Previously on Renzo: After Hours:
Renzo, Xander, and Sebastian escaped the burning remains of L’Aube Atelier with the RVB key—Jules’s final breadcrumb. Behind them, Stephan and Marcel’s men watched the fire erase evidence that could expose Paris’s hidden patronage ring. Ahead lies the Musée d’Orsay, and something Jules left behind that someone powerful wanted forgotten.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Paris the next morning felt hungover on smoke. The news called the fire at L’Aube accidental electrical failure. Renzo knew better. The world had always been too polite to call arson by its right name.
They stayed in a small flat near Rue Bonaparte—borrowed, not rented. The windows looked out toward the Seine, and every bridge shimmered like a choice they hadn’t made yet.
Sebastian returned from a corner bakery with coffee and a grin that tried to pretend they weren’t fugitives. “No tails,” he said. “Just tourists and pigeons.”
“Pigeons are the best spies,” Xander murmured.
Renzo looked at the RVB key resting beside his camera. “We go tonight. The museum closes at six. After that, the sublevels are empty except for security rotation.”
Sebastian set down the coffee. “And what exactly are we breaking into?”
“Not the exhibits,” Renzo said. “Beneath them.”
By midnight the city had quieted again, wet cobblestones reflecting the amber streetlights. They moved like ghosts—Renzo in dark denim and gloves, Xander in black that didn’t shine, Sebastian carrying a pack that clinked faintly with tools and intent.
The side entrance to the Musée d’Orsay was older than the museum itself, a remnant from its railway days. Xander picked the lock in under a minute. Inside, the hush of marble and iron arches swallowed them.
Renzo felt a strange symmetry—the old art above, the buried art below. The key burned cool in his pocket, guiding him like a compass.
Down two flights, past the maintenance wing, they found it: a door marked Archives Privées – Accès Restreint. The lock was modern, coded. Renzo slid the RVB key into a concealed slot beside it. The light blinked—red, green, blue—then white. The door opened.
The air inside was colder, older. Rows of cabinets, sealed boxes, and catalog drawers lined the corridor. The hum of dehumidifiers sounded like the breath of sleeping machines.
Sebastian whistled softly. “This is what purgatory must look like for art.”
Xander swept a small flashlight along the labels. “Everything’s cross-referenced… but not alphabetically. Look.” He pointed to a section marked AUBÉ LXI-LXIV.
Renzo’s pulse quickened. “There.”
Cabinet LXIII, shelf B—exactly as Jules’s code said. But inside, not a reel. A small projector case, vintage, wrapped in silk. A note attached in Jules’s handwriting: “If you’re seeing this, run.”
Sebastian swallowed. “That’s encouraging.”
Renzo’s fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the note. Inside, a second line: “Because by now, they’ve already seen you.”
The overhead lights flickered once, twice. Xander tensed. “Motion sensors. We tripped something.”
“Finish fast,” Renzo said.
He opened the projector case. Inside: a reel labeled RVB—Jules/Renzo 2018. Confidential. A camera key identical to Renzo’s own ring hung from the side.
“Play it,” Sebastian urged.
Xander connected the old projector to his tablet’s battery pack. The film stuttered to life on the blank wall.
Grainy light spilled into the archive, black and white shifting to faint color. Jules appeared on-screen—older, tired, sitting in what looked like the same atelier before it burned.
“Renzo,” Jules said softly. “If you’re watching, I didn’t make it out. Marcel’s gone deeper than any of us thought. He isn’t just trading bodies or art—he’s cataloging souls. Every photograph, every session, every transaction archived here under government protection. They called it Project Muse. You were the masterpiece, Renzo. The one that could make people believe sin was art.”
Renzo’s throat closed.
“You have to destroy the ledger. It’s bound in red leather. And if you find Stephan before he finds you—don’t trust the velvet. It hides the knife.”
The reel crackled, image distorting. For a heartbeat, Jules looked past the camera—terrified. The last frame froze: Marcel’s reflection again, closer than before, holding something that glinted like glass. Then static.
The room went silent except for the hum of electricity.
“Ledger in red leather,” Xander said. “Where would it be?”
Renzo looked down the corridor. “End of this row. Marcel always kept sin alphabetized.”
They found it in a fireproof drawer—thick, bound in crimson, edges gilt. The embossed title read: Muse Register.
Renzo flipped it open. Inside, columns of names—patrons, artists, payments, coded notes. Half the cultural elite of Paris. And near the end, three entries written in fresh ink.
Vale, R. — Reacquisition, pending
Walker, X. — Asset, emotional
Bennett, S. — Asset, volatile
Sebastian stared. “He cataloged us.”
Renzo’s hand tightened around the ledger. “He thinks he still owns us.”
Xander reached for the lighter in his pocket. “Then let’s make him wrong.”
Before Renzo could answer, the archive door slammed open. Light flooded the corridor. Stephan’s silhouette stood framed in the glow, flanked by two guards.
“Well,” he said, voice almost gentle. “You really do know how to make an exit. But I’m afraid this one’s mine.”
Renzo closed the ledger slowly. “You came for proof?”
Stephan smiled. “I came for you.”
Xander stepped forward, body coiled, ready. “You’ll have to go through both of us.”
Stephan’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “That’s the plan.”
From somewhere above, a low alarm began to sound—the museum’s sensors catching motion, power surging. Lights flashed red across the shelves.
Sebastian hissed, “We can’t fight in here.”
Renzo nodded. “Then we run—and we keep the ledger.”
He tucked it under his jacket, grabbed Xander’s hand, and bolted toward the maintenance stair. Stephan’s voice followed, echoing between the stone walls:
“Run, Renzo. But remember—every masterpiece ends up on display.”
They crashed through the emergency door into the night air, alarms wailing behind them. The rain had started again, washing smoke from the skyline.
At the river’s edge, Renzo stopped, holding the ledger tight to his chest. Xander caught his breath, Sebastian bent laughing in disbelief.
“You still think Jules was warning us?” Sebastian asked.
Renzo looked toward the dark shape of the museum. “No. He was inviting us to finish the story.”
He opened the ledger again, letting rain blur the last page. Beneath their names, ink began to run—but not before he caught a new line appearing, faint but fresh, written in the same gold script as before:
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Next On Renzo: After Hours:
The trio follows the mysterious new entry to an abandoned photography studio once owned by Marcel’s patron. Inside the Mirror Room, they’ll discover that the ledger doesn’t just record the past—it predicts the future.
Add comment
Comments