Marinette felt very, very bad.

There are many way to express how she felt during those long minutes passing in the car. But no word in the entire world could properly explain how she felt as she was held down. She repeated the last half an hour in her brain, how she should have handled it, what she should have done, could have said, should have stopped. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter what she wanted to do; she couldn't go back and do it over. It was ironic, being a princess, having power, but not having any power than really mattered.

Marinette didn't cry. Chloe and the driver sat silently, looking ahead of them with serious expressions, but Chloe never let go of Marinette's legs. General Manden, although he released her enough to breathe comfortably, still made her lay down, so that no one could see them through the windows as they drove.

When they finally arrived home, they didn't let her leave the car. Instead, as if they were scared she would run away, a stretcher was pulled out quickly, and she was strapped on, carried like a rag doll, and brought inside, surrounding by a few bustling guards. It was weirdly empty besides them. Nurse Corteau was by her side in an instant, checking her vitals, asking her what she remembered, if she had any symptoms or pain, and more.

"I'm fine, there's nothing wrong with me," Marinette said.

"We'll see," he said in a serious tone, while they scurried towards medical.

"I promise I am," she repeated, but with the way he completely ignored her words, she wondered if she'd lost her voice.

Once Marinette arrived, she was moved to the medical bed and strapped down, when Nurse Corteau received a phone call. He wore a very grim expression as he answered.

"Hello?"

Marinette couldn't hear anything from the other end.

"Hello?" the Nurse repeated. Then, coughing from the caller. Mr. Corteau put a finger up to Marinette and then left the room, wondering who was on the other end.

She looked down at her blood-stained shirt. She felt gross wearing it. She didn't know where the blood could have even come from. No one she'd come into contact with had been bleeding, at least not that she'd seen. Was that little girl okay? Her father? Adrien? She felt cold, despite the heated blanket draped around her shoulders.

Panic slowly ebbed its way into her arms and legs. She felt trapped, strapped in that chair. She needed out. Taking a long inhale and letting it out even longer, Marinette forced herself to not have a panic attack. She was okay. She was safe. Everyone was okay. They had to be. They were safe. They were safe. They were safe. They were safe. They were—

"Well!" Mr. Corteau's airy voice jolted Marinette from her thoughts. it seems like your guardian won't be able to see you tonight. But she wanted to know that you're in my care."

Marinette looked at his slightly bothered expression. "Is she okay?"

He put the phone down on the desk, ignoring her. He moved towards her table, muttering under his breath, something too quiet for her to hear.

"Where is she?"

"Client-patient confidentiality, Your Highness."

Marinette grumbled, but closed her eyes against the bright lights. "Is she okay, at least?"

Mr. Corteau paused before continue to rustle around his things. "She is okay. She may head back here tomorrow."

"Okay," she whispered. Tikki was okay, but she wasn't coming back then. Why not? Maybe Adrien was in bad shape, and she was with him. Her voice was even smaller when she continued: "Do you know if Adrien is okay?"

Mr. Corteau let out a relieved exhale. "He's okay. He's here, actually. Safest place in the kingdom." His voice was bitter when he spoke. Marinette flinched from it, but when she flinched, a sudden sharp pang went through her abdomen.

"What the—"

Corteau was over her in an instant, forcing her to lie back down, which she did. She looked at the area of pain, where a new splotch of blood was forming. She was frozen as she watched the blood seep, quicker than she anticipated blood to spill.

In a few moments, Corteau had cut away Marinette's shirt, revealing a deep, thin slit right above her belly button, a slit that hadn't been there when she'd checked herself over back at the coffee shop. He grabbed a syringe from the table and brought it to her instantly, checking it for air bubbles.

Marinette's head reeled from the size of the needle. "I don't understand. I wasn't hurt before," she said, wincing as he inserted the needle into a spot just above the injury, pushing in a cold, thick liquid. It made her stomach turn, and she gagged, but the pain from the slit was also gone in seconds as the cold numbed over it.

