Marinette trudged along with the art department, barely awake as she tried to make the 9 a.m. call time. The set was a closed restaurant, a cosy place that required only a few touches—arranging plates and setting out food.
While they waited for said food to arrive, Korean fried chicken, courtesy of Chloe–– the art department, temporarily sidelined, watched as the gaffers busied themselves with setting up the lights.
"What's the call time for the actors?" one of them asked in English. Marinette didn't catch the name.
Jemima checked her call sheet. "Quarter to ten."
"Can we get some placeholders in? David, grab the D90s," he instructed.
What's a placeholder? Marinette regretted not studying English more diligently while in the States. It hadn't been a problem so far—everyone in the art department was French, so they operated in French. But other departments, like sound and lighting, used English as the lingua franca.
"Go on, Marinette, you're on placeholder duty," Jemima encouraged, gently nudging her towards a vacant seat at the designated table.
Marinette settled in just as Luka entered the restaurant, the bells on the door chiming softly. "Good morning!" He greeted the crew cheerfully.
Jemima clapped her hands together and looked him squarely in the eye. "Are you free?"
"Yeah, why?" Luka replied, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion.
"We need another placeholder. Take a seat over there," Jemima directed, gesturing for Luka to sit opposite Marinette. Marinette and Luka exchanged quick smiles as he took his seat. Jemima occupied herself checking her notes, ensuring everything was set.
"Hey, Mari," Luka greeted her warmly, his smile way too wide for 9:30 in the morning.
"Hey," she replied, waving her hand in acknowledgment.
"To the left," a crew member instructed, carefully maneuvering the camera. "Yes, just over the shoulder. Watch the lead room."
"What scene is this?" Luka inquired, his curiosity piqued.
"Lunch breakup. We're waiting on the fried chicken so we can set this table up," Jemima responded, briefly pausing from her phone.
"Okay, this configuration should be good. Let's wait for the Blackmagic camera to arrive and then do a final check," the gaffer confirmed as he taped a cord to the floor.
"You know, maybe we should do the scene with these two and forget the actors," another crew member joked, a deviant gleam in their eye as they observed Marinette and Luka interacting. "They look cute together."
Marinette caught the jest immediately, her cheeks flushing slightly, while Luka, typing on his phone, seemed oblivious to the banter around him—not because of any language barrier (world tours would have given him plenty of exposure), but perhaps due to the volume.
"How are you?" Luka asked warmly, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket and offering her a heartfelt smile.
Marinette managed to choke out her response, her voice slightly shaky. "I'm g-good. How, um – how are you?"
"I'm good," he continued, his smile unwavering.
Marinette felt her cheeks burn. I need to get out of here!
"Oh, look at the baker girl. Is this the closest you've ever been to a first date?" Chloe laughed, her voice ringing with amusement as she sauntered in, carrying a take-out bag labelled 'Kyochun' – which was a sponsor for the film along with the Agreste Brand. So, Chloe had to go the extra mile to take a 40-minute taxi ride to fetch it herself, grumbling about the company's incompetence in communication and failure to arrange delivery to the set.
What kind of mock was that? Marinette had been on plenty of dates in her time, but before she could refute Chloe, she noticed Luka looking away. Is he also blushing?
"Thanks, Chloe. Let's get this set up," Jemima said as she crossed over to the table and deftly retrieved the box from the bag. "Let's place this bag in the background and leave the box open in the middle."
Marinette reached into her bum bag and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves, offering them to Jemima. It was one of the things Marinette appreciated about the art department—everything was meticulously organised, and everyone carried any item that could possibly be needed on set, either stored in plastic containers or tucked into bum bags. It was a luxury for her anxiety-driven mind, so much so that she would have to consider adopting bum bags into her daily life after this.
They then carefully placed the chicken onto plates, tearing out pieces to give them a half-eaten look that would make the scene more believable. Meanwhile, Chloe used her SFX kit to make sauces for the actors' mouths and fingers, opting for this approach since the real fried chicken had gone cold and not wanting to take any risks. Aimée told Marinette yesterday about a friend who got blacklisted from the industry after accidentally causing an actor to get pink eye. Such mistakes can easily jeopardise your career.
Finally, when the actors arrived and took Marinette's and Luka's places, the shoot began as the set shifted with the familiar calls:
"Quiet on the set."
"Roll sound."
"Sound Speed."
"Call it."
