Every chapter's name is a reference to songs from the wonderful Faouzia- I've been listening to her stripped sessions on repeat when writing this so, check it out! It's so good.

Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Maya Angelou, Alone

2.

She entered the cramped reception space to discover Florent, the good-natured director of the outreach program, facing the wrath of one of its oldest residents.

Kamel was sixteen-year old and built like a professional rugby-man. He would have been quite fearsome if Céline hadn't seen the mean-looking boy cry his heart out at the end of How to Train your Dragon 3 on movie night.

Still, she studied Florent's face to be sure it wasn't time for her to step in.

"Je m'en bats les couilles de toi !" roared thered-faced teen to his mentor.

This was perhaps the sentence Céline heard the most coming from the kids when they were angry: I don't give a shit about you. They had a way of turning their insecurities into weapons, ready to lash out whenever they felt threatened or slighted.

A veteran educator, Florent had seen far worse than the incoherent screaming of the teenager. He seized an opportunity to answer in a voice that he rarely needed to raise to keep his wards in line.

"Are you done? Or do you want to keep spitting nonsense at the only person willing to listen?" He kept his steady green eyes on Kamel's, his French voice even.

The rage on the boy's face didn't lessen.

Before he could take another verbal swing at the director, Céline made her presence known by letting the door slam shut.

"Okay, let's take a break." She placed herself on the path to Florent's body. "Take a walk."

She didn't let the teen a chance to react, grabbing Florent by the elbow to gently guide him to the back of the office. Eventually, they heard Kamel's stomping feet disappear in the hallway, slamming the door on his way out.

Once they knew he was gone for good, Florent let the pressure drop with a heavy sigh.

"Thanks, he's been shouting at me for an impressive amount of time."

She noticed her hand was still on his elbow and let it go.

"You had it under control." She replied, heading to the pile of files waiting for her on the wooden desk next to Florent. "What was all about?" she asked, perusing the stack of paperwork nightmare waiting for her.

"You know how most of these kids are. Well intentioned, with bad manners and no other way to express themselves other than colorful insults."

Florent's aversion for bad language was legendary. They had a rather impressive swear jar that often managed to fund small repairs around the crumbling center, and the gold-hearted director revealed to be pretty uncompromising when he'd catch anyone cussing out.

"They usually don't chew you out for no reason. Did you crack down on smoking again?" she mused, giving a small smile to her boss.

"If only… I swear to you, nicotine is worse than most drugs we warn them about. How are we supposed to tell them it will ruin their health when adults are chain-smoking everywhere around them?" He sighed, running a hand at the back of his neck.

A thirty-something man with soulful eyes and a crop of auburn hair trimmed into a clean fade cut, Florent's easy smiles and calm composure were never too much to rear the tribe of hormone-driven teenagers that stomped these halls.

He had welcomed her with open arms, giving her a complete tour of the facility, his personal number and address with strict orders to call him if she needed help with anything. When it came to French people and their coldness towards strangers, Florent seemed to have missed the memo.

She had asked him once while sharing a Tacos late at night: was he an exception or had she completely fallen prey to stereotypes when it came to French people and their cold reputation? He had given her a laugh that had melted her insides before explaining that, no, French people were no better or worse than any other culture when it came to good manners, but they tended to be nicer to the people they knew best.

This was one of the first times she had felt completely at ease with someone else, actively enjoying her boss' companionship in the warm evening. She remembered the distant cries of the kids playing soccer on the field next to windows, and how Florent had smiled when he had added that, if it helped, his mother was Italian, and they were reputed to be a tad warmer than their neighbors. He bounced off this tidbit of information by revealing that he actively sought to spend time with her.

This is where she felt things could have shifted depending on what she would reply next.

She could have admitted she enjoyed sharing her shift with her easy-going, good-humored boss. It hadn't been obvious at first, but she could perceive Florent had been testing the waters for some time when it came to her and the chemistry they shared.

It also didn't hurt that he was a very handsome man.

As soon as the idea of flirting back had presented itself, all the reasons not to do so had dropped on her in such an intense way she had announced she was checking on their wards in the courtyard to compose herself.

Relationships were poison. They anchored her in one place, they prevented her from being selfish, and they enabled her to make mistakes. When she'd been back, the moment had passed and he had spent the rest of her shift giving her helpful tips to smooth the slight mistakes of her French. She had proceeded to go and forget herself in another nightclub.

By the time Céline was done reminiscing about her utter lack of courage, Florent had circled back to his confrontation with Kamel.

