Solara was unlike any city Adam Nerac had ever known.
He had seen it in photographs, of course. Gray photographs, taken by journalists in a hurry, where the buildings rose like broken teeth under a leaden sky. But the photographs said nothing about the smell. That smell of old rain, wet metal and burnt coffee that clung to your skin the moment you stepped off the train. They said nothing about the noise either. A constant rumble, at the edge of the audible, as if the city itself were breathing. Or growling.
Adam was twenty-six. He wore his navy-blue police jacket, clean jeans, and white sneakers he had scrubbed the night before with Marseille soap. He held his bag in one hand and his summons in the other. On the summons was a name: Central Police Station of Solara, 14 rue des Orfèvres. And beneath it, in smaller print: Assignment: Night Service. Unit: unspecified.
He had applied for this post because he still believed the police could change things. His father had been a policeman. Killed in the line of duty. Adam hadn't known much about him, apart from a photograph, a name and a family legend: Marek Nerac was a hero. He had fallen protecting the city. No one ever said which city. No one ever said how. They just said, "Your father was a hero." And Adam had grown up with that sentence in his head, like a promise to keep.
The central station of Solara was a massive building, put up in the seventies, with a gray stone façade the rain had blackened. The windows were narrow, almost hostile. Above the entrance a tricolor flag hung, soaked and weary. Adam stopped on the sidewalk, looked up, and drew a deep breath.
"First day," he murmured. "At last I get to serve this city."
He pushed open the door.
The lobby was smaller than he had imagined. A Formica counter, two plastic chairs, a security gate beeping at nothing. Behind the counter, a Black security guard in his fifties, head shaved, was reading a racing paper. He barely glanced up.
"Papers."
Adam held out his summons.
"Adam Nerac. New posting. I'm here to see Commissioner Vasseur."
The guard took the sheet, read it, handed it back. He had broad, battered hands and the eyes of a man who had seen too much to be surprised.
"Elevator, third floor. Corridor on the left. Office at the end. But I'm warning you, the commissioner doesn't like new people."
"Why?"
"Because they're new."
Adam put his summons away. He was about to leave when the guard added:
"You got family here?"
"No. No one."
"Good. Around here, family's a trap."
Adam didn't know what to say. He nodded and headed for the elevator.
The third floor smelled of warm plastic and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights hummed. On the walls hung prevention posters, wanted notices, a calendar with a photo of a cat. Adam walked down the corridor, bag on his shoulder, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. But here, eyes didn't meet. They slid past, like water on a windowpane. An officer in uniform went by, a Black man in his forties, eyes fixed on his coffee. He said nothing. Another, younger, white, with a crew cut, looked at him for a second, then turned his head away. Adam felt transparent.
He found the office at the end of the corridor. The door stood ajar. On a plastic plate, a name: P. Vasseur, Commissioner. Adam knocked twice.
"Come in."
The voice was calm. Almost gentle. Adam pushed the door open.
The office was small, cluttered, but orderly. Stacks of files, a computer, a coffee machine, a window looking onto an inner courtyard. Behind the desk sat a white man of around fifty, bent over a document. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, a plain tie. His head was shaved, his beard short, and his eyes seemed to read through walls. He didn't look up right away. He let Adam stand there for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then he raised his eyes.
"Adam Nerac," he said.
"Yes, sir. I'm your new recruit."
"I know who you are. Sit down."
Adam sat in the chair facing the desk. It was hard. The commissioner studied him for a long moment without a word. Then he opened a drawer, took out a folder, and set it in front of him.
"Twenty-six. Graduated from the academy with honors. Requested posting: Solara. No family ties in the region. No disciplinary record. No distinguishing marks. You're clean."
"Thank you, sir."
"That wasn't a compliment. Around here, clean people tend to get dirty very fast. Or die."
Adam didn't answer. Vasseur opened the folder, read a few lines, then closed it.
"Why Solara?"
"I want to prove myself, sir."
"False."
