Chat Noir confused her.

He was a scourge on the city. Hands down. A nuisance to some, a viable threat to others, but a scourge to all nonetheless. Regardless of whether one was rich or poor, nothing really sucked like waking up in the morning to find the week's politician or actor, alongside with their darkest secret, spray painted across the side of your house. And so, Chat Noir, whoever he happened to be, was indeed a scourge on the city of Paris.

But it was a good kind of scourge. Paris was grateful. Voices that wouldn't have been bothered with before were now listened to. Really, it was only natural.

That said, Chat Noir's artwork seemed to always hold an… impersonal, duty-bound taste to it. The art itself was personal, but he always seemed to work with a degree of distance from his subjects, if that made any sense. It showed in how the curves of faces popped and how the secrets differed from person to person, always some scandalous thing or another that sent the subject into hiding for a few months, only for them to reemerge when the coast was a bit clearer. It was impersonal, professional. Business, if one chose to look at it like that.

But this?

This was confusing.

Marinette stared up at the building, completely astonished. On its wall was a massive mural drawn and signed by Chat Noir himself. It stretched all the way up the 4-floored building, just barely stopping in time to hit the roof, looking like nothing Chat Noir had ever done. It was all greyscale, picture-perfect. No vibrant, over-saturated bursts of color or bouts of neon where neon didn't usually belong. No caricature-esque, accentuated features drawn out to hold the spotlight. Only a black and white face, staring off the wall.

And on it was Adrien Agreste.

With one violently-green label drawn out across his chest.

"Perfect."

The face Agreste made in the mural was emotionless and bare, nearly terrifying in how it seemed to leer out before her with its flat mouth and tired eyes. It wasn't simply unlike anything Chat Noir had ever done, it was the complete opposite. Chat's subjects usually had some kind of expression on their faces—be it happy or sad or anything else—yet the complete lack of emotion on Agreste's face was still there, an outlier in the whole mess Chat Noir was making.

The expression wasn't familiar. No. It was not the neutral frown of a model, it was… chilling.

"Odd, isn't it?"

Marinette turned. Alya stood a few feet off, looking up at the mural with a surprisingly curious look on her face. Where Chat Noir had been, Alya always was—she hunted the man down like she was the cat and he was the helpless little mouse.

"Yeah, it's… different," Marinette said. She looked up at the painting. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Poor Adrien," Alya said, coming up beside Marinette. She gazed up at the painting again, a sad look coming over her. "The tabloids will be all over this."

"That's an understatement."

"Chat Noir usually makes headlines, but this-" she drew a hand up to the painting, paused, and turned back to look at Marinette. "For all we know, Gabriel's abusing his kid."

Marinette gaped. "He wouldn't…"

"It's Chat Noir," Alya said, shrugging.

"Well if he wants Gabriel he should go after Gabriel, not the man's son."

"Well, maybe he is out for Gabriel. Maybe he's just pointing our eyes in the right direction," she said.

Marinette looked back up at the painting, a new vision in her eyes. Suddenly, the look Adrien was making wasn't eerie or scary; it was sad. It was a sad, hollow emptiness that seemed to bore right into her soul. And the word, "perfect," seemed to mean exactly what Alya suggested it meant, that something more was going on.

She imagined: Gabriel Agreste and his son. Perfectly perfect to any outsider looking in. But maybe, if one chose to wipe the fog off the window and look right on in, they would see something different. It was a big maybe to say something like that, but maybe Adrien Agreste was not indeed perfectly perfect. Maybe he was just supposed to look perfect, simply because his father wanted him to be.

Or… maybe she was just imagining things.

As a crowd formed and Alya dragged her away, chattering on about her latest theory on Chat Noir's identity, she wondered if there could be some truth to it. It was possible that Adrien Agreste wasn't who the tabloids seemed to think he was. Or maybe Chat Noir had finally bitten off more than he could chew and thrown them all into some big thing that he himself, whoever he was, didn't understand. Both were possibilities, and both made enough sense. The only problem would be figuring anything out.

