Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Morning came with all the grace and mercy of a tax collector.

The sunlight had only just begun spilling through the enormous windows of her personal suite when she buried herself deeper beneath the duvet with all the determination of someone convinced that if she ignored reality long enough, reality would eventually become embarrassed and leave.

The first thing Chloé Bourgeois did that morning was declare war on her alarm clock.

Unfortunately for her, the alarm clock declared victory first.

Its shrill ringing shattered the peaceful silence of her bedroom with all the subtlety of an akuma attack, and for one blissfully ignorant second, Chloé simply buried herself deeper beneath the blankets. Surely, if she refused to acknowledge it, reality would eventually become embarrassed and leave.

Reality proved far more persistent than that, much like Chat Noir when it came to lecturing her.

The alarm rang again.

A perfectly manicured hand emerged from beneath the duvet with all the grace of a tragic heroine making her final stand, blindly swatting across the bedside table. Her fingers found everything except the alarm: a bottle of perfume toppled over, a hairbrush launched itself onto the carpet, something expensive hit the floor with a noise that would undoubtedly make her father cry if he ever learned the price tag.

But through it all, the alarm clock stood with the resilience of an immovable boulder. 

“Oh, for the love of—"

She shot upright, blonde hair looking significantly less glamorous than she'd ever admitted aloud, before finally locating the offending device and stabbing the snooze button with enough force she might as well have ended its life.

"...Victory," she mumbled triumphantly before immediately collapsing back into bed.

… 

“Mademoiselle?” The ever-so-dutiful butler continued, long used to her dramatic mornings as three precisely timed knocks echoed through the wooden door.

Putain.

Armand waited exactly three seconds before adding, “Mademoiselle, breakfast is prepared. Your father’s waiting for you,” with the calm patience of a man who had survived raising Chloé Bourgeois through several distinctly theatrical phases of adolescence.

"...Tell breakfast I'll mourn its loss," Chloé snapped loud enough to be heard by her butler.

There was a brief pause from outside.

"...I don't believe breakfast can receive messages, mademoiselle."

A groan of genuine suffering emerged from somewhere beneath the mountain of expensive blankets as Armand’s footsteps started to fade from the other side.

“Ugh… this is utterly ridiculous,” Chloé massaged the incoming headache from her temple.

“Now, now, Chloé!” Tikki flew out of the duvets, her usual cheeriness far contrasted with the permanent frown on her holder’s face. “Isn't this exciting? It's your first day at your new school! New places, new faces, and new experiences!”

The sparkles coming from the kwami harmlessly bounced off of her, having no effect at all.

“I swear you sound like a Disney princess spouting speeches every chance you get.” Chloé merely stared as the kwami blinked up at her.

“Speeches—!?”

"The inspirational ones." Chloé gestured vaguely in the kwami's direction before dramatically letting herself flop backward into the mattress again. "Every time something mildly inconvenient happens, you suddenly sound like one of those motivational posters people hang in guidance counselors' offices."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"'Every day is a new opportunity to grow.'"

"I have never said that."

"'Believe in yourself and the universe will believe in you.'"

"...Still no."

"'Live. Laugh. Love.'”

“Chloé!” Tikki recoiled in visible horror. “I would never say 'Live. Laugh. Love.'”

“I know,” Chloé smiled. The kwami folded her tiny arms with all the dignity she could muster after being duped.

“You're impossible before breakfast."

"I've been told I'm impossible after breakfast too.” Chloé let out another melodramatic sigh that seemed capable of carrying the emotional weight of several Shakespearean tragedies before rolling onto her side. "...Can't Hawkmoth attack before school?"

Tikki had to stare at her, "...Excuse me?"

"Not a serious attack," Chloé clarified far too quickly. "Just...something small. A pigeon. An angry mime. Maybe someone who's mildly inconvenienced by the metro."

"You want Paris to be endangered so you don't have to attend your first day of classes?" Tikki deadpanned.

"When you phrase it like that, it sounds unreasonable."

"Because it is unreasonable,” Tikki floated closer until she was eye level with her holder, her expression softening despite herself. “You know,” Tikki began gently, floating down until she settled on the edge of Chloé's pillow, "it's okay if today doesn't go perfectly.”

Chloé made an offended sound, "I wasn't planning for a mere 'perfect.'"

"Oh?" Tikki had to take a double-take from that.

"I’m going for something beyond perfect,” the kwami pointedly stared at her ridiculous claim.

The gates of Lycée Dupont looked less like the entrance to a school and more like the sort of place people accidentally signed treaties in.

Tall wrought-iron fences stretched across the property, polished to such an immaculate shine that Chloé briefly wondered whether they employed someone whose entire career consisted of buffing metal until it reflected existential dread. Beyond them stood the main campus itself, a blend of old Parisian stonework and sleek modern glass that practically radiated money.

Not loud money.

Old money.

The sort that never had to announce itself because everyone else already knew.

Luxury cars rolled to the curb one after another in a slow procession that looked suspiciously similar to the entrance of Paris Fashion Week. Chauffeurs stepped out first, opening doors with practiced precision as students climbed out carrying designer backpacks that probably cost more than some apartments.

