1

It was late afternoon at Les Baumettes prison, located in the enchanting southern French port city of Marseille. The prison stretched along the road to the Calanque de Morgiou, offering a breathtaking view of the picturesque surroundings. The man with a prominent scar on his chin stood at his barred window and let his gaze wander over the scenery. The sun shone brightly down from the sky and bathed the town in its characteristic Mediterranean flair.

As he stood there, thoughts full of anger and bitterness flowed through his mind. One day he would get out of this prison - he was sure of it. And when that day finally came, his revenge would follow! Commissaire Marquanteur, that cursed investigator, had put him behind bars for many years of his life and he would pay for it!

Pierre Marquanteur - this name echoed like a gloomy echo in the man's mind. He could not forget or forgive what this investigator had done to him. With each day of his imprisonment, his desire for retribution only grew.

The life of the man with the conspicuous scar now revolved around just one thought: to take revenge on the one who had so cruelly sealed his fate. Every breath was accompanied by this hatred - a hatred as strong as an unstoppable force of nature.

As he continued to look out of the window, he could see the city in all its splendor before him. But to him it was nothing but a symbol of injustice and betrayal. The sun's warm rays falling on his skin were like a mockery of his inner pain.

The man with the scar on his chin knew full well that his path to freedom would be rocky. But he was prepared to fight for it - whatever the cost. His determination grew stronger by the day and drove him to explore every possibility of escaping or carrying out his plans for revenge.

In the midst of this gloomy atmosphere in Les Baumettes prison, he swore to himself: One day, Commissaire Marquanteur will have to realize that his own end has come. The moment of retribution is approaching - rolling inexorably like an avalanche.

"Hey, are you dreaming of taking revenge on this inspector again?" his cellmate asked provocatively. The man with the conspicuous scar on his face turned around slowly and fixed his fellow prisoner with a penetrating gaze. His eyes betrayed a mixture of contempt and determination.

"You don't have any dreams, do you?" he replied sharply. His cellmate's words had hit a sore spot - the question about his own ambitions had stirred him up inside. But now it was time for the man with the scar to reveal his thoughts.

"I wonder," his cellmate began curiously, "why you only want to take revenge on this Commissaire Marquanteur? Why not on his colleague Monsieur Leroc as well?"

The man with the scar seemed to pause for a moment and thought hard. It was obvious that he had been thinking about it intensively - not only about the vendetta against Marquanteur alone, but also against Leroc. After spending countless hours in his prison cell and telling his story over and over again, his fellow prisoner knew every detail about it by now.

The two police officers belonged to a highly specialized task force to combat organized crime, terrorism and serial crimes. They were known for their success rate in apprehending dangerous criminals and had already solved numerous cases that would have presented other investigators with almost unsolvable challenges.

But that didn't matter to the man with the scar. He was not impressed by her reputation or her seemingly insurmountable strength. His thirst for revenge outweighed all other thoughts in his head.

"Who's to say I won't kill this Leroc too?" he finally replied with an iron determination in his voice. The words echoed menacingly through the stuffy air of the prison cell and sent a shiver down the spines of his cellmates.

It had become clear - this man would leave no stone unturned to satisfy his desire for revenge. Neither Marquanteur nor Leroc would be safe from his unbridled hatred and the plan firmly anchored in his mind.

*

"Bonjour, Pierre!"

I turned around.

"Oh, it's you, François."

"Who else?"

"Are you stalking me on your day off already?"

"I have a day off too."

"I know."

I was sitting at the harbor, close to the quay wall, fishing. I sometimes do that when I want to clear my head a bit. The large container ships that make their way from the Mediterranean to the port of Marseille are always an impressive sight.

I've never caught much. But that's not the point.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you a seat, François," I said.

"Never mind."

"Why?"

"I've made provisions."

"Provided for?"

"I've brought a folding chair."

I hadn't seen it straight away. François had carried it on the side facing away from me. He put it down and sat down. "I hope you don't mind, Pierre?"

"Sure."

I am Pierre Marquanteur, Commissaire in Marseille. And François Leroc is my colleague. We belong to a special unit called the Force spéciale de la police criminelle , FoPoCri for short, and we deal with the big fish, as they say. Organized crime, for example - or serial offenders. We don't have a lot of free time, and in fact we're constantly putting in a huge amount of overtime that we should actually be working off.

It will never work anyway.

But now we had taken a day off.

"Why are you here?" I asked François.

"Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

"No?"

"So, why are you here?"

"The honest version?" ...