Traders, unable to speculate on stock market ups and downs, had deserted the glass and steel tower that resembled a giant cigar from the outside. Those who had parked in the underground garage were forced to leave their cars there, but the others weren't any luckier. After exiting through an emergency exit, since the main entrance had been blocked due to the power outage, Pierre had noticed that what had happened to the computers and phones had also happened to the cars.

Without electricity, the doors couldn't be unlocked, and it was a safe bet that even if they could, the owners wouldn't be able to start them. In the street, all the cars were at a standstill and silent. In many cases, passengers were fighting to get out. Pedestrians, when they weren't just watching the strange spectacle, helped as best they could, but it always ended with a broken window. Owners still preferred that to being trapped in their own cars.

The traders couldn't do the same with the main entrance of the tower because its windows were thick enough to withstand a ramming car. You could have mistaken it for a bank, given the high level of security. Fortunately, there were doors that could be opened from the inside simply by pressing a metal bar. This was mandatory to allow for a quick evacuation, for example, in case of fire.

Pierre Marchais lived far from his workplace, in a decent-sized and very bright studio located in the 3rd arrondissement of Paris, less than five minutes from the Square du Temple. It was a highly sought-after area with many monuments and beautiful homes. Needless to say, not everyone could afford to live there. Yet, that was the case for Pierre, who was not yet thirty-five.

The rent cost him an arm, but he could afford it thanks to his job. It was said that at the stock exchange, you could become very rich in a day, but it was easier to go bankrupt in the blink of an eye. One couldn't improvise as a trader, and Pierre was rather good at it. However, he wasn't the best, far from it. Several times he had come close to ruin because of some bad investments, especially when he had just started. He had then made the mistake of putting all his eggs in one basket. Whether it was luck or divine will, he had barely escaped by making a risky bet when everything was against him.

Despite the advantages his studio could offer, Pierre regretted having chosen a residence in this district. Indeed, ten kilometers separated him from his home. By car, it was nothing if you ignored the traffic jams, but on foot, it was a nightmare. What relieved him a little was that he wasn't the only one suffering. Everyone around him was walking. Few were the lucky ones moving around by bike or scooter (not electric).

Pierre gritted his teeth as he saw a bike zoom past him. Vince tried to call him as he would with a taxi, probably to buy it from him, but was royally ignored, which made Pierre smile.

I should have come by bike this morning! What an idiot! And it's such nice weather!

The young man had gotten used to coming to work in his nice car and hadn't ridden a bike since high school. It was starting to show. Yet, he had one. It was hanging on the wall near the entrance so that it took up as little space as possible.

It took him two long hours to finally reach the threshold of his door. He could have arrived ten or fifteen minutes earlier if he hadn't had to stop to catch his breath. He had virtually no endurance left from sitting in an office chair all day. However, he had gotten into the habit of lifting weights and hitting a sandbag for an hour on his days off, just to stay in shape and relieve stress. And he accumulated a lot of stress. It was starting to show on the top of his head.

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Although tired and frustrated to have been forced to walk home, he politely greeted the owner of the shop located on the ground floor of his Haussmann-style building with his usual sober face. It was a fairly well-known café-bar-brasserie in the neighborhood that was packed at lunch and dinner. Despite the late hour, the owner stood alone at the entrance of his establishment, cigarette in mouth, looking dismayed.

"Good evening, Gégé. Power outage for you too, huh," Pierre said as he arrived.

Gérard, whom everyone called Gégé at his request because he didn't like his first name, stood up and extended a hand to his neighbor while removing his cigarette from his mouth.

"Ah, hi Pierrot. Don't even get me started! Nothing's working anymore! I can't work, so I told my guys to go home."

"Nothing's working?" Pierre inquired.

"Nothing. Oh, except my beer taps. But the refrigeration part is down, so I only have warm beer in my kegs. I tried to pour some, but all I get is foam. I'm left with just my bottles. And you?"

"Same. It's chaos in the city, from what I've seen."

"You walked from La Défense to here?" Gégé's thick eyebrow raised upon hearing Pierre's answer.

"No choice. I couldn't even find my car in the underground parking lot. Without electricity, we couldn't see anything. Anyway, no car is working," Pierre explained in a flat tone as if it didn't matter.

"Yeah, that's what I gathered."

"You still manage to get any customers?" Pierre asked curiously.

"Yeah, well, only the regulars. But I can't even serve them a coffee or operate my cash register! So, I'm doing what I can. Luckily, I have bottles! But they won't stay cold for long. Want one? It's on the house."

"Ah, thanks," Pierre sighed. "I sure need it."

"I bet," Gégé said.

Gégé guided the trader, dressed casually in a shirt, inside his brightly lit establishment, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the large windows framing the door, and handed him a beer with a lime wedge. They sat at a clean table that should have been occupied by customers eager to share a moment of conviviality over a charcuterie platter, cheese, and homemade fries.

"And so, how did you manage?" the shopkeeper asked, uncapping a new beer for himself.

"Without a computer, I can't do anything. I hope it'll be restored soon. I'm surprised the outage has lasted this long. Do you think it's a cyber attack? That's what I heard at work."

"Possible," the owner replied helplessly. "In any case, it's a big blow. And no way to know how it is elsewhere in France. Maybe only Paris is affected?"

"Who knows?"

The two men savored their beer as if the rest of the world didn't exist. They weren't disturbed by anyone and could continue chatting for a few more minutes, which had never happened since Pierre had moved there two years earlier.

"Well, I'll leave you," Pierre announced as he got up. "I'm going upstairs to see how it is."

"Don't expect much, but go ahead. See you."

"Until next time. And thanks again for the beer."

Pierre liked Gérard, although they hadn't had many opportunities to chat in the past. They said hello every time they crossed paths, and sometimes Pierre came to eat at his place. Gégé was very good at making friends, a talent Pierre no longer had. When he had moved into his new studio, he had offered him a welcome basket, a friendly gesture that had immediately put Pierre at ease. He was a Breton with an accent and a striped T-shirt, like sailors. Everyone in the building knew him and liked him.

He entered the entry code and pulled on the door, but nothing happened. The door was locked. He tried again, two times, three times, but nothing changed.