One girl emerged from a black Rolls-Royce wearing diamond earrings before eight in the morning.

Another had somehow managed to accessorize the school's mandatory blazer with what Chloé was almost certain was vintage Cartier.

Someone had brought a purebred Afghan hound to school, as if a dog could somehow learn calculus like the rest of them.

Well, it wasn't a throwaway thought when this school was a dog-eat-dog world. But the kind of ruthless dogs that would one day rule the high society of Paris—or be the future disappointments of extremely wealthy parents.

Chloé adjusted the cuff of her own blazer, checking her appearance for the millionth time as her car finally pulled up to the gateway of hell.

“Mademoiselle,” Armand opened the door with his usual impeccable timing, escorting her out of the vehicle. "I wish you the very best on your first day.”

Chloé accepted it with practiced elegance, stepping onto the polished stone pavement as though she had personally commissioned it.

"Obviously.”

“And try not to get expelled,” she twitched her eye at his little warning.

“Armand.”

“I said try.” Before she could come up with a suitably devastating response, the door closed behind him.

Traitor.

She straightened, smoothing the front of her blazer with both hands before adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her uniform had been tailored specifically for her, because naturally the standard-issue version was apparently not good enough for the daughter of the mayor of Paris. The blazer fit perfectly across her shoulders, the gold detailing catching the morning light just enough to be noticeable without appearing desperate.

This academy may have been pretentious, but whoever designed this uniform deserved all the cockiness they had. 

The main courtyard stretched ahead of her, busy with students and the sound of expensive shoes striking polished stone. Groups gathered beneath the carefully trimmed trees, speaking in low voices and looking entirely too comfortable for people who were about to spend the next several hours being educated.

Chloé's eyes swept across them. No one immediately approached, no one immediately bowed, no one immediately recognized her as the most important person in the vicinity.

Honestly, the standards here were already disappointing.

“You said you wanted to make a good first impression," Tikki reminded her from inside the handbag.

“I am making a good first impression,” she whispered back into her bag.

"You just glared at that girl for looking at you.”

“I was.”

"Chloé."

“What? She was wearing socks with loafers.”

"That’s not a crime,” Tikki looked like she was about to add more to her argument but eventually gave up. 

Knowing she won that little spat, Chloé kept walking further down the steps until somebody bumped into her. It was fortunately not hard, barely enough to even disturb her stride—but in a place like this? It was practically a personal offense.

“Watch where you're going,” the girl she bumped into, some brunette pretty face with an expression that soon sharpened like knives, spoke up. Chloé stopped in her tracks; there it was. Her first test at this Godforsaken institute. She could already tell her kwami was terrified she would start a fight on her first day here,

“I was,” Chloé only smiled, a beautiful smile. Polished, elegant, and completely devoid of warmth.

“Excuse me?”

“I was watching where I was going,” Chloé adjusted the strap of her bag. “You were the one who walked into me.”

The girl glanced at her, then at the car that had just driven away. Recognition slowly dawned across her face, her mouth agape.

“Oh,” the girl flustered at her little outburst.

Oh indeed, the sweet taste of victory; she was about to celebrate—but she soon remembered that she was supposed to be making a good first impression.

“Don't worry about it, you don't want to start a fight on the first day, don't you?” Chloé clearly emphasized her last words,

“...R-Right,” the girl blinked, not wanting to escalate further the more eyes were on them as Chloé walked past her.

Inside Chloé’s bag, the kwami was surprisingly silent. Normally she’d already scold her and spout her usual moral bullshit—

“That was very mature.”

The blonde’s smile soon vanished; that peaceful silence lasted exactly four seconds. “I barely held my tongue there; now you're going to be sarcastic with me?” 

The little kwami’s head peeked out slightly to look up at her, shaking its cute little head. “No, I was telling the truth. That was really mature of you.”

Chloé paused at that, looking down at the kwami with sheer scrutiny. 

“You didn't insult her or make it worse,” Tikki was right on that one.

The old Chloé would've insulted her, caused a scene, even threatened to sue her if things didn't go her way—but she didn't do any of that. She allowed the girl to walk away with her dignity intact.

Her mouth twitched upwards at the rare praise, resuming her walk, though anyone could tell the faintest hint of satisfaction in her step. Honestly, this was already shaping up to be the most charitable first day Lycée Dupont had ever experienced.

Then she saw him.

A familiar blonde figure stood near the entrance of the main building, surrounded by several students.

“Oh merde…”

Adrien,

Adrien Agreste.

Because apparently the universe had decided that Chloé Bourgeois required absolutely no time to emotionally prepare herself before throwing her oldest friend directly into her path. 

He was dressed in the same school uniform as everyone else, yet somehow managed to look like he had been professionally styled to stand beside it. His blonde hair was neatly arranged, his posture was effortlessly composed, and he was smiling at something someone had said. He was taller than she remembered. Not dramatically so, because Chloé refused to be dramatic about something as stupid as someone's height, but enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly when he approached.

She had known Adrien was going to attend Lycée Dupont.

