Adrien doesn't believe in luck, per se. He believes in probability.

Fact: There have been twenty-three akuma incidents in the past month, at an average of 0.7419 per day. Of those twenty-three, seventeen of them were contained entirely in the 21st arrondissement. Only one of those attacks happened to fall on a Thursday.

Statistically speaking, an attack near the Trocadéro on a Thursday seemed unlikely. But on one very particular Thursday in mid-February, a young woman—(Aquaria, Alya will later name her)—is akumatized in the Trocadéro Gardens.

If you were Alya, you might not think much of this unusual combination of events. After all, people are getting akumatized nearly every day, and as far as Alya was concerned this was a day like any other.

If you were Adrien Agreste, on the other hand, you might think it was a very unlikely coincidence that the attack at the Trocadéro happened to fall on the same day as the seventh anniversary of his mother's disappearance. You might even, if you were so inclined, call it bad luck.

And if you were Aquaria, the villain of the day, you might—in your weakest moments and the darkest corners of your heart—call it good luck. Because in the end, really, wasn't it very fortunate that she, out of all the unhappy people of Paris, got the chance to go on a guilt-free roaring rampage of revenge?

Seven weeks from now, when the full reality of the situation finally sinks in, Aquaria—aka Irène Delacourt—will spend a long, long time grappling with her conscience.

But for today... well. Today, she stands at the edge of the Trocadéro Gardens, her back turned towards the Seine, and takes delight in the power that is surging through her veins. Aquaria is a petite woman, willowy and pale, and she looks almost fragile, standing there in her too-large dress, a fluttery mess of layered blue and green silk that's threatening to engulf her. But despite all appearances, she is very, very powerful.

The wind ruffles her dress and sends tresses of mousy brown hair flying into her face. Aquaria doesn't bother to push them back. Instead she lifts her arms towards the sky, swaying slightly where she stands. As she moves her hands through the air, the water moves with her, and the storm that she's brewing makes last month's "Climatika" seem quaint by comparison.

She motions dramatically with one clawed hand directly over her head, and the Seine River leaps up from its banks, a snake of water twisting through the darkened skies above her. As the water writhes, barely contained by her power, droplets of water spatter the ground below.

"NO ONE WILL EVER HURT ME AGAIN," she booms, her voice so magnified and distorted that it hardly even sounds human.

The water crashes against the Eiffel Tower on the far side of the river. From the point of impact, the tower shudders as long, wide cracks spider across its metal frame. Ladybug makes a strangled sound of horror from her spot next to Chat Noir.

"I just finished fixing that!" she hisses.

"Looks like you'll have to take another crack at it," Chat says, wincing as the top of the tower creaks and sways. It stops just short of toppling over... for now, anyway.

"Do you think there are still civilians at the Champ de Mars?" he asks casually. The slight trembling of his hands betrays his worry.

Ladybug watches the Eiffel with a critical eye. "I saw the police clearing the field earlier," she says. "We'll have to trust that they've done their job. We've got bigger problems to deal with."

With one hand, she runs her fingers anxiously over the surface of her yoyo, and turns her gaze to Aquaria. "We have to get closer to her. Come on."

She doesn't wait for Chat Noir's response before darting out into the gardens, headed towards the fountain at a spring. Chat Noir follows, as always, and they both manage to duck behind one of the statues near the edge of the fountain a split-second before Aquaria notices them.

The stone statue rumbles ominously, cracking with the intensity of the hit. Water sloshes around them, drenching their feet and moving fast enough that it almost knocks them off balance.

Ladybug braces herself against the statue, her feet unsteady and slipping on the slick stones below. "Should've kept the boots," she mutters, frowning.

"Another costume change, my Lady?" Chat teases. "I don't mean to butt in, but don't you think you might be getting a bit carried away?"

Ladybug rolls her eyes, but Chat's not exactly wrong—she's currently sporting her fifth costume change in a week. Ever since she discovered that she could change her transformation more or less at will, Chat hasn't seen her in the same outfit twice. Though the basic element of the red spandex suit has stayed consistent, she's been experimenting with dozens of various add-ons: black leather bracers on her wrists, reinforced padding on her shoulders, zippered pockets much like his own. The pockets had been short lived—(too clunky, she'd said, with a heavy sigh)—but the bracers had quickly become a permanent addition.

In fact, the only thing that Ladybug had been changing about her look lately were the shoes. She had gone through variations of heavy boots, dainty slippers, and shock-absorbing athletic shoes. Today was an in-between sort of day—she was wearing flexible black boots that were lightly padded to protect the soles of her feet, but apparently didn't offer much in the way of grip.

Taking care with every step, Ladybug creeps to the edge of their hiding spot and peeks around the corner. Aquaria is still standing at the edge of the garden, waiting quietly for the two superheros to make their next move.

"I think we can get a little closer," Ladybug says, motioning with her head. She dashes out again, but slows to a stop when she starts sliding on the muddy ground.

Chat Noir rushes after her, but they've already caught Aquaria's attention. The akumatized girl turns towards them, eyes glowing with magic power, and points at them with one finger.

"Down!" Ladybug says, grabbing Chat by the wrist and roughly hauling him to the ground. They both hit the pavement hard, taking cover behind an abandoned minivan at the edge of the gardens. The water rocks the vehicle, but mostly misses them.

"So, what's the plan, LB?" Chat scrambles up to his feet and then holds out one hand to help Ladybug up.

