Marinette sighed and sank onto her bed, staring. Just staring straight ahead at the balcony door in front of her. No move to close it, no move to even tear her gaze away. Simply staring.

And staring.

"Nice meeting you Princess. I really am sorry about all this."

And staring.

"I do hope our paths cross again."

She stared as the door stood open, a light breeze still trickling on in and waving the curtains about. Her eyes, the traitors they were, couldn't look away.

"Alright, alright. I'm going."

She blinked.

"See ya Princess."

She'd met Chat Noir. Actually met Chat Noir.

And he'd been nothing but frustrating.

It couldn't be real. Chat Noir, formerly nothing but a name and a mask, had sat there and been utterly frustrating, apologizing all along the way for it. He'd walked through those doors, held a conversation with her, and walked right on out a few minutes later with a kind smile on his face. She'd tried to force him out the door, but he'd just sat there on the floor and talked with her like they were best buds till he'd decided to take his leave.

It was ridiculous, it was insane, and yet...

She didn't really know how she felt about it.

Suddenly all the mystery surrounding Chat Noir was gone, poofed out of existence the moment he'd opened his eyes and commented on her pink walls. The walls he had no right to judge because they were beautiful and perfect, unlike his stupid self and his stupid mask.

But that was off topic.

Point was, the mystery was gone.

Or... maybe it wasn't.

She still didn't exactly know the guy, meaning all that mystery was not totally blown out of the water. Some of it was still there, alive and well in her short-circuiting brain, interrupting her thoughts just like it was supposed to be doing. But a certain type, the type that drew fans like a swarm of starving flies, was gone. The carefully crafted, abhorrently cliché image of a mysterious man in a mask—the one that Marinette had been very comfortable with thank you very much—had been single-handedly destroyed in a short conversation. It'd simply imploded on itself. All the mystery, the allure, the danger: gone.

And in its place, she had no clue what to think.

She'd had a certain picture drawn up in her head, and he'd gone ahead and shattered it with a massive behemoth of a hammer, leaving nothing but questions and questions and questions in its wake. The media's image was easy, explainable, but the man behind said image was apparently not. It seemed he was just a tad bit more complicated, as were all the best. And Marinette didn't like that.

In the media's eye, Chat Noir had a very, very clear reason for everything he did. A backstory the whole world had come up with for him, a life that he lived out, a personality all to his own. They'd practically dressed him up as some kind of actor in a movie, wrote out his lines and his story, and he did not object. Nope, the news went on and on about Chat Noir like he and Chamack were best buds, despite the fact that the media's image apparently did not fit the man at all. Marinette had seriously been expecting some angsty emo-type with a penchant for revenge to pop up off her floor, which was not what she'd gotten.

So maybe she was curious. Curious about what kind of man Chat Noir really was, now that she didn't know what to think about him and his work. The media's image was blown straight out of the water like a fisherman with a pack of TNT and a job to do, and there was no chance of ever getting it back because Chat Noir himself had gone ahead and killed it. She didn't know his motive, his life, his personality—nothing. It'd all up and disappeared like it'd never been there to begin with.

She wanted to know who the man behind the mask really was, now that it was basically proven he was not your stereotypical revenge-fueled vigilante. So yeah, curious. There wasn't much left for her to base her assumptions on anymore—only a couple apologies, a handful of puns, and a little bit of snark—so the way she saw it, it was only natural for her to be curious.

Even then, the word still didn't fit, not one stinking bit. Nope. It wasn't quite what she was feeling.

Maybe... shocked? No.

Dumbfounded? No.

Flabbergasted? No way. She was not flabbergasted.

She groaned. Nothing felt like the right word. Either she needed to invest in a thesaurus or curious would have to do.

Stunned?

Stunned.

It kinda fit.

She wasn't curious, she was stunned. Or maybe both.

No, it didn't work.

Curious worked.

She got up and closed the balcony doors softly, then sat down on the edge of her bed again, still staring out the open curtains into the night. She didn't know who Chat Noir was anymore, didn't know what to think about him, and without an image all she had was a handful of questions and no answers.

