Alain’s childhood was a maze of cold kitchens, butcher’s blocks, and slammed doors. Passed between two remarried parents, he learned early that charm could replace love, and mischief could at least win attention. School couldn’t hold him, rules meant nothing, and each expulsion only deepened the quiet conviction that he was fundamentally unwanted. The butcher’s shop gave him discipline of the hands, but not of the heart; the Army finally imposed order, forcing him to confront himself in the unforgiving mirror of military life.
When he returned, carrying the hardness of a soldier and the wounded eyes of a neglected boy, Paris barely noticed the young waiter drifting between tables. Yet behind that casual smile, something dangerous was forming: a magnetic presence, an instinctive understanding of how to be seen. The world would soon call it beauty. He knew it was just survival.