Ladybug grimaces. "Still working on it," she says tersely. She lets Chat Noir do most of the work of hauling her up, and then lightly tests her weight on one foot, cringing as she does.

"I think my ankle is broken," she mutters.

"Heal it," Chat says, taking a quick glance towards Aquaria.

Ladybug shakes her head. "I don't want to waste the energy," she says. Chat Noir wants to protest, but something about Ladybug's expression stops him. Her eyes flicker around the landscape around them, settling briefly on the fountain in the middle of the gardens, the metal fencing along the road ahead of them, the lone figure currently surrounded by a tornado of water.

Something lights up in Ladybug's eye—a plan, Chat Noir thinks—but Aquaria makes her next move before Ladybug has a chance to act.

With a flick of one wrist, Aquaria sends another spray of water in their direction and Ladybug, currently distracted with some wildly convoluted plan involving the fountain and a carousel behind them, doesn't see it coming.

Chat Noir doesn't bother to shout a warning. It would be too slow, anyway. Instead he surges forward, enveloping Ladybug in his arms and spinning her away, so that he'll take the brunt of the blow.

Ladybug tenses against him—the movement caught her off guard—but she grips his arms tightly when she realizes what he's done. As for Chat...

He's always been good at physics. He knows that water can hit as hard as concrete if it's going fast enough. Still, he'd somehow never imagined what it would be like to get hit square in the back with water moving at that kind of speed. He feels like he's bit hit by a truck, and it knocks both of them flying.

It feels like he's been hit by a truck, and it knocks both of them flying.

They land again in a sprawl of limbs, but this time Chat isn't getting up.

"Are you okay?" Ladybug gasps out, sounding frantic.

"Not really," Chat Noir says tensely, but he still flashes her the biggest smile he can manage. Ladybug does not look convinced. He's pretty sure that some of his ribs are broken. "Just... give me a minute."

Ladybug's brow furrows with concern. But she presses her mouth into a line, nods sharply, and turns her attention back to the battle at hand.

She doesn't have much time to think, so she doesn't. With no idea of what the universe will give to her, she holds out one hand and mutters, "Lucky Charm."

A block of soft white metal falls into Ladybug's hand, fizzing and smoking where it sits in her palm.

Ladybug stares at it blankly, obviously confused. Chat's eyes widen when he realizes what it is.

"Throw it!" he shouts—or tries to, anyway. His ribs don't really feel like cooperating with breathing, and every word is a battle. "At the water!"

Ladybug is still confused, but she trusts Chat Noir without question. The brick soars the the air, thrown with more force than any normal human could manage, and collides against Aquaria's stomach with a smack. It falls to the ground, still sizzling, and lands with a splash into the standing water at the girl's feet.

Aquaria watches curiously. Ladybug would have too, if Chat Noir hadn't wrenched her back, attempting to shield her body with his own.

The hissing grows quieter for a moment, until Ladybug almost thinks that it has stopped.

The huge explosion that rattles the gardens is something of a shock to her. She swears for a moment that she can feel the ground trembling beneath her feet, and her ears are ringing. The akumatized girl lets out a shrill scream, and Ladybug cranes her head to survey the damage.

The girl is wide-eyed and terror-struck, but alive. For a moment she lays wordlessly on the ground where she fell, eyes darting between Ladybug and the scorched spot where the explosion occurred. Then, making up her mind, she makes a large, swooping gesture with one arm. The waters of the Seine rush up to her and sweep her away, and the girl vanishes beneath the murky waters.

If she surfaces, Ladybug doesn't see where.

She takes a few steps out into the street, wincing whenever she puts weight on her right ankle. She lingers near the edge of the water, scanning the surface carefully.

"What was that?" she asks softly.

"Sodium," Chat explains from behind her. "It explodes in water.

Ladybug sighs heavily, and leans against a toppled vendors cart.

"We should," she begins, sounding weary. "We should follow her."

Chat Noir glances at her, then in the direction of the retreating villain. "I don't think either of us is in any state to keep fighting right now," he says.

Ladybug grits her teeth. "She's going to get away."

"We'll get her next time," Chat says. He manages to take a few steps over to Ladybug, then reaches out for her with one hand.

Ladybug back against the touch. "Miraculous Cure," she murmurs, making an unnecessary gesture with her hand as she does. Chat feels her magic wash over him, healing his ribs just enough that he can breath easily, though his chest is still tender.

Ladybug leans a little more heavily against him.

"Are you okay?" Chat asks, trying to prop her back up on her feet. But Ladybug seems entirely unable to stand under her own power, and ends up clutching at his forearms.

"Yeah," Ladybug says uncertainly. "I just... overdid it with the magic a bit. I don't think I can hold my transformation much longer." She laughs a little, shaking her head. "I don't even think I can walk in this state."

Chat Noir glances around. There's no one in sight, but that doesn't mean no one's watching. With the silence that's fallen over the 16th arrondissement, he's sure that curious civilians have begun creeping towards their windows, peeking out to see whether it's safe.

Ladybug must be having much the same thought. "We should find somewhere to detransform," she says, eyes sweeping over the area.

Chat Noir spends a moment weighing his options. Ladybug, sensing that there's something on his mind, waits patiently for him to speak.

"I know a place," he finally says. "'It's not far."


