Although still and silent in his beautiful, minimalist-style apartment, Pierre was deeply contemplating his next moves. He had just returned home after attempting to withdraw some cash from his bank. Armed with his latest statements, contracts, ID, and anything that could prove he had money with them, he had faced a resounding and final refusal, just like everyone else who had risen early to secure an audience. They had even dared to pull down the metal shutter to ensure no one attempted to forcefully withdraw any funds.

"Damn it! What the hell am I supposed to do without cash! It's my money, damn it!"

All he could hear was his own breathing. The deafening silence seemed increasingly unbearable. Even the street seemed unpleasantly silent. For someone who thrived on hustle and bustle, the sound of moving vehicles, and humming machines, staying in such a cold room felt downright distressing.

"Damn it! It's too silent! I want to play some music! Anything! It's too unsettling, I can't think straight!"

He had nothing specific to do, given that the electricity still hadn't returned. He had realized early on that there was no point in returning to work if none of the computers were functioning. He had tried booting up his laptop upon waking up, only to find that like the TV or anything else plugged in, it had ceased to function, probably permanently.

So, he sat in his superb living room, staring at the black screen of his impressive television, the remnants of his meal from the night before in a plate on the coffee table, lost in thought. The midday sun was gently warming him since it had positioned itself right in front of one of the two large windows in the main room.

He felt like much of the warmth had escaped during the night, but without a thermometer, he couldn't be sure of anything. He had the sensation that it must be between sixty and sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit (sixteen to seventeen degrees Celsius), whereas it was usually set to 68°F (20°C). If he had had a thermometer, he would have realized that it was actually sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit (19°C) in his chic apartment in central Paris.

"Damn, it's cold. I'll put on a sweater," murmured Pierre to himself to break the deathly silence reigning in his home. "Luckily," he continued, slipping into a thick light gray sweater that perfectly hugged his silhouette, "this outage didn't happen in the middle of winter!"

A detonation was then heard outside, without Pierre being able to determine more precisely where the noise was coming from. Another detonation was heard again followed by a few more. Surprised, Pierre Marchais headed towards one of the windows of the living room and tried to see something. The streets were empty, and the cars hadn't moved an inch. As the detonations continued, he decided to grab his coat, heavy, elegant, and comfortable, and quickly put on his well-maintained black leather Oxfords.

Outside, the terrible sound of detonations bounced off the imposing walls, imposing on the beautiful architecture, disturbing Pierre's senses. But now that he was outside, surrounded by the uncollected garbage from that morning, he could hear other sounds. Perhaps out of boredom, the young trader walked the streets of Paris, trying to locate where all the noise could be coming from.

What's going on?! I want to know!

He walked towards the Musée des Arts et Métiers and the church of Saint-Nicolas des Champs. The detonations were much stronger here, and he could also clearly hear a clamor shaking the sky. In Sébastopol street, where the Monoprix where he shopped the day before was located, a huge crowd marched, shouting their anger. They addressed anyone who could hear them, demanding an immediate restoration of all the services they had been deprived of for far too long. They also wanted compensation for the losses caused by the blackout.

The crowd was so large that it blackened the street. Never, whether with his own eyes or through the news, had he seen such a large demonstration. Pierre joined the crowd like so many others, although he didn't hope for much in return. Indeed, he didn't think the government was capable of restoring water, gas, electricity, Internet, phones, and getting his car back in the underground garage of the tower where he worked. However, he was as worried, angry, and helpless as all these people. There were men and women of all ages and probably all political persuasions. The old lady warmly wrapped in an imposing fur coat walked alongside the package deliveryman paid the lowest possible wage.

Pierre soon noticed some figures in the crowd who didn't seem content to just march and shout their anger. They walked in small groups, dressed in black, often carrying a bag on their back, hood pulled down to hide their already well-hidden features under scarves or gas masks.

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Black blocs... Scum. They've come to clash with the police and have fun causing trouble.

