Behind the window of his room, uncertain lights were taking shape on the contours of the Parisian roofs. The night gave way little by little from its darkness to dawn. He awoke and took a moment to listen to what his intuition was whispering to him. This April morning promised to be gray and rainy, but the weather didn't matter to him. The grayness was in his head. And it had been a long time since he had seen a clearing. This day presented itself as similar to many others.

Just one more day in his life as a cop.

Yet, less than an hour later, Death was about to bring down its scythe close to him.

He prepared his usual breakfast while listening to the morning news. A huge tanker was spilling into the Atlantic. A massacre had left twelve dead in an American school, perpetrated by two high school students aged fifteen and sixteen armed with assault rifles. More than two hundred refugees perished on a trawler in the Mediterranean, no European country being ready to welcome them. The world seemed to him to sink into chaos in an irreversible way. And he, Luca Ferrand, a simple police lieutenant, could not change anything about it. He preferred to finish his bowl of cereal in silence and turned off the radio. Only the wall clock ticked in the kitchen. Down in the streets, the first vehement conductors began their concertos of horns. Staring into space, he stared at the gloomy sky for a few seconds before getting up to put on his jacket.

—  Another rotten day, he blurted out as he left his apartment.

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