Marinette sighs as she leans back against the cubicle wall, gently prodding at her right ankle. She'd used enough magic to repair the fractured bone, but not enough for it to stop hurting. She could more or less walk on it now, but it still felt sore and tender. Rubbing at it was probably doing more harm than good, honestly, but it made Marinette feel slightly less useless, and so she went on rubbing small circles against her skin.

Almost immediately after detransforming, Tikki had taken her cookies and flown off into some dim corner of the abandoned office with Chat Noir's kwami in tow. She hadn't given any other explanation than, don't worry, we won't be long, and so Marinette was left with little to do but wait for them to finish... whatever they were doing.

"Wonder what they're talking about," Chat says, speaking up a little so that he can be heard from the next cubicle over.

"Probably personal stuff," Marinette says. She shrugs, then realizes a moment later that he can't see the gesture. "They're like family or something."

"Oh?" Chat asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"Or something," Marinette repeats. "Tikki said that it was hard to explain in human terms, because they're..."

"Ancient godlike magical beings?"

Marinette shifts somewhat uncomfortably. "Yeah," she says.

Well, it's not like Marinette didn't know that Tikki was an immortal god-creature made out of magic. It's just... a little weird to think about.

"Anyway," Marinette continues, "how did you know this office would be empty?"

"Lucky guess?" Chat offers. Marinette rolls her eyes.

"Actually," he says, his voice suddenly low and serious, "my father owns this building. Well, this part of it, anyway."

"Chat Noir—"

"I know," he says quickly. "I won't tell you who he is or anything. Just... yeah. You don't have to worry about anyone coming in here. It's been empty for years."

Marinette glances around the office with renewed curiosity. Unprompted, Chat Noir explains, "It's a sentimental thing. He's... he can attached to things, you know?" Chat Noir sighs, and she hears a rustling coming from the other cubicle, like he's shifting his position. "He's not always good at showing that he cares," Chat continues, almost bitterly, "so I guess he expresses it in weird ways sometimes."

"I see," Marinette says, for lack of anything else to say.

"I would explain more," Chat continues, "but..."

He trails off. "Identities," Marinette fills in for him.

"Yeah."

A heavy silence hangs between them. Normally Marinette enjoys these quieter moments with Chat Noir, the times when everything is calm and still and she almost feels like she can read his mind. But today it just feels tense, thick with all the lies and half-truths that are always standing between them. There are so many things she wants to ask—about his life, his family, how his father can possibly afford to own so much unused office space in the middle of Paris—but she bites her tongue.

"It might not be so bad," Chat offers hesitantly. "It would make a lot of things simpler. And you know I wouldn't tell anyone."

Marinette purses her lips. It would make things easier—no more of this sitting in dark rooms, on opposite sides of a wall—and she trusts Chat with all her heart. But...

"I know you wouldn't tell on purpose," Marinette says. "There are still risks, though. Mind control, truth serum, talking in your sleep..."

"Point taken, my Lady."

"It's not because I don't trust you," she continues on hurriedly. "You know that I do. More than anyone! But—"

"I know."

Marinette exhales slowly and lets her eyes flutter shut. She slumps down a little more where she sits, her fingers curling into loose fists on the floor.

She knows it's the right decision. The safest choice for both of them.

She still doesn't like it.

"I saw your interview on the Ladyblog," she says instead, eager to change the subject.

Chat Noir laughs a little, and Marinette can imagine the huge, toothy grin he's probably sporting over there. "Yeah?" he says. "I was very convincing, wasn't I?"

"It was a very heartfelt plea for M. Haprèle's release," Marinette acknowledges. "It doesn't seem to have worked, though."

"You don't know that yet," Chat says, optimistic as ever. "Besides, I've heard that an anonymous benefactor is paying his legal fees."

Marinette only scowls. "I don't know what good a lawyer is going to do when they haven't even set a trial date yet," she mutters.

"These things take time, Ladybug," Chat Noir says. "But it's all going to work out in the end. I promise."

"And while we wait, an innocent man is sitting in high-security jail," Marinette grumbles. She sinks down even further against the cubicle wall. "I still think we should just break him out of there."

Chat chuckles. "I'm serious!" Marinette snaps.

Chat takes a moment to stifle his laughter. "I know," he says, once he's regained his composure. "You just—you sound different when you're not transformed."

"Do I?"

"You do," Chat says. "Do you look different too?"

Marinette shrugs again. "I don't think so," she says. "But people who know me—civilian me, I mean—have looked Ladybug right in the eyes in not recognized who I am. So I guess I must look different to them."

"Yeah," Chat agrees. After a beat, he adds, "Of course, I'm sure you look just as beautiful either way."

It's exactly the kind of hopeless flirtation that she would expect out of Chat Noir, but Marinette feels a faint blush rise up on her cheeks all the same. "Well, you sure didn't getting any suaver when you detransformed," she says, and despite everything her word still come out a little bit flustered.

"Meow-ch, my Lady," Chat Noir says, but he hardly sounds offended at all. "That was harsh."

Marinette sighs a little, and leans her head back against the wall.

"It was," she agrees softly.

If Marinette were to be perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit that Chat Noir's flirting did have its charms. What girl doesn't liked being lavished with praise every now and again?

But it's easier to write him off than to take it seriously. For one thing, she isn't interested in him like that. For another, it seems more like a big game to him than any genuine affection. It's all clever wordplay and over-the-top one-liners. Silly play-acting where Chat Noir has cast himself in the leading role. It's not like he's about to start whispering sweet-nothings in her ear...