She had known when the acceptance letters arrived. She had known when her father casually mentioned it over breakfast. She had known when she had looked at the class list for what she had insisted was merely administrative preparation and absolutely not because she had wanted to know whether Adrien would be there.

She had known, yes.

Knowing, however, and actually seeing him standing in front of her were two entirely different things.

Graduation meant separating from her old classmates, saying goodbye to the new and in with the new. Even when she had grown to be a different person, it came a little too late as everyone else went to the public lycée on the other side of town—it certainly didn't mean having to now share a school with nobody but Adrien.

Adrien was standing beside a tall student with dark hair and an expression that suggested he had already been forced to listen to something ridiculous before eight-thirty in the morning. Adrien was smiling, actually smiling. Not the polished smile he wore for cameras, not the carefully practiced expressions of the model his father expected him to be.

The real one, the stupidly warm one.

The one that had made him look exactly the same at eight years old when he had offered her half of his dessert after she had thrown a tantrum because the restaurant had run out of macarons.

Chloé immediately looked away.

While she had grown closer to the rest of her classmates (yes, even Marinette Dupaincheng of all people), the same couldn't be said of her strained friendship with Adrien. 

After his breakup with Kagami, Adrien had gradually withdrawn into himself—even from her. He was still polite, still kind, and still perfectly capable of getting along with their old classmates, but there was a distance to him now that Chloé had never quite figured out how to cross. He kept mostly to his own little circle, smiling when spoken to and laughing when something genuinely amused him, yet somehow always seeming as though a part of him was already somewhere else.

And the older he got, the less time he seemed to have for anything outside of his father's expectations. Modeling, brand appearances, fencing, Spanish lessons, academic tutoring, extracurricular activities, and whatever else Gabriel Agreste deemed necessary for his son's future had steadily eaten away at Adrien's free time. Between all of that and the things Adrien kept locked away behind that polite smile of his, there was barely any room left for the simple things anymore.

Like spending time with Chloé.

Like being her friend the way he used to be.

Which, naturally, was why she was now standing several meters away from him and hiding behind her own bag.

Unaware of her inner turmoil, Tikki propped her head out of the bag with a cheery smile at the sight of Adrien. “You should say hi,” she suggested.

“I was planning to.”

“Then why are you hiding your face behind your bag?” busted, Chloé pointedly avoided her knowing gaze

“As if I’d ever hide from something so ridiculous.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“Strategic positioning, Tikki,” She’d deflect.

“Chloé.”

“Don’t start,” She quietly scolded, zipping the bag up. Unfortunately for her, Adrien already noticed her.

Merde.

Adrien’s familiar green eyes snapped out of the conversation, widening at the sight of her. It didn't help at all that his expression brightened almost immediately.

“Chloé?” She froze at the tone.

Very few people are capable of saying her name without sounding either intimidated or thoroughly annoyed.

And Adrien Agreste happened to be one of them.

It didn't take long for him to excuse himself and rush straight towards her, bouncing in his steps at the thought of finally seeing someone familiar here. “It’s good to see you!” Adrien greeted her with an easy smile. “I just checked the class list and can you believe it? We’re classmates again!”

“Apparently,” Chloé only watched the sparkles coming from this radiant boy bounce off her, “I honestly thought you were going to a public one with the rest of our classmates.”

“Friends,” he gently corrected her.

“Baby steps,” her familiar old line made him chuckle as he shook his head.

“I wanted to, really,” Adrien admitted, the smile on his face dimming just a fraction as he glanced back toward the entrance, “but Father wouldn’t be too pleased with an Agreste in a mere public lycée.”

Of course Gabriel Agreste had something to do with it.

Because apparently even after two years, the man was still perfectly capable of making decisions for his son from several rooms away, possibly from another country, and potentially while standing in front of a camera pretending to care about fabric.

“Still letting your father schedule your entire existence, I see," her words came out with their usual sharpness, though there was noticeably less venom behind them than there once would've been, "What is it this year? Modeling? Fencing? Mandarin? Piano? Learning how to smile for another perfume advertisement?"

"...Spanish, actually,” Adrien laughed softly, 

Chloé blinked, “en Serio?”

“Sí, desde hace un tiempo.” He spoke back fluently, and Chloé could only decipher the ‘yes’ in that sentence. Her confusion must've been evident to Adrien as he simply laughed. “Unfortunately,” he said, recovering quickly enough that someone who didn't know him might have believed nothing had happened, “he thinks Lycée Dupont offers better opportunities.”

“Of course he does.”

“It's a good school.”

“Oh, I'm sure it is,” Chloé looked past him toward the grand entrance, where several students were already filing through the doors with the grim determination of people preparing to spend the next several years competing for the approval of teachers, parents, and each other.

 “It's just very...”

“Expensive?” She finished for him; he shook his head.

“I was going to say aggressively polished."

Adrien glanced at the school, then at the rows of luxury vehicles still arriving outside, then at a student who had just walked past wearing a watch that could probably have purchased a small island, “Okay, yes. Expensive too.”

Chloé gave him a small, satisfied nod, “See? This is why you need me.” Adrien smiled at that, a genuine one that didn't match the usual ones for the cameras.

