In the glittering alpine resort of Crans-Montana, Switzerland—a playground for the wealthy where snow-capped peaks meet champagne-fueled revelry—a night meant for celebration turned into a nightmare of flames and screams. On the stroke of midnight ushering in the New Year, January 1, 2026, Le Constellation bar erupted into an inferno that would claim 40 lives and scar over 100 others with burns and trauma. What began as a festive stunt with sparklers atop champagne bottles ended in tragedy, and now, leaked police interrogations reveal a shocking twist: the bar’s owners, Jacques and Jessica Moretti, are deflecting blame onto a young waitress they dub the “girl in the helmet,” whose final act may have ignited the deadly blaze. As families grieve and investigators dig deeper, this story unfolds like a thriller, exposing lapses in safety, accusations of negligence, and the raw human cost of a preventable disaster.

Crans-Montana, nestled in the Swiss Alps, is no stranger to extravagance. Known for its luxury ski slopes, high-end chalets, and vibrant nightlife, the town attracts tourists from across Europe and beyond. Le Constellation, a popular basement bar on the main strip, had been a staple for ten years under the stewardship of French nationals Jacques Moretti, 49, and his wife Jessica, 40. The couple, who moved to Switzerland seeking a fresh start, transformed the venue into a hotspot for après-ski parties and holiday bashes. On New Year’s Eve, the bar was packed to capacity—over 200 revelers, including families, teenagers, and international visitors—eager to toast to 2026 with music, dancing, and flowing drinks.

The evening’s highlight was meant to be a dazzling display: servers parading through the crowd with champagne bottles adorned with lit sparklers, creating a cascade of sparks that lit up the dim basement like fireworks. But on this night, the spectacle went horribly wrong. At the center of it all was Cyane Panine, a 24-year-old waitress described by friends as vivacious and hardworking. Perched on a colleague’s shoulders for added drama, Cyane donned a promotional crash helmet from Dom Pérignon—complete with a black visor that obscured her vision—as she ignited the sparklers. Witnesses recall the cheers turning to gasps as sparks flew upward, kissing the low ceiling lined with highly flammable acoustic foam. Within seconds, the foam ignited, sending flames racing across the room like a voracious beast.

Panic ensued. Patrons scrambled for exits, trampling one another in the smoke-filled chaos. The basement’s confined space amplified the horror: thick black smoke choked the air, reducing visibility to zero and turning the festive venue into a deathtrap. Firefighters, arriving within minutes, battled the blaze for hours, but the damage was done. Among the dead were Cyane herself, found lifeless behind a locked emergency exit, along with a 14-year-old boy and dozens of others who succumbed to smoke inhalation or burns. Over 100 survivors were rushed to hospitals, some with life-altering injuries—charred skin, respiratory damage, and the invisible scars of survivor’s guilt.

In the aftermath, as the charred skeleton of Le Constellation stood as a grim monument amid the snow, questions mounted. How could a routine party trick lead to such carnage? Why were safety measures so woefully inadequate? And who bears the responsibility? Leaked transcripts from 20 hours of police interrogations, obtained by Swiss media and detailed in recent reports, paint a damning picture of denial and finger-pointing. Jacques and Jessica Moretti, now facing charges of manslaughter by negligence, causing injury by negligence, and causing arson by negligence, insist they are victims too. “It’s not us, it’s the others,” they reportedly told investigators, shifting the spotlight onto Cyane and unnamed staff members.

Jacques Moretti, a burly figure with a background in hospitality, admitted during questioning that he had no formal fire safety training. “I didn’t forbid her from doing that,” he said of Cyane’s stunt. “Cyane liked doing that—it was a show, she liked to be part of the show.” He described the helmet as a fun prop, but officials counter that its visor blinded Cyane to the sparks arcing toward the ceiling. Jessica, who was managing the bar that night, echoed her husband’s sentiments: “Cyane liked to deliver these bottles—she did it of her own accord. If I had thought there was the slightest risk, I would have forbidden it. In ten years of running the business, I never thought there could be any danger.”