Not that Marinette would ever imagine anything of the sort, of course. Nope, definitely not, that would be ridiculous, Chat Noir would never

"Is everything okay?" Chat Noir asks, voice low and soft and tender in a way that is not currently helping Marinette's overactive imagination. "You got kind of quiet."

Marinette leaps up to her feet. "I'm fine!" she says quickly. "Just fine! But I—uhh—just remembered that there's somewhere I'm supposed to be right now!"

"Oh," Chat says. "Okay."

"Don't look!" Marinette says, as she leaves the safety of her cubicle to look for Tikki. Then she pauses in place a moment, suddenly feeling a spike of anxiety in her chest.

"I JUST REMEMBERED THAT THERE'S SOMEWHERE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE RIGHT NOW!" she screeches.


At five minutes past the hour, Alya isn't really concerned. Marinette, after all, is always late. And it's not like Alya showed up exactly on-time either.

At fifteen past, she's starting to roll her eyes, but it's still nothing unexpected. Marinette will be Marinette, and Alya loves her for it, flaws and all.

But when Marinette finally bursts into the library, red-faced and frazzled and forty-seven minutes late, Alya has to admit that this is becoming a bit of a problem.

"I'm so sorry, Alya," Marinette gasps out, still huffing and puffing. She shuffles across the library to Alya's table, drawing curious glances from the other patrons as her boots squelch loudly on the tile. "There was this akuma—two, actually, can you even believe it?—I mean, of course you can, you were probably there—but anyway, all the roads were crazy—and the crowds—and I—"

"It's okay, Marinette," Alya cuts her off. Though her words are forgiving, her voice is clipped and her smile is tight. "I understand. Let's just get started, okay?"

Marinette's expression falters. "Yeah," she says, swallowing nervously and nodding her head a few times. She slides silently into a chair next to Alya, then quietly gets her study materials out of her bag.

While Alya is trying (and failing) to convince herself that she's not mad about Marinette's chronic lateness, Marinette's thoughts are occupied by something else altogether. Or rather, someone else altogether.

Try as she might, Marinette can't get Chat Noir out of her head.

Feelings that once seemed so simple and straightforward have suddenly become unbearably complicated, as if someone had decided to come and re-wire her heart. Chat Noir was her partner and her best friend. Emphasis on friend. Only now she was starting to have weird thoughts about his goofy smiles and his kind heart and his leather-clad biceps—

Marinette feels her face start to heat up. Now that's a dangerous train of thought.

Okay. So maybe Chat Noir is—objectively speaking—kind of attractive. That doesn't have to mean anything, though! Alya is also—objectively—very attractive, and there's absolutely no romantic tension between them. Knowing that someone is attractive is not the same as being attracted to them.

Besides, Chat Noir is a total cheeseball, and it's not like he's really in love with her. It's just infatuation! He's just in love with the idea of being in love. In fact, he's probably going to get over her any day now...

That thought reassures her for about three seconds.

"Hey Alya?" she asks abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think Chat Noir is hot?"

Alya shoots Marinette a quizzical look, and Marinette ducks her head, embarrassed. But after a moment of contemplation, Alya finally answers, "Yeah, I guess so."

Marinette sighs with relief.

Alya turns her attention back to her notebook. She taps her pen against the table a few times, contemplative, before she adds without looking up, "Not as hot as Ladybug, though."

Marinette chokes a little. Alya, still looking at her notes, doesn't notice her reaction. She continues on, almost off-handedly, "I mean, have you seen her legs? It should be illegal to have legs that nice. And her butt—"

"OkayI'msorryIasked," Marinette says, all in one breath.

Alya laughs at that, drawing more glances from the other students in the library. "Come on," she teases. "You don't see it?"

"I've never looked," Marinette says, still red-faced and staring very pointedly at her history textbook. "But now that you mention it, yes, I'm pretty sure Ladybug is at least as attractive as Chat Noir is. More attractive, actually. It's not even close."

Marinette realizes that she's started to get rambly again, but Alya doesn't complain. If anything, she seems distinctly less annoyed than she was before. She flashes her bestie a lopsided grin and all previous grievances are—for the moment, at least—forgotten.

"Damn straight," Alya says, still grinning. "Now, can you remind me who Jacques de Molay was?"


Nathalie Sancoeur is as heartless as her name.

Adrien knows this. He's known this for nearly as long as he's known Nathalie.

But he also knows that Nathalie doesn't do anything just for show. She's not trying to impress anyone with her icy apathy, she just... doesn't have time for emotions. Her coldness is born out of an impatience for anything that's inefficient, not out of any inherent cruelty. If someone had told Adrien that Nathalie was secretly a robot, he would've believed it.

His father might be a fashion genius, but Nathalie's the one who keeps his empire running. If you wanted to get something done, then Nathalie was the one to ask.

Adrien takes a deep breath, then pushes open the door.

"Hey, Nathalie?" he asks sweetly, a fake smile plastered all over his face.

Nathalie takes one glance at him, stern-faced as always, and then looks back to her computer. "This is about M. Haprèle," she guesses.

Adrien immediately drops the act. "How did you know?"

"Other than the stack of bills delivered to us by his lawyers?" Nathalie asks. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded biting, but Nathalie sounds almost bored. Adrien flushes slightly and Nathalie carries on her business as usual, eyes still glued to the computer screen. "I assume you haven't told your father."