"It must have been the shock," he said seriously, as he put a rag over Marinette's eyes. "I have to stitch you up. Just close your eyes, and tell me everything that happened."

"I don't know everything that happened," she said as he tugged at her skin. She felt weird, knowing there should be pain there, but there wasn't. The uncomfortable feeling was almost worse than the pain.

"That's okay," he said softly, tugging something else. "Tell me a story from your childhood."

Marinette shook her head, trying to both push away the odd feeling as well as the surprising emotions welling up beneath her eyes. She thought about her home that had just been burned down by the akumas, and the way she saw Alya but could not talk to her. Her mother, who she missed so much. She couldn't handle it.

"Tell me," he repeated.

She let out a long breath, trying to think of something that wouldn't cause too much pain. She decided that nothing would suffice, so she lied.

It felt good.

"I had an friend as a kid," she said, thinking of Chat Noir and imaging what it would be like if she knew his unmasked counterpart. "We'd go to the river sometimes and swim together, and once, I got caught in a current. I ended up getting out, but only because he helped me hold onto a branch." She breathed heavily, the odd tugging sensations almost too much to bear. "

"What was his name?" A few tugs.

"I don't remember. I was too young."

"That's sad," he said, as he tugged once more before saying, "Alright. That's all I have for you for now. You're stitched up. Do you remember what happened that cut you so deeply?"

Marinette shook her head, grateful as he placed a large blanket on top of her. "I wasn't. It may have been moving beds?" she suggested, wincing at the thought.

He frowned. "Maybe. I'm going to check into that. But, I think it's important that you go to bed." At the start of Marinette's protest, Corteau held up his hand and said, "I know it's early. I know you want more answers. But, Your Highness, I don't have those answers. I'm the only medic here right now, and my goal is to make sure you're healthy. You're going to your room, you're going to lie down, you're going to rest. If it takes me giving you medications to sleep, I will do that. So either you leave as you are, or you leave with those meds."

Marinette slowly glowered with each word. "You don't have the right to drug me."

Corteau looked sympathetic. "I do, actually. I also have your guardian's permission."

"Tikki?" Why that little—

"No. Your father."

Marinette flinched, closing her eyes. Her father. He said she could be drugged? Silenced like that? No, he wouldn't.

But she couldn't protest it. Because he wasn't there to prove that he wouldn't do that. Her father was in god-knows-where, living it up in a foreign country for god-knows-how-long. Marinette was strapped to a chair. Her dad wasn't there. He should be there for her, but he wasn't.

Something in Marinette's mind felt tainted by this knowledge.

She exhaled slowly, but it wasn't forced this time. She wasn't pushing down panic. She was forcing herself to breathe.

"I'll go to my room," she whispered.

"Sounds great,"he said, leaving to just bring back a wheelchair, opening it for her. He signaled for her to sit. Instead of fighting, Marinette silently moved into it, ignoring the weight of her bones.

As he pushed her down a hallway, towards the main room, Corteau asked quietly, "Your highness?"

"Mm?"

Corteau's hands shook enough against the wheelchair that she felt it clearly. "Please don't tell anyone I didn't catch your injury at first."

It hadn't even crossed her mind to say anything. "No, of course—"

"You don't want me to be fired. I know you don't, Your Highness. You're a good person. I know you are."

She turned her head as best she could to look at him. She only saw him in the peripheral. His head hung low as he pushed her. She couldn't imagine the pressure he was in at that moment. Marinette didn't know how long he'd been a nurse, or working in the castle, what his life was like outside the castle. She didn't know why he was alone on today of all days, why there was no medical doctor, and all she had was a nurse. Obviously, he did his work well. A doctor wasn't needed, but maybe he could use some help.

She debated on what to say. Of course she didn't want him to be fired. He helped her through her coma, through her fake illness, through this. And he did a good job at it. She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say, when seeing Luka stole her voice.

"Your highness," he said.

Relief released through her body. "Luka, I'm so—" she started, before he gave her a hard look, glancing at Mr. Corteau, who was reaching across her body to pull the break lever, pulling her to a sudden stop. The movement made her nauseas.

