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Chapter Text

                                    PROLOGUE

The rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the Parisian rooftops into a glistening maze of silver and shadow. Water cascaded from the brim of Chat Noir's ears, dripping steadily onto the metal beneath his boots. His tail lashing behind him, the leather of his suit sticking to his skin. His breath came in shallow puffs of vapor, visible in the cold night air.

Above him, perched on the edge of a chimney with her arms crossed, Ladybug stared down at him. The dim glow of distant streetlights caught the edges of her silhouette, casting her in an almost ethereal halo. But her expression was anything but angelic—her lips were pressed into a thin line, her bluebell eyes sharp and unreadable.

Chat Noir swallowed hard. The distance between them felt like an ocean.

'Say something' he begged himself. 'Anything.'

But the words tangled in his throat, suffocated by the weight of everything left unsaid.

Ladybug shifted slightly, her fingers twitching toward her yo-yo. The movement was subtle, but he caught it—the unconscious readiness for a fight. The realization sent a fresh wave of pain through his chest.

"You don’t get to look at me like that,"- she said, her voice low and steady. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even cold. It was *final*, like the last page of a book slammed shut.

A shudder wracked his body. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg. But he did neither. Instead, he tilted his head back, letting the rain wash over his face, grateful for the disguise it provided.

"Funny,"- he murmured, more to the sky than to her. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the downpour. "We swore we’d always find one way." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Now all I see are dead ends."

                             ONE YEAR EARLIER

Adrien pressed his back against the cool glass of his bedroom window, holding his breath as he listened for any sign of movement in the hallway. The clock in the foyer ticked loudly, each second stretching into an eternity.

Finally.

He exhaled slowly, peeling himself away from the window and padding silently across the plush carpet. His jacket, still damp from the evening’s unexpected drizzle, hit the floor with a muffled thud.

The room was too quiet. Too big.

He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress barely dipping under his weight. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the exhaustion of another endless day—another photoshoot, another interview, another performance where he played the part of the perfect son.

These stolen midnight walks were the only thing keeping him sane lately—sneaking out past his bodyguard, losing himself in the empty streets where no one expected him to smile, or pose, or be *perfect*. The weight of his father’s expectations, the schedules, the constant performance… it all melted away in the quiet darkness. For an hour or two, he could just *breathe*.

The mansion was silent—no Nathalie tapping at her tablet, no photographer’s flash—just the too-loud tick of the clock on his nightstand.
The digital clock blinked 2:17AM in glaring red.

Adrien rolled onto his side, staring blankly at the photograph on his desk. His mother’s smile was soft, her arm draped around his younger self. He remembered that day—the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, the way she’d laughed when he’d tried to imitate his father’s serious expression.

His fingers absently traced the edge of his mother's picture frame as a memory surfaced—that afternoon when he'd bolted from the photoshoot. The stylist had been yanking too hard on his hair again, the photographer barking orders like he was a prop rather than a person. So he'd run. Just for fifteen minutes. Just to breathe.

A lump formed in his throat.

That day exacty few hours, while he had a photoshoot Near Place des Vosges—just blocks from his own gilded prison—Adrien had spotted the old man crumpled near the fountain. Tourists flowed around him like water around a stone, too busy framing selfies against the square’s famous red-brick arcades to notice.

Adrien had moved without thinking. catching the man's paper-thin arm before his head could hit the pavement.

"Je vous aide?" he’d asked, sliding an arm under the man’s shoulders. Up close, the stranger smelled like bergamot and aged paper, his green eyes oddly sharp for someone so frail.

"Easy now," he'd murmured, feeling the birdlike bones beneath the wool coat. The man's skin had smelled like lavender and something earthier—ancient books or maybe tea leaves.

"Merci, jeune homme,"the stranger had said, his green eyes oddly bright for someone so frail. When Adrien helped him to a nearby bench, the old man's grip had been surprisingly strong. "The world needs more hands like yours."

The unexpected praise had warmed him more than any magazine cover ever could.

