@delafoi ❤’d for a thingy !!
Being alone in FRANCE makes him long for the cold and crispy air of the ATLANTIC or even the natural fluctuation between the calm nights and bustling days of NEW YORK. Only three months in and the basic lisp of the language is starting to numb the hard vowels in his accent, and even a look in the mirror to count the greying hairs that line his locks / the aching in his bones and creaking joints when he would climb a ledge or rooftop too fast meant he was running out of time, slowly but surely. As far as the the intelligence he gathered was concerned, the ASSASSINS of Paris were dead. All he was left with was a name : the CAFÉ THÉÂTRE. And he had no idea what that meant.
And so he begins another particular day looking for this establishment. Approaching a hooded man on the street, he tries as he might with the most basic of FRENCH he leaned over the past month. ❝ Sir, would you know where the CAFÉ THÉÂTRE can be found in the area? ❞
