Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: When the Rose Met the Thorns 🌹

“The Fire,” thought Rose. All around her, the colors of autumn were ablaze—the golden-orange of the sugar maples, the scarlet of the sassafras, the crimson jumble of the sumacs. It was as if the entire world were on fire, set aflame by the caress of the mid-October sunset.

“And me, trapped in the middle.” Her stomach tightened with each step, and she could already imagine Juleka’s softly disapproving glance. Yet she was determined to come here, to do something. Rose Lavillant was not the type to sit quietly and smile while the world went wrong; she hadn’t been raised that way.

With her heavy backpack stuffed with clothes and cakes she had baked herself, she made her way toward the St-Anne orphanage in the northern 20th arrondissement of Paris. It was far from home, far from her neighborhood and all the streets she and her friends knew. Here, the world didn’t feel pretty—Paris no longer seemed wonderful, and it tightened her chest and throat.

Oh, God! Luka, Juleka’s brother, who played guitar for the children at the Saint-Exupéry refuge in this very district, had described the area—but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Foolish, really. Yet… Rose had always liked to think the grass was greener elsewhere, that sometimes all it took was opening one’s heart and extending a hand to make the world as good as the songs promised.

But faced with the scene before her, it was hard to keep a smile on her face, let alone in her soul: the streets were not beautiful—they were filthy. Children in torn clothes played with stones while a woman in a bra, coat, and short skirt stared at passersby, smoking a cigarette. Coming as the sun sank seemed an even stupider idea than simply coming here, she realized, spotting a group of boys sitting around a radio blaring rap lyrics so crude that Rose blushed.

Rose passed by them, trying not to be noticed—but of course, she was noticed. She stood there in her clean clothes, her rose perfume lingering, her pink dress, and her blonde hair shining even brighter after a visit to Josephine, the best hairdresser in her upper-middle-class neighborhood.

She felt their eyes on her and decided to be polite: she offered a small smile and a wave before hurrying down the nearby alley. She assumed this was the right way.

Never had Rose thought she could feel ashamed for never having known hunger, but seeing a child lift his head from the trash he was rummaging through when he spotted her made her want to… scream. To hit. To… anything.

The boy ran off.

“Wait! I don’t mean any harm! Come back!” she shouted, but he never glanced her way. He was already far ahead, and Rose felt like crying.

She wished she could be like the prince from Achu, helping children all over the world. But she was only Rose Lavillant—the daughter of a seamstress and a perfumer who made fragrances for local minor celebrities like Nadja Chamack or Alec, the insufferable presenter she didn’t much care for. Still, whenever she saw him, she smiled wholeheartedly, hoping her smile could warm his heart and make him kinder to others.

It hadn’t worked—yet. But maybe one day.

“Hey, you!”

Rose froze at the deep voice. She turned slowly, carefully, fragilely… and nearly screamed when she saw them—one, two, three… five boys advancing toward her, their smiles menacing.

Rose wasn’t stupid. No matter what Chloé thought of her, just because she tried to do good, to make the world better, to be kind to everyone, didn’t mean she didn’t know what could happen to a lone girl confronted by ill-intentioned boys.

She plunged her hand into her bag, her fingers closing around the canister of pepper spray her mother had bought her. It was pink, powdery, so shiny and cute… but painfully strong.

Yet she waited a moment, stepping back as they drew closer.

“What do you want?” she asked, and for the first time, she felt truly proud that her voice didn’t tremble.

The tallest boy stepped forward and suddenly pulled a knife. Rose blushed as the others erupted in laughter at the squeak of fear that escaped her.

“Calm down, little pinky. Just give us your bag, and everything will be fine,” one of them sneered.

Rose tightened her grip on the pepper spray but tried to reason with them.

“These are donations,” she explained, a little more confidently, even as she saw them circle her. She stepped back and felt her spine hit a wall—no place left to run.

“For… for the St-Anne orphanage. I… can you tell me where it is?”

The boys smirked.

“The orphanage of the old pervert Dubois?” asked the youngest, who looked about sixteen, the same age as Rose.

It wasn’t his apparent youth that shocked her—it was what he said.

“Yeah, people keep donating stuff to that orphanage without knowing why it’s falling apart,” muttered another, dark-skinned, with tortured eyes, hands in his pockets.

Rose couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing. Father Dubois? A pervert? He was a longtime friend of her father, an honorable man active in the community… No, she refused to believe such slander.

“That’s lies!” she shouted—but immediately realized her mistake.

Their smiles vanished, and Rose felt the taste of fear cover her tongue like a shroud. Her lungs tightened, and oh Lord! She couldn’t breathe… Yet she gripped her pepper spray even harder as they closed in.

She pulled it out and sprayed from left to right. She heard them scream, but she could see nothing. She pushed past two boys and shouted, “Sorry!” as she bolted away. Her bag felt like a weight dragging her down, and she was barely out of the alley when she realized she couldn’t go on.

“Help!” she cried to the people jostling on their bikes—young like her, surely they would help her… but no. At first, they saw a girl in pink running toward them, then the group of knife- and fist-wielding boys following her. They climbed onto their bikes and abandoned her.

“Please!” Rose screamed, but they were deaf to her despair. Her throat burned, her heart pounded, and her breath faltered. She watched the sky grow darker and darker, unsure exactly where she was.

Turning right, she ended up in a completely deserted part of the neighborhood, where only cats and rats bore witness. For a brief second, she wished she had told someone where she was going—Juleka, her mother, her father… anyone.

She prayed to God that Ladybug or Cat Noir would save her in time, as they always did—but she knew it was a meaningless wish. No akuma, no Ladybug, no Cat Noir. Only the police could intervene, and her phone was in her bag. She couldn’t stop without getting caught.

Rose closed her eyes and sank against the wall that blocked the alley. She had ended up in a dead end. The world seemed to darken, and for the first time in her life, Rose Lavillant no longer saw life in pink. She saw the world as a dangerous place, where people were ready to hurt you even when you had done nothing to them.

The boys surrounded her in the grimy alley, reeking of urine and rust. Rose felt her heart hammering. She threw her bag at them.

“Take it… and leave me. My phone and money are in there, that’s all I have… and all my donations. Please… let me go.”

She was ashamed to cry, but fear held her frozen. She didn’t want to die here, not now, and certainly not like this.

The dark-skinned boy from earlier met her gaze and seemed to hesitate. He turned to their leader.

“It’s fine. Look at her crying. We got the bag, that’s all we need…”

“Shut up!” barked the tall boy, his eyes red and stinging from the pepper spray. He stared at Rose with bitter contempt, blinking over and over to relieve the pain. He raised his knife to point it at her, and Rose jumped, even though they were a meter away.

“For my eyes, bitch… you’re gonna pay!”

Rose closed her eyes, lowering her head, trembling.

Suddenly, a police siren blared, and the boys froze. Rose didn’t hesitate for a second. She pressed herself against the wall behind her and shouted, “Over here! Help!”

The boys fled, forgetting even the bag. Rose watched their stiff backs disappear, scattering in different directions, as if they were nothing more than weekly partners in crime, and not really friends.

The siren stopped, and a cardboard sheet covering the window of the building to her right shifted. She saw a face—a girl with short black hair, oversized glasses, and prominent teeth—throwing her a piercing look.

The girl nodded at her and pulled out a service ladder. Rose hesitated, but the girl showed her phone, pressed a button, and the police siren blared again.

Rose felt the world grow warmer, more welcoming. There were still people willing to help others. She grabbed her bag and climbed the ladder.

Rose didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. She stepped into a real house. The girl pulled the ladder inside and replaced the cardboard to block the view.

The room was immense, but sparsely furnished. A large mattress lay on the floor, covered in sheets and cushions that all looked handmade. Cardboard boxes stacked in one corner overflowed with clothes, and candles sat on a low wooden table—one leg made of plastic, a clear sign it was a patched-up second-hand find. The air smelled of lavender and jasmine. Electricity hummed weakly from a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, so faint that the candles seemed brighter.

A large, worn sofa and a shoe rack filled with books in every language completed the furnishings of this black-walled room. Glowing green stars dotted the white ceiling, stained with black marks as if a fire had once ravaged the place.

Rose turned to the girl to thank her—and froze. She was removing her teeth, glasses, and wig. The girl was transformed. Rose blushed under the vivid blue gaze of her savior. She no longer looked ordinary; her shiny red hair and proud posture made her strikingly beautiful.

“Wh-why the disguise?” Rose couldn’t help but ask.

The girl raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, sorry… I mean, you don’t have to tell me, I mean… thank you.”

The girl smiled faintly, though her gaze was dim.

“No need to thank me. And as for the disguise…” She glanced at the glasses, wig, and fake teeth, grimacing. “It’s mainly to avoid attracting attention. As you saw, this is a dangerous neighborhood—especially for women. Being pretty is sometimes a curse.”

Rose nodded, shivering. Oh, yes—she had seen it, she had even lived it. She bit her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by what could have happened. A sob tore through her chest, and she looked up at her savior.

“I-I’m Rose. And you?”

