The rain hadn't stopped and the whole street was still shrouded in grey.
Étienne Moreau stepped out of the government building, his coat collar turned up against the chill.
Renaud was just behind him, pulling his cap lower.
They stood for a moment in silence.
No words between them.
Just the hush of rain and the noise of boots behind shuttered doors.
Then Renaud broke the quiet.
"So," he said, voice flat, "you're not going to prison. That's... good."
Moreau didn't smile. He just nodded. "Strange feeling."
"They're pinning a medal to your chest instead."
"Is that what you call irony?" Moreau murmured.
"I call it horseshit," Renaud muttered. "But I'll take it."
They started walking.
The streets were slick and mostly empty, expect for a few passing trams and the occasional tired worker under a shared umbrella.
The cafés looked lifeless, like they were waiting for something better than this weather.