And, annoyingly, it made her chest tighten.

There had been a time when she would have said something like that without thinking. Back when she and Adrien had been inseparable in the uncomplicated way only children could manage, before schedules became impossible and friendships became complicated and every conversation started carrying the weight of things neither of them quite knew how to say.

Back then, Adrien would have simply laughed and agreed. Now, he laughed. But there was something more careful about it. Not uncomfortable, not exactly.

Just...different, and Chloé hated different.

Different meant things had changed, and things had already changed far too much between them.

“So,” Adrien continued, apparently determined to rescue the conversation from the sudden emotional ditch it had driven into, “how was your morning?”

Chloé stared at him. “You mean aside from the fact that I was forced to wake up before the sun had fully committed to rising?”

“Yes,” Adrien merely humored her dramatics as they walked through the school halls.

“My breakfast was cold.”

“From a five star parisian hotel? That sounds tragic.”

“It was.”

“You survived?”

“Barely.”

Adrien nodded gravely, “I'm glad you made it.”

“Thank you. Your support means everything.” She dramatically wiped an imaginary tear.

“I'm always here for you.”

Those simple words made her chest tighten, because that was the problem with Adrien. He had always been like this. He said things without realizing how much they mattered. He could make someone feel like they were important without even trying.

And Chloé had spent two years trying very hard not to think too much about how much she had missed him too.

So naturally, Chloé did what any emotionally mature young woman would do. She folded her arms and retreated further back to her wall of sarcasm. "Well, don't get sentimental on me. It's embarrassing,” she finally stopped to turn, pointing a finger at him, “and don't make promises you can't keep.” She warned before already burying her face to her phone, pretending to much rather be interested in the school's layout than him.

Adrien's expression softened, smiling at her. “...I know.” There it was again, the strange distance neither of them wanted to truly talk about—the one that had appeared sometime after Kagami left for Japan.

"...You know," Adrien continued after another small pause, not wanting to dwell on such a depressing thought as he glanced towards the main building where groups of students continued drifting toward orientation, "it's a little strange."

"What is?"

"We're here.”

“...” Chloé gave him a look that practically screamed ‘obviously?’ with just her narrowed eyes alone.

"No, I mean..." He laughed quietly to himself, "Graduation felt so final. I… thought we'd all stay together somehow.” His eyes drifted toward the courtyard almost absentmindedly. "I keep expecting to see Nino with his headphones on. 

"...Or Alya interviewing half the students before first period," Chloé admitted before she could stop herself.

Adrien smiled. "And Marinette running because she overslept."

"Again."

"Again."

A tiny chuckle escaped both of them.

"...Max would already be comparing everyone's entrance exam scores," Adrien added.

"Please." Chloé scoffed. "He'd compare them before saying good morning."

"And Kim would've somehow gotten himself banned from the fountain.”

It was brief, almost nostalgic.

Almost enough to make it feel like they were standing outside Collège Françoise Dupont again instead of one of the most prestigious schools in Paris.

Then the moment faded, because those people weren't here.

The familiar little class that had somehow survived akumas, teenage drama, impossible exams, and Chloé Bourgeois herself had scattered across Paris almost overnight.

It felt... strange.

Like finishing a book only to discover someone had separated all the characters into different sequels.

"...I miss them,” Adrien exhaled softly.

“I just said not to be all sentimental with me,” Chloé reminded him once again, her eye twitching as she pointed an accusing finger in his direction. “It’s barely eight-thirty in the morning. If you start reminiscing about the good old days before homeroom, I may have to throw myself into the nearest decorative fountain.”

Adrien glanced toward the courtyard. There were, in fact, three decorative fountains.

“Which one?”

“Don't test me.”

That earned a laugh from him, soft and familiar enough that something in Chloé's chest twisted before she could stop it.

“So,” Chloé said, because apparently the conversation was becoming dangerously sincere again, and she had to put a stop to it before either of them started having feelings in public, “if we’re finished mourning the loss of our classmates like they’ve been tragically killed in battle, we should probably find our classroom.” 

Adrien gave her an amused look. “You say that like we’re not both going to get lost.”

“I am not going to get lost.”

“You've been staring at the map the entire time I was reminiscing, and you're still not finished with it.” 

“I was studying the layout.”

“You were holding your phone in all possible directions,” Chloé immediately looked down at the folded campus map still in her hand.

There was a pause.

With the slow and deliberate dignity of a woman who had just been caught committing a crime but had no intention of confessing to it, she folded the map in half. “I was checking whether the map was accurate.”

Adrien blinked at her attempt. “By turning it upside down?”

“Obviously, how else would I know?”

"So," he began carefully, "are we upside down now, or is the building?”

“Agreste,” Chloé pointedly looked at him.

“Right. Sorry,” he didn't sound sorry at all, even when he had that seemingly innocent smile on his face.

They continued down the corridor together, passing beneath tall arched windows that flooded the hallway with morning light. Lycée Dupont’s interior was every bit as excessive as the entrance suggested. The floors were polished stone, the walls lined with framed photographs of former students whose names appeared to be attached to companies, political offices, museums, and occasionally entire industries. There were portraits of former headmasters, plaques commemorating graduating classes, and enough academic trophies behind glass cases to make the entire school feel as though it had been built by people who considered the word ‘achievement’ a minimum requirement.