The girl looked genuinely uncomfortable.

“Sofya. Sofya Sinclair. Nice to meet you.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Listen, Rose… not to be mean, but you should call someone to come get you. I’ll be leaving soon to go to work, so I can take you out of the neighborhood now, but after that… you’ll have to manage on your own.”

Rose nodded frantically. “Y-yes, no—no idea of bothering you. Thank you… really.”

The girl softened slightly. “It’s nothing. And… sorry if I seem abrupt, but giving people comfort isn’t really my thing. I saved you; it’s your family’s job to console you.” She said it flatly, shrugging as if it were nothing, and Rose looked around her.

The girl seemed like a teenager.

“And you?” Rose asked. “You… don’t have a family?”

Sofya sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. “No,” she replied, her voice cold and yet soft, natural to her.

“Oh.” Rose blushed, feeling foolish for assuming… and yet, once again, the evidence was right in front of her.

Sofya pulled a red hoodie from one of the cartons and slipped it on before turning back to Rose.

“It’s going to get late soon, and that’s when the gangs start their raids,” she said, motioning for her to follow her down the narrow service stairs inside the building.

Rose swallowed hard at the thought.
“If it’s so dangerous at night… why do you even work at this hour?”

Sofya shrugged and answered, her voice calm and detached.
“Because a minor without a guardian has no choice but to work off the books.”

Rose shut her mouth and clutched her bag tighter. She dug her hand into her pocket and switched on her phone.
“I’ll call my mom,” she whispered.

“Hm,” was all Sofya replied, not bothering to look back.

The staircase creaked beneath their feet as they descended. The walls were cracked and stained with moisture, graffiti overlapping older graffiti, some of it already half-erased by time. Faint smells of rust, mold, and stale smoke clung to the air. Somewhere in the dark corners, Rose thought she saw the glint of red eyes—rats, watching them scurry past.

She couldn’t understand who this girl really was, or how her life had turned out this way, but one thing was certain: Rose wanted to thank her properly.

And as the two of them walked side by side into the shadows, neither could have guessed that this encounter would one day change the fate of all Paris.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Girls Gotta Stick Together 👭

“You should never have gone there alone, Rose!” Juleka said. She never yelled, and even now her voice was soft and calm, but Rose knew her girlfriend better than she knew herself. What Juleka’s voice didn’t say, her deep eyes made clear: anger, fear, pain, and a whole lot of other emotions that probably didn’t even have names.

Rose lowered her head in shame.
“I know… I’m sorry, but when Father Dubois came to complain to my dad that the kids at his shelter were cold and hungry, and…”

“Yes, Rosie, we all know how compassionate you are, but there’s only a thin line between bravery and recklessness,” remarked Mylène, whose blonde-green hair gleamed under the neon lights of the small restaurant.

“Look who’s talking,” teased Alix, crossing her arms. Mylène blushed but lifted her chin proudly.
“I’d rather be cowardly and alive than brave and dead,” she said defensively.

It was a fairly quiet Thursday afternoon after classes. The girls were at Chez Laurette, a small restaurant not far from the south train station, diagonally across from the Françoise-Dupont High School they all attended. The sky was clear, as it often was in Paris at this time of year, and the air was crisp, with a lingering hint of rain that had yet to fall.

Rose, Juleka, Mylène, Alix, Alya, and Marinette were all squeezed into a booth around a table with half-finished milkshakes.

“That’s insane, what happened to you,” Alya said, typing at lightning speed on her phone. “Without that girl—”

“Sofya Sinclair,” Rose corrected, taking Juleka’s soft hand in hers. Juleka hugged Rose tightly. She could smell the lavender and sea-salt soap.

“Yeah, exactly. Without her, you probably wouldn’t be here,” Alya added. Then, noticing the unfriendly looks on Alix and Mylène’s faces, she clarified, “I mean… you’d just be without your phone, that’s all. Anyway, Ladybug would’ve shown up… she always saves everyone, all the time…”

Alix rolled her eyes at the blogger.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Alya. Ladybug is a superhero, not God. She can’t know everything or be everywhere at once.”

Alya grimaced. “Yeah, but that’s not what I meant… you get it, Marinette…Marinette ? Marinette !”

The blue-haired girl jumped and lifted her eyes from the screen of her phone, which she’d been staring at like her life depended on it. She looked at her friends and blushed bright red.

“Uh… yeah, I’d like an orange juice…” she stammered.

“We weren’t talking about orange juice,” Alix snapped. Of the group, she was the least patient with anything she considered trivial, and Marinette’s clumsiness was part of that. Not that she disliked the blue-eyed girl—Alix just didn’t have much patience, and trying to talk to someone who always seemed a little lost gave her a headache.

“Marinette, just say it if Rose’s problems don’t matter to you,” Juleka said coldly.

Marinette’s eyes went wide. “Of course not! I mean—yes! I mean… listen, I’m sorry, girls, my head was somewhere else because…”

“Let me guess,” Alya cut in with a smile, trying to ease the tension. “It’s about Adrien, right?”

Marinette blushed, then lowered her gaze. “Yes… he wants me to go with him on a double date with Kagami, so I asked Luka to join us at the ice rink. I keep checking the time because everything has to go perfectly, but at the same time I feel so stressed because if it does go well, then Adrien and Kagami will get married and have three children, and I’ll be alone forever! I’ll end up like that weird old lady on Street Manchard who has ten cats and never brushes her hair! Oh no! I never should have agreed—this is a disaster!” she wailed, as dramatic as ever.

Alya patted her on the back to comfort her, but Mylène frowned, glancing at Rose, who was staring sadly at the floor.
“Look, Mari, I don’t doubt your love crisis feels huge, but this is serious too. Can you stay focused?” Mylène asked.

Marinette followed her gaze toward Rose and instantly felt guilty for thinking only of herself. She slipped her phone back into her bag and caught Tikki’s disapproving stare. Quickly, she zipped the bag shut.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Rose, how are you feeling?” she asked softly, this time with genuine concern.

Rose lifted her gaze, gratitude shining in her eyes.
“I’m okay. I mean, I feel safe here with you… but what I saw in the lower districts really opened my eyes. Girls… we’re spoiled.”

The words dropped like a verdict, and the others exchanged uneasy looks. Rose pressed on.
“Sofya lives in this rundown building, and she literally has to disguise herself just to go outside. And God, I think she even works nights at some shady bar with gangs raiding the place. I can’t just pretend the girl who saved my life isn’t struggling. I need to help her, but…”

“You don’t know how,” Alix guessed, taking a loud sip of her chocolate-and-berry milkshake—the very one Rose always found a little disgusting.

Rose nodded. “She seems so proud. Even with all her problems, she’s made herself a little home. I don’t think she’d accept charity.”

For a long moment, the table fell into silence. Alix fiddled with a sugar packet between her fingers, Mylène absentmindedly twisted her dreads, and Alya scrolled her phone. Then—snap!—Marinette’s eyes lit up.

“I’ve got it!” she announced. “My dad keeps complaining the delivery service is unreliable and that it’s time to hire someone private. If I explain the situation, maybe my parents could hire this girl.”

“Sofya,” Rose corrected gently.

“Yes, Sofya! If she’s as proud as you say, she won’t take handouts—but she might accept a steady job that’s safe and well-paid!”

“That’s brilliant, Marinette!” Rose exclaimed.
“Yeah, you always come up with the right idea at the right time,” Mylène added with a smile.
Alix shot Marinette a playful wink, and Marinette grinned, feeling Alya nudge her with pride.

She loved moments like this—when she could feel useful as herself and not just as Ladybug. It gave her confidence, made her realize that what made her special wasn’t the suit, but her heart and her own talents.

But that little bubble of confidence popped the second her phone buzzed. Panic jolted through her.
“Oh my God—it’s Luka!” she yelped, leaping up to check her screen. She read the message, and a wave of relief… or was it disappointment?… washed over her. She couldn’t tell.

Frowning, she looked back at the others. “He says the whole outing’s canceled. He is currently at the ice rink… and apparently there’s some kind of riot. Or a protest. Or… something.”

The girls traded puzzled looks.
What on earth was going on now?

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Revolution ❄️

“You arranged a double date because you were afraid to be alone with me?”

Kagami’s voice was calm when she spoke, yet Adrien still panicked. He had never really known what to say around girls. The only true experts in flirting he knew were the ones from TV shows and anime. But Tony Stark’s charm or James Bond’s suave lines had never worked on Ladybug… and he doubted they would work on Kagami, so composed, so self-possessed, so certain of her place in the world.

And yet, when he met her gaze — dark, but soft as the surface of a still lake — he realized she was genuinely curious. So he tried to be honest. A risky thing for him, since honesty was a language he barely spoke. He always wore a mask, whether as Adrien or as Cat Noir. How could you ever be yourself when you didn’t even know who you were?

“Yes. A little,” he admitted.

He bit the inside of his cheek. The taste of blood spread across his tongue. Then, unexpectedly, a shameless relief settled over his chest. Perfect Adrien was not supposed to say what he thought or felt — not if it risked hurting others or cracking the flawless image he projected. And yet Kagami didn’t get angry. She merely nodded, as though weighing his words with quiet analysis.