"I... uh... no," Adrien admits. "But the money—"

"Is in your name," Nathalie acknowledges. She pauses a moment to type something on her keyboard, then pushes it aside to look directly at Adrien.

Adrien's heart sinks. But instead of admonishing him, Nathalie asks, "So, what do you want?"

"Help?" Adrien asks, trying not to wince as he does. Nathalie does not seem impressed.

"Okay, I know this is all going to sound a little crazy," he continues, talking noticeably faster than normal, "but Chloé Bourgeois basically admitted to me that her father has been bribing the police, and the reason that M. Haprèle was arrested in the first place was some kind of political thing—I don't really understand it, actually—but anyway, I know this girl from school, Alya Césaire, who runs the Ladyblog, and I think she could really help fix things if she had a chance. But she hasn't been able to get an interview—um, at least that's what Nino says—and I was thinking..."

He trails off, suddenly too embarrassed to ask. Nathalie seems to understand anyway.

"You're asking me to use your father's connections to help a teenage journalist write an exposé about M. Haprèle and reveal the mayor's corruption," she says flatly.

"...yes?"

"And you thought I would agree to this... why, exactly?"

Adrien's expression grows strained. "Out of the goodness of your heart?" he tries.

"That's not going to work," Nathalie says, matter-of-fact, turning back to her computer. For a moment the room is silent save for her typing. "Bourgeois is an idiot, but he's been in politics for a long time. One hit piece is not going to stop him."

"Oh," Adrien says, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

"But it could turn public opinion against him," Nathalie continues, in the same uninterested monotone. "Nothing official will ever come of it, but it could be enough to cost him the election. Now tell me why you'd rather trust this to a fifteen-year-old child than a real reporter?"

"Alya is a real reporter!" Adrien says quickly. "The Ladyblog has the most consistent coverage of akuma-related incidents—I mean, she does tons of research, there's no one in the city who knows more about this stuff than she does. She takes it really seriously!"

Nathalie arches a single brow. Adrien sighs and hangs his head.

"Also because she's a friend," he admits.

Nathalie shakes her head slightly but says, "I'll see what I can do."

Adrien's face lights up. "Really?"

Nathalie shrugs half-heartedly. "I'm a Socialist," she says.

"Thank you, Nathalie!" Adrien says. He rushes forward to hug her, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Coughing awkwardly, he pulls his arms back and says, "Thanks again," in the most dignified voice he can manage.

Nathalie, for her part, looks completely unfazed.

Adrien decides he should leave before he embarrassed himself anymore. He backs out of Nathalie's office, throwing open the door hastily and stepping out into the hall...

...and right onto his father's foot.

"Adrien," Gabriel says, sounding almost surprised to see his own son.

(Not that there's anything nearly that surprising about it. He does live here, after all.)

"Father," Adrien says nervously. He takes several wobbly steps backward, holding the door open to let Gabriel into the room. But instead of stepping inside, Gabriel lingers in the doorway.

Adrien glances towards Nathalie, wondering how much of their previous conversation she will reveal to him. But Nathalie has the same empty expression she always has.

"Sir, you're scheduled for a meeting with Mlle Beauréal in half an hour on the other side of the city," Nathalie says briskly.

"Cancel it," Gabriel says. "I got held up with some business in the 16th arrondissement."

Adrien pauses a moment and exchanges an uneasy glance with Nathalie. His father's assistant, normally so cold and placid, falters for a split-second.

"Of course, sir," she says. Her smooth tone doesn't betray even the slightest hint of the emotion that briefly flickered across her face. Enviously, Adrien wonders how she manages it.

"Cancel the rest of my appointments for today while you're at it," Gabriel says. "I'm going to spend the evening working from home."

"Consider it done," Nathalie says. Gabriel turns to leave—apparently to go back to work—without so much as another word to his son.

"Um—father?" Adrien dares to ask. Gabriel pauses in place. "You didn't happen to get caught up with that akuma incident, did you?"

Gabriel scoffs. "No," he says, barely even glancing in Adrien's direction. "You needn't concern yourself with that."

Adrien bites down on his cheek, and Gabriel sweeps out of the room. "Well, forgive me for being worried about you," he mutters under his breath.

Gabriel pauses again, but this time he turns his full attention to his son. "What was that, Adrien?" he asks, looking him straight in the eye.

Adrien feels a flash of fear somewhere in his chest, and a part of him wants to immediately apologize for sassing his father.

But another part of him is strangely angry. So he lifts his chin defiantly and repeats, slow and clear, "Forgive me for being worried about you, sir."

Gabriel hesitates a moment, seeming shocked. Adrien braces himself for the lecture that's sure to come, grip tightening nervously on the door. But instead of snapping at him, Gabriel smirks slightly.

"Your mother had a stubborn streak too," he says fondly.

Then Gabriel disappears down the hall, barreling into his office and letting the door swing shut with a heavy thud behind him.

As soon as the door closes, Nathalie mutters a few choice curse words under her breath. Adrien whirls around at her, shocked, but she's regained her composure by then.

"I forgot it was the anniversary," she says calmly. She spends a moment typing furiously, then her fingers suddenly still.

She looks hesitant for a moment, like she's debating whether or not to speak. Finally, she says, "I can also cancel your tutoring lessons for the rest of the day," she offers, voice perfectly level. It's only from years of practice that Adrien can tell she's nervous—the way her gaze becomes unfocused and slightly cross-eyed.

