commlink. It was an underground rap SD card, the kind sold in stalls near the very alleys she’d wandered into. The title scrawled in the metadata: "*Pour rendre le confinement plus agréable...*" ("To make house arrest more enjoyable..."). A darkly humorous gift from the shadows. Anya stared at it, a shiver tracing her spine that had nothing to do with the apartment's perfect temperature. She didn't play it. Not yet. The memory of the chambering pistols, the obsidian eyes, the chemical smell, and the silent, lethal efficiency in the rain was still too raw. Housearrest, for two weeks, suddenly felt like a sanctuary, not a sentence. The Parisian heatwave pressed on, but inside the apartment, the chill of the close call lingered.
