The soon departed towards the palace.
As the armored Citroën barreled through the battered boulevards of the capital, Étienne Moreau watched the city blur past with clenched jaw and tight fists.
He didn't speak.
Neither did General Beauchamp, seated beside him.
Paris was no longer the city of lights.
The President was waiting.
And they were taking him something dangerous.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Beauchamp asked quietly, breaking the silence as they neared the Élysée Palace.
"I'm not," Moreau admitted, "but I've learned you don't need to be ready to do what's right. You just need to do it."
Beauchamp smirked. "Spoken like a fool… or a future minister."
Moreau gave him a side glance. "Please don't insult me."
The general actually laughed.
They passed through the final gate, saluted by jumpy guards with reddened eyes and sweat-soaked collars.
The chaos outside hadn't spared the Palace.