Now, alone in his too-quiet room, Adrien flexed his hands while small smile was tugging on his face

...

His gaze drifted to the window, where the night sky stretched endlessly above Paris. Stars flickered faintly through the light pollution, distant and untouchable.

"You ever just… look at someone," his co-model had said earlier that evening, spinning his phone between his fingers, "and think, ‘Damn, I wanna kiss your sweet lips’?"

Adrien had forced a laugh. "Can’t say I have."

Now, alone in the dark, he pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids. 'What would that even feel like?' To want someone so much it hurt. To be *wanted* in return—not for his name, not for his face, but for *him*.

At the edge of his desk, half-hidden behind the framed photo, sat a small black box.

Adrien frowned. He didn’t remember putting that there.

He reached for it, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface. The box was lighter than he expected, its lid adorned with intricate red patterns—swirls and loops that seemed to shift under his touch, like a language just beyond his understanding.

'Where did this come from?'

Curiosity overtook him. He flipped the lid open.

A burst of green light erupted from within, so bright he recoiled, nearly dropping the box. The glow pulsed, swirling like liquid emerald before coalescing into a small, floating figure.

Two luminous eyes blinked up at him.

...

Adrien’s breath hitched.

Chapter Text

                    ARC 1: Moths to the Flame

One week.  

Seven nights since the little black box had appeared on his desk. Seven nights since his life had split in two—daylight Adrien, all practiced smiles and perfect posture, and the creature of moonlight he became when the world wasn't watching.  

Tonight, like every night this week, Adrien waited until the mansion fell still. Until Nathalie's footsteps faded and the security cameras pivoted away on their lazy, predictable rotations. Then—*escape*.  

Only then did he whisper the familiar words: "Plagg, claws out."

The transformation washed over him like diving into cool water after a day in the sun. When the green light faded, he was already moving - no hesitation now, not after seven nights of practice.

The first time he'd slipped through his window, his hands had shaken. Now, he moved with the quiet certainty of someone who'd found religion. His claws found their usual grooves in the stone facade as he scaled downward, his enhanced hearing tracking the distant patter of a janitor's mop three floors below. 

Paris greeted him like an old lover.  

Carrying with it the distant hum of Paris at midnight - car engines, a far-off siren, the occasional burst of laughter from late-night revelers. He perched on the narrow ledge, his claws digging lightly into the stone facade, and for a moment simply breathed in the unfamiliar sensation of being truly alone.  

He knew these rooftops now—which slate tiles were loose near Place des Vosges, which fire escape in Le Marais creaked underfoot. His body had memorized the rhythm of the city's nighttime breath: the bakery on Rue Montorgueil firing up its ovens at 1 AM, the last metro rumbling beneath his feet at 2:17, the drunk tourists stumbling back to their hotels by 3.  

Tonight, he raced the moon.  

His staff *shinked* open, propelling him across a gap between buildings. The wind tore at his hair, his tail streaming behind him like a banner. One misjudged landing sent him skidding across tiles—but even the near-falls were glorious. Every scrape of his claws, every frantic heartbeat, every *"shit-shit-shit"* gasped mid-air was proof he was *alive* in ways daylight never allowed.  

Below, a girl leaned out her dormer window, smoking a cigarette. Adrien froze mid-leap, catching himself. Enhanced vision let him see the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her fingers trembled around the cigarette. For a heartbeat, he considered dropping down, offering... something.  

But then she stubbed out the cigarette and closed the window, curtains drawn against the night.  

*This is what freedom looks like,* he realized, crouching in the shadows. Not just the acrobatics, but the privilege of bearing witness—of seeing Paris weep and laugh and live when it thought no one was watching.  

The staff in his hand hummed with possibility. He was getting better—could almost hear Plagg's voice grumbling *"About damn time"*—but the real magic wasn't in the flips or the landings.  

It was in the spaces between.  

...