Adam blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"You're lying. You didn't ask for Solara to prove yourself. You asked for it for another reason. What is it?"
Adam felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He wasn't ready. He had prepared his speech, his answers, his justifications. But not this. Not this question.
"My father was a policeman," he said. "He died in the line of duty. I wanted to..."
"Your father's name was Marek Nerac," said Vasseur.
Adam froze.
"You knew him?"
"I know every name that matters in this city. Your father was a good man. Too good, perhaps. He died for something bigger than himself. You should be proud."
"I am."
"No. You're angry. You want to know what happened. You want to understand why a man like him ended up in a burning warehouse. And you believe the police will give you answers."
Adam said nothing. Vasseur smiled. It was a tired smile, almost sad.
"You won't find answers here. You'll find files. Names. Lies. And if you ask too many questions, you'll end up like him."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you. It's not the same thing."
A silence fell. Adam could hear his own breathing. He could also hear, behind the partition, a telephone ringing. Then footsteps in the corridor.
"You start tonight," said Vasseur. "Night service. You'll be under Lieutenant Ledoux. He'll brief you. And you will do exactly what he tells you. No zeal. No initiative. No questions."
"Understood."
"I'm not sure you do. But you'll learn."
Vasseur stood. He came around the desk and approached Adam. He was taller than Adam, broader. He smelled of coffee and paper.
"One last thing," he said. "What you see here does not leave this station. What you hear doesn't either. And if one day you feel like talking, like telling what you've seen, remember this: in this city, the walls have ears. And the ears have friends."
Adam held his gaze. He would have liked to say something strong, something brave. But all he could find was:
"I didn't come here to talk. I came to work."
Vasseur looked at him a moment longer. Then he nodded.
"Good. Go find Ledoux. First floor, briefing room. And Nerac..."
"Yes?"
"Welcome to Solara."
It wasn't a welcome. It was a warning.
Adam left the office. In the corridor he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a second. He could still feel Vasseur's gaze on him, like a hand resting on the back of his neck. He thought of his father. He thought of the sentence he had repeated all through his childhood: "Your father was a hero." And for the first time, he wondered whether it was true.
He went down to the first floor. The briefing room was a windowless space with a central table, mismatched chairs, and a whiteboard covered in names, arrows and question marks. At the far end a man sat with his feet on the table, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was Black, about thirty-five, in a gray suit and blue shirt, no tie. He didn't stand when Adam came in.
"Nerac?" he said.
"Yes."
"Samuel Ledoux. Lieutenant. Sit down."
Adam sat. Samuel took a sip of coffee, then set the cup down.
"You saw the commissioner?"
"Yes."
"Did he scare you?"
"He warned me."
"That's his way. He warns everyone. It saves him from regretting it."
Samuel leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Listen to me. Here, we don't work the way they do at the academy. We don't work with principles. We work with results. You understand?"
"I think so."
"You don't think so. You know, or you don't. There's a difference. In this city, there are people who do evil. And there are people who do good. But most of the time, they're the same people. And we're here to make sure as few people as possible die. That's all. The rest is literature."
Adam wanted to answer. To say that justice wasn't literature. To say his father hadn't died for that. But he remembered Vasseur's warning. He kept quiet.
"Good," Samuel said. "Tonight, you're with me. We're doing a round in the docks sector. You observe. You listen. You don't talk. And if I tell you to run, you run. Is that clear?"
"Clear."
"Perfect. Eight o'clock, underground parking. And Nerac…"
"Yes?"
"Don't trust everyone here. Not even me."
He stood, picked up his cup, and left. Adam stayed alone in the briefing room. On the whiteboard, there was a photo. A Black man, in his sixties, elegant, smiling. Beneath it, a name: Henri Sorel. And beside that, a note: "Respects the Pact. Keep under watch."
Adam stared at the photo for a long moment. Then he took out his phone and photographed the board. He didn't yet know why. But he sensed that this name, Sorel, was going to matter.