Mr. Corteau pulled out his phone and, while reading something on the screen, stated: "Guard, make sure she gets to her room okay. Send her lady in waiting to help her shower. Please call me immediately for any help. Watch her well." He sped out of the room, back towards his office.

Marinette was left to stare at the floor. It was dark, the hallways lit only by the few small windows' afternoon light. Without a word, Luka walked around her wheelchair, kicking the break gently, and then began to push her down the hall.

The silence was awkward. Every step that echoed behind her felt louder each moment. Even when they passed the library, and Marinette heard the sounds of angry men yelling unintelligibly, Luka's footsteps overwhelmed her, and by the time they reached her room, she wondered if he was walking slowly and loudly on purpose. When he reached to opened her door, she twisted her head as quickly as she could without pain, and said, "I need to talk to you."

He froze. "I was told to contact your lady."

She watched the way his fingers shakily hovered over the silver door handle. His fingers that had clear nails, no polish. She felt relief rush through her as he rushed to open the door and pushed her though. As soon as the door clicked behind them, Marinette didn't wait to look at him before she said, "What happened? After I, um, left?"

Luka locked the wheelchair. He walked towards her balcony window. Marinette thought he was going to stand outside, but he didn't; he just stood in front of the window, staring out at the garden. Slowly, Luka lifted a hand up the door and slid it down the glass, cupping his hand.

"Luka?"

He looked over his right shoulder, but not at her. It was at her closet. The one that held her tied-up bedsheets, stuffed in between. His arm dropped from the window, and he took casual steps towards her closet. Marinette started to feel sick from the silence that penetrated the room, digging into the corners of her skin.

"... Luka?"

He ripped the wardrobe open, the cloth falling out, not quite touching the ground. He looked it up and down, and softly grabbing the dirty cloth, and then slowly, slowly turned towards Marinette. He was on the other side of the room, but his expression was clear as day.

"This has to stop, Marinette."

His voice was soft but sharp. Cruel but kind.

"What?"

He twisted around so fast that Marinette jumped, and though his voice was quiet, it was hard. "This, this is how you've been escaping." He shook the fabric. "You've been taking these... these pieces of fine, expensive cloth that no one in the entire kingdom can afford. You've been leaving, doing who-knows-what. What, having fun? Being crazy? Letting loose? You had friends, you had people that could have come here and been here with you, but you never tried to reach out to any of them, and—don't give me that look, Marinette. You know it's true. You've been naive, stupid, in leaving this castle and its protections. You've been breaking out, despite everyone's efforts to protect you. And I..." He deflated, looking at his hands in disgust. "And I let you."

There were cracks in the air, and Marinette could suddenly hear the angry men still bickering somewhere down the hallway, faint to her. Luka dropped the fabric. "We tried to keep you safe. That's my entire job, Marinette. And today, you didn't even think about your life for a second before you ran from me."

Marinette, still sat by her bedroom door stared at him, unsure what to say. He started pacing, between the window, wardrobe, and her bed, mumbling to himself—or maybe at her, and she just couldn't hear him clearly. At least, until he said, "And I see it in your face. You plan on doing it again. You—"

"But it's okay, I'm safe!" she interrupted, the first words she could confidently stated.

"Safe?" he asked, incredulous. She nodded in earnest. He huffed like a bull before the flag, then looked her up and down, bruised, covered in blood (her own and others'), sitting in a wheelchair. She flushed at the irony, turning precisely scarlet as he said, "What is your princess definition of safe? If I hadn't gotten Manden, you would have—"

In an instant, any sort of shame switched to answer, matching his. "Excuse me? You went for Manden? So, this is your fault?"

"What's my fault?" he asked, leaning forwards in anger, his fists balled. She glared, her own hands fisting, as he said, "It's my fault you ran away, and I needed to get help? It's my fault you put yourself in danger, in the middle of a bombing?!"

Marinette flinched at his tone, but she didn't back down. "I knew what I was doing. I was trying to protect my people. I was trying to help those more vulnerable than me."