The old image had had solid questions with sure answers. Why? Tragic past. How? He's obviously rich. Who? No idea but he's mysterious and sexy, ain't he? They were easy, simple questions with simple answers. But now she had different questions and more complicated answers that she had no idea how to figure out, leaving her with a whole big load of nothing to hold in her hands and be confused about. Why had he passed out on her floor? What was his deal? Why had he acted the way he had? What was a man like that doing spray painting walls? She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know, and she didn't know. She had no answers anymore, only questions darting around in her head like wasps she couldn't quite grab.

Maybe he was still out there. Maybe she could just run out there, grab him by the tail, and make him answer her questions. The balcony doors were only a few feet away, what would be the harm in going out to make sure he'd left? It was a chance getting a couple questions answered. There was no harm, right?

But she doubted he'd be out there.

No, there was no way. He was a masked vigilante, he wasn't going to be hanging around right outside her door, swinging his tail around idly waiting for her. He would not be sitting perched on the railing of her tiny little balcony, an amused look cast her way when she opened the door to find him there, waiting. 99% of her wanted him to be there so she could drag answers out of him, but the same 99% was absolutely sure she'd much rather push him off the balcony before she could get a single question out.

That would be entertaining.

They'd lock eyes, he'd call her "purr-incess" one more time, and she'd waste no time in pushing him right off the little chair he'd made of her railing.

Oh, that'd be fun.

She'd still be left with questions though.

But she was left with questions anyway because that was an imagined scenario and there was nothing she could've possibly gleaned from it regardless. Chat Noir was gone, and with him went any hope at answers. Which left her questioning more than ever, confused and curious and spinning around in circles in her head because she didn't have anything to go off of anymore.

Maybe Alya could help. Generally, Alya seemed to be the type to have answers.

But... then again maybe not.

Alya was wonderful, don't get her wrong. But this just seemed like the kind of thing to be kept a secret.

First of all, Alya would probably have a stroke. An excitement stroke, if such things existed. Alya would scream, have a stroke, come back to life, then scream a little more. Boom, Alya would leave the building and not come back for a very long time, and when she did, she'd pry every detail from Marinette's poor brain.

She'd be so excited, so ready to let the whole world know that her best friend Marinette had met Chat Noir and held a conversation with him. But then Marinette would have to stop her, tell her the whole world didn't get to know about it because Marinette was not letting the whole world know about this. Chat Noir was still a mystery, meeting or not, and there was no way she was putting anybody close to her at risk. It wouldn't be worth it.

Alya's eyes would sink, she'd be disappointed. She wouldn't do anything Marinette didn't want her to, Marinette was sure of that, but the disappointment would still be there.

No, telling Alya would not go well.

It wasn't worth it.

Ignorance was bliss, and Alya was better off with a little bliss.

So there were no sources of information within arms reach, none that she didn't already know, meaning there was no need to keep thinking about Chat Noir. Obsessing over a few questions, however persistent those questions were, wouldn't be doing her any good whatsoever. Sure, she was curious about the whole thing and it was bound to drive her mad if she put too much thought into it, but that was exactly the point. Feeding into it would lead her down a long road until she was obsessive about the whole thing.

So there was no point, really. She wasn't going to be figuring anything out anytime soon, nor was she going to be making even the slightest bit of progress if she just kept thinking about it. It was best to just put the questions down and let them all answer themselves with due time.

And maybe pay a little more attention to Alya's rants.

But that was beside the point.

The point was: the meeting was a one-time thing, meaning it was best not to dwell on the subject or she'd end up going mad somewhere along the line. Which wasn't exactly preferable, not in the slightest. Sure, she was curious.

But she needed to stop thinking about it.

She shoved all things Chat Noir into the back of her brain, locked them up until further notice.

Easy. Simple. Done.

The meeting was far from anything she was going to let herself think about.

The clock struck 23:00 just as she crawled into bed. Alya wasn't home yet, but she chose not to think about it—Alya was home really late more often than not. So Marinette pulled the covers up over her bed and made sure not to think about Chat Noir.

Strangely enough, it worked.

But not for long.

Early Saturday morning, Marinette wished she could tear her eyes off the TV.

She couldn't.

No, she sat right there, plopped next to Alya on the couch, eyes glued to the screen with a look of absolute focus on her face as Adrien Agreste moved about the screen. Reporters were held back like rabid dogs, none of them getting so much as a word out of him. He simply let his bodyguards guide him into Gabriel Fashion's headquarters without even acknowledging the waves of reporters being pushed out of his way.

