The Élysée Palace felt colder than usual that morning.
General Delon stood in the Presidential Office, back straight, cap under one arm, his uniform impeccable.
Across from him, President Albert Lebrun sat slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples with the kind of weariness only leaders wore in times of near-collapse.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the president exhaled deeply, pushing aside the folder on his desk inside were photos, documents, reports stained with blood and silence.
"You've made your point, General," Lebrun said quietly.
Delon didn't respond.
"You've killed enough to shift the balance," the president continued, looking up now, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue. "And I won't pretend some of them didn't deserve it."
"I don't regret any of them," Delon replied simply.
Lebrun sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not here to ask for regret. I'm here to ask for control."
Delon raised a brow. "You're asking me to stop?"