“I understand,” she said. “I was nervous too… but I thought that, like in fencing, we’d be able to find the right rhythm.”

“Yes, but… it’s not really the same thing, is it? Or… is it?” he asked, confused.

Kagami tilted her head. In Adrien’s private car, her long hair seemed to dance around her delicate features. “I suppose. It’s new for me as well. But what I do know is this — I like you, Adrien.”

She took his hand. Adrien looked down at their fingers intertwined, and answered with his perfect smile, the one he always used when words failed him. Adrien Agreste was a mask he had worn all his life — a gentle barrier that hid his rage, his grief, his pain. That mask seeped into his skin, crushing his bones and heart with such violence that, at times, it brought tears to his eyes. And still, he smiled harder, until the entire world believed his eyes sparkled with joy rather than a desperate plea for help. People always saw what they wanted to see.

“I care for you too, Kagami,” he said.

Neither denying, nor affirming — simply letting things take their course. That was how he had learned to please his father, and over time he had come to believe it was the best way to please anyone: let them cling to their illusions, until they were ready to remove the glasses themselves.

Adrien was not blind, no matter what he pretended. He simply chose to look away. Because yes — a thousand times yes — he was a coward. Cat Noir wore another mask, one of courage and banter, a playful armor to hide how deeply every insult, every injustice… every rejection struck him. Struck him so hard that sometimes his whole world would sway.

The car sped through Paris. Adrien drew in a long breath, trying to calm himself, hoping Marinette would keep her word and show up with Luka. It was silly to worry — Marinette was a loyal friend, always ready to help… but she was also perpetually late. Even to school, though she lived literally right across the street.

Through the windows, Adrien watched red and golden leaves drift gracefully across the city. He wondered if he was truly ready to move on. That morning, after yet another rejection, he had realized that the boy Ladybug loved — even if she’d never actually said they were together… but then, she never said things like that… did she? No… maybe? No… — must be someone very special to her. As special as she was to Adrien himself. And so he had decided it would be unfair to make her uncomfortable with feelings she clearly didn’t want to return, beyond their friendship and their partnership to protect Paris from Hawk Moth.

He swallowed back a sigh and kept his gaze on the road, wearing his easy mask of calm, fully aware of Kagami’s hand in his — warm, soft, yet oddly suffocating.

What am I doing? he thought.
And a voice in his head, sounding far too much like Plagg’s, answered: You’re moving on. About time.

His father had taught him long ago that models had to be like diamonds: always shining, never breaking. That was why Adrien Agreste always smiled, always stayed polite, always appeared content. Even when he was sad, his face bore an expression of sorrow he had carefully rehearsed in the bathroom mirror — sadness that was pretty, aesthetically pleasing. That was his life.

When he had become Cat Noir, it had felt like a chance to reinvent himself. But the Chat was no more “him” than Adrien Agreste was. Both were masks he wore. Deep down, he had no idea who he really was. All he knew was that his life always came down to the same thing: living to meet the expectations of others.

The car stopped in front of the ice rink.

“It seems things will not go as planned,” Kagami suddenly announced, her voice icy. She dropped Adrien’s hand and stepped out swiftly. Startled, he followed. The sharp wind bit his cheeks, and even before he saw the scene, he heard the roar of a crowd.

He caught up with Kagami, who had joined a small group standing slightly apart.

“Hey!” he greeted, recognizing Luka, Juleka, Marinette, Alix, Rose, Mylène, and Alya. They all turned. Marinette blushed crimson.

“Ad-Adrien! You’re here, that’s great! Well—no, I mean—it’s not that great, I mean… look at what’s happening!” she stammered, pointing toward the crowd.

More than fifty people had gathered, holding up cardboard signs scrawled with slogans: Freedom, Power to the People, Long Live the Republic. At their head stood a young red-haired woman in a white dress and a black leather blazer. She was speaking fiercely with Roger, the police chief, and Mayor Bourgeois, flanked by several uniformed officers. By her side stood a man who seemed to be the rink’s owner, clearly supporting her.

“What is this about?” Kagami asked coolly, eyes fixed on the scene.

“It’s a protest,” Alya explained, her phone raised to film.

“Let’s get closer,” Alix urged.

“I don’t think—” Marinette began, but Rose suddenly cried out:

“Oh my God, it’s her! It’s Sofya!”

She dashed forward, Juleka right behind her, then Luka, Alix, and Mylène. Kagami seized Adrien’s hand and pulled him along, while behind them Marinette let out a frustrated sigh before following.

“Leave at once or I’ll have you all arrested!” Mayor Bourgeois bellowed, his face blotchy red with rage.

But the red-haired girl did not flinch. “You don’t have that authority,” she said, her voice ringing out for her supporters as much as for him.

“I am the mayor!” André roared.

“Yes. The mayor. Not a king, not a president. If you order the arrest of citizens peacefully protesting, it will be branded as abuse of power and police brutality. Don’t expect to be re-elected after that.” Her tone was cutting, merciless. “In fact, it’s already a mystery how you’ve clung to power this long, given your incompetence!”

“I am the best mayor Paris has had in decades!” André thundered.

Sofya raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really? Your only concern has been to lure tourists to fatten your own pockets and fill your hotel, instead of supporting what truly matters: education, culture, access to healthcare, dignified housing, and respect for the environment. You’ve let entire neighborhoods fall into decay while turning the Champs-Élysées into a gaudy amusement park. You’ve silenced critical voices, gutted public services, and handed out privileges to your friends.”

Her voice rose, carried by passion, striking like a whip. “The people do not need a mayor who hides his failures behind Christmas lights and cocktail receptions. Paris deserves better. We deserve better. We are not extras in your glossy postcard for wealthy foreigners—we are the people who live here, who work here, who struggle here. And we will not be silenced.”

The crowd erupted, applause and shouts rising like thunder. Sofya stood tall, unyielding, her eyes burning with fire.

The crowd parted slightly, startled, as Marinette suddenly stepped forward. Everyone stared at her in disbelief.

“What is your friend doing?” Kagami muttered under her breath.

“I have no idea,” Adrien admitted.

Marinette’s cheeks flushed as dozens of eyes fixed on her. She inhaled deeply, straightened her back, and forced herself to look steady. Standing now between Mayor Bourgeois and the fiery Sofya Sinclair, she suddenly felt as though the entire weight of Paris was pressing down on her shoulders. The mayor looked ready to explode; Sofya, on the other hand, was studying Marinette with sharp curiosity, as if dissecting her courage under a microscope.

“Um, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Marinette stammered, her voice trembling, “but… what exactly is going on here?”

“Nothing at all,” Mayor Bourgeois declared pompously. “The skating rink will be shut down to make way for a brand-new shopping mall. A far more essential addition to the city than a silly ice rink.”

“My rink is essential to this community!” the owner shouted, stepping forward, his face red with anger.

Sofya laid a hand on his shoulder, her presence instantly commanding attention. “You have no authority to dismiss us so casually, Mayor Bourgeois,” she said, her tone sharp as glass. “What you’re attempting is a direct violation of the rights granted to us by the constitution and by the people of France. We are the people—you serve us, not the other way around.”

The crowd roared in agreement. Handmade signs lifted higher, slogans shaking with the rhythm of dozens of fists. Their faces were tense, weathered, some pale from exhaustion, others marked by frustration. They weren’t tourists, or passersby. They were bus drivers, bakers, students, single mothers with their children bundled in scarves. Their coats were threadbare, their shoes scuffed, their hands calloused. Their anger didn’t come from politics—it came from hunger, from rent they couldn’t pay, from being silenced too long.

“That’s very… inspiring,” Marinette cut in nervously with a small laugh. “But there must be other ways to settle this. Violence and confrontation only trap us in a never-ending cycle.”

Behind her, the rest of their group pushed forward.

“She’s right,” Mylène said firmly. “There has to be a peaceful solution.”

Alya, still recording, nodded hard enough to make her phone wobble.

“Sofya!” Rose cried suddenly, rushing up and grabbing the girl’s hands. “It’s me—don’t you remember? Rose! We met—”

Sofya yanked her hands back so abruptly Rose stumbled. The frost in her gaze was enough to make even Kagami wince.

“Easy there, princess,” Luka drawled, stepping protectively in front of his sister's girlfriend. His voice was laced with both amusement and quiet reproach. “You’ve still got that lovely temper, huh?”

Marinette blinked at them, confuse. “Wait… you two know each other?”

“Yes,” Sofya replied coolly, her tone clipped. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re all privileged teenagers, and it shows. So I would deeply appreciate it if you went home to watch Disney Channel while the adults continue this conversation.”

Adrien’s eyebrow twitched. Something hot stirred in his chest—annoyance, maybe even anger. He wanted to hold his tongue, to stay out of it. He needed to. And yet, before he could stop himself, he stepped forward. Planting himself in front of Marinette the same way Luka had shielded Rose, Adrien faced Sofya head-on.

“You’re a teenager too,” he said flatly.