"-so I'm thinking that Chat Noir has to be upper class now. I mean, how else could the guy get so close to the Agrestes, let alone the rest of the people he targets-" Alya went on, going on and on about how Chat Noir had to have some kind of access to the upper class. Marinette nodded along, not really listening. Alya's theories flipped completely on a weekly basis, and so after a few weeks she'd kind of stopped putting any merit into them. Just the week before, she'd gone out and pegged Chat Noir as homeless. And now he was apparently upper class.

Marinette sighed.

The day went on and on, buzzing on by through a lunch break in her office and a hectic rush through her last set of designs for the fall show. Apparently, they'd bumped it up to take advantage of the predicted lull in Gabriel Agreste's brand. Which would probably happen, but Marinette didn't really think very many sales would come of it—Gabriel fashion had something of a cult following, meaning they weren't going to be the most eager to switch on over. That said, it wasn't her call, she had to do what she was told to do, and what she was told to do was rush the last set.

That night, she made the mistake of clicking on the news. All she'd wanted was something monotonous to play along as she worked on her designs, nothing more and nothing less. White noise in spirit.

Unfortunately, Chat Noir was headlining.

"…no significant evidence as to who the man behind the mask is has been found. While there is talk that this could be a copycat, police are continuing to devote nearly all units into the Chat Noir investigation, including a select few focused on his newest subject, Adrien Agreste—son of fashion mogul Gabriel Agreste…" Nadia Chamack was saying, her voice nothing but a tired drone, like Alya's had been earlier.

Except, unlike in her conversation with Alya, Marinette found herself listening to the words being said. Sitting at her desk with her pencil in hand and the news playing quietly in the background, she tried hard to hear what was going on on the broadcast. Her pencil was still, only the faint outline of a design she'd been working on drawn out on her paper. She'd been working on it for half an hour, she was supposed to have gotten further, but she couldn't help but listen as Chamack went on and on about how the police were looking for Chat Noir but their searches were coming up empty and how the Agrestes were going to be stuck under investigation.

Marinette sighed and leaned back in the chair. She sat still for a moment, thinking nothing and just listening. Then, not even looking back, she stuck the remote over her shoulder and clicked off the TV. Quiet came over the room. Only the buzz of her little desk lamp and the whirl of her ceiling fan filled the room. She looked down at the pencil and paper in her hands, pondering the design, before putting the pencil down. She'd regret not working through it, but nothing seemed to be coming to mind that night. It was best not to try to force it.

She grabbed the remote, fingered it in her hand. Maybe she should watch the broadcast. She'd hear it all from Alya later, but Alya had a tendency to… blur the lines. Her own theories came barging in, blurring the facts and merging together until the only thing left was some gross heap of something not quite true but not quite false. Which wasn't the best thing to base one's information around, she'd learned before.

She looked down at the remote, spun in her chair a moment.

Then it hit her.

Her door—not her bedroom door, but the one attached to her tiny little Juliet balcony—was wide open. Her ceiling fan wasn't on; she'd been feeling the breeze.

And at the moment, a very silent, very blonde-looking, and very masked man was laying sprawled out on the ground completely comatose.

Marinette froze. "W-" Her mouth clamped shut before she could get a word out. He might not even be him, this could be some kind of copycat or some kind of- she didn't know, but there was no way that was really Chat Noir passed out on her floor. Nope. She refused to believe it.

A squeak escaped her, and her hand groped for her phone. She knocked something over getting it, but the phone was clamped in her hand, replacing the remote as she stared in horror at the black-clad body taking up residence on her floor. 112 was typed out before she even blinked, her thumb hovering over the call button.

But she hesitated. He could have a gun. He could have a knife. He could be dangerous, maybe out to attack her or murder her or something, but she didn't press call. Nope. Her stupid thumb hovered right over the button, waiting and waiting to finally call the police like she was supposed to. But she didn't. She just stood there, waiting and standing still like an idiot.

She didn't want to turn him in, she realized. He could very well likely be an axe murderer or something, but she didn't want to turn him in. Because, in all honesty, what had he really done? How had he ever shown himself to be malicious to the people of Paris? He'd spray painted on a few houses, sure, but the police always had those cleaned up. As much of a menace as he was to the rich, he was helping all of Paris, acting like some Parisian Batman armed with a can of spray paint and black cat ears instead of a bat mask and a utility belt. He helped the poor and served hot piping justice up to those who deserved it. And while his latest piece was a complete and utter mystery, she was sure he had his reasons.