The air rushed past him, cold and sharp, as he plummeted toward the hedges below. His heart lurched into his throat—*this never got old*—before he snapped his staff out with a practiced

 flick of his wrist. It extended with a metallic *shink*, catching the edge of the balcony railing below. His body swung in a wild arc, momentum carrying him forward until he released his grip at the peak of the swing.  

For one breathless second, he was weightless.  

Then gravity reclaimed him, and he was falling again.  

He twisted mid-air, tucking his knees to his chest as he somersaulted, landing in a crouch on the lower rooftop. The impact sent a jolt through his legs, but he barely felt it—his body was thrumming with adrenaline, his pulse roaring in his ears.  

He pushed off, launching himself into the night.  

The city unfolded beneath him, a maze of slate and iron and glass. He knew these rooftops now—the slick tiles near the opera house, the narrow gaps between buildings in the Latin Quarter, the perfect vaulting points along the Seine. His body moved on instinct, his muscles remembering every jump, every landing, every near-miss.  

He hit the next roof at a sprint, his boots barely touching the surface before he was leaping again. This time, he tucked his staff against his lower back, letting pure momentum carry him across the gap. The wind tore at his hair, his tail streaming behind him like a banner as he soared.  

His landing was less graceful this time—one foot slipped on a slicked tile, sending him skidding toward the edge. His claws scraped against the stone, sparks flying as he caught himself just before tumbling over.  

A laugh burst from his chest, wild and breathless.  

*This was living.*  

The next jump was higher—a four-story gap between buildings, the kind that would have made his stomach drop a week ago. Now, it was just another challenge. He sprinted to the edge, 

planted his staff, and *vaulted*.  

The world spun as he flipped mid-air, his body twisting in a tight spiral before he landed in a roll, coming up smoothly on the other side.  

*Better.*  

He didn’t pause. Another roof, another leap—this time, he extended his staff at the last second, using it to pole-vault himself even higher. The added height sent him arcing through the air, his arms spread wide as if he could embrace the entire city.  

For a heartbeat, he hung suspended against the night sky, the stars wheeling above him.  

Then he was falling again, the ground rushing up to meet him.  

He landed in a crouch, the impact reverberating through his bones. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles burning, but he was grinning like an idiot.

He wasn’t invincible.  

The next jump proved that.  

Miscalculating the distance, he overshot the rooftop, his outstretched fingers just barely grazing the edge before he slipped. For one terrifying second, he was falling—no staff, no grip, nothing but empty air beneath him.  

Instinct took over. He twisted, lashing out with his claws as he slammed into the side of the building. The stone scraped against his suit as he slid downward, his claws leaving deep gouges in the masonry before he finally caught himself.  

His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.  

*Too close.*  

But even the fear was intoxicating.  

The summer air rushed past his face, finally cool enough to feel good as it ruffled through his hair. Below, the city exhaled - a waiter smoking behind a bistro, a student studying by open window, an insomniac watering flower boxes. Their voices carried clearly in the thick night air:

"...told him it was over if he..."

"...can't sleep in this damn heat..."

"...those equations make no..."

He pushed harder tonight. A sideways flip between chimneys. A daring handspring off a steeply angled roof that sent tiles clattering. A moment of perfect weightlessness over the Seine where he spread his arms like wings, the river's dark surface mirroring the stars above.

His staff was becoming an extension of himself - no longer just a tool for crossing gaps, but for redirecting momentum, for adding spin to his jumps, for catching himself when a landing went 

wrong (like now, when his boot slipped on sweat-dampened tiles and only a quick pole-vault saved him from tumbling into someone's courtyard.

....

In the mirrored glass of an office building, his reflection startled him - not because it was unfamiliar anymore, but because of how right it looked. The way his golden hair caught the amber glow of streetlights. How the mask sharpened his features into something both dangerous and beautiful. The confident set of shoulders that never appeared in his daytime photoshoots.

The heat of the night had left a sheen of sweat across his chest, making the black suit cling even tighter. He couldn't resist pausing to examine himself—the way his muscles flexed as he rolled his shoulders, the definition in his arms that hadn't been there a week ago. His shoulders filled out the suit in a way they never did his regular clothes. When he flexed, the muscles in his arms stood in sharp relief—not bulky, but lean and powerful.