"Anyway, it wasn't about the rules. Kamel's been on edge ever since Malik stopped showing up." His tone turned serious. "We've had a visit from child services about this."

Céline expressed surprise; the ARS was as elusive as it was ineffective to do anything when it came to the teenagers they mentored. She used to think for the longest time that Florent was in charge of everything, until he explained he was an educator like her and that the only difference between them was his penchant for masochism.

"Well that was surprisingly quick. And?"

A fire of righteous indignation lit up in Florent's eyes. "They had the gall to put into question my 'capacity to keep track of the children enrolled in our program.'"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the sheer audacity of the statement. If there was one person here that gave a fuck, it was Florent.

They welcomed kids ranging from thirteen to seventeen and already hanging in precarious spots; in and out of the center, one feet in juvie and the other one in school detention. Most adults in their lives had grown apathetic to the plight of their wayward youth. It was easy to judge these men and women that usually had a shitty job, a shitty life and no prospects, dealing with teenagers more than happy to project their anger at anyone looking their way.

Céline always felt something strong for the kids; anger at these little shits who wasted their shot skipping school and smoking pot, anger at the system that gave the bare minimum to satisfy the required amount of care lost causes were supposed to get.

But beyond a broken system and the grind of abandoned suburbs, there was life. Vibrant, raw boys and girls whose blunt honesty and mischief made them real in a way adults could never quite relate to.

Listening to Florent, she fixed herself some coffee.

"I told them I was glad they were showing up for the first time in almost a year after I called them a dozen times for help. And that I was less pleased that they were accusing me of not doing my job right when they couldn't even be bothered to do theirs." Céline could very well picture the olive-skinned man scolding the ARS people.

"They must have left you a big check and promised to fix the boiler, then." Grinning, she handed him a second mug.

"As always, I love the optimism." He teased back, a smile returning to his face.

They drank their coffee in comfortable silence.

Céline could tell Florent was still mulling over the visit, and the worry on his face took away some of the energy he always displayed around the office.

"Do you have any news? I know the kid likes you." He resumed, voice even. "He's not the only one." Her breath caught.

Céline hid her trouble by drinking a long gulp of coffee.

"Not since he told me he wanted to talk to me a couple of weeks ago. He never got back to me…" she looked away from the benevolent man.

Florent acquiesced, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Hey. Don't worry. You know how they can be, sometimes: they spend a few weeks at their girlfriends or boyfriend's place, and being the self-absorbed little brats they are, they forget about us until they need their allowance."

From anybody else, the remark could have been cutting. But listening to Florent's reassurance, Céline could see nothing but the attachment he had for the wayward boys and girls they tried their best to help find a path.

"Careful now, you're awfully close to swearing." She retorted, catching herself missing his touch when he moved away.

He winked at her.

"I'll deduce it from my imaginary pay."

She spent the rest of the evening checking on those who had showed up, helping with homework and figuring out who needed what with the miserable fund they were allowed to give out.

Some of her pupils adored graffiti, so they spent some time working on the walls with the meager supplies she had scrounged in the decrepit halls. Lately, there had been a tie between characters from the manga Naruto and the freshly-appointed Captain America. She had helped Jamilah with the wings, pleased to see Sam Wilson emerge from the mist of her red bomb.

She stuck around for a game of soccer, trading her high heels for a pair of sneakers. This had garnered a salve of innuendos from the youth as they proceeded to ask if she had a date for the night. She had made a point to score against the girl who had suggested she was probably going out with Florent. She let her team holler and gave a mocking bow with the hem of her orange dress, adding she could wear what she wanted and still kick their asses if they messed with her. The teasing was good-natured, and in more ways than one, it showed that they enjoyed themselves enough to trust her. Coming from them, it was a lot.

Blip or no blip, no one had ever cared for them.

One day, one of her youngest charge had told her how her mother hadn't realized he had been part of the casualties of the Snap. He had simply walked back home one day to find his twin sister now five years older than him, confused by his sudden reappearance. When Céline had sympathized with his plea, he had added that he didn't give "two shits about his dumb maman" but that he had been furious to learn that his siblings had sold his Xbox games and divvied up his clothes. She didn't know what had twisted her heart more.

She parted with the kids by extorting their half-sincere promise to behave for the week-end, waved at Florent on the way out and left for the night.

