The train hissed to a halt at Gare du Nord, exhaling a cloud of steam that mingled with the crisp winter air. It was nearly midnight, and the canopy of Parisian sky was a tapestry of velvet darkness punctuated by the dim glow of distant stars. The city’s heartbeat thrummed beneath the cobblestones, a blend of history and mystery that beckoned to those who dared to seek its secrets.
Arthur Zorba stepped onto the platform, his keen eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of trouble. The scars etched across his face caught the flickering gaslight, a silent testament to battles fought both outwardly and within. The cold air was a familiar companion, but tonight it carried a hint of something else—a whispered warning, perhaps, or a premonition of trials yet to come.
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