He made it seem so easy, walking through a massive crowd of people like that, pushing past the clamour with ease. And for him, it probably was. The mob was probably nothing out of the ordinary for him, and so of course it was easy.

But his actions weren't what had Marinette drawn to the screen.

No.

Marinette was watching his face. The one that looked so much like the mural drawn up by Chat Noir, the one that she never wanted to see on another human being ever again. Nobody should ever have a reason to make a face like that, so full of emptiness and nothing that there might as well been a blank sheet of paper was walking through the reporters in Adrien Agreste's place. It was chilling, it was sad, and it made her want to reach through the screen and wrap him up in a huge hug. Not that that was at all possible. But still. The want was there, and the face was there.

The screen switched, and Nadja Chamack appeared with a script in her hands, the footage of Adrien left to the background. "Yesterday, an insider at Gabriel Fashion Headquarters reported that Adrien Agreste, son of CEO Gabriel Agreste and one of the brand's most prominent models, is taking a break from his work at his father's company. The motive for the decision is yet to be confirmed by Agreste himself, although many suspect it may have something to do with the recent activities of Chat Noir, who targeted the model Thursday morning."

"He looks sad," Marinette remarked, watching Adrien turn away from camera after camera. Still nothing was said, he just kept on walking and walking as Chamack repeated old information over the newsreel.

Alya scoffed. "Forget sad, he looks like his dog just died or something," she said.

"I don't think he has a dog. Gabriel's allergic," Marinette said, thinking for a second. Yeah, there'd been a show a while back where that they'd nearly cancelled, all because someone had shoved a Pomeranian in Gabriel Agreste's face.

"What? I thought it was cats."

"No, dogs."

"Whatever," Alya said, leaning back into the couch. Seconds passed, before side eye was thrown Marinette's way. "Why am I not allowed to obsess over Chat Noir, but you're allowed to ogle Adrien Agreste? That's hardly fair."

Marinette smiled. "It is too fair. My ogling is healthy."

"Mine is too."

Marinette chose not to contradict her. There was no way Alya's 'ogling' was healthy, absolutely not, but it was probably better to let it be. She settled for a laugh and let it rest.

They kept on staring at the television as they settled into silence again, watching the people moving about like little ants around the entrance to the building. Reporters were ushered away, employees allowed in and out with badges displayed on their chests, bodyguards interacting with both. It was a hectic mess.

"Many fans are expressing concern over social media, with some even going so far as to accuse Gabriel Agreste of abusing his son, saying that Chat Noir gave Adrien an opportunity for freedom from his father's influence. Adrien has been quick to comment that the decision had nothing to do with Chat Noir, that it had long since been in the making, and that the people can rest easy knowing his relationship with his father is okay. No comment has been made on where he plans to go next in his career, although many prominent brands have reached out."

Marinette watched. The screen went back to the footage of Adrien walking through the masses. He finally reached the wide glass doors of Gabriel headquarters and walked in, away from the mess outside with a bodyguard by his side. That emptiness never left his face.

The Chat Noir she'd met the night before must've had a purpose for this. He absolutely had to. There was no way he would make such a muck in an innocent man's life like that, not without a good reason for it. She didn't need to know him very well to get that—he'd seemed like a decent enough person. Certainly, he wasn't the type to induce such a miserable look to someone's face without a cause.

Right?

Chat had to have had a reason for targeting Adrien.

Yet there Adrien stood, looking as innocent as could be. He was almost like a contradiction, striking through everything she thought she knew. He wasn't like the rest of the subjects, who usually rushed to play off the rumours springing up or dash out of the country before the law caught up with them. He just frowned at the reporters and walked into his dad's building, having said nothing about the whole ordeal but for the short little comment Chamack repeated earlier.

It didn't seem right. Chat Noir was not the type to accuse an innocent man, no way. Absolutely not.

Although it was entirely possible that the reason was just... shockingly unapparent compared to everything else he'd done so far. Maybe there was something the police hadn't found, something Adrien Agreste was hiding so far down that nobody had yet to find it. A traceless crime, with "perfect" as its clue.

Or something. She didn't really know for sure. But there had to be something up, otherwise Chat Noir wouldn't have put Adrien's face up on that wall. He was guilty of something.