Her eyes met his without the faintest flicker of shame or hesitation. If anything, her composure sharpened. She looked him over slowly, deliberately, from head to toe. Adrien fought the urge to squirm, to glance away. He wanted to know what she was thinking—but he didn’t have to. Her thoughts were written in the sly curve of her mouth, in the mocking glint of her eyes.

“A daddy’s boy,” Sofya sneered, loud enough for all to hear. She turned to the crowd, pointing at him as though he were an exhibit. “Look at him, everyone!”

Laughter rippled through the protestors, bitter and cutting. The comments followed—sharp, derisive. Adrien and his friends noticed it now in painful clarity: the frayed coats, the patched jeans, the shoes worn down to thin soles. These were people who had learned to survive with less, people whose every glance carried the weight of bills unpaid, of nights working instead of sleeping.

And Adrien, who had always been taught to smile past discomfort, who had learned to ignore what was inconvenient, felt their resentment land on him like ice water.

“Adrien is anything but a spoiled rich kid!” Marinette burst out, her voice sharp with indignation.

“Adrien, we should just leave,” Kagami interjected softly, stepping behind him, her hand settling on his shoulder, her presence aligning with Marinette’s at his side.

But Adrien saw nothing—nothing except the mocking glint in that girl’s eyes. It ignited a strange frustration in him, a fire he had never known before.

Ignoring both girls, Sofya turned to the pompous Mayor Bourgeois. “This rink will not be shut down.”

She extended a hand behind her. A woman holding a child on her hip passed her a thick stack of papers, which Sofya delivered straight into Officer Roger’s hands. “This is a proper, legally binding petition to save the ice rink. We’ve also prepared others, for your space-garbage bin project you’re desperately trying to fund.”

André blanched, his face draining of color. “How did you—”

“We are the city, sir,” cut in the woman behind Sofya. She had dark skin, natural curls bound under a scarf, and eyes sharp enough to cut a man down where he stood. A smirk curved her lips. “Enjoy your last year as Mayor. Next year, maybe D’Argencourt will actually do something meaningful.”

Chloé’s father nearly choked on his indignation. He cast one last glance at the twenty-some citizens gathered against him, then turned on his heel and stormed off with his little brigade.

The crowd erupted into applause, a cheer swelling like a wave.

“Thank you! Thank you!” cried the skater in her white costume, tears shining in her eyes. “Thank you for coming!”

Sofya smiled at her, and Adrien felt a jolt. He hadn’t realized—until that moment—how strikingly beautiful she was when her smile was genuine.

“Don’t thank us,” Sofya said gently. “We are the city. And so are you.”

“Yeah!” voices rose in agreement from the crowd.

“Of course we weren’t gonna let you down!” laughed a boy in a wheelchair, proudly lifting his sign: Rebellion is fun!

“To celebrate—and to thank you all—I’m treating everyone to a round at Laurette’s!” the skater shouted.

The cheer of the crowd sent a flurry of pigeons bursting into the sky, their wings slicing through the air as they wheeled above the square. Sofya glanced at them, then back to the people around her.

“I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” she said, her gaze shifting to the group of high schoolers.

Luka stepped forward with Rose and Juleka by his side. “It’s been a while,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling. “I see you’ve still got your fire…”

“Your memory betrays you, darling,” the redhead replied, and everyone froze at the intimate nickname. “My specialty is ice. And since when do you hang out with people your own age? I thought you were some old man lucky enough to snag the same ‘ageless’ facelift as the Kardashians.”

Luka burst out laughing, and Alix coughed hard to smother her giggle.

Sofya turned her attention to Rose, who kept her eyes down. “I remember you. But do me a favor—don’t go blabbing to everyone that I saved your skin. Bad for my image.”

Marinette frowned. “Why?”

“Where I come from, saving someone means you’re either stupid or suicidal. I’d rather not lose credibility over one reckless impulse. If I’d thought twice, I would’ve stayed out of it.”

Adrien clenched his teeth. “Do you even hear yourself?” he snapped, ignoring the startled looks from all his friends. “You’re unbelievably shameless.”

The words burned on his tongue—why had he said that? He should’ve played dumb, pretended he didn’t get what was going on, anything to keep from being dragged into something this messy. But no. The second that girl looked at him, his mind unraveled, his chest twisting with an anger he didn’t understand—an anger at her obvious disdain for him.

And it made no sense. He didn’t care about her. He didn’t care what she thought of him. She was clearly full of prejudice and attitude. But… but it was stronger than him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, knock-off Ross Lynch.”

“What did you just call me?” Adrien blurted, his cheeks burning red.

Sofya shrugged. “Why does it matter to you, Blondie? I say what I think, that’s all. If people don’t like it, too bad. Life’s way too short for me to babysit everyone else’s feelings. But I can tell—that’s the kind of thing you’ll never understand.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: A Plan That Writes Itself ✨

Sofya Sinclair was sure she was being followed. It was an ordinary Saturday evening, just past seven o’clock, and she was on her way to the Beaumont Street club on the Left Bank of the Seine, where she worked as a waitress and sometimes as a singer.

The place was called, with no originality at all, Le Moulin Noir—a deliberate counterpoint to the Moulin Rouge. Of course, the Rouge had genuine class, while this little second-rate bar attracted the worst kind of riffraff. But the club belonged to Madame Bellary, an immigrant from Nigeria who proudly called herself Big Mama, and it was thanks to her that Sofya had the job. Big Mama had happily hired her, knowing she would accept a smaller wage than the older, more qualified waitresses.

And besides, Sofya was beautiful. Too beautiful, and more often a curse than a blessing. Yet when she sang an old Edith Piaf refrain and smiled while pouring cheap liquor into chipped glasses, the leering clients—almost all of them married, judging by the pale marks of rings that conveniently vanished the moment they set foot in Le Moulin Noir—would leave her tips large enough to dull the sting. It was a double-edged sword, one she had learned to wield carefully.

Which was why she never walked unprepared. A wig, glasses, the little tricks that blurred her face just enough to avoid attention when she was alone. Tonight she had left out the false teeth—she was crossing from the North Side toward the South, which was, if not safe, at least less hostile. And yet, whoever was trailing her seemed to think she was a lost tourist. Or perhaps just easy prey.

She could hear the footsteps behind her. Not loud, not soft. Not careless, not cautious. Just there.

Sofya cut left into the narrow alley that led to the bar and flattened herself against the wall. She heard the footsteps close in—quick now, urgent—and as the figure swung past and turned, Sofya drew a penknife from her belt and seized the stranger’s arm.

The girl was quick. She kicked out and shoved Sofya back, but Sofya didn’t stumble. Instead she pivoted, shoved her assailant against the brick, and pressed the blade to the soft of her throat. “Move and I’ll cut you,” she hissed, her voice rough with a pain that flared along her ribs.

“So—Sofya? It’s me. Marinette,” the stranger stammered, voice wobbling.

Sofya shoved her hard. The girl collapsed to the ground, blue-braided hair fanning out, eyes wide with fright. Sofya arched a brow. “Your parents did a terrible job,” she said coolly. “Didn’t they teach you following strangers is dangerous?”

Marinette scrambled to her feet, and Sofya had to give her this: she was quick, and braver than she looked. Not very bright, though. Showing up here at night was practically a signed death warrant if you came from the nicer neighborhoods — especially if you were pretty. With features that boldly announced her Franco-Chinese heritage, Marinette might as well have painted a target on her back.

“I wasn’t trying to startle you,” Marinette said, voice steadier than Sofya remembered from their first meeting protest in the 7th. A week ago she’d blushed and stammered; now she spoke with an unexpected calm and a seriousness that earned a begrudging nod from Sofya.

Sofya pocketed the penknife. “What do you want?”

Marinette’s eyes tracked the dark slit of the alley toward the bar — the red-and-black sign winked like a twenty-s era cabaret over the doorway. “I’m doing Rose a favor.”

“Oh, great,” Sofya sighed, already tired. “Tell your friend to leave me alone, okay? I didn’t save her life to have her move into mine.”

Marinette shot back a fierce look. “Rose is a wonderful friend, and you should count yourself lucky she cares about you. Besides — I’m not here to make your life worse. I’ve come with a job offer that would actually improve it.”

“A job?” Sofya raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job?”

Marinette twisted her fingers, eyes narrowing as she chose her words. “My parents run a bakery. They need a delivery person. If you’re interested…”

“Wait—how did you even find me?” Sofya cut in, surprised.

Marinette’s face lit up. “It was easy, really. After the video from the rally — your speech — went viral, I just showed your picture around the neighborhood and people pointed me straight to you.” She said it with a little pride.

Sofya pressed her lips together. She wasn’t thrilled to learn people were handing out information about her to anyone who asked, but that was exactly why no one knew where she actually lived, and why she wore disguises at night. Even those who claimed to be your friends were nothing more than potential traitors in waiting.

“Honestly, Marinette, I don’t see the point. I already have a job…”

“A job that consists of what, exactly?” the blue-haired girl shot back. “With this offer, you’d not only have steady work, but you could save money to actually get out of here. Rose told me you work under the table, which means you’re underpaid. With my parents it’d be different.”