So she put her phone down, made sure she wasn't accidentally going to call the cops anytime soon, and stepped back. He wasn't… necessarily going to hurt her.

And with that, she did what any normal person would do.

She sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife she could find, then went back as fast as she possibly could. If the kitchen was a mess when Alya walked in, it wasn't her fault. There was a possible murderer on the floor of her room, and she needed some kind of weapon (not that she knew how to use it).

She was trying to close the balcony doors, a long process of slowly tiptoeing around his body on the floor that had taken about five minutes, when she heard it.

A groan.

He was waking up.

Maybe she should've gone for some… rope or something, instead of a knife. Or maybe both. She stood there, frozen in place with the balcony door handle in her hand, staring at him. Her eyes didn't even twitch, didn't so much as blink once as she stood there.

The eyes behind the mask opened slowly.

Marinette let out another squeak. She didn't know what to do she didn't know what to do she didn't know what to do. She skittered away from the balcony doors, ducking behind her bed with the knife pointed out low over the comforter. Cause that was threatening.

She looked back to see green eyes watching her, an amused smile settled below them.

He stared at her a moment before his eyes lifted up and wandered around the room. "Lots of pink," he said slowly, ogling everything there was to ogle at. Her desk, her tiny shut off TV, the unkempt state of her bed, the designs tacked haphazardly to the cork board on the wall. "Nice," he remarked.

Marinette didn't move. He'd noticed her, and he'd smiled at her. Smiled. She knew she wasn't the most intimidating person, that was kind of a given, but having him smile at her was… She didn't like it. Not one bit.

She stood up and pointed the knife at him. "Get out."

His eyes drifted over. He went on, "As much as I'd love to be out of your hands, I'm kinda stuck at the moment. Sorry." he said, that stupid smile still smeared all over his face like ugly lipstick. She wanted it out, she wanted him out, and she never wanted to see a look like that on another man's face ever again. "But I guess the little pink princess wants me out regardless?"

"Damn right I do," she said, stepping closer. The knife was pointed still, trained on a little spot between his eyes. "Now go. Shoo."

"You know cats don't always listen to-"

"You're not a cat. You're a creepy man in a mask, and you're in my house. Now leave," she gestured at the door, as if he needed clarification as to where leave was.

And apparently, he did. He stood there, eyes flicking to the door, but didn't move towards it. Instead, he pulled himself into a sitting position and blinked slowly up at her. "Like I said, as much as I'd love to," he said, "I'm kinda stuck here for now—cops on my trail. I really am sorry. Really."

He was sorry, apparently. And going by the way his face seemed to dip, he really was. But that didn't mean she was going to let him, some weirdo in a cat costume, sit there on her floor for the next however many minutes and look at her. He had no place being there because he was in her room and she wanted him out.

"I don't care," she said.

He fixed her with a look, and suddenly the apology was gone, replaced by that amused smile playing on the edge of his lips. "I do," he said.

She scowled. "Well I don't. Get out." She pointed with the knife again, hoping to make her point just a little bit sharper. Hopefully. As stated, she wasn't necessarily the most intimidating person. But she could try.

The smile dropped. "I can't, little lady."

"Don't nickname me," she said, glaring. "Leave already. Or-"

"Or what?"

Marinette stepped back, picking her phone up from the desk. "Or I'll call the cops," she said. She hoped that it'd work, that he'd leave—she really didn't want to call the cops on him, he wasn't really doing any harm. He was more of a nuisance than anything else. But if he didn't go ahead and leave, she really couldn't think of much else she could do. She had a knife in her hand, but that didn't mean she was actually considering using it.

He didn't even flinch, only called her bluff with nothing more than a grin. "Calling the cops? Oh, you wound me Purr-incess." The eyes behind the mask locked on hers. "Or wait… sorry, does Princess not work for you? You don't like nicknames, right?"