"Thanks, Nathalie," he says, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. "But I think the distraction might be nice today."

Nathalie nods curtly. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Adrien turns to leave, but Nathalie stops him before he's quite made it out of the hallway. "One more thing," she calls out. "This friend of yours—do you know her email address?"


When Marinette finally slinks home from Alya's, it's pitch black outside and uncomfortably chilly. She pulls her pea coat tighter around her form, and curses herself for wearing such thin leggings in the middle of February.

Part of her is tempted to transform into Ladybug, just for the added warmth from whatever magical cold-repelling material her costume is made out of. But she and Tikki are both still pretty low on energy after that dismal fight, so she just shivers through the rest of the walk home.

The first thing she notices when she slips back into her family's apartment is that it's blazing hot inside. A soft sigh of relief escapes Marinette as she begins to shed her winter clothes.

The second thing she notices is her parents. They are sitting together on the couch in the living room, watching her silently with matching looks of worry tinged with disapproval.

Marinette freezes in place, one winter glove slid halfway off of her hand. "Maman," she says nervously. "Papa. I thought you would be in bed by now."

"Marinette," her mother says, voice pained. "Is there something that you need to tell us about?"

Yes, Marinette thinks to herself.

"N-no?" Marinette stutters nervously, twisting her gloves in her hands.

Mme Cheng and M. Dupain glance at each other.

"What happened today, sweetie?" her mother asks, turning back to her. "You just disappeared."

Marinette's eyes go wide, suddenly remembering.


Marinette doesn't usually work in the bakery, but when they're especially busy, her parents will ask her to cover the register while they work in the back. That day, both M. Dupain and Mme Cheng were frantically scrambling to finish two dozen custom orders for Valentine's Day while Marinette sat in the front, selling cupcakes and pommes d'amour to a steady stream of pre-holiday customers.

The first sign that something's wrong is a dull ache low in her stomach. Marinette's first instinct is to write it off—too many cookies, she tells herself.

But the feeling doesn't go away. It spreads, from her stomach to her chest to her fingertips, until every cell of her body is thrumming with nervous energy.

Papillon is up to something. She doesn't know how she knows—but she knows. Every fiber of her being is somehow keyed into it, attuned to some kind of bizarre Miraculous wavelength that she doesn't quite understand.

When her phone buzzes not even a minute later, Marinette can already guess what the message will be.

AKUMA NEAR TROCADÉRO, reads Alya's text. I MIGHT BE LATE.

"Hey, Papa?" Marinette calls out nervously. "I, uh, have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back?"


"Oops?" Marinette says. The worried lines on her parents' faces just get deeper.

"Marinette," says her father gently, "you know you can tell us anything, right?"

Guilt floods Marinette. "Oh, Papa," she says. She takes a few steps over to the couch and sinks down into a seat next to him. "I know."

"You've been very... forgetful, lately," her mother says. Her parents exchange another Look. "Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us?"

No, Marinette thinks. She's always been honest with her parents, always trusted them with everything. It would be so easy to tell them now. To confess everything—about Tikki and Chat Noir and how hard it is sometimes, trying to balance being and superhero and a student and a friend.

But she can't, of course. She trusts her parents, but they'd be Papillon's first targets if her secret identity ever slipped out, and she can't afford any risk. So Marinette presses her lips together and forces a small smile.

"There's nothing," she lies.


Here is the inherent dilemma of Marinette's fourteen-year-old existence: she hates liars, but she is always lying to everyone.

And here is the the dilemma of Alya's: she loves Ladybug, but she might love the truth a little bit more.

Alya was raised on superhero stories. She'd eagerly devoured every tidbit she could find as a kid, gleefully following the adventures of London's White Hart and Shanghai's Azure Dragon and, of course, Paris's own Cygnette. Many of her free hours were wasted away on internet forums, overanalyzing every video clip or photograph that the community could get their hands on. Superheroes were cool.

And she does love Ladybug—loves the way she's cool under pressure, her sassy one-liners, her really nice legs.

But Alya's an adult now. Well—not legally, of course, but whatever, close enough. Things are different. This is not an internet chat room populated by giggly ten-year-olds. She runs a serious blog that thousands of people trust as a reliable source of news. She pays bills for the Ladyblog's server space.

A younger Alya may have been content with blindly admiring superheroes from afar, but Alya isn't a little kid anymore. This isn't some kind of game, or adventure story. The threat that Papillon presents is real, and frankly terrifying.

The people of Paris deserve answers. But all they ever get are secrets and more secrets.

This is what keeps Alya up until two in the morning:

Nobody knows who Ladybug is.

Okay, you say. Sure, that's normal. Secret identities are as old as superheroes themselves. It's safer that way, right?

And somehow Alya always ends up circling back to the same question: safer for who?

Nobody knows who Ladybug is. That's worked out plenty well for these past five months, but Alya has a cynical side, and she sees too many ways it could all go wrong. Ladybug is a rouge agent—she takes no orders and answers to no one. If she has a plan—and that's a big if—she's not sharing it.

There's no accountability in a system like that. Alya trusts Ladybug, she really does—but there are two million people living in Paris. Blind trust and gut feelings aren't good enough when there are that many lives on the line. There has to be a system, checks and balances, some kind of backup plan. How can you rely on a single teenage girl to save your city when she won't even tell you her name?