He turned sideways, watching the play of shadows across his torso. His stomach was taut, the suit accentuating every ridge of muscle earned from seven nights of relentless movement. His fingers trailed down his ribs, marveling at how different his body felt—power coiled beneath skin, ready to spring.  

The bell at his throat jingled softly as he flexed his biceps, watching them swell in the reflection. His claws grazed the curve where neck met shoulder, tracing new lines of strength. But the way he held himself—chin up, shoulders back—that was all him. The confidence wasn't borrowed. It was his. The mask made his eyes seem brighter, more intense—like the transformation had peeled away every fragile part of him and left only something fierce behind.  

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. 

He wasn't just stronger.  

He was *more*.  

The realization sent a thrill through him, electric and warm.  

Then—movement below. A night guard making rounds.  

With one last glance at his reflection, Adrien pushed off, disappearing into the dark once more.

....

The bakery’s alarm clock wasn’t the shrill beep of Marinette’s phone, but the groan of the ancient oven as Papa lit the pilot. Flour ghosts danced in the amber light as she tied her apron, the strings already frayed from years of double knots.  

Papa was already there, his broad shoulders hunched over the industrial mixer. "Ah, there's my second set of hands," he said, not turning around. A dab of butter smudged his cheek where he'd scratched an itch. "The brioche dough needs its third fold."  

Marinette nodded, tying her apron strings in a practiced knot behind her back. The fabric was soft with age, stained with years of chocolate and food coloring. She pressed her palms into the waiting dough, feeling it sigh beneath her fingers—alive and breathing in its own way. The yeasty scent filled her nose as she folded and turned, folded and turned, her motions precise as a dancer's.  

Heat rolled through the kitchen in waves as the first trays of croissants browned in the oven. Marinette wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of flour across her brow.  

"Watch the almond ones," Maman called from the front, her voice carrying over the hiss of steam. "Madame Lefèvre will have my head if they're overdone again."  

Marinette crouched to peer through the oven window, the glass warm against her nose. Golden layers of pastry unfolded like petals in the heat. She remembered Madame Lefèvre's hands—knuckles swollen with arthritis—how they trembled when counting change last Tuesday. How she'd pretended not to notice when the old woman dropped a coin.  

The timer chimed.  

The bell above the door hadn't stopped jingling for twenty minutes. A queue stretched onto the sidewalk, customers shifting impatiently on their feet.  

*Deux baguettes, s’il vous plaît!*"  

"*Un pain au chocolat—non, wait, two!*"  

Marinette’s hands were a blur: wrapping, counting change, nudging the display case with her hip when it stuck. She liked this part—the way people’s eyes softened at the first bite of a still-warm brioche. How the grumpy lawyer always smiled when she sneaked an extra macaron into his bag.  

"Two baguettes, three chocolate croissants, and—oh! Are those cherry danishes new?"  

Marinette's fingers flew across the display case, tongs clicking as she arranged pastries into paper bags. She knew most orders before they were spoken —the construction worker who wanted his pain au raisins split and buttered, the schoolgirl who always asked for the burnt ends of baguettes ("They're crunchier!").  

Her favorite was old Monsieur Bernard, who came in every morning at precisely 7:30. His hands shook as he passed over exact change, coin by coin. Today, when he reached for his usual single plain croissant, Marinette slipped an extra apple turnover into his bag.  

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he discovered it later at the register. "This old man's sweet tooth thanks you," he murmured, patting her hand.  

A toddler’s chocolate-filled fist *squelched* into a freshly wiped counter.  

"Je suis désolée!" the mother gasped, reaching for napkins.  

"C’est rien!" Marinette laughed, already scrubbing. Sticky streaks, powdered sugar fingerprints—she knew every stain by heart. The bakery wasn’t just where she worked; it was where she *breathed*.  

....