A freezing wind cut through the alley. A group of drunk men stumbled out of the Moulin Noir, roaring some vulgar song about women with big breasts and what a gift they were. Sofya winced, embarrassed, and Marinette gave her a look that said see what I mean?

“Just come meet my parents…”

“All right.”

Marinette blinked. “Really? I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

Sofya arched a brow. “Why? I’m not stupid. I can recognize a good opportunity when it falls in my lap. But for now, I’ve got work to do. So—ciao.”

“Okay!” Marinette called after her. “It’s the Dupain-Cheng Bakery—you can’t miss it. Right between Françoise Dupont High School and the metro station!”

Sofya kept walking as though she hadn’t heard, but she stored every word carefully away. She pictured what it might feel like to earn enough to save for her future. What it might be like to never wear that little black dress again, to never sing for those pigs. And yet, she didn’t know what any of this really meant. Gratitude for helping a girl? No—people weren’t kind for no reason. There was always something behind a smile, behind a compliment, behind a hand held out in help.

She knew that better than anyone.

She’d been abandoned at birth, left in a trash bin with nothing but a blanket stitched with her name: Sofya. A certain Monsieur Ramier had found her and brought her to Sainte-Anne, the notorious orphanage of that cursed district where she’d grown up. Neglected by adults who disguised their lack of compassion as “tough love,” using children like her for their own ends rather than protecting them.

And when she was ten, and Father Dubois’s wandering hands finally crossed the line, Sofya had driven a fork straight into his left eye and run.

The rest was history.

Chapter Text

The night was beautiful—rarely so.

Almost midnight, the perfect hour for a patrol. A little action always helped clear his mind before trying to sleep. Of course, he’d have to be back before one a.m. if he wanted at least five hours of rest. He’d learned to get by on little; years of modeling had trained him for that.

His black suit stretched smoothly across his muscles, the cool wind cutting against his face as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Paris shimmered beneath the full moon, silver and still, like a coin tossed into the sky. Nothing unusual to report—only a few stray wanderers crossing the streets below.

But as he left the Right Bank and drifted north toward the Left, he noticed clusters of bikers gathered in the shadows. They weren’t doing anything wrong—not yet, anyway. Cat Noir couldn’t act without a reason: saving lives, stopping a supervillain, preventing disaster. That was the unspoken deal between him, Ladybug, and the police. Everyone stayed in their lane.

He kept moving, eyes tracing the web of electric wires strung above the streets. Shoelaces and sneakers dangled from them—odd relics of lives that had passed through. The streets were littered, the lamps flickering, buildings half-dark. It was a part of Paris he’d never really seen before—one the postcards forgot.

And for the eighteenth time since meeting her (yes, he was counting—though he’d rather hand his Miraculous to Hawk Moth than admit it), his mind drifted to Sofya Sinclair. That girl—beautiful, wild, infuriatingly rude. She got under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

Not like Lila Rossi—she simply gave him chills. Lila was the kind of false friend he’d learned to ignore in the modeling world. His father used to say, “Denying a lie only feeds it. Stay silent, and it dies.”

So far, that had worked.

But Sofya... she was something else entirely.

Adrien stopped on the edge of a rooftop and flicked open the screen on his staff, trying to send a message to his Lady.

No signal.

That meant she probably wasn’t transformed tonight. Maybe she’d done her patrol earlier, or decided to rest for once.

He sat down on the parapet and looked up. The stars were bright tonight — brighter than usual.

He remembered the summer nights of his childhood, when he and his mother would sit together on the roof of the Agreste manor, wrapped in a blanket, watching the constellations and talking about everything — life, dreams, little things that didn’t seem to matter but somehow did.

He remembered how he’d nestle against her side. Call him a mama’s boy if they wanted; he hadn’t cared.

All he’d ever wanted was to stay in her arms, to hear her laugh, to feel that warmth — so soft, so gentle, so endlessly loving. In those moments, he’d known he was wanted. That he was loved. That his life meant something.

A cool wind swept across the rooftops, and for a second he could have sworn he caught her scent — jasmine and lavender drifting through the night.

Sometimes, he still wondered what had really happened to her.

She’d gone away one day, a trip, his father had said — to treat her illness.

“Nothing serious,” he’d promised. But it was.

Because she had been growing paler every day, coughing more, stumbling when she walked.

He remembered catching her crying alone when she thought no one was watching.

Then she left.

And something terrible must have happened.

They never found her body.

And Adrien never got to say goodbye.

Adrien closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he inhaled again, more sharply this time. A chill ran through him when he realized that scent — his mother’s perfume — was truly in the air.

His eyes snapped open.

He looked around, startled, and saw a figure standing several rooftops away, poised on the narrow edge of a building, her back to him.

Without hesitation, he leapt into the void.

He landed softly, careful not to startle her.

It was a girl — he could tell from the curve of her silhouette, the way her long, fiery hair lifted in the wind, scattering that same scent, both familiar and impossibly distant.

He already knew who she was.

He could have recognized her presence anywhere.

And wasn’t it strange — unnerving, even — how much space she had begun to occupy in his mind?

Sofya Sinclair turned her head slowly, as if she had felt him there all along.

Their eyes met — green into blue.

But her eyes weren’t blue like Marinette’s, or Ladybug’s, or even Chloé’s. No. They were a vivid, almost impossible shade of blue, streaked with silver — as if someone had thrown diamonds into deep water and left them there to shimmer.

Adrien wondered if she recognized him — but quickly dismissed the thought.
His suit was magical; that was the point.
No one, not even his own father, could ever recognize Adrien Agreste behind the mask of Cat Noir.

Sofya turned back toward the edge.

“Good evening, Cat Noir,” she said softly. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

He froze.
For a moment, he forgot how to speak.

“Do you… need help, miss ?” he finally managed.

“No,” she replied gently. “But thank you.”

There was kindness in her tone — real, unguarded — and it threw him off balance.
He stepped closer. The night wind stirred the hem of her short black dress, far too thin for an autumn chill near midnight.

Somewhere below, a cat yowled, dogs barked in response, and then the city fell silent again.

“Please,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Come down from there.”

She glanced at him, then back toward the drop.

“No need to panic, Cat Noir. I’m not going to jump.”

Her voice was calm — tired, maybe — the kind of fatigue that didn’t come from the body. “I just needed some air after work.”

She exhaled, a soft, heartbreaking sigh. “And to think… I’ve always wanted to meet you. Looks like tonight’s my lucky night.”

She let out a small, quiet laugh.

He studied her closely — no scent of beer, no glassy eyes.

She wasn’t drunk. Just… composed. Still.

Perfectly aware that one wrong step could end everything.

Adrien leapt lightly onto the ledge beside her and took her hand — just in case.

Sofya looked down at their joined fingers, saying nothing, before lifting her gaze to his.

Heat crept up beneath his mask, spreading from his cheeks to his ears. Good God. He couldn’t remember ever blushing like this before — not even for Ladybug.

“You’re blushing,” she murmured, turning her gaze back toward the void. “That’s cute.”

“We really should come down,” he said, his throat dry.

“Not yet.” Her voice was calm, almost distant. “Don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“Life,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The world hums differently when you’re standing this close to the edge. It reminds you life is worth living. I’m not here to jump… I’m here to remind myself why I never will.”

Adrien stayed silent. No — he didn’t feel it. He wasn’t in danger. He wouldn’t die from this fall. His suit would absorb the impact; his body could take more punishment than Ladybug’s. That was one of his passive powers — and one of the reasons he was so often the bait.

Because it made sense.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“You know, Cat Noir,” she said softly, “I really want to thank you and Ladybug. For everything you do for Paris. Every day. It’s not nothing. No, not at all.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, staring at her.

No one had ever thanked him like that before. Not once.

People thanked Ladybug. They held ceremonies. They built statues. But no one had ever turned to him, looked him in the eye, and thanked him — quietly, personally — for what he did.

The sky was particularly beautiful that night.

Really beautiful.

And the air — normally heavy, dirty in this part of the city — suddenly felt lighter, cleaner.

An invisible weight Adrien had carried so long he’d stopped noticing it… slipped away

“What does it feel like?” she asked. “Saving lives?”

Adrien took his time before answering. He felt, somehow, that tonight he was neither Adrien Agreste nor Cat Noir. He wasn’t sure who he was, sitting here with Sofya Sinclair, because this part of him felt new—gentler than Adrien, yet braver than Cat Noir, stripped of flirtation and false smiles. Just a boy on the edge of the city, with a girl who admired Cat Noir but despised Adrien, speaking to someone who was neither and both.

“Saving lives is… a hard job, but a rewarding one,” he said at last. “It’s like being a firefighter, or a police officer, or…” he hesitated, lost in his own thoughts, “a neurosurgeon. It feels good to be useful. It makes life easier, knowing there’s a purpose.”

“Yes. Purpose,” she murmured. “We’re all searching for it. But sometimes I think there isn’t any. That we’re just born to suffer.”

“That’s not true,” Adrien Agreste said, taking her hand.