"When they're from a weirdo that broke into my room, yeah sure," she said, meeting his eyes unabashed. He didn't scare her, she was trying to say. Though she wasn't sure if it really… worked. Deep down, his presence did kind of scare her—he was an enigma, she didn't know what he was going to do.

He sighed dramatically. "There you go again, using that word."

"What-"

"Weirdo. I'm no weirdo, Princess, you're just catty."

"Cause you broke into my room."

"The door was unlocked, and I thought the room was empty. I was in a little bit of a pinch, so I let myself in." He let out a sigh. "I already said I'm sorry."

Now the situation was getting weird. This guy, this random guy in a mask that broke into her room, was apologizing to her. Like this was some minor misunderstanding and a few gentle words would fix it all, like she'd suddenly understand and they'd end the night as bffs or something. Part of her wanted to up the threat level, maybe see if she could actually use a knife very well or not, but the other part of her was certain, absolutely certain, that he would simply call her bluff again. Which was probably true. But she wanted him to know that they weren't bffs, that he needed to leave.

So she pointed the knife a little higher. "Leave," she said.

And then…

He laughed.

It wasn't the kind of chuckle one would expect at a bad joke—no she wasn't being demoted to that yet—this was the kind of laugh that one only made at something hilarious. Bent over, guffawing like she'd made the funniest joke in the world. And he just laughed. She wouldn't have been surprised if the neighbours heard him cackling through the wall. Apparently she was hilarious with her kitchen knife pointed at him, and apparently she warranted this hysterical type of thing shoved in her ears.

A frustrated something of a grumble escaped her, and she lowered the knife. "Come on," she said, all but whining, "The door's right there, right behind you, and you're perfectly capable of going back through it."

He only kept laughing, ignoring her. Laughing and laughing and laughing, hands clutching his stomach like the laugh was itself was trying to burst right on out.

Marinette crossed her arms, fidgeting nervously. "And you know what? I hear no sirens," she said, trying to make her voice sound strong, but it didn't work. She sounded as embarrassed as she felt. "No more cops, which means you can leave. So go, scat."

"You know, that's the hardest I've laughed in a while," he said, pulling himself upright. A gloved hand came up and wiped what must've been a tear out of his eye. A tear. He'd laughed so hard at her that he was crying.

She was seriously considering stabbing him. Or at least attempting to. She didn't know how well it'd really work out if she was telling the truth. Instead, she went for something a bit more straightforward, something a little easier.

"Oh wow. Me, making the famous Chat Noir laugh! I'm so honoured," she cried, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Are you really?" he asked.

"Oh dear, I think your head just got bigger."

"Whatever," he said, a goofy smile on his face. "More space for my quality puns."

She dropped the stupid, airheaded voice, and couldn't help the smile that came across her face. She rolled her eyes. "Sure, whatever. Now, you've had your laughs, so…" Her eyes locked on his, "Shoo."

"But-"

"The cops, I know. The sirens are gone, you're good. Now leave," she said, making little shooing motions with her hands. "Make like a good kitty and shoo."

"I thought I wasn't a cat," he said, that stupid smirk back on his face.

"Whatever, leave."

He sighed, turned to the door. A smile still played across his lips, though the smirk was gone. "You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"You're no fun." He faked a frown. It only lasted a mere second though, before the smile was right back there on his face.

"I try."

The smile grew, but this time it seemed more natural. Sincere, not like the first couple of smirks that'd cropped up earlier. "Nice meeting you Princess. I really am sorry about all this," he said, turning towards the doors. Before he took so much as a step forward though, he turned back. "I do hope our paths cross again."

She huffed and tried to fight a smile, only to find herself failing miserably. "Sure. Now leave already."

"Alright, alright. I'm going," he said. Gone was the mockery, the teasing, and in its place was an odd kind of soberness. She wasn't sure if she preferred it or not. But she didn't get to decide because, before she could say anything, Chat Noir was making his way over to the door. Boots padded on soft carpet, and then he was up on her balcony's railing, hand braced on the side of the building.

"See ya Princess," he said, throwing a peace sign up in the air.

He swung down the balcony and was gone.

Just like that.