Accent present and distinctive. Swiss, maybe. Or possibly Austrian. That precise, highly educated European tone that spoke of expensive boarding schools and elite universities.
"And who are you?" I asked flatly.
The man's smile widened with genuine amusement. He held both hands out wide in an almost theatrical gesture of openness.
"My name does not matter in the slightest, Mr. Black," he said smoothly, voice carrying easily despite the rain. "All that matters right now is the unfinished business between us. Between you and those you swore to serve."
A long, deliberately dramatic pause for effect.
Rain continued falling mercilessly on all of us.
The man continued speaking like we had unlimited time. "This business, this history between us—it is profoundly important. More important than you perhaps realize. You understand this, yes?"
He launched smoothly into what felt like a carefully prepared lecture about legacy and honor and obligation. About how history becomes infinitely more precious as you age and begin to realize your own inevitable mortality. About promises made in youth and debts owed across decades and the inescapable weight of the past on the present.
Philosophy and threats from a criminal.
I just let him talk, rain soaking through my clothes to my skin.
Waiting patiently for him to get to the point of this dramatic conversation.
Finally, he did.
"We can forgive the death you caused," he said with practiced, almost bored calm. "The family will be compensated generously for their tragic loss. But in exchange for this forgiveness, you and your friends will come work for us. You will honor the sacred oath you swore when you were young men at St. Paul's."
I spat back immediately, anger flaring hot. "We were just kids when we made that fucking promise. Fourteen years old. Terrified children under duress and torture. It doesn't count."
The man shrugged with genuine, maddening indifference. "A promise is a promise, Mr. Black. Age does not diminish sacred obligation. Intent matters less than action."
"What happens if we say no?" I asked directly, cutting through the philosophy.
Again that infuriatingly casual shrug. "Then things will happen. Unpleasant things for everyone involved in this situation."
"Now?" I pressed harder. "You'll do something now? Here?"
The old man shook his head slowly, almost sadly. "Now. Later. Next week. Next month. Does it really matter when consequences arrive? Time is just a human construction, Mr. Black. Promises, however, are eternally binding across all circumstances."
I bristled, every muscle tensing, ready to end this standoff now.
Violence solving what words and philosophy couldn't.
"Maybe we should just finish it right now," I suggested with cold finality.
The old man smiled with what appeared to be genuine amusement and even respect. "I truly appreciate your willingness to act decisively and violently. But today is not a good day for either of us to die in the rain."
He paused deliberately for maximum effect.
"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Take some time to think carefully about your options. To talk honestly to your friends. To consider our generous offer. We will make it worth your life, I promise you that personally. That is my solemn word."
He grinned and turned smoothly to leave, dismissing us.
Then stopped mid-step.
Turned back, like he'd just remembered something important.
"One more thing, Mr. Black," he added quietly, voice dropping to something more dangerous. "If you say no to us, if you choose to go back on your sacred promise—this place, this home you and your friends are building here in Paris—it will be torn down. Brick by brick. Stone by stone. Nothing will remain standing."
Another heavily weighted pause.