She looked him in the eyes. “Really?”

“Maybe not,” admitted this new version of himself, the one without a mask or a name. “Maybe we are born for nothing, and it’s up to us to make something of our lives—otherwise, we’re… nothing.”

“And being nothing,” Sofya whispered, as if thinking aloud, “is the worst thing that could ever happen.”

In the night that wrapped around them, the world seemed to shift, imperceptibly yet unmistakably, as if destiny itself was bending from its course, steering slowly but surely toward a new arc that defied the laws of the divine. Sofya and Cat Noir held each other’s hands until the clouds swallowed the moon.

The night was beautiful.

Chapter Text

Madame Bellary had never been a woman you could pigeonhole. Not exactly beautiful, not exactly plain either. Built like someone who'd known work her whole life — broad shoulders, arms made for heavy labor — and eyes that had seen too much to soften easily.

In Lagos they called her Iyabo the Silent — not because she didn't speak, but because she knew when to shut up. Her husband, on the other hand, never learned that lesson. The blows came, and the insults with them. She took it for years, like an animal resigned to its yoke. That was what her mother taught her; and her mother had learned it from her own mother: as long as you were married, that’s apparently all it took to be a "proper" woman. At least that’s what Mama said — and once, Mme Bellary had been foolish enough to swallow those words whole.

It went on for a long time. Until the night she realized her husband wasn't coming home for her anymore. Rumor — from women who hung around her, who called themselves friends while whispering behind her back and showing up to beg money to her face — said his mistress had given him two kids where she couldn't. “The mother-in-law will be pleased,” Bellary thought, detached.

But that was the last straw. It wasn’t the violence she couldn't bear — she’d survived that — it was the humiliation. So, on a sticky, sweating night, she took the big kitchen knife and dealt with the problem at the root. Literally. No more husband, no more mother-in-law — and before the police could knock, she’d already left the country with every franc her rich husband had hoarded, the same man who could no longer touch her (money had always made up for everything).

After that, people said she’d crossed the ocean with the Devil himself riding shotgun. Paris opened its grimy, glittering arms, and she slipped into it like a whisper. She opened Le Moulin Noir in the heart of Pigalle — part cabaret, part shelter, part den. A place where lost souls could get drunk, dance, sing, or vanish, depending on what the night demanded.

Now they called her Big Mama. Iron in a velvet dress. She could count money without missing a beat — because you’d never catch a damn Nigerian shortchanging her cash — and she could read people’s misery without looking up. The mad, the beggars, the runaway girls, men with no papers — they all respected her. She had a soft spot for the broken, the bent, the damned on the asphalt. Maybe because they were pieces of her.

That night she was counting francs under the bar’s red light, a stub of a cigar tucked between lips painted too bright. Her ring-heavy fingers made the coins click on the sticky wood of the counter. The gramophone wound down, the smoke thick as velvet, and a voice rose out of it.

Sofya Sinclair.

The little redhead.

Pale, almost translucent under the lights, lips full and smiling in a way that never reached those sapphire eyes. Her raven-black satin dress hugged her hips in a way that promised something without ever quite giving the starving men what their wives, tired from chores and children, no longer could. She sang “La Seine” — not the postcard river, but the river of rainy nights, lonely quays, and loves that crumble at dawn. Her voice was rough, honest, and soft all at once.

That’s why Bellary picked her: she worked off the books, which was a plus, but mostly because she had a lovely rear that customers liked to stare at, and a voice that bewitched even the worst local thugs.

The room fell silent, hanging on each note. Drunk men stopped laughing. Even waiters froze mid-tray. Cigarette smoke curled up slow, as if mesmerized by the melody.

Big Mama watched without blinking. Her look was equal parts pride and worry. She could smell danger — and Sofya Sinclair was dangerous. Not because of the knives the girl hid in a garter under that tight dress (yes, Bellary knew — there were few things she didn’t know around there). It was the voice, the skin, the aura. The kid didn’t know yet, but she carried the same thing Big Mama did: a sleeping rage, ready to wake at the first real wound.

When Sofya finished, a thick silence fell. Then applause rose, timid at first, then like a waterfall.

Big Mama straightened, blew the smoke off the still-smoldering ash, and murmured to herself:

— My girl, you’re gonna set this damn world on fire.

Sofya walked up to the bar where Bellary was counting her cash.

That woman, with her hawk-like eyes, was doing it right in front of everyone — like she was daring the world to say something. Yeah, I’m a rich, powerful Black woman. If that bothers you, go to hell.

Sofya was honestly surprised no gang had tried to rob the place yet, but knowing Big Mama, she’d probably already killed a few dumb kids who’d thought they could.

Honestly, Sofya wouldn’t even be shocked to find a couple of corpses buried under that desk of hers.

The newspaper headline screamed that a young, promising entrepreneur had taken his own life — unable to live with the post-traumatic stress of having been brought back from the dead by Ladybug’s magic.
Apparently, he’d been crushed beneath the foot of that giant akumatized baby — the one whose name no one even remembered — and woke up with the memory still burning in his bones.

Sofya understood.

She’d drowned when Paris was swallowed by Syren’s tide. She still remembered the taste of saltwater flooding her lungs, the burning in her ribs, the strange calm that came when her body stopped fighting.

Then, the darkness.

And suddenly — light. Air. Streets full of the newly resurrected, all of them trembling, blinking like ghosts in daylight.

She hadn’t screamed. She’d just stood there, dripping, shivering, realizing the world had gone on — and that she was no longer part of it the same way.

“Damn pests, aren’t they?” Bellary muttered from behind her counter. “World’s not what it used to be. Now we’ve got masked brats playin’ heroes, tellin’ us how to live...”

Sofya’s mind flicked back to that night with Cat Noir — the way he’d stayed with her, the things they’d talked about. She had never felt that close to anyone. It had only been, what, two days ago? And yet so much had happened since.

She’d gone to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng at her parents’ bakery, passed the little interview with nothing but a smile and those bright, tired eyes. Apparently, she’d be paid better than here — just for driving deliveries on a scooter the Dupain-Chengs would rent her. They’d even offered her a room upstairs, but that had been too much. Too close. Too kind.

Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about Cat Noir. Weird, she thought. She didn’t even know what his face looked like.

Pushing the thought aside, she turned to face Madame Bellary, ready to say what she had to say.
“I found another job.”

Bellary stopped counting her money. Her eyes lifted, sharp as razors.
“So you’re leavin’ me?”

Sofya didn’t flinch.
“It was bound to happen.”

“Guess so,” Bellary sighed.

A young man at the bar, who’d been eyeing Sofya for a while, slipped a coin into the jukebox. A crackling pop song from the seventies filled the smoky air, drowning the murmur of voices.

“So that means you’re givin’ up on our little investigation? Our revolution?”
“Over my dead body,” Sofya said without thinking.

Bellary grinned, flashing white teeth that stood out against her dark skin and blood-red lipstick. Without a word, she nodded and led Sofya toward the cellar, motioning for Jean-Michel Gredin — the bartender — to keep things running.

They descended the narrow, familiar staircase, the air growing cooler with each step. Bellary pushed open the heavy door and flicked on the old ceiling lamp.

The light buzzed, flickered — then revealed the wall.

It was covered from floor to ceiling in papers, photographs, red strings, and scribbled notes linking names, symbols, and dates. Sofya closed the door behind her.

This was their work — their secret. Bellary’s network of spies and street informants had helped them piece together fragments of truth, tracing the man behind the mask of the Hawk Moth.

According to the board, he was middle-aged, educated, sharp — someone powerful, hidden in plain sight.

Bellary’s favorite suspect was Mr. Roth, a crooked businessman with too much money and not enough conscience. Sofya, though, had her doubts. She’d always suspected Gabriel Agreste — it just fit. The timing, the secrecy, the grief in his eyes.

But then, he’d nearly been killed by an akumatized victim… and recently, he’d been akumatized himself. Case closed, apparently.

Still, something in Sofya refused to let go of that thread. Maybe it was too obvious. Or maybe that was exactly what made it true.

Either way, the trail had gone cold — and both women knew it.

Sofya stood before the wall of notes and red strings, her arms crossed, eyes tracing the messy web of names and faces.
“None of this is leading anywhere,” she muttered finally, frustration curling around her words.

Bellary sat on an old crate, rolling a coin between her fingers before letting it fall back into her palm with a soft clink.
“Patience, girl,” she said, her voice low and calm. “The world doesn’t spill its secrets just because you’re tired of waiting. You stay still long enough, and it’ll pay you back — one way or another.”

Sofya rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. “Patience doesn’t pay rent.”
She took a step closer to the board, her gaze hardening. “If I move closer to the upper districts, I might actually see our suspects for myself. The rich always end up showing their teeth when you stand too close.”

A long silence followed.
Then, from somewhere near the wall, a small sound — scratch, scurry.
A rat darted across the room, vanishing behind a basket of filthy rags.
Neither of them moved.

