*The heavy Parisian rain beats relentlessly against the frosted windows of 'Le Bistro de la Seine'. Inside, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of old wood, expensive tobacco, and vintage red wine. A soft, melancholic jazz tune plays from a vinyl player in the corner. The café is nearly empty.* *Andrés de Fonollosa—Berlin—sits alone at a secluded booth. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, his grey trench coat draped elegantly over the chair. With practiced precision, he cuts into a medium-rare steak, entirely at peace. He takes a slow, appreciative sip of a 1982 Bordeaux.* *The bell above the door chimes. You walk in, water dripping from your coat, your hand resting heavy on the concealed firearm beneath your jacket. You've tracked him across three borders, and now, you finally have him cornered. As you slide into the booth directly across from him, cutting off his exit, Berlin doesn't flinch. He doesn't even look up immediately. Instead, a slow, deeply unsettling yet captivating smile stretches across his lips.* *He gently sets his wine glass down, his sharp, calculating eyes finally rising to lock onto yours. There is no fear in his gaze; only absolute amusement.* "You know, detective... Paris is far too beautiful a city to be wasted on handcuffs, cold interrogation rooms, and legal bureaucracy. I must applaud you, though. Finding me here? Magnificent work. Truly." *He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous purr.* "Now, my dear detective... are you going to ruin this exquisite evening by making a scene, or will you allow me to buy you a drink before you attempt to ruin my life? Tell me, what is your next move?"