Students moved around them in small, carefully arranged social circles. Unfortunately for both of them, they were beginning to attract attention; of course it'd started subtly at first. A few students had glanced at him as they passed, then a pair of girls whispered to each other, then someone had very obviously looked at their phone, looked at Adrien, looked back at their phone, and nearly walked into a limestone pillar.

Adrien, naturally, noticed none of it—or just pretended not to.

Chloé was about to drag them both away until a certain girl approached with her friends. “Oh, my God.” The girl hesitated for half a second before turning around completely. “Excuse me?”

Adrien looked over. “Yes?”

“Are you Adrien Agreste?” The girl excitedly asked.

Chloé had heard it dozens of times before, but somehow it sounded different here.

At Collège Françoise Dupont, Adrien had been Adrien. Their classmate. The boy who shared notes, helped people with homework, and occasionally arrived late because his father’s chauffeur had been delayed. He had been popular, yes, but the kind of popular that came from being kind and handsome and generally impossible to dislike unless you had a personality disorder.

Here, however, the name carried weight.

The girl's friends were already whispering excitedly beside her, their obnoxiously cheery chatter serving as the academy’s ambience.

“I knew he looked familiar.”

“He’s the Agreste model.”

“His father is Gabriel Agreste, right?”

“Isn’t he the face of the new winter campaign?”

Adrien smiled politely in return. He had the patience of a goddamned saint, and a degree of being long used to this type of distraction.

“Yes,” he answered.

The girl’s expression brightened. “I saw your campaign in the city last week! You looked amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to be in the next show?”

“I’m not sure yet.” The polished smile. The careful answers. The way Adrien somehow managed to remain perfectly pleasant while subtly trying to end the conversation before it became too much.

Chloé watched the exchange from beside him, her arms folding across her chest. She had to wonder how he wasn't annoyed by the repetitiveness of their questions, or perhaps he had simply become very good at pretending not to.

It was one thing to be recognized. Chloé understood recognition. Recognition was the natural consequence of being important enough to be noticed.

But Adrien had never seemed to ask for it.

He had always been famous because his father had decided he should be famous. His face was on billboards, magazines, advertisements, storefronts, and occasionally enormous buildings. People knew his name before they knew anything about him. And now that they were older, it was only getting worse.

Or better, depending on whether one happened to be Gabriel Agreste and therefore possessed the emotional instincts of an expensive coat rack.

“Ahem,” Chloé faked a cough to get their attention, which seemed to be a death sentence as the girls all glared at her for daring to interrupt their little moment, “we’re going to be late for our own classes.” She reminded them, tapping the glass of her wristwatch.

They looked like they wanted to argue further, to continue talking to him—but one glare from Chloé made them scurry off.

The moment the girls disappeared around the corner, the hallway seemed to breathe again. Adrien let out the smallest sigh, so quiet most people would've missed it entirely. "...Thanks," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Chloé waved him off with practiced indifference, already striding ahead down the corridor as though she hadn't just rescued him from fifteen more minutes of awkward celebrity questions, "those girls were beginning to clog the hallway.”

“Now come on, Agreste,” she had already started walking before he could properly recover from the fact that she had apparently just dismissed an entire group of admirers with a single look, forcing Adrien to hurry after her before she disappeared around the next corridor.

Neither of them noticed the two students standing at the far end of the gallery, watching them disappear around the corner.

One was a girl with short red hair, a confident stance, and a pair of goggles pushed up onto her head despite the fact that she was currently indoors.

The other was a boy carrying enough books to suggest that he had either been preparing for the first day of school for several months or had already been given homework by the building itself.

The girl looked down at the class list in her hand, then towards the corridor where Chloé and Adrien had vanished. “Well,” Alix said, “that was unexpected.”

Max adjusted his glasses. “Statistically speaking, it was not particularly unexpected. Their enrollment at this institution was already confirmed.”

“...What?”

“Nothing.”

“Think they'll recognize us?” She looked back toward the corridor.

Max considered the question. “Adrien almost certainly will.”

“And Chloé?”

“Knowing her? She’ll pretend not to.”

Alix grinned. “Good,” she slung her bag over one shoulder, “let's give them a few minutes.”

Max adjusted his glasses again, not understanding why they had to do something so unnecessary. “Why?”

“Because it's funnier this way,” Alix's grin widened. 

The classroom was located at the end of the east wing, behind a set of tall glass doors that opened into a sunlit corridor overlooking one of the school's inner courtyards. The moment Chloé stepped inside, she understood exactly what sort of year this was going to be.

The room was immaculate, of course it was.

The desks were arranged in neat rows, each one made of dark polished wood with enough space between them to prevent students from accidentally brushing elbows with anyone deemed socially inconvenient. Tall windows stretched along one wall, offering a view of the courtyard below, while a large digital board occupied the front of the room beside an enormous framed portrait of some long-dead benefactor whose expression suggested he had never once experienced a financial inconvenience in his entire life.