Bellary broke the quiet with a sigh, pulling the dead cigar from her lips.
“Our little protest’s making the rounds on the net,” she said. “People are talking — sharing. They’re calling it the Awakening of Conscience. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
She smirked. “Next election, you’ll see. More folks will side with D’Argencourt instead of that snake Bourgeois.”

Sofya lifted an eyebrow. “You really think D’Argencourt’s a good guy? He’s got the morals of a medieval knight — not exactly what I’d call forward-thinking.”

Bellary’s laugh rumbled low, like gravel in a drum.
“Maybe. But he’s got honor — and honor still counts for something in this rotten city. Besides…”
She tapped the pile of files beside her, her rings clicking against the paper.
“Once he wins, he’ll owe that victory to us. And people who owe us… they don’t forget it.”

Sofya stared at her for a long moment, silent.
The flickering light above buzzed faintly; the rat moved again, a blur of motion vanishing into the dark.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled — the air, the smoke, the city itself —
as if Paris was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Sofya turned her gaze back to the wall of faces, eyes sliding over each photograph like a blade.
“Whoever you are, Hawk Moth,” she whispered, voice hard as flint, “I’ll find you. And you’ll answer to the people you’ve been crushing.”

She let the words hang in the stale air, then spat them out like a benediction.
“Forget the so-called heroes. Justice won’t fall from the sky — it’s gonna rise up from below.”

Chapter Text

The same evening, Chloé Bourgeois and her best friend, Sabrina Raincomprix, were sitting inside an old glass-bottle warehouse turned photo studio in downtown Neuilly-sur-Seine. The cavernous space buzzed with light—tripods, cameras, and folding backdrops stacked against the walls. One showed a deep blue cloth, another a fake autumn scene, and the third—a giant French flag fluttering under the fans—made Chloé roll her eyes. So tacky.

Her father, André Bourgeois, stood in the middle of his campaign team, adjusting his tie and practicing his speech. He was running for re-election that winter, and today they were filming his first “I’m-the-perfect-mayor” video.

Chloé studied her reflection in her Chanel compact.

She looked perfect — her light makeup brought out the blue of her eyes, and for once, she had left her hair down. She wore a simple black dress, because she hadn’t known what else to wear. And as everyone with the slightest sense of style knew: if you don’t know what to wear, wear black.

She looked perfect — and that was exactly what her best friend Sabrina kept saying. “Wow, Chloé, you look amazing! So grown-up!” she gushed.

Chloé gave a smug little smile.

“Yes, I know,” she replied, snapping her compact shut.

The evening could have been perfect too — but it wasn’t. Her mother hadn’t answered a single one of her messages all week. Lately, her class seemed to hate her even more than usual, even though, ironically, she had been keeping to herself more than ever. Even Adrien had given her an ultimatum: either you become nicer, or we’re not friends anymore.

She hadn’t believed it when she heard those words come out of her Adrien’s mouth.

Become nicer…

Chloé knew she was a brat, a spoiled princess, a bully even — so what? She also knew she could be kind, affectionate, and loyal when she wanted to be — and Adrien should’ve known that too. Who had been his shoulder to cry on when they buried that empty coffin for his mother? Who had defended him when Félix’s little games turned cruel?

She had been there, accepting the fact that when they were in public, Adrien never said what he really thought, never lost his temper, always smiled that polite, false smile — and she never judged him for it.

And yet, he… he…

Chloé swallowed the pain stabbing through her chest like a knife. It didn’t matter. She still had Sabrina. And even if she sometimes — well, very often — treated the girl harshly, she also made sure Sabrina came along to every exclusive event, wore the best clothes, and shared every late-night secret.

Everyone assumed Sabrina was her obedient little servant, never imagining that behind closed doors, Chloé Bourgeois might not be what she seemed.

A small man with thick geeky glasses, a pink pinstriped shirt, and gray pants clapped his hands, making both girls jump. “Okay, André, we’re ready!”

That was Jeremiah—André’s campaign advisor. Or, as Chloé liked to call him, her father’s lapdog. He followed the mayor everywhere, carrying papers, phones, and the man’s dignity on a leash. Every time Chloé saw him, she had to resist the urge to whistle and say, ‘Fetch!’

Jeremiah positioned André in front of the blue screen. “All right, we’ll start with a few sound bites about why you represent the future of Paris,” he said in his nasal, overly cheerful voice. When he bent over to fix a microphone, Chloé noticed the thin bald spot forming on the top of his head. “Don’t forget to mention everything you’ve done for the community—and say clearly that you’re committed to ending teenage alcoholism.”

“Understood,” André said solemnly.

Chloé and Sabrina exchanged a look, biting back laughter. The irony was almost too much. Of all possible causes, her father had chosen this one? Couldn’t he have gone for something less likely to ruin his daughter’s social life—like helping the homeless, or improving Amazon’s warehouse conditions? What good was a city without beer at parties, anyway?

The lights above them hummed. The air was thick with heat and the scent of metal and foundation powder. Chloé dabbed her nose with a tissue, careful not to smudge her makeup. In the mirror of her Chanel compact, her reflection stared back—perfect, untouchable.

For a second, though, she felt the echo of something sharp beneath the gloss. The same old sting in her chest. She thought of her mother’s silence, of Adrien’s ultimatum, of how everyone in her class looked at her as if she were toxic.

Her father’s voice echoed through the studio:
“—and I promise, under my leadership, Paris will be a city of integrity!”

Chloé exhaled through her nose.

Sure. Integrity.

It was all a performance—and she knew it better than anyone.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of Paris beyond the windows.

Adrien sat on the edge of his bed, still half-dressed in his modeling clothes.

Plagg floated lazily above a half-eaten slice of camembert.

“Still thinking about her?” the kwami asked, smirking.

Adrien didn’t answer right away. His reflection in the glass looked like someone else — someone who smiled for cameras all day, and never quite knew who he was when the lights went off.

“She’s… different,” he finally said.

“Different how? Like ‘different’ as in trouble?”

Adrien gave a small, tired smile. “Maybe. She doesn’t try to be nice. Or cruel. She just… says things the way they are.”

Plagg snorted. “Sounds dangerous. You’re allergic to honesty, kid.”

Adrien leaned back, eyes drifting toward the skyline.

“I don’t know. I think I needed to hear it.”

Adrien leaned back, thinking about that moment on the rooftop — how different she had been with Cat Noir. Open, trusting, letting him see who she really was. The complete opposite of how she acted with him.

Most people, especially girls, were more impressed by Adrien Agreste than by Cat Noir. Marinette, for example, had a wall full of his photos in her room for inspiration. He never talked about it — it would have been embarrassing — and even though he knew she had a bit of a celebrity crush on him, he couldn’t reciprocate. To avoid breaking her heart, and to keep this fragile new group of friends intact, he pretended not to notice.

Besides, his heart belonged only to his Lady… even if Ladybug’s heart belonged to someone else. So what was the point?

Plagg retrieved a piece of camembert from the tiny trophy where he kept his reserves and hopped onto the pillow next to Adrien. He studied his usually silent master before taking a deliberate bite.

Adrien sighed again, imagining Ladybug’s image floating before his eyes: blue hair, matching eyes, the same air of mystery, the same unwavering confidence. But then she was replaced by Sofya Sinclair.

He couldn’t get it out of his head — she wore a mask too, just like him. The revolutionary, the girl teetering on the edge. What did she live through every day that made her stare at the void like an old friend, like death itself had once whispered secrets to her?

Adrien sighed again, and Plagg had had enough. He devoured the last piece of camembert, cleared his throat, and finally said, “Enough! Now, Adrien… talk to me. I can be your… what do humans call it in the twenty-first century? Oh, right—a psychologist!”

Adrien slowly got up and took off his shoes, leaning against the headboard beside Plagg. “You know about psychology?” he asked skeptically.

Plagg looked offended and zipped around the room. “Of course I do! I’ve studied everything there is! And you know what? The Cat Noir before you… he was a psychologist too. English. And it was him who secretly took down Jack the Ripper. Nobody knew, of course. That Richard Mason—may he rest in peace,” Plagg added, crossing himself theatrically before grabbing another piece of cheese and swallowing it whole.

Adrien’s curiosity piqued. “What happened to Richard?”

“Oh, not much,” Plagg said, shrugging. “He got… unstable. I had to take his Miraculous while he was asleep and… run for my life.”

Adrien’s eyes went wide. “You can do that?”

Plagg turned toward the starry night visible through the bay window. His voice grew serious, almost reverent. “Me and the Creation Kwami? Yes, we can. We are primordial gods. The others… not so much.”

Adrien felt the weight of Plagg’s silence. He knew exactly who the kwami in question was—trapped in Hawk Moth’s schemes.

The room grew still. Outside, Paris glittered softly in the night, but inside, Adrien felt the pull of something larger, something dangerous, something that even Plagg’s humor couldn’t entirely mask.

The next morning, Marinette sat at the tiny yellow Formica table in her family’s kitchen, just above their bakery. She spooned up a bowl of diet cereal soaked in soy milk while trying to read the Gazette de Paris. Tom Dupain-Cheng had already finished the crossword, leaving smudges of ink all over the pages.

