Alfred Whitaker strode down the halls of the Les Invalides alongside numerous foreigners and locals.
As for him, he was a foreigner, an inventor and a scientist from the United States who was on leave to satiate his curiosity about Napoleon Bonaparte.
He had been a fan of history monarchs and Napoleon’s history definitely made an impression on him. He even read novels written about him, and blogs that praised his genius intellect and strategy.
And from that, he started liking anything from France but not all of them as France still had its own modern issues.
Now, at the Dome des Invalides, there was a circular balustrade at the center and above, there was a domed ceiling with frescoed painting that was visually stunning.
He walked over to the balustrade where there are already a number of foreigners taking pictures and selfies. He placed his hand over the balustrade and then leaned over.
There, he saw the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte, encased in a brown sarcophagus that rested in the oval pit below.
Alfred kept his eyes on the coffin, watching it.
Resting inside it was the legend himself, Napoleon Bonaparte. He had heard stories about the sarcophagus being a multi-layered tomb just to make sure he won’t come back from the dead.
The thought of it made him chuckle softly. He was a feared man in Europe.
He grabbed his phone from his pocket and then took a picture of it. Once it was done, he turned his back on the balustrade and raised his hands to take a picture of himself along with Napoleon’s coffin. He tapped the button, capturing the moment.
After that, he went on a stroll, discovering many artifacts and displays. Sabers with gilded hilts. Officer uniforms with faded stitching. Maps drawn by hand, showing France’s push across Europe like spreading ink. He paused at each case long enough to read the small plaques, but not long enough to join the tourists taking photos beside him.
He stopped at a glass case holding a cradle. A replica, according to the description, of the cradle built for the King of Rome. Delicate gold accents curved along the wooden frame. The bedding was tiny, decorative, and unrealistically pristine.
Alfred studied it with a blank expression. "Born into glory," he murmured. "Lived in a cage. Napoleon the Second. Oh, yes, Napoleon had a son."
In fact he did, though not counting the bastards that he made with other women, but this one in particular was intriguing. Napoleon II, he was the direct heir to the throne should Napoleon abdicate in his favor. But he knew that didn’t happen as the coalition crushed his army and sent him to exile.
What a poor fate for someone born at the top, he thought. A gilded title with no real weight. A childhood choked by politics. An adulthood that never really began.
He walked toward the far wing when a sudden metallic clatter echoed from the entrance corridor. People turned their heads. A museum guard shouted something in French—short, alarmed.
Then the gunshots came.
Sharp cracks tore through the hall, followed by screams. Tourists scattered instantly, running in every direction. A pair of museum staff sprinted past him, ducking low, shouting for people to hide.
Alfred froze for half a second before instinct kicked in. He ducked behind a stone column just as two armed men barged into the hall. Their faces were covered by scarves. Their rifles swung wildly as they shouted.
"Allahu Akbar!"
Visitors hit the floor, trembling. A woman clutched her child, pulling him under a display table. A man crawled behind a statue pedestal. The whole museum transformed from quiet to chaos in seconds.
Alfred’s pulse hammered. He peeked out just enough to see the attackers sweeping through the hall. One fired into the ceiling, showering plaster dust across the displays. Another kicked a glass case, shattering it.
This wasn’t petty theft.
This was an attack.
Alfred clenched his jaw. "This is exactly the kind of crap happening here now," he whispered. "This is what I hate about France today."
He had read too many headlines about violent incidents across the country—security lapses, politically fueled unrest, and questionable handling of migrants and criminal networks. He didn’t blame entire groups, but he blamed the system that let dangerous people blend in without proper oversight.
Another shot ripped through the hall. This one hit a column close enough for Alfred to feel the vibration through the stone. He ducked lower, pressing his shoulder against the cold surface.
A guard returned fire from a side corridor. The attackers shifted, turning their guns toward the source. Alfred watched helplessly as bullets ripped through a display wall, splintering wood and sending antique fragments scattering.
He needed to move.
But, just as he made his move, he heard a rushed footsteps from behind, and when he turned his head.
Bang... bang... bang!
Alfred looked down and saw blood spreading across his shirt. Three neat holes punched clean through the fabric. For a moment he didn’t even process the pain. His brain lagged behind, stunned by the shock.
Then the burn hit him.
He collapsed onto his side, the world tilting violently. The ceiling spun. Lamps, frescoes, shadows, everything blurred as his vision tunnelled inward. Then blood started coming out from his mouth.
"No way...this is where I would die?" Alfred thought to himself.
He felt tremors of the gunman’s footsteps getting louder and louder as he crept closer.
And he could see from the slits of his balaclava the eyes of someone who has done this a lot of times. Alfred was no exception, he could tell his fate would be sealed here.
Though he knew people would die at some point, he just didn’t expect it to be in this place and time. This was all unexpected and he hated it. There’s so much to do in his life, things that he hasn’t fulfilled. This is unforgivable, he is not satisfied with his life yet, it can’t end here!
The gunman pointed the rifle at him coldly and with a pull of the trigger, everything went black.