"Princess," Luka growled as he took a few steps forward, "no one was more vulnerable than you, since you were the target."

"Obviously, it didn't matter who the target was, since she wasn't hurt."

"Wasn't hurt?" Luka laughed, a high-pitched, manic sound. He gestured to her. "Look at you! You were hurt!"

"Not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to help. I'm not helpless, Luka!"

"YES YOU ARE!" he yelled, making her flinch again. Then, he growled, and punched the wall. "You're not. You're not helpless, Marinette, and that's frustrating for me. You're strong, and you know it. And that's where the issue lies. You don't put your safety where it should be."

She crossed her arms, pushing herself into her chair. "My safety doesn't matter if others aren't safe, either."

"No. Your life is too important."

"Being a princess doesn't mean anything. What does a princess do, Luka? Nothing. Nothing! I walk around, take lessons, and that's it."

His eyes flashed. "It does't just have to do with being a princess."

"What else, then, hmm? Because I'm a girl? I'm strong. And if someone else's life means nothing, then my life doesn't either. I'm no more important than anyone else in this country. In this world. In this room."

"I never should have let you out that night, Marinette. It was stupid of me. It won't happen again."

She felt cold. "What do you mean by that?"

He let out a deep breath. Then, he turned, and walked back to the window he'd been caressing just minutes before. Between them was the flat, tied blankets, a wall between them that hadn't been there before.

"We're going to close this," he said. "We're going to lock this. Today. I don't know what I would have done if you'd been hurt worse." His head clunked on the glass. "I need you to be okay, Marinette. I need you."

Marinette's throat closed immediately. She felt something stronger behind those words. She could feel them. They were tangible, touchable. But she couldn't reach out and grab them. She knew what they meant. But how could she respond, what did he expect?

When it was clear she wasn't going to respond, Luka let out a soft, pained chuckle. "I'm going to stand outside your door. You will be okay."

But Marinette didn't feel okay. She felt tears rise in her eyes, felt the way they begged her to let them down. She glared at the blankets that lay on the floor, angry when Luka picked them up, carrying them as he walked past her.

He stopped at the door. "Marinette." She didn't turn; instead, she glared at the window. He sighed, and pulled her wheelchair around, slowly, forcing her to look at the door that lead to the hallway. The door that lead to the rest of the castle. That lead her to everything that kept her trapped.

He leaned down, hands moving towards her arms, moving as if to caress her lifted arms, and he gently hovered them over her side. She glanced up at him, and he looked at her arms, her purple and aching arms. His eyes were so blue, his hair so dark, darker than they should have ever been. It should be the same color as his eyes, the way it was when they were young. But as she watched his eyes move across her minimal injuries, she hated those clear eyes more now for their beauty. The open and genuine care that they held filled her with a hot, sticky rage. She tried to jerk her arms out of his hands, but the movement caused a twinge of pain to go through her spine—leftover shock?

Luka took a step back, turning away, his guarded expression returning. "You will not leave again."

He sounded final. She knew he was. As he left, Marinette felt, for what felt like the first time in over a year, something other than sadness and loneliness.

Marinette felt hatred. Genuine hatred, burning from deep, deep within her, the negative energy unleashing and filling every piece of her skin, within her muscles, touching parts of her soul she'd never seen before. She was angry with Luka, but this hatred wasn't for him. It was for who caused this.

She was going to stop Monarch. She was going to end him, and the Akumas. No matter what, no matter where she was, no matter what limitations she faced. Luka wouldn't stop her. No one would stop her.

He would die.

She sat there for a while, staring at the white door, waiting for her lady in waiting to come. So when the door knocked, she waited for it to open. But it didn't open immediately. She reached down,

Marinette opened the door. It wasn't her lady. Coming face to face with someone's black sweater, smelling like sharp soap, she knew instantly who it was. She raised her gaze to his eyes, relief interrupting her hatred. Adrien's hair was wet, falling into his wide, green eyes.