The wind was cooling the pavements of the old streets, ruffling her long dark hair she kept loose. She savored the fresh air, wishing she could stay in that useless moment forever. It was almost 11pm, and the streets were still undecided on who owed them for the night. Some late workers like her were still emptying out offices, and a bunch of partygoers exited apartments to rejoin clubs and rowdy bars.

She didn't have to wait long to enter one of them, flashing a smile at the bouncer before leaving her jacket and small backpack in the cloakroom. As she descended into the cool stones that housed the dancefloor, she could hear the thumping of the music vibrating in the old foundations.

Soon, it would be summer. The heat in the capital would chase the wealthiest of its citizens, replaced by another swarm of visitors. Faces, so many of them, a constant blur in and out that flowed endlessly in the urban maze that was Paris. By then, perhaps she would be able to dive in the deep waters of the city, and not just puddles such as the ones she was choosing for the night.

Joining the crowd of dancers, she listened to the tempo of some mixed disco-metal that bounced off the massive stereo system. She could hear it then, the pulse to this city, an underworld full of joy amidst despair. It was the beat of techno bass in catacombs, the unending thrum of dancing and sweat.

Release.

You'll soon be hearing the chime
Close to midnight
If I could turn back the time
I'd make all right

Here, she was closer to her missing strength; like a lost limb, she could still feel its muscles ghosting around her body. Like a taunting voice that would say: you used to be this.

Surrounded by deafening noise and pressed by bodies of sweat and liquor, Céline focused on the vibration of the music flowing. She was never mopey in these thumping walls, never angry, scared or sad. She glided, and people were no longer the tide. They were clouds, soft and hazy, where she could take cover and find some peace.

The hardness of a body brushed her hip, staying long enough that she understood it was a silent invitation to join; she spun around with the song to discern a young man's ocean eyes. She swayed to the beat of the music to dance with him, letting him test the boundaries between their bodies until his hands were caressing her ribs.

How could it end like this?
There's a sting in the way you kiss me
Something within your eyes
Said it could be the last time
Before it's over

He made her twirl languorously, his seductive smile streaked by multi-colored lights. He must have reached for his pocket at some point, because when her body bumped back into his, his free hand opened on a small-rounded pill.

This was an adult version of don't take a stranger's candy. She tried to stay grounded, to play it safe in a world that had already punished her recklessness. But then the handsome blond boy took a twin of the Molly in his palm and gulped it, smiling while he did so. He leaned closer until his nose brushed hers, his free hand on the small of her back.

Just wanna be
Wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
Just wanna be
I wanna bewitch you all night

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea was now chanting in her mind, but the tone was almost enchanting. She wanted to have bad ideas, the kind that did not want to let her drown in her bathtub or walk in the middle of traffic. Dumber ideas, simpler ideas.

She felt his tongue press the forbidden triangle on her lips, and she let it slip in her mouth.

They danced some more, songs meshing into one single melody as she waited for her senses to shift. She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment where it happened, but by the time her partner had felt bold enough to kiss the hollow of her neck, the effects of the pill were in full swing; she experienced a rush of sound, as if her heart was beating in her ears. Everything in the room was powdered by a shimmering light, a blue light sharpening dancers and blanketing her body.

She felt her handsome dealer rove his hands on her orange dress, his fingertips looking for a way to reach her naked skin. She imagined that everywhere he touched, the fabric imprinted on his digits, until the smooth tissue was wrinkled with the traces of his path.

He bent closer to her face, and as she closed her eyes he tried to say something to her, breaking the thrilling little game of silence when his real voice landed in her ears. Not so charming or enticing. A bit shrill.

He was parked near and had the address to this dope after-party. He smelled like vodka and deodorant. He was oddly real now, so close to her, his face jumping into view. The hands he had kept on her hips suddenly felt heavy on her thin dress.

She made the universal sign for drinking and slipped away from him and into the moving crowd, into the clouds.

Now that she had lied about it, she found she could go with a drink. That way, it would not be a complete escape; she had gone simply for some beverage and lost her partner on the dancefloor. These things happened. She could pretend it wasn't about her freaking out, that it wasn't another small failure chipping at normal life.

What she knew for sure was that It wasn't about sex. She could touch someone, kiss them and let them sneak around her body, but intimacy required something other than desire. Finding a handsome boy or girl to share the night was no real challenge. When she gave a damn, she was gorgeous. Tonight she had found the motivation to draw orange lines on her eyelids, giving shadows to her cat eyes and bronze skin. But being beautiful and feeling beautiful were two very different things she mastered at times.