"Scene 4, Take 1."
"Roll Camera!"
"Camera Speed."
"Mark."
"Action!" The director finally called. It was at this moment that Marinette realised Adrien was on set. Panic surged through her— crap, she had nowhere to hide!
No, Marinette—don't think like that. This is a good thing. Once the shoot is over, you can hand in your resignation letter (also stored in her bum bag) that you prepared this morning to Aimée, with Adrien right there. This will make the process efficient!
Are there any flights to Paris leaving tonight?
Marinette was snapped out of her thoughts as Adrien yelled, "Cut!" He stepped forward, frustration ingrained on his face as he rubbed his hand over his forehead. "There's something wrong with this shot."
"Should we change the angle?" the camera operator asked.
Adrien sighed. "No, no, it's not the framing. It's..."
"The colour of the trenchcoat," Marinette interjected, her voice louder than her intended whisper to Aimée, who was standing next to her. She immediately felt a flush of embarrassment as the entire crew turned to face her. "Um, well – it's the same yellow as the fried chicken packaging. It's confusing the eye, making the shot look unbalanced. Maybe it would be less distracting if we used the brown trenchcoat from yesterday's shoot."
"That one is still drying. It got drenched in the rain," Chloe remarked.
Another crew member chimed in, "And that wouldn't make sense story-wise. These scenes are supposed to be days apart—"
Adrien raised his hand, signalling for everyone to stop talking. "Miss Dupan-cheng..." he began, and Marinette's stomach dropped, bracing herself for criticism. As much as she wanted to go home and forget this gig ever happened, public humiliation was never fun. Adrien locked eyes with her. "You're right," he said, a faint smile appearing on his face.
Huh?
He turned to Aimée. "Aimée, we're going to need that trenchcoat from yesterday," he instructed.
"We should have a backup back at the warehouse. If Marinette and I leave now, we'll have it here in 20 minutes," she replied, reassuringly placing her arm on Marinette's shoulder.
Adrien nodded approvingly. "Good."
"Come on, you're wearing sneakers – good, we'll have to jog up the hill," she said, leading Marinette out onto the street.
Two hours later, the shoot was over and the crew began to pack up. Marinette stood off to the side, clutching a bag of trash. Once they dropped this stuff off at the workroom, she could pull Aimée aside and hand in her resignation. Easy. Nothing to worry about at all. Apart from breaking her contract, that is, but it would be better for everyone if she left.
"How's it going?" Marinette looked up to see Adrien Agreste extending his hand to take the bag.
"Um– good," she choked out, her social anxiety spiking once again. She really needed to work on that.
"That was a good spot back there, Miss Dupain-Cheng," he remarked casually, taking the trash from her hands. "I must've been too absentminded."
Is he trying to make conversation?
"It's only the second day. It's okay," she responded, trying to mask her confusion. What was this sudden friendliness about?
Why was he acting so nice?
There must be a catch.
"Yeah. And we haven't had the introductory crew dinner yet," he said, shifting the trash bag to his other hand. "Do you know any places?"
"Any, um—any places?" she asked, caught off guard, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.
He clarified, "For a crew dinner. I'd like everyone to get to know each other. Do you know a place?" His eyes searched hers for a suggestion.
"Not really," she admitted, her mind drawing a blank as she glanced down, nervously tapping her foot.
His face fell with disappointment, and he sighed. "Oh." He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Since when did he care about what she had to say?
Marinette drew in a breath. "Wait, my uncle has a restaurant," she said. "Thousand Delights. It's traditional Chinese."
Adrien raised an eyebrow. "Thousand Delights. Hold on, your uncle is Wang Cheng?" he asked, clearly surprised.
"Yeah, I hear he's popular?" she replied, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"Yeah. I had no idea you were related," he said, sounding genuinely intrigued.
Marinette chuckled nervously as she glanced around, noticing the team starting to leave.
"M. Agreste," a crew member whom Marinette, once again, did not recognize, rushed over. "Could we quickly go over the shot list for tomorrow?"
"Sure," Adrien said. "But take this out first," he added, handing over the trash bag to the man, who nodded and went to speak with the restaurant staff about disposing of it in the back bins.
What was that? Marinette wondered, but she had no time to ponder as Luka walked over. "So, Marinette. Are you free tonight?" he asked, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"I'm not sure," she replied, her gaze searching for Aimée, refocused on the task of handing in her resignation.