The screen switched, and Chamack came back on. "In other news, the search for 12-year-old Marshall Dumont is-"

And suddenly Alya stood, remote in hand, and clicked the TV off. Clicked it off, cut Chamack off in the middle of her sentence, and with a mock-accusing look on her face, whipped around to face Marinette.

"Girl," she said, pointing the remote in Marinette's face. "Do you like Chat Noir or something?" A suspicious eyebrow was raised,

Marinette was screwed. There was no escaping unscathed when that eyebrow was raised.

She had to play dumb, pretend there was no eyebrow. Nope, no such eyebrow existed.

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"You're all glued to the TV. You're like me!" The eyebrow was dropped, and an extremely wicked smile grew on Alya's face.

"I'm not- no, you're just-"

"Don't even try to deny it," she said, leaning forward. "This is not Adrien Agreste ogling we're dealing with, no way. You're not even paying attention to that pretty boy." Her face came within inches of Marinette's, an accusing smirk on her face. "You're looking for info on another blondie."

So obviously denying wasn't working, but it was the only tactic Marinette had. This was war, and she would defend herself till her dying days no matter how desperate she got, and that meant denying even though it was stupidly obvious to do so. "I don't even know what you're talking about," she said.

"Just yesterday you were ignoring me about Mssr. Kitty. But now you've got some kinda interest going on. You're staring at the screen like me, I swear."

"I wasn't ignoring-"

"Marinette," Alya said, a look of calm on her face. "You're a terrible liar."

"I wasn't lying!"

"Sure you weren't. Now c'mon. Spill."

"I- I..." Marinette sputtered, trying to come up with a feasible answer.

Alya's eyes stared her down, a smile still on them as they locked right on their target.

She was just a little bit of prey that Alya was about to pounce on, devour, and spit out just so she could dance around and insist that Chat Noir was amazing. That was actually what was happening. Alya wanted to shove Chat Noir in her face, show that he was worth every millisecond she spent devoted to him day in and day out.

And that "spill" had been a plea deal. Accept it, go on ahead and admit that Chat Noir was amazing, and the sentence will be lessened.

But the thing was, no part of Marinette's brain wanted to admit that maybe, just maybe, she was a little bit curious about the man behind the mask—at least not to Alya. Though there didn't seem to be any other options, at least none that wouldn't just incriminate her more. All the evidence was in, and the plea deal was her only way out of a full, lifelong sentence to shame.

So, thinking smarter, Marinette decided to keep it simple.

"I saw the news broadcast yesterday. The one with Chamack." she started. Thought was put into each and every word—one slip up, and she was doomed. The plea deal had to match all the evidence, otherwise the prosecutor would doubt its veracity and everything would take a hard right turn for the worst.

"And?"

"And... I guess he seems..." She shrugged. "I guess he's not the worst."

Alya fist pumped the air, letting out a squeal of excitement. "I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. You've finally joined me," she said, plopping back down on the couch. The widest smile was on her face, a laugh popping right on out her mouth.

"I'm not joining you." Joining was a strong word to use, and Marinette was in no way joining.

"Oh you will be. It's a slippery slope, and there's no climbing up it. You start out thinking maybe he's a little cool, and the next thing you know, you're buying merchandise."

"There's merchandise?"

Alya nodded proudly.

"You have merchandise?"

She pointed down to the pyjama shorts she had on. And what would you know, they were speckled with green-eyed little black cats. Chat Noir pyjama shorts. Which apparently existed, and Alya just happened to be wearing a pair.

Because of course they existed and of course Alya had a pair.

Marinette slumped back into the couch. "I'm not buying Chat Noir merchandise."

"You will. All in due time, you will."

She shook her head. "No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

Another head shake. "No, I-"

"Anyway," Alya interrupted. She jumped up from the couch, "Whether or not you buy merchandise is up to you. However, this is a special occasion. And so I say we deserve pancakes."

"You're making me pancakes?"

"Yes."

Marinette stared at her a moment.

Alya was cooking. Actually cooking for the first time in however long they'd lived together. Maybe even longer, she didn't know. But Alya was cooking, a huge milestone in and of itself, and it was because of a man dressed like a cat.

"Because I decided I like Chat Noir?" she dared to ask, looking up to meet Alya's eyes.

A fervent nod. "Like I said, special occasion. You want blueberries?"

Marinette rolled her eyes, admitting a smile. "I don't see why not."