Evening shadows crept long over the narrow alleys lining Paris's lesser-seen underbelly — the worn arteries of a city most tourists never glimpsed. The subways beneath the city had long since split into two halves: the ones that carried dreams, and the ones that buried them.
He belonged to the latter.
The polar bear hybrid from earlier — the one with the cold eyes and heavy steps — moved along the tracks near an abandoned metro line. With his rope-filled bag slung over one shoulder and his coat clinging damply to his back, he crossed rusted gates and sunless corridors like a phantom on a mission.
A neon graffiti-tagged column marked the edge of his "territory." Beyond it, the old emergency exit had been repurposed. With a twist of a rebar hook, he pulled open the creaking hatch and climbed down to the hollow beneath the city's ribs.
Welcome to the "Cold Core."
Here, beneath buzzing wires and leaking vents, makeshift camps had bloomed like fungi. Tattered blankets over crates. Oil drums turned into fire pits. Torn French flags stitched into roofs. Home to those society had buried.
He walked past rows of sleeping bodies — hybrids mostly, varying in species: a lynx hybrid with a scarred eye, a toothless old fox woman mumbling in her sleep, and a skunk hybrid child clinging to a plush toy with a missing ear.
As he approached the familiar fire barrel, a few nods and murmurs greeted him.
"You're back," said a raccoon-mule hybrid with a mechanical leg. "Find anything useful, Matt?"
The bear hybrid nodded, setting down his rope and supplies beside the fire. "Enough for what's coming."
A middle-aged dog hybrid, chewing a half-burned cigarette, squinted through the smoke. "Still playin' soldier, eh?"
"No," the bear said. "Not playing. Preparing."
They sat around the fire in silence for a while, only the crackle of flames and the occasional dripping pipe above filling the space.
A younger hybrid — perhaps a badger barely into adulthood — spoke up. "Do you think anyone's gonna listen to us? Ever? We scream, we protest, and they still look at us like vermin. I mean our ancestorshave been doing this. But no change till date."
"There's no need for them to listen," the bear murmured. "They'll learn about us."
The raccoon hybrid frowned. "What's that supposed to mean, bruh?"
He didn't answer.
Eventually, the group disbanded, one by one slinking off to their corners. The bear hybrid remained, staring into the fire.
---
Later, he returned to his shelter.
A rusted cargo container tucked beneath an overpass. Inside, dimly lit by a battery-powered lamp, were a mattress, shelves lined with scavenged tools, and a single steel cabinet.
He opened it, revealing rows of notebooks. Diaries. Organized chaos.
He selected one — black leather with frayed corners—and flipped to the most recent pages.
Dozens of names lined the lists. Most crossed out. Red ink. Heavy slashes.
Then he reached the bottom of the page. A name, underlined once.
"Officer Claire Renaud" — the latest victim.
Beside the name was a torn photo of her in uniform, scribbled with:
> No empathy. No shame. No consequences.
He turned to the next blank page and reached into his pocket, pulling out a smaller, more precious item.
A photograph.
It was old. Crinkled. The corners curled with time and dirt.
The image showed a young polar bear hybrid girl — perhaps 14 — smiling faintly, standing beside a public fountain. Her eyes, wide and hopeful. A schoolbag slung over her shoulder.
He stared at it for several long moments. His expression unreadable.
Then came the whisper. Barely audible. Just for himself.
"I will teach them a lesson. I swear."
---
Post-Credit Scene
Somewhere in the 13th arrondissement, the lights had begun to dim. Neon signs flickered in the early night like wounded stars. And along one silent residential street, two figures walked side by side.
Christopher's hands were in his coat pockets, breath faint in the cold air. "Alright. I'll ask again. Why are we here? This is the neighborhood from that ten-year-old case, where first killings started, right?"
Brendon, walking a step ahead. He didn't reply.
He was looking around. Studying the layout. The buildings. The pavement cracks. The trees that had grown thicker since the file photos.
He stopped, crouching beside a lamppost where moss covered the lower metal. He traced a finger along it.
Christopher frowned. "Brendon?"
Still no reply.
Brendon's eyes moved — dissecting the past embedded in the place.
There should be something here…