A/N: Hey, I know they're in Paris, but i'm only in my fourth year of French, so I can't exactly give full dialog... Bear with me! Hehe.. bear..

Chapter 1

A short girl leaned over a sink in a locked public restroom in Paris, France. An empty black bottle of dye sat on the counter between discarded gloves. This girl rinsed her hair into the sink, staining it black. After towel drying her soaking hair and drying the counter, she plugged in a large straightener. She then emptied a small duffel bag onto the dirty floor, instantly regretting it, but not picking the items up. Instead, she peered at the clothing on the ground, attempting to decide which clothing would disguise her best. She opted for a business style- something her late mother might have worn in her younger years. The outfit was different from the girls usual laid back, casual style. She donned her 'professional' outfit ; a long-sleeved, striped shirt, a black pencil skirt and rather uncomfortable heels.

"Shit," She muttered when she slipped in her 3-inch heels, wishing they weren't an essential part of her disguise. Her height was probably her most notable feature, being 4'11, she was well under the average height for the kind age of 17. Once she had adjusted her outfit, she straightened her hair and teased it, something she was not used to doing. Looking in the mirror for the last time, she grabbed her duffel bag and left the restroom looking like a completely separate person from the one who had entered.

The girl, now disguised as a woman, stepped out onto the busy sidewalk, feeling extremely lost. She stood motionless for awhile, wondering what she was going to do now. 'Stop it,' She mentally chastised herself. 'You probably look like an idiot, you're not Chance anymore, stop acting like her.' She got knocked out of her mental battle when she crashed to the ground, victim to blind jogger syndrome. "Watch it!" The guy snarled and continued running.

She felt a strong hand lift her out of the sidewalk, and into an alleyway, shaded from public. She looked up at him, still only 5'2 with her heels. The man who had helped her up looked to be in his mid-thirties, slightly overweight, and an unshaven face. From her quick assessment she concluded he wasn't cop material, and therefore, trustworthy.

"You lost or somethin', lady? You were standing out in the middle of the sidewalk like some freak, what's you're name?" He looked at her quizzically, as if she was some newly-discovered animal.

She held out her hand, "Ch-I'm Emille, Landriault." He shook her hand briskly.

"Henry." His voice suddenly felt darker, more ominous. The man, Henry as he called himself, leaned over top of her, breathing down her neck in short, ragged breaths. "You wanna have a little fun, Emmie?"

She started backing away, eventually backing into a wall. "uh-" He cut her off, looking her up and down and whispering, "You look pretty, eeh, professional."

The man slid his greasy arms around her waist, leaning in even closer, breathing the last word into her ear, changing it from just an adjective to a word that would live in her nightmares.

"I-I-Uh-" She stopped herself, Emille Landriault, 20 years old, and already on the road to owning her own company didn't stutter. Chance stuttered. Emille would punch the man square in the jaw, push him off of her and spit on him, muttering something along the lines of, "Get out of my way, fucking twat." in disgust. And that's what she did. Because she was Emille, and that was what she would do. Henry looked on at her, wide-eyed, as she murmured, "Ew." and daintily stepped out of the garbage filled alleyway.

Emille grinned, realizing just how badass she really was. She wasn't a zombie, and she was fucking proud of it.