Picking up someone and following them home had never been the issue. Fucking was easy. People fucked all the time, everywhere; but opening up to someone? Sharing more than greetings and drinks? She didn't know if she would ever be able to stomach that kind of closeness anytime soon. She barely felt welcomed in her own body.

As she pressed herself to the mass of patrons at the bar, she let her body cool down for a minute. There was a sheen of sweat she hadn't realized had formed on her forehead, and her knees felt oddly light. Drugs on an empty stomach were a rookie mistake, one she had made many times over the months. She needed to lose herself to be able to entertain the idea of food, and she needed to eat in order to process the substances she put into her body. She often managed to gulp down some after-party grease at kebabs on her way home.

Breathing in, she rubbed her hands gently. She wasn't going to crash or anything; despite what she was putting her body through, her metabolism was still going strong.

Before she had the chance to order anything, a thick glass slipped all the way to her spot. She looked at the bartender, who had already left to deal with orders on the other side of the round bar. She took the glass and inspected it for a minute, sweeping the scene to find her benefactor.

One man was looking back at her from the end of the lacquered counter. She felt his eyes on her, neither too forward nor disinterested, hard to discern in the obscured room. She returned the favor and scrutinized the man swaying slightly to the music. Despite the heat generated by the dancefloor, he wore a dark sweater and black pants which flattered his broad build. An odd sort of annoyance flowed through her at the ease he displayed, with his heavy clothing in a 30 degrees Celsius room, standing at ease in a room full of flailing limbs. She couldn't make out a face in the dark hall, so she raised her drink towards him and proceeded to drink up.

The whiskey wasn't cheap; it coated the insides of her throat without burning. In a club like this, it must have cost a small fortune. A good choice nevertheless.

She turned around to approach her generous donor, but he had disappeared in the crowd.

Shrugging, Céline went back to the dancefloor.

She enjoyed her time in the club some more, hours losing meaning in the waters of inebriation. She felt the drugs in her veins slow down, calling it quits when the dancefloor started to thin out.

The outside temperature crashed into her body when she exited through the doors. Squaring her shoulders to conserve some heat, she rummaged in her leather backpack. There hadn't been a single night since she had landed in Paris where she hadn't scribbled something on its pages: Rituals were good for the soul. They helped to make sense of her days, kept her grounded and steady when she started to drift back to darker places.

She put her hand on a book she had found in a flea market the week before and searched some more for the little paper notebook she had kept since Kiev. She rubbed her fingers on the hardback, followed the lines of the flowers she had inked on the cover. The very first page was dedicated to them, the letters uneven on the paper.

The camellias bloom in Winter when the skies are cold and gray
When the sun shines at its weakest and the Spring seems far away

Opposite to the lines, the outline of a kind-looking man was staring at her the same way they had that last night in Kiev. A sense of peace tinged with guilt flooded the woman as she wondered about the agent she had abandoned in the snow.

She flipped the pages until she found where she had left off, walking and reading the bigger book underneath. She started the long way back home, scanning the pages of poetry until she found some verse she liked well enough to copy in the notebook.

She hadn't even rounded the corner of the club when a silhouette in the corner of her vision made her look back up.

Something in the way the man was standing made her stop. It was clear that he was not a bystander simply waiting for her to dodge him on the sidewalk: Instead the man was looking right at her, brown eyes sharp under the harsh light of the streetlamps.

"Some men neverdie,and some men neverlive." He recited in a low, husky voice.

She gave him an earnest smile. "but we're all alive tonight."

It didn't take a genius to guess what she was reading: Charles Bukowski's collection of writings was printed in bold, black letters on the yellowed cover she was holding. Good on him for knowing the verse.

Still curious as to why a stranger would quote poetry at her, Céline took the time to look at the man smiling at her knowingly.

She had a solid inch on him, yet she couldn't deny the way he carried himself somehow made him taller. Aside from his quiet confidence, nothing really stood out; he had slicked brown hair and dark eyes that seemed to wait for her to make the first move. What was quite peculiar was the heavy garment he was sporting, a long trench coat with a collar of white fur framing his neck. On anybody, it would have looked a tad strange or maybe even goofy, but the stranger was pulling it off easily. A closer inspection revealed that he had been the man paying for her drink in the club, and her discomfort diffused slightly; horny men she could deal with.

Instructing her body to relax, Céline opted for an easy flirt.