And, as much as Alya hates to admit it, D'Argencourt and his crowd have a point. Papillon is a huge threat to Paris, and leaving nothing but a couple of costumed vigilantes to deal with him is just asking for trouble.

She's still rolling these thoughts over in her mind when her phone lights up. Alya rolls over in her bed and fumbles for it, squinting at the too-bright screen in the darkness.

Are you interested in covering the Haprèle case on your blog? is the subject line of the very interesting email Alya receives at two in the morning on that otherwise uninteresting Thursday. Er, Friday. Whatever.

The body of the email is blank, which sets off alarm bells in Alya's mind, but the address looks legit—sancoeur at gabriel dot fr, and it takes Alya less than a minute to verify that it's Nathalie Sancoeur's real email address. So she shoots back a quick reply—(yes, I'm interested, is the full text of her response)—and ten minutes later Nathalie has sent back a list of very careful instructions.

Alya skims over them, then sends another message back: why are you helping me?

Nathalie takes twenty-two minutes to reply. When she finally does, her answer is equally brief:

I'm a Socialist.

Well, then. Fair enough.


Bright and early on the morning of February the 14th, Alya is still contemplating Nathalie's words. She has the email practically memorized by now, but she keeps checking it on her phone anyway, half-expecting that there will be something new, some previously missed detail hiding between the lines of text.

Meanwhile, Marinette is agonizing over the small detail that today is Valentine's Day! Somehow, in-between crimefighting and studying for the history test and helping out in the bakery, her overworked brain did not make the connection between the pink, heart-shaped sprinkles that have taken over her parent's bakery and the fact that the world's favorite romantic holiday was just around the corner.

"I can't believe I forgot about Valentine's Day!" Marinette says, wringing her hands. "And I didn't get anything for Adrien! Now some other girl is going to swoop in and steal—"

"Mm-hmm," Alya agrees sleepily. She spares a quick glance at Marinette—who, for all her complaining, actually looks absolutely stunning today in a very flattering pink A-line dress dotted with white hearts—and wonders whether it was pure dumb luck that she ended up dressed so appropriately for the holiday she apparently forgot all about.

"—and thirteen cats! Black cats! And I'll live in a creaky haunted house at the end of—"

"What is with you and cats?" Alya interrupts, shaking her head. "Anyway, you can stop freaking out—I got you something."

Alya shoves a plastic bag full of art supplies at Marinette, who freezes mid-meltdown and stares at the gift, looking dumbfounded.

"This is... for me?"

"Happy Valentine's Day," Alya teases, winking. She pushes the bag into Marinette's hands. "But seriously. I had a feeling something like this might happen. If you work fast enough, you might be able to make a card for Adrien before the day ends."

Alya punctuates her comment with a wink, Marinette's face lights up with delight. "You are the best, Alya!" she exclaims, bouncing in place.

"I know," Alya says dryly. "Now come on, we're going to be late to math."

The girls were not, in fact, late to their math class, but it hardly made any difference to Marinette either way. She devotes almost the entire class period to working on her valentine for Adrien. In fact, she devotes almost the entire schoolday on the project, and by the time their final period rolls around, she has a stunningly pink and glitter-covered card for Adrien, complete with a confession in the form of a love poem.

(If nothing else, Marinette has style.)

Her satisfaction with the valentine, alas, does not last very long until the worry sets in.

"What if he laughs at it, Alya?" she asks anxiously. The glittery and pink heart-shaped card that seemed so nice a minute ago suddenly looks unbearably childish to Marinette. "What if he thinks it's stupid?"

"It'll be fine," Alya reassures her without looking up from her phone. "Adrien's a nice guy, he wouldn't do that to you."

"Okay," Marinette says, "but what if he still thinks it? Because I know he's not the kind of guy to say it, of course not, but what if the thought's still there in the back of his head and he won't say it to me because he's too kind to do that but he still thinks—"

"Calm down, Marinette," Alya says. She pats her arm. "It'll be fine."

"—and he'll think I'm some kind of crazy stalker, like a weird fangirl or something, or maybe he'll think that I just like him because his dad is rich and famous, which isn't true at all, but—"

Alya clamps one hand over Marinette's mouth.

"Marinette," she says firmly. "It'll be fine. Now quit it with the melodrama before you bust out into some cartoon physics or something."

Marinette nods silently, and Alya slowly removes her hand. "Okay, girl," she says, "I'm gonna head out. Don't you chicken out on getting that card to Adrien, though!"

Aaand the panic is back. "You're not coming with me?"

Alya holds her hands up ruefully. "Official Ladyblog business," she says. "Believe me, I wouldn't bail on you if it wasn't super important. But I have faith in you!"

Marinette is about to start rambling again, but Alya claps her hands on her shoulders and gives her a little push. "You can do it," she says. "Don't let me down."

Marinette takes a few steps forward then turns back to Alya. But Alya is already dashing off, and naturally the moment that she's disappeared from sight Marinette's jittery nerves come back in full force.

She stands in place for a moment, paralyzed with fear. But Alya is counting on her, gosh darn it, and she's not going to let her BFF down! So she takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and forces herself to take a step forward. "Alya's right," Marinette says to herself. Another step. "Yep. Everything is going to be okay. I'm just going to walk over to Adrien and hand this over to him—"

"Hand what over?" interrupts Marinette's least favorite person.