Pierre felt a deep aversion towards these people. In his eyes, they were parasites of the worst kind who derived sick pleasure from destroying what others had built. Although he had never witnessed their misdeeds, he knew them through the media, always quick to report their violence and cruelty. However, he had no doubt that once unmasked, these thugs would revert to terrified kids. To him, they were nothing but bored bourgeois and bourgeois sons who thought they were revolutionaries. They were certainly experienced after years of neglect, but they certainly wouldn't last long against weapons of war.

It's better not to get too close.

They looked threatening with their sticks, and it was a good bet that they had something much more dangerous in their backpacks, like Molotov cocktails or rockets, for example. He even suspected that some of them had firearms hidden on them.

As they passed by the Monoprix, several entered, closely followed by ordinary people who intended to take advantage of the confusion to do their "shopping." Many feared quickly running out of food due to the fridge being cut off. Because the preferred means of payment was the bank card and these were unusable, many people had not been able to build up reserves. So, it was no wonder to see the kind housewife and the model employee transform into looters so quickly.

Pierre Marchais, the brilliant trader with well-stocked bank accounts, hesitated. He had been able to buy a few small things in the same Monoprix the day before, but his cash had not been enough to take everything he needed to last at least a week. Others had not had this same thought and had taken everything they could while the guards were busy elsewhere.

As the crowd passed by a large bank with the shutter down, Pierre reflected on the refusal he had received a few hours earlier. The truth was that banks couldn't allow so much cash to be withdrawn all at once. The risk of running out of cash was too great, and the consequences would be disastrous. If they couldn't give the money requested by their clients, it meant that this money had disappeared. The bank's reputation, and therefore all banks, would collapse like a house of cards.

Pierre, as a trader, knew and understood this all too well, having manipulated virtual money for all these years. It was all about trust. His clients trusted him because they trusted the numbers displayed on their screens. If they indicated they had a hundred euros, it meant he had a hundred euros even though they couldn't touch them. But now, everything was faltering. There was no longer any evidence that they had a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, or a million euros somewhere, safely tucked away.

And it's only a matter of time before trust in real currency crumbles. Maybe it already has?

A banknote was ultimately just a piece of paper of a certain shape, color with little drawings and numbers on it to which a value had been attributed. The same goes for coins. It was ultimately just a small circular piece of metal with a number on one side and a symbol on the other. But what would happen if their value were questioned, if they were seen for what they really were: a piece of paper and a bit of metal? We would surely revert to bartering until we formed a new currency in which we could trust.

The young man carefully observed the scene unfolding before his eyes. Men and women had come down in such great numbers to pound the Parisian pavement. Some flew flags. He saw the French flag, the black and white flag of Brittany, red of the CGT, a black flag with a pirate skull, white with golden fleur-de-lis of the royalists, black with a large white A inscribed in a circle for anarchists, the Algerian flag, Tunisian or rainbow for the LGBT community. It was very strange to see them waving in the same procession, but that didn't mean they were side by side. Anarchists hated nationalists, Algerians hated Moroccans, and these two couldn't stand the LGBT. As for the pirate flag, it seemed there to mock the other flags.

Pierre saw a young man from the height of his balcony waving a British flag vigorously. Beside him, another young man, probably a student, sounded a horn in the street.

If he had been a bird, Pierre would have seen that the procession was growing visibly as it progressed towards the Seine and the Place du Châtelet. Groups merged as they crossed paths and walked together towards an unknown destination.

The air had become heavy, as if the emotions of all these people gathered there had managed to create a microclimate. One could believe that a storm was about to break out. Everyone wore serious faces full of anger. It was definitely not a festive atmosphere despite the colored smoke bombs waved at various points and the sound of drums or other musical instruments. Pierre, increasingly worried as he saw the crowd swell, found himself towards the center of the procession.

Damn, I don't like this. We can't see anything from here!

Indeed, it was impossible to see at such a distance what was happening at the head of the procession, no more than at the rear. It was barely possible to observe what was happening on the sides. All he could do was watch the people around him and occasionally the sound of a broken window or an overturned garbage can. However, he tried to keep an eye on the people in black.

"RAYMOND, RAYMOND, RE-SIGN! RAYMOND, RAYMOND, RE-SIGN!

WATER, ELEC, NET, AND GAS! WE DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN THE MIDDLE AGES!

PARIS, PARIS, IN THE STREET!"