"He has good taste in liquor and he knows poetry," she declared with a small grin. She had to give him credit for the cleverness of his pick-up line.

So far, a man retracing her steps to hit on her wasn't really out of the ordinary. She didn't feel too weirded out by the apparent stalking; she had had men coming onto her in way worse fashion, especially on her nightlife trips.

Amusement tugged at the corner of the man's mouth before he replied in the same raspy tone.

"As much as I'd like to resume such pleasant endeavors, I'm afraid I've come to trouble you with serious matters." His gloved hand opened to reveal a navy cardholder. "Interpol. I'm looking for Malik Amrani."

Any amusement she had felt disappeared swiftly.

"Do all intelligence services pick up childcare assistants in the middle of the night?" she threw back defensively, one feet stepping away.

"When they're particularly hard to find, yes." He replied without missing a beat.

This had the merit to throw her off a little. She had made a point of not sticking to a tight schedule on purpose. Her job often required her to go door-to-door to families, and when she wasn't tracking down absentee teenagers, Florent often put her in charge of cheap trips to stadiums or forest parks to help the kids get out of the suburbs.

So, in a lot of ways, what Interpol was saying made sense. And yet it really did not.

Slowly, she let the strap of her backpack glide along her arm to put Bukowski's musings and her own back into its belly. She could feel the agent's look on her every move, composed as ever when he put his own badge away. Was he suspecting her of hiding a gun in the middle of her tampons and small change?

It gave her time to think about what to say, and do, next.

"You're looking for a thirteen-year old teenager. I'm going to need a lot more from you."

In a way, the ecstasy was helping her to stay put and think rationally. She tried to make sense of Malik's disappearance and why Interpol would care, driving away her own fears. It wasn't about her.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose much to you, Miss Duciel. What can you tell me about the missing young man?" He titled his head on the side.

Now that the noise of the club was further away she could detect a faint eastern accent in his low voice.

A cold feeling gripped at her.

"He's a good kid." She blurted out. "He's done stupid things, but his heart is in the right place."

She carefully weighed her options.

The man just wanted to ask her some questions. His methods were suspicious, and something about him was setting her on edge, but if she gave him his answers he would go and leave her unbothered. Interpol didn't arrest people in the street on their own at 4AM. They didn't ask for fingerprints or anything, but they did check IDs' backgrounds. Had she been flagged and her identity blown? "Céline Duciel" might already be burned.

Her chest rose. She did what she could to let her gaze wander around harmlessly, already thinking ahead with a million different scenarios. She had enough cash to move locally, but any forgery worth its salt would take time. She had no contacts outside of Paris, only a solid knowledge of how to get off the grid for a while.

"Your colleagues seem to think you might have an idea as to his whereabouts." she did her best to meet Interpol's gaze once more.

She hadn't been swift enough to catch the name on the badge.

"Teenagers rarely confide in older people." She replied, crossing her arms to give her hands something to do.

"I do not think anyone would ever consider you old." He flashed her another shrewd smile.

It was getting hard to find her footing with this man. So far, Interpol had gone from charming to serious and back without faltering. The way his eyes never left her was unnerving, as if he knew exactly the contents of her head and every secret it held.

The thought sent her mind racing.

"Five years in limbo will do that to you." She muttered darkly.

"Apologies." He lowered his head. "Miss Duciel, It is important that Malik is found by our agency rather than by those that would do him harm."

Her body straightened out. Was Malik in danger?

"What do you mean? He's not dealing or using, I can tell you that much."

The tell-tale signs; the expensive sneakers or clothes, the physical symptoms— fatigue, sunken face, none of it had manifested. To the contrary, Malik had seemed healthier than he had been the whole year. But then again, maybe she had looked for the wrong kind of cues. They were other things than heroin or cocaine on the market, now. A world of superheroes had often unintended side-effects: everybody wanted to feel like Steve Rogers for a day, fly like the Vision or punch like the Hulk… And the things done to meet the demand still made her stomach roils.

She shook her head sadly. She wanted to go home, criminal police be damned.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I didn't even catch your name. I'll be happy to answer any question you have in the morning. Give me your phone and I'll get back to you…"

Whatever Céline was saying fell on deaf ears the moment Interpol violently spun around. She barely had time to register a car speeding on the road when hurling bullets flought straight at them.

The pit in her belly roared.

The agent's gun was already drawn and it fired a volley of its own, covering the sound of the sparks alight in her head. She didn't have time to proceed a single feeling before his body crashed into hers, her vision turned white.