Bad luck, Marinette thinks to herself.

She scowls and tries to pull away from Chloé Bourgeois, but not before the other girl manages to snap up her valentine. Marinette reaches over to grab it back, but Chloé artfully manages to keep the valentine just out of her grip. "Ooh, a love letter?" Chloé mocks, sounding positively delighted. "To dearest Adrien. Aw, how sweet."

"Give it back, Chloé," Marinette says, seething. She holds out one hand towards the other girl.

"Your hair is like gold," Chloé reads out loud. Marinette's face grows hot. "Your eyes are vivid green. When I look at you, I want to know what you are thinking."

"Now, Chloé!" she snaps.

Chloé looks at Marinette thoughtfully, pretending to think it over. Then she laughs. "Honestly, Marinette, is that the best you can do? A cutesy little love poem that sounds like it was written by a five-year-old?"

Marinette swallows. "Give it back," she says again.

"Oh, sure thing," Chloé says mockingly. Then, with deliberate slowness, she rips the Valentine in half, and then into halves again, and again and again until there is nothing left of it but tiny scraps of paper.

"Here you go," she says brightly, flicking the pieces at Marinette. They flutter through the air and land scattered at Marinette's feet. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she says, her voice as sweet as honey. "I'm doing you a favor, really. It's much less embarrassing like this."

This isn't anything new for Chloé, of course. Marinette has been enduring this kind of torment for years. Marinette's strategy had always been to shrug it off, to keep her chin lifted and not let it show when Chloé got under her skin. Be the better person, as her Papa would say.

But not today.

Marinette reaches into her bag and grabs the tiny container of glitter that Alya gifted her this morning.. She uncaps it as Chloé watches, puzzled. Marinette can't resist the small smirk that creeps up on her lips as she steps forward and, with a slight flick of her wrist, coats the other girl in a shower of glitter.

"Oops," Marinette drawls sarcastically.

(Chloé uses her status as the mayor's daughter to get Marinette suspended from school for two days, but her look of shocked, sparkly horror is quite possibly the most satisfying thing Marinette has ever seen in her entire life.)


Nathalie must have pulled a lot of strings to make this happen.

The prison they're keeping Haprèle in is serious business. Metal detectors, body scanners, magic circles, the works. Alya makes her way through security almost timidly, surrounded by tall guards with stern expressions. By the time they usher her into the tiny visiting room with M. Haprèle, she must have gone through six or seven different machines.

M. Haprèle is slumped over in his seat, wearing a too-large shirt and fraying pants. There are bags under his eyes, and he barely even lifts his head when Alya enters.

"M. Haprèle," Alya says, putting on her very best reporter voice. "I'm Alya Césaire, from the Ladyblog."

M. Haprèle flashes her a quick smile. "They told me," he says. "You want to do an interview?"

Alya nods. "If you don't mind."

His gaze flickers over her form. "I thought you'd be older," he says, but he doesn't sound bothered. Just tired.

Alya shrugs a little bit. "I'm good at what I do," she says. She fumbles through her bag for a moment before adding, "I, um, I'm actually in your daughter's class at school."

At this, M. Haprèle's eyes grow slightly brighter. "How is she?"

Alya doesn't answer at first. She keeps rifling through her bag until she has all her materials out and even then a moment passes before she can figure out how to answer.

"She's getting through it," she finally says. "It's hard, but she's really strong."

Another smile crosses M. Haprèle's face, sincere this time. "Thank you," he says softly.

"Shall we begin, then?" Alya asks, glancing through her notes. M. Haprèle gives a brief nod, and she starts the interview.

His answers are almost reluctant at first, short and monosyllabic. The longer the interview goes on, though, the more open he becomes. Alya would like to credit her awesome reporter skills for the change in demeanor, but she suspects that the truth is more mundane. As the minutes pass by, M. Haprèle grows wearier, and more honest. Alya starts with easy questions—tell me about yourself and where did you learn to shoot a rocket launcher—then builds up to more tricky questions, like describe the circumstances that led to your akumatization.

When her time is nearly up, Alya hesitates a moment, gathering her courage. Then she asks the question that she really wanted to ask.

"Do you remember anything about the crimes you allegedly committed while akumatized?"

He hesitates a moment. "Nothing," he says, with a strange tone of finality. "I don't remember anything."

"And you don't claim any responsibility for the crimes you committed while akumatized?"

M. Haprèle makes a huffing sound that could almost be called a laugh. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side," he says.

"I'm on the truth's side," Alya says. "So, do you?"

M. Haprèle spends another moment in thought, picking nervously at a hangnail while he does. "That wasn't me," he eventually says. "I wouldn't—I would never hurt people like that."

He trails off a moment, lost in thought. "That was Papillon, not me," he eventually says, voice firm.

Alya scribbles that down verbatim, and then says, "Okay, last question. Do you know why you were the only akuma victim to be targeted by the police?"

M. Haprèle smiles thinly. "I have a few guesses," he says, but declines to elaborate.

Alya doesn't push him on the subject. She's pretty sure that she knows the answer anyway.

She flips her notepad closed and moves to put away her things. "Thank you for your time, M. Haprèle," she says, inclining her head slightly at him.

"Thank you, Mlle Césaire," he says.

Alya stands up to leave, then pauses a moment. She turns back to Haprèle and leans in close to him, almost conspiratorially. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this," she vows quietly. "I promise."