There were already students scattered throughout the classroom. And, naturally, they were all studying one another.

Not openly, of course. That would have been gauche.

Instead, they glanced up from their phones, exchanged quick whispers, looked away, then looked back again with the subtlety of people who had spent their entire lives pretending not to be interested in other people's business while knowing absolutely everything about it.

Chloé recognized the type immediately.

The girl sitting by the windows wore her uniform with the sort of effortless precision that suggested every piece had been tailored specifically for her. Two boys near the back were comparing watches in voices low enough to pretend they were not comparing watches. Another student was already speaking loudly about his family's summer in Saint-Tropez, despite the fact that nobody had asked.

Adrien entered behind her and immediately received another wave of curious glances. This time, however, the attention was more restrained. The students who had recognized him in the hallway had clearly already sent messages to their friends, because several people now looked at him with the unmistakable expression of someone who had just discovered that a celebrity had been placed in their classroom.

Chloé felt her eye twitch; how many times was this amount of gawking gonna have to happen?

“Oh, this is going to be wonderful,” she muttered to herself with a pained expression.

The classroom continued filling around them, the noise growing louder as students settled into their places. Chloé could feel eyes drifting toward them again. Some were looking at Adrien. Others were looking at her.

The Agreste boy and the Bourgeois girl.

Two recognizable names, two wealthy families, two people who had apparently enough social baggage to fill the entire classroom.

Definitely very wonderful.

Adrien, meanwhile, had already begun scanning the room for seats. “Where are you sitting?” he asked.

Chloé glanced around the room.

There were several empty desks near the front. A few toward the back, and one near the window. She could sit anywhere; she had always sat wherever she wanted. And yet, for some reason, she found herself looking at the seat beside Adrien.

He had already chosen one.

It was near the middle of the room, close enough to see the board without needing to squint but far enough from the front that he would not be forced to participate in every discussion. A sensible choice. Naturally.

Chloé rolled her eyes and dropped her bag onto the desk beside his.

Adrien stared at the bag and then at her, “You're sitting here?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, it's just…there’s already a bag here.”

“And? They can find another chair.”

“Bourgeois?”

A tall boy with perfectly styled dark hair leaned back in his chair, looking her over with the slow, assessing expression of someone who had already decided that he was important enough to judge everyone else.

His uniform was immaculate, his shoes were polished, and his personality, from what Chloé could already tell, was going to be unbearable.

“Is that really you? And I thought you’d stick to some public school like back in collége with the plebians.” Subtle snickers echoed throughout the classroom as Chloé twitched her eye. Those supposed plebians were her friends (although she’d never admit it herself). “And Agreste was it? My mother says your father’s latest campaign is underperforming.”

Adrien’s smile remained in place, although it slightly faltered.

The boy continued, apparently unaware that he had just stepped onto a landmine. “Still, I suppose it’s impressive that you managed to get into a school like this by just spending half your life in front of a camera.”

Adrien looked about ready to defend himself, yet she stopped him with a hand. She didn't need him to dirty his innocent self with suffocating pricks like these—that was her job.

“Unfortunately,” Chloé mocked with a knowing smile. “I mean, if I went to a public lycée I wouldn't have to deal with the likes of you. Oh, which reminds me…it looks like you've barely changed from being nothing more than a little mommy’s boy.”

“Excuse me?!” He looks utterly scandalized at that. “Do you not know who I am!? I am Damien Williams the—”

Before he could think of a fitting comeback, the classroom door suddenly slammed open. “Wow. I leave you people unsupervised for five minutes and you’ve already started a social war here.” 

Standing at the end of the corridor, looking entirely too pleased with themselves...

...were Alix Kubdel, one hand shoved casually into her blazer pocket, and Max Kanté, already holding what appeared to be the class schedule with color-coded annotations.

Adrien's face lit up so suddenly it was almost startling.

"...Max? Alix?!”

Chloé stared between them, internally grimacing. "...What in the name of overpriced tuition are you two doing here?”

Max had already arranged three notebooks into perfect ninety-degree angles despite the homeroom not having begun. A tablet rested beside them displaying what looked suspiciously like everyone's published entrance examination rankings.

Meanwhile, Alix lounged backward in her chair with both feet shamelessly resting on the desk, hands tucked behind her head as though elite institutions existed purely to give her more expensive furniture to disrespect.

“Well, we were waiting for you two to finally notice us. But somebody decided they wanted to cause social warfare first,” She broke into the widest grin Chloé had seen all morning.

“Hello?! Are you all seriously ignoring me?” The earlier rich boy cut in between but was thoroughly ignored by all.

Chloé pointed at Max with the severity of someone who had just discovered a conspiracy. “You were supposed to be at the public lycée.”

“I was accepted here.” He answered as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

“What?!” 

Max adjusted his glasses with the quiet composure of someone who had already anticipated this exact reaction somewhere around twelve hours ago.

"I received the grades necessary to be accepted here," he repeated patiently. "Lycée Dupont actively recruits students with exceptional academic records regardless of socioeconomic background. They also offered a full academic scholarship, access to their engineering laboratories, and participation in a joint research program with École Polytechnique."