Between the breakfast rush and lunch, Marinette collapsed onto the back step, a stolen cinnamon roll steaming in her hands. The alley cat she'd named Chou-Fleur wound between her ankles, purring like a faulty engine.  

From her pocket, she pulled the sketchbook—cover warped from butter stains—and flipped to yesterday's page. A jacket design stared back, all sharp angles and too many zippers. Her pencil had added curved claws to the sleeves without thinking.  

"Why do I keep drawing these?" she wondered aloud, scratching out the offending details. The cat batted at her dangling shoelace.  

.......

"Take these to Madame Allard before the cream melts," Maman said, pressing a box of éclairs into her hands. "And no shortcuts through the construction site!"  

The summer air clung to Marinette's skin as she darted through backstreets, box balanced precariously on one palm. She knew every uneven cobblestone in the 4th arrondissement—where to jump to avoid the loose one near the flower shop, which alleys smelled like lavender soap on Tuesdays when the laundry hung their linens.  

As she rounded the corner, a flash of golden hair caught her eye—a boy about her age across the street, crouched to pet a scruffy terrier. Something about the way he moved, all careful grace, made her pause. The dog licked his fingers eagerly, and for a moment, his serious face broke into a smile so bright it—  

The éclairs shifted dangerously. Marinette jerked her attention back to the box, adjusting her grip.

When she looked up again, the boy was gone.  

......

Her arms ached as she shaped the final loaves of sourdough. The kitchen smelled of yeast and her own sweat, the afternoon sun turning the space into a sauna. A lock of hair escaped her ponytail, sticking to her neck.  

Papa hummed as he worked beside her, his hands—twice the size of hers—kneading another mound of dough. Without a word, he reached over and tucked the stray hair behind her ear, his fingers flour-dusted and gentle.  

The broom whispered across the tiles as Marinette swept up the day's debris—sugar crystals glittering like tiny diamonds, a single raisin gone astray. Through the shop window, the streetlights flickered on one by one, painting the sidewalk gold.  

Her lower back protested as she stretched, rolling her shoulders. Every muscle ached, her nails were short and ragged from scrubbing pans, and she was fairly certain there was jam in places jam should never be.  

But when she bit into the leftover chausson aux pommes—the one with the uneven crimping she'd made herself—the flaky layers dissolved on her tongue, sweet and perfect.  

For now, in this moment heavy with the weight of flour and warmth, it was enough.  

......

The attic stairs creaked their familiar protest as Marinette climbed, each step releasing the day's tension from her shoulders. Her fingers trailed along the rough wooden banister—worn smooth in one spot where she'd gripped it every night for years.  

Moonlight bled through the skylight, painting silver stripes across her chaise lounge. The room smelled faintly of fabric glue and the lavender sachets Maman tucked in her dresser. Dropping her bag by the trapdoor, Marinette kicked off her flour-dusted shoes, relishing the *thunk-thunk* as they hit the floor.  

Unlike Adrien's gilded cage across the city, this tiny attic was a sanctuary *by choice*. Here, the world narrowed to manageable proportions—the precise square footage of her sewing nook, the exact reach of her arm to the bedside lamp, the comforting pressure of walls close enough to touch from bed.  

She flopped onto her back across the chaise, legs dangling over the edge. The sketchbook practically leapt into her hands, its spine cracking familiarly as she flipped past yesterday's abandoned designs—a coat with too many buckles, boots with hidden compartments. Pages rustled like old friends whispering.  

Her pencil moved without conscious thought:  

1. First, the curve of a collar *meant for running*  

2. Then sleeves that flared at the wrists—*better for hiding things*  

3. A seam down the back—*for wings? No, that's silly*  

The lines grew bolder, darker. Something primal took shape—a suit of armor disguised as streetwear.She curled tighter into her cocoon of blankets, pencil flying.  

This was *her* liberation—the four walls that held her dreams close, the quiet where her hands could create what her voice couldn't yet say. Outside was too vast, too bright. But here, in this attic that smelled of thread and ambition?