But Cyane’s family paints a starkly different picture. Her parents, Jerome and Astrid Panine, devastated by the loss of their only daughter, insist she wasn’t even scheduled to work that night. “She was called in last minute,” Jerome told reporters, his voice breaking. “Jessica encouraged the stunt and provided the helmet. Cyane was just trying to do her job.” Friends remember Cyane as a free spirit who dreamed of traveling the world, not as a reckless performer. “She was the life of the party, but she wasn’t stupid,” one colleague said anonymously. “The owners pushed for these flashy displays to wow the crowd—it’s what kept the tips coming.”

The interrogations reveal deeper systemic failures. The flammable foam lining the basement ceiling was installed during renovations in 2015, approved by local fire officials and acoustic experts at the time. Jacques defended the material: “It was certified safe back then. How were we to know?” Yet experts now argue that such foam, often used for soundproofing in nightclubs, is a known fire hazard—reminiscent of the 2003 Station nightclub fire in Rhode Island, USA, which killed 100 due to similar ignition from pyrotechnics. In Crans-Montana, the foam acted as an accelerant, turning a small spark into a raging firestorm.

Compounding the tragedy was the locked emergency exit in the basement. Victims, including Cyane, were found piled against it, desperately trying to escape. Jessica Moretti professed ignorance: “The door was always open. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder why that door was closed that night.” But leaks point to an unnamed employee who allegedly secured the latch while fetching ice cubes earlier in the evening. Jacques even texted this worker post-incident, urging him to “take responsibility,” but the employee fired back: “I didn’t close a door that was already locked.” This back-and-forth highlights a culture of blame-shifting, with staff feeling scapegoated while the owners distance themselves.

Underage victims add another layer of outrage. Among the dead was a 14-year-old boy, and reports suggest several minors slipped past security, possibly with fake IDs. Jessica admitted lapses: “We’re not infallible. Maybe there were fake IDs. Perhaps some slipped through the security guard’s net.” Critics argue the bar prioritized profits over protocols, packing the venue beyond safe limits on a high-revenue night like NYE.

Footage from the scene, captured on survivors’ phones and security cameras, is chilling. One video shows the initial sparkler display, cheers erupting as Cyane balances precariously. Then, the ceiling catches—flames spreading like wildfire on dry tinder. Patrons scream, knocking over tables in their flight. Another clip allegedly captures Jessica fleeing the building clutching the cash register, a detail that has fueled public fury. “She saved the money but not the people,” one victim’s relative spat in an interview.

The Morettis’ current plight is a far cry from their glamorous life. Under judicial supervision, they wear electronic ankle tags, have surrendered their passports, and must check in with police every three days. Deemed a flight risk due to their French roots and assets, they remain at home with their two young children, isolated from the community that once embraced them. Jessica, in a moment of vulnerability during questioning, said: “I accept what’s being said about us, even if it’s false. It’s nothing compared to what the families are going through.” Jacques added: “We are also victims, but not to the same degree. Losing a child is the worst thing that can happen.”

Yet sympathy is scarce. On January 4, firefighters gathered at a makeshift memorial outside the bar’s ruins, laying flowers, candles, and heartfelt messages. “For the lost souls,” one note read, amid teddy bears and photos of the deceased. The community, still reeling, has rallied for stricter regulations. Swiss authorities, known for rigorous safety standards, are under pressure to explain how the bar passed inspections. An official report, partially leaked, confirms the helmet’s role in obscuring Cyane’s view and highlights the foam’s flammability.

This tragedy echoes global nightclub disasters: the 2016 Oakland Ghost Ship fire in the US, which killed 36 due to unsafe wiring; Brazil’s 2013 Kiss nightclub blaze, claiming 242 lives from illegal pyrotechnics; or Romania’s 2015 Colectiv fire, sparked by fireworks and killing 64. Each underscores the lethal cocktail of entertainment and negligence. In Switzerland, where tourism drives the economy—Crans-Montana alone hosts over 500,000 visitors annually—officials vow reforms. “No more blind eyes to hazards,” a local councilor declared.

As the investigation grinds on, with trials looming, the “girl in the helmet” haunts the narrative. Cyane Panine wasn’t just a scapegoat; she was a young woman caught in a web of poor decisions. Her story, and those of the 39 others lost, demands accountability. In the shadow of the Alps, where joy once reigned, ashes tell a tale of hubris and heartbreak. Will justice prevail, or will blame continue to flicker like dying embers? The world watches, breathless, as the full truth emerges from the smoke.