He paused for a moment to breathe, which was a mystery since he seemed like a human calculator at times. "...Declining would have been statistically irresponsible of me.”

For perhaps the first time all morning, Chloé found herself completely speechless. Not because Max had earned a scholarship—that part, admittedly, was almost insultingly unsurprising. If academic excellence could somehow manifest itself into a human being, develop a fascination with algorithms, and occasionally forget basic conversational etiquette, it would probably look exactly like him.

No, what caught her completely off guard was the fact that he had willingly chosen to attend this school. This battlefield. This impeccably tailored cage where every student seemed to arrive carrying a family legacy, a trust fund, and enough generational expectations to sink a yacht.

"It really is good to see you, Max,” Adrien laughed, the sound startlingly genuine.

"It's good to see you too,” Max's expression softened into the smallest smile.

For a brief moment, the both of them looked like they were the best of friends—until Max’s signature calculated smile returned. “I should also inform you," he said matter-of-factly, already tapping something onto his tablet, "that I intend to surpass your academic record this year.”

“Eh?” Adrien blinked in confusion.

"You consistently ranked first in our graduating class."

"I... did?” 

"You achieved the highest cumulative average over four academic years despite missing approximately twenty-three percent more instructional hours than the class average.” Max swiped across another page. "You also outperformed me in Literature by 0.8 percent.”

His voice somehow managed to become even flatter. "I have not forgotten such a blunder."

"...You remember the decimal?” Adrien rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed.

"I remember every decimal."

"...Of course you do."

"I have prepared accordingly to beat your record this time.”

“...You really don't have to,” Adrien muttered painfully.

“I wouldn't need to do this, but you continue to be academically challenging,” Max finally turned off his tablet, having finished a rant he must've been holding in the entire summer, “but this year will be different.”

Adrien's smile returned, warm and surprisingly genuine. “I’m looking forward to it.” Somehow his genuine smile made Max feel even more competitive inside.

Alix, who had been listening to the entire exchange with growing amusement, finally leaned halfway over her chair and pointed dramatically toward Chloé as though she had just uncovered the greatest mystery in French history.

“Oi.”

Chloé reluctantly turned towards her. “What?”

“You haven’t asked me why I’m here,” Alix playfully looked hurt.

Chloé ignored her dramatics and shrugged her off. “I assumed your parents bribed the school.”

“Wow,” Alix placed a hand over her chest, “that actually hurt.”

“No, it didn’t,” Chloé rolled her eyes at her as Alix giggled at her expense.

“It did a little.”

“Your family literally owns enough historical artifacts to probably buy this entire building,” Adrien pointed out.

Max glanced up from his tablet after Chloé’s little spat. “Technically, her family’s historical collection is valued at several million euros.”

Alix waved at him with a pleased smile, “See? Basically the same thing.”

“It’s not,” Max twitched his eye with a quiet huff. 

“It's close enough,” Alix didn't relent at all, earning Max’s ire.

“I’m only joining in this conversation because you refuse to tell them the actual reason.”

“Boo, you're no fun,” Alix rolled her eyes at him, finally straightening up her chair, snapping her fingers up at him. “Scholarship,” Alix answered with a shrug, “turns out having ridiculously good grades and parents who practically own half the historical archives in France looks good on applications.”

Chloé stared at her. “You have ridiculously good grades?”

“Excuse me?” Alix gave her an offended look, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I had to come here eventually. My father wanted me in some prestigious academy where everyone wears expensive uniforms and pretends to be miserable.”

Max looked down at his tablet again, scrolling through the schedule with the seriousness of someone reviewing a military campaign. “Statistically speaking,” he adjusted his glasses almost immediately, “the probability of the four of us ending up in the same homeroom after the lycée admissions process was approximately 4.8%, assuming independent placement variables.”

Adrien had actually clapped at the effort, because what the hell?

Alix, on the other hand, merely whistled in response. “So basically…” She trailed off with a satisfied grin, “we’re cursed to all be together?”

“Great. Now I'm stuck with having to look at your face for another three years. “ Chloé dramatically sighed, holding on to her temple to soothe the incoming headache she was about to have for a semester.

Alix chuckled, placing a hand over her heart, “Awww. Missed you too, Bourgeois.”

“Ugh…I’m already regretting ever enrolling in this damned school,” Chloé slouched down on the chair like a deflated balloon.

“Give it ten minutes,” Alix said, “you’ll regret it more.”

The exchange might have continued indefinitely if the boy from earlier had not suddenly cleared his throat.

Loudly.

The entire group turned toward him.

He was still standing beside his desk, his frown even more evident when Chloé had already made herself comfortable in what was supposed to be HIS seat, his expression increasingly offended by the fact that everyone had continued their conversation as though he did not exist.

“Are you all finished?”

Adrien, feeling guilty for ignoring him, innocently smiled, “Were we supposed to be doing something?” Somehow his politeness even made it worse.

“My name is Damien Williams.” The boy's jaw tightened. “I am the son of Richard Williams, and the future chairman of Williams International.”