Luka shifted his weight slightly, a nervous habit she remembered well. "I was able to hook up my console to my hotel's TV. I know I'm not very good, but I was practising Mega Strike III on tour. Maybe we could play again, like old times?" he suggested.
Marinette glanced at him, noting the earnestness in his expression.
Oh, it had been years since she'd played that game. What a tempting offer.
And perhaps, if she were in a better mental space and less flustered today, she could have resisted the temptation. But right now, with everything swirling in her mind about how she would afford the plane ticket back and the prospect of being unemployed again, the idea of revisiting a simpler, happier time was incredibly appealing.
She paused, weighing her options. She could always resign tomorrow; it wasn't urgent . "I'd love that," she said finally, a wistful smile playing on her lips.
So, Marinette found herself in Luka's hotel suite on the couch, playing Mega Strike III on the biggest TV she'd ever seen in her life, indulging in room service and an abysmal amount of snacks that her stomach would definitely make her regret later.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, holding up a packet of grape-flavoured candy.
"From the convenience store yesterday," he said.
"Huh, I didn't see it. I like these," she replied, popping a candy into her mouth and chewing.
"You can have them," Luka offered with a smile.
"You sure?" she asked, a hint of surprise in her voice, and he nodded graciously.
Marinette smiled back, grateful for the gesture. She made a mental note to bring these candies the next time she met with Chat, as they reminded her of the tanghulu he had enjoyed the previous night. Chat would like these.
They settled back into the game, the rhythmic clicking of controller buttons and joysticks mixing with occasional cheers, filling the cosy hotel suite.
Until Marinette heard a distinct ping from her phone, drawing her attention away from the screen. She picked it up, reading the notification.
New Message: 8:45 pm
Do you know if your uncle serves large groups? – A
"A, as in, Adrien? How did he get my number?" Marinette asked, puzzled, her fingers tapping lightly on the side of her phone.
Luka glanced over her shoulder at the message, leaning in slightly to read. "He employs you. It makes sense," he reasoned, a faint grin on his lips.
"Oh, yeah, right," Marinette replied, feeling a bit embarrassed, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realised how close Luka was to her.
He pulled back, "Is this about the crew dinner? He called me earlier saying he had chosen a venue. So it's your uncle's?"
Marinette shrugged, her gaze shifting from Luka to her phone screen and back. "I guess."
She messaged back:
You'll have to make a reservation, but I'm sure it won't be a problem. We might have to split into multiple tables though.
He responded instantly:
Okay. Thanks, I'll sort it out.
Marinette clicked on his number and started creating a new contact. "What should I name him?" she asked, glancing at Luka who leaned in with curiosity.
"Ooo, what are you thinking?" Luka replied, his eyes bright with amusement.
"What about 'Has-been handsome'?" she suggested, already typing it in, a playful grin forming on her face.
"Handsome?" Luka questioned, leaning back slightly. "Why?"
"He was a model. Almost every 14-year-old French girl was fawning over him a decade ago," she explained, her grin widening as she finished entering the name.
"Then who's the hotshot for French girls nowadays?" Luka asked, also grinning.
"Hmm, probably you," Marinette said with a teasing smile, knowing it would fluster him, "being the most famous French musician of all time, and also the most talented." A sly smirk slid across her face.
As she expected, his cheeks went red, and he chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. He glanced away briefly before meeting her gaze again with a shy smile.
This was nice.
Shanghai, despite the flustering moments, early wake-ups, and a lame boss, felt strangely nice.
At this moment, Marinette didn't want to leave.
Maybe if she were younger, more naive, she would have fled and never looked back, similar to how she left Paris for her impromptu internship in New York. She had left on a whim, catching the first flight available, only her parents aware of the situation as it was happening and with no plan to tell her friends beyond a hastily crafted Instagram story at the airport.
And, of course, she had left Chat Noir in the dark.
She wasn't sure what compelled her to run away like that. At the time, she saw it as her seizing a valuable opportunity in fashion overseas, fearing regret if she turned down the last-minute offer.
Tiki thought it was trauma.
That Paris had broken her.
Now, Marinette wondered if Tiki had been right.
She didn't want to leave Luka, her uncle, Nathaniel, Aimée, and the other members of the art department she had grown fond of.
Nor did she want to bid farewell to the city she hadn't fully explored, the cool convenience stores, the tanghulu…
And Chat. He was still here.
How could she leave this all so soon?