He was patrolling the Croix-Rousse neighborhood in Lyon, following his usual route, when something brushed against his leg. Bastien looked down, expecting a stray cat or a fallen leaf.
Instead, he met the gaze of a small boy—no older than four—standing far too still for someone his age. The child wasn’t staring at the uniform, the badge, or the equipment on Bastien’s belt.
His eyes were locked on Bastien’s right forearm.
“Sir,” the boy said softly, almost reverently, “my dad had the same one.”
The child lifted a finger and pointed directly at the Breton triskelion tattoo etched into Bastien’s skin.
Bastien felt his chest tighten.
That symbol wasn’t common. It wasn’t trendy. And in his entire life, he had only known one other person who carried that exact mark.
His twin brother.
