Les Orphelins – the scars of that damned place bind them, even now. Gab and Driss grew up side by side on the cracked tiles and cold meals of the orphanage, brothers by circumstance. But ten years out, their paths split like a bad fracture. Gab’s wearing a crisp IGPN badge now, Internal Affairs’ golden boy sniffing out dirty cops. Driss? He’s the ghost in the underbelly, a fixer who makes problems disappear for Marseille’s worst. They haven’t spoken in years. Not since the night they burned their old room down and walked away without looking back. Then the call comes. She’s dead. Fatima—the sharp-tongued girl they both loved, then hated, then pretended to forget—is gone. A hit-and-run, the cops say. Clean. Random. But her daughter, Leïla, 17 and wild with grief, knows better. Before the body’s even cold, she smashes the glass of Gab’s locker, takes his service pistol, and vanishes into the city’s shadowed veins. She’s hunting. Hunting the men who sent flowers to the funeral with blood still on their hands. Gab and Driss? They’re thrown together by necessity, not choice. Old grudges flare like struck matches. Gab’s got protocols, a career to protect. Driss has contacts even the devil wouldn’t shake hands with. But Leïla’s leaving a trail of chaos—a lit fuse heading straight for the powder keg. Behind Fatima’s death lurks La Main, a syndicate with politicians in its pocket and a habit of silencing loose ends with concrete shoes. The deeper Leïla digs, the closer she gets to a truth that could burn the city down. Gab and Driss have one shot: stop her before she pulls the trigger on the wrong target… or becomes one herself. But in Les Orphelins, trust is currency they spent long ago. And redemption? That’s a luxury for people who weren’t raised in cages. Now the ghosts of their past are biting at their heels. Time’s running out. For Leïla. For them. For everyone.