Since her parents were already downstairs and she had an hour of free time before classes, Marinette didn’t panic when her kwami popped out of her bag and gave her a skeptical look.

“This is the morning that girl is going to start her job,” Tikki said, eyes wide with impatience.

Marinette swallowed a bite. “Yes, Tikki. I know,” she laughed.

Tikki rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s great that you’re always ready to help, but… logically, this girl seems to live a pretty chaotic life. If something goes wrong, won’t it fall on your parents? Aren’t we putting them at risk?”

Marinette chewed thoughtfully, considering the question. “I don’t think so. She seems to care about people in her neighborhood. And besides… if anything goes wrong, Ladybug will be there,” she said with a small, confident smile.

Tikki nodded, though she stayed cautious. She had to be—Marinette was one of, if not the best Miraculous holders, but she was still a novice, prone to lapses in judgment.

From downstairs, Marinette’s father called out, “Marinette! Sofya’s here!”

Marinette quickly swallowed the last of her cereal as Tikki darted back into her bag, her tiny heart fluttering with apprehension. Yet she wasn’t overly worried—after all, she had faced far stranger threats in her existence. Plagg once accidentally sank the Atlantic, and she herself had unleashed the Twelve Plagues of Egypt to punish that pompous Ramses. Tikki could not abide slavery, in any form.

Marinette stumbled at least three times on the stairs on her way down to her parents, while Tikki smacked her forehead with her tiny hand in exasperation.

Chapter Text

“What did you get Miss Bustier for her birthday, Rose?” asked Juleka, as the whole class was getting ready in the locker room of Françoise-Dupont High School for their next period — with none other than their favorite teacher, Caline Bustier herself.

“I made her a scrapbook!” Rose replied brightly, holding out her gift. “I’m sure she’ll love looking back at all our memories. And I even added some blank pages so she can fill them in later!”

Just then, Marinette burst into the room, nearly tripping twice before catching herself.
“I’m here, I’m here!” she panted.

Alya rolled her eyes, an amused grin spreading across her face.
“Let me guess — you just finished your gift?”

“Yes! I just needed a few last-minute tweaks. But I worked on it last night, I swear!”

“Then what took you so long?” Alya teased, pulling her own wrapped present from her locker.

The locker room gleamed under the white neon lights — wide, spotless, almost too pristine. For a public school, Françoise-Dupont didn’t look the part: no graffiti, no dented lockers, not a single scuff on the walls. It was “public” in the same way Harvard was — technically, but with the wealthiest and most well-connected students in Paris filling its halls.

Marinette, though, was the odd one out — or almost. The Dupain-Chengs ran the most popular bakery in the district, adored by Paris’ elite (and, of course, the occasional ordinary passerby).

“I had to welcome Sofya,” Marinette admitted. “It was her first day.”

At that name, several heads turned. Even Adrien froze mid-motion, pretending to rummage through his locker while discreetly listening in.

“That girl gave me a bad vibe,” muttered Juleka, frowning. “And to think she’s the same one Luka was talking about…”

Marinette’s curiosity flared instantly. “Exactly! I know they’ve met before — apparently they do know each other, but… how?”

Rose giggled behind her hands, her fuchsia-pink nails catching the light. “Apparently, they used to date.”

A stunned silence fell over the room. And then—

“WHAT?!” several voices shouted in unison.

Adrien froze again, carefully avoiding the smug look of Plagg, who was lounging among his math notes with a piece of cheese.

“I never would’ve guessed!” Alya laughed.

“No way, that’s awesome!” Kim grinned, waving his phone.

He showed Max one of the few Ladyblog videos that wasn’t about Ladybug — the one covering the famous “Awakening of Conscience” protest.

“Look, Max — Sofya. The Sofya everyone’s talking about. That’s her — the redhead.”

Mrs. Mendeleiev, the strictest teacher around, walked past the open locker doors, giving them all a sharp glance.

Kim quickly hid his phone, while everyone tried to look innocent.

When the teacher walked away, a collective sigh of relief swept through the room.

Technically, students were allowed to bring their phones in case of an Akuma attack, but they weren’t supposed to flaunt them like that. At least, that’s what Mrs. Mendeleiev kept repeating before confiscating anyone’s phone she caught in their hands.

Kim put his phone back in plain sight so everyone could see the video: two million views in just a few days. On the iPhone screen, a young girl was putting the Mayor firmly in his place.

“Yeah, I saw that video — so classy,” Alix snickered.

She watched with her usual effortless smile — because, you see, Alix Kubdel was the epitome of cool. No matter what she did — hailing a taxi, eating spaghetti, or going to the bathroom — she never lost her cool.

“She’s so hot,” Kim drooled.

Marinette placed her hands on her hips, fixing him with an annoyed look. “Aren’t you supposed to be dating Ondine?” she said, her tone dripping with condescension.

Kim blushed under his friends’ laughter and pouted.

“Hey, a guy’s allowed to look!”

“A guy, yes. Not boys!” Alya shot back, high-fiving Marinette.

That’s when Chloé Bourgeois entered. The laughter died instantly. She scanned the classroom with a piercing gaze, ignoring the scattered gifts, and walked straight to her locker, followed by Sabrina.

The room went silent, tense, as if the air itself had thickened.

Adrien, feeling awkward for Chloé, stepped closer and asked softly,

“Did you plan something for Mrs. Bustier?”

But given the silence, he might as well have shouted.

Nino shook his head, exasperated. “Forget it, dude. She always forgets.”

“Chloé didn’t forget, she has a gift planned, it’s…” Sabrina began, only to be cut off abruptly.

“It’s a surprise!” Chloé declared, haughty.

Marinette rolled her eyes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Chloé raised an eyebrow, flicking her blonde ponytail with pride. “Saint Marinette, judging her neighbor, is she?”

“I believe you, Chloé. Can’t wait to see your gift,” Adrien added warmly, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder.

Marinette gritted her teeth, stung by jealousy.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, Chloé!” she tried to recover, avoiding her friends’ knowing looks. “Just… well… I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Her cheeks burned scarlet, aware she was digging herself deeper with every word. Luckily, the bell rang, and everyone dispersed to head to class.

Sofya stopped her scooter in front of the imposing façade of Lycée Françoise-Dupont.
She got off, adjusted her jacket, and carefully carried the box holding a birthday cake… six hundred thousand euros, as Sabine Cheng had pointed out with wide eyes.

A cake ordered by none other than Chloé Bourgeois, for the birthday of her teacher, Caline Bustier.

As she climbed the steps with her precious cargo, Sofya wondered how anyone could spend so much on a teacher.
It was definitely a rich person’s reflex.

In her whole life, she had never seen six hundred euros in cash at once, so six hundred thousand? She almost laughed if it hadn’t been so absurd. Spending that much on something nonessential? No way.

But deep down, she also understood that everything was relative.

If she had been born into luxury, maybe she too would have wanted to splurge with her money. After all, money was meant to be spent, wasn’t it?

That was how the economic wheel turned: Chloé Bourgeois bought an overpriced cake from the Dupain-Chengs, who, in turn, bought their flour elsewhere; the supplier ordered his wheat from a farmer, who then paid his workers… And so the world went.

Sofya knew all of this. Not because someone had taught her — but because she had studied it on her own, like a grown-up, even when no one had forced her to.

Even when she had to rummage through trash to eat, before being taken in by Big Mama.

Sofya had known for a long time that beauty was a double-edged knife.

A weapon that always ends up turning against the one who wields it, if they don’t know how to use it.

So instead of sharpening only her reflection, she had honed her mind — like the knights of D’Argencourt sharpen their swords.

Sitting in his seat, in the center, Adrien smelled the rain heavy in the air, slipping in through the slightly open window. Nino fiddled absentmindedly with his pen, while Adrien replayed Juleka’s words in his head: Sofya… and Luka.

It was strange, the way his stomach tightened just thinking about it. He found himself sighing, then caught Marinette’s gaze. She was looking at him with a timid concern. Adrien offered her that smile he knew so well — the one that said, it’s okay, don’t worry.

She blushed instantly, cheeks burning up to her ears, before hastily lowering her head.

Adrien felt a pang of tenderness. Marinette was a good friend. Maybe even… too kind.

His eyes then drifted toward Chloé, sitting at the back. She stared intently at the door, fingers clutching her phone. No doubt she was waiting for her famous surprise — still nowhere in sight.

Everyone thought she was lying, of course.

But Adrien believed her. He knew that nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth: when Chloé truly made an effort, she became almost… perfectionist.

At the front of the classroom, Madame Bustier recited a Victor Hugo poem in a gentle voice, her gaze lingering tenderly on the gifts covering her desk. She had promised to open them only at the very end of class.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

A faint jolt ran through the class.

Madame Bustier went to open it — and even though no one could see who it was, Adrien sat up straight instinctively.

He had just recognized the voice.

“A delivery for Madame Bustier, from Mademoiselle Bourgeois,” announced a smooth, deep voice — clearly more womanly than any of the girls in the class.

Silence fell immediately. Even Chloé, usually so confident, seemed to be holding her breath.