Max's fingers paused over his tablet. “Your father is the chairman of Williams International?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

Damien's expression brightened, clearly expecting the recognition he had been denied.

“Although the company is currently ranked forty-second among French luxury property firms,” Max glanced down at his screen.

Damien’s expression vanished almost immediately; gasps echoed in the room as they had just heard the blatant disrespect.

Damien looked personally betrayed by the existence of this unnamed nerd. “Why would you even know that?”

Max looked genuinely confused. “You introduced yourself by your father's occupation.”

“That does not mean you have to search it!” Damien looked toward the rest of the room as if desperately searching for someone who might be willing to defend him.

Nobody did.

Chloé watched the exchange with increasing amusement. This school was going to be unbearable, and she was going to dive headfirst into it. Unfortunately, Damien eventually turned back toward her. “Well, I suppose it makes sense that you would surround yourself with people like this.”

“People like what?” The smile on Chloé’s face slowly disappeared.

“People who are useful,” Damien shrugged, his eyes moving between Max, Alix, and eventually Adrien.

The classroom quieted.

There were still whispers from the other students, the faint sound of chairs moving, the hum of the heating system beneath the windows—but she knew the attention had shifted.

They were waiting to see what she would do.

The old Chloé Bourgeois would have known exactly what to do. She would have found the sharpest insult. She would have located the weakest point in Damien's carefully polished armor and driven straight into it, because humiliating people had once been one of the few things she had ever been truly good at.

And, if she was being honest, a part of her still wanted to.

Her mouth opened. The response she wanted to give remained right there, perfectly formed and ready to be delivered.

But another thought appeared first.

Not Tikki.

Not her father.

Not even one of the classmates she had spent the past two years trying to make amends with.

A certain irritating black cat.

‘You don't always have to win, Scar.’

Chloé's eye twitched; she could practically hear his voice.

‘Sometimes you can just let someone be wrong; what's the point if they'll never listen?’

She hated that she could hear him so clearly–she hated even more that he was usually right in this regard.

Damien raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting her to retaliate.

Chloé stared at him for a long moment, and she soon smiled, but it was not the smile he was expecting.

“Actually,” she said, settling back against her desk, “they are useful.” Damien's expression became smug again until she continued. “They are useful because they are my friends,” the word came out more naturally than she expected. Adrien’s eyes widened slightly, looking back at her,

“And unlike you, they don't need to introduce themselves by listing their parents' occupations to feel important,” Chloé immediately continued before anyone could make the moment unbearable, “although, to be fair, I can understand why you might be worried. If your own personality is the least impressive thing about you, I suppose you need to rely on your family name.”

Damien looked as though he had his personal black card declined. “You can't just take someone else's seat.”

“Apparently, I can,” Chloé crossed one leg over the other.

“That was my seat.”

“And now it is mine.”

“You can't just—”

“Listen,” Chloé interrupted, raising one perfectly manicured finger, “I have already had an exhausting morning. I was forced to wake up before eight, endured a breakfast that was served at an unacceptable temperature, and had to walk through a building full of people who apparently believe owning a watch constitutes a personality—Oh!” She soon clasped her hands together. “And don't worry, since you loathe to be in a chair near the dreaded Agreste heir, I’ll save you from such misfortune.”

Damien looked between them, clearly becoming increasingly irritated by the fact that nobody was treating him with the level of respect he believed he deserved. “But—” Before he could respond, the classroom door opened.

The conversation gradually died down as a woman in an elegant dark suit stepped inside, carrying a tablet beneath one arm and wearing the expression of someone who had already survived several decades of teenagers with expensive shoes and even more expensive opinions.

“Good morning,” she said, placing the tablet on the desk at the front of the room.

The response from the classroom was uneven.

Some students answered, some did not.

“Interesting,” the woman started, noting the state of the classroom; a few of the students even straightened at her look.

“My name is Madame Delacroix. I will be your homeroom teacher this year,” she paused, allowing the room to settle, “before we begin, I would like to make one thing very clear.”

Chloé leaned back in her chair, curiosity evident in her eyes.

Max immediately sat straighter, as if perfect posture could somehow add in extra credit.

Alix continued to look as if she was considering whether the classroom windows could be opened from the inside.

Adrien placed his phone beneath his notebook, listening dutifully. 

Madame Delacroix folded her hands in front of her, eyeing them all one by one. “Your family names may open doors. Your money may place you in this building. Your connections may determine what happens after you leave it.”

“But none of those things will pass your examinations for you,” her gaze moved slowly across the classroom, “so whatever you’re thinking you can get away with, drop them immediately.”

For a moment, nobody said anything—then Alix slowly raised her hand. “Hypothetically speaking, does that include bribery?”

A collective groan went through the classroom.

Madame Delacroix merely stared at her with an unreadable expression.

Alix slowly lowered her hand. “...I’m going to assume that’s a yes.”

“It is.”

“Worth asking.”

Chloé covered her mouth with one hand, though the brief twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her. Beside her, Adrien was doing a terrible job of suppressing a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he bent over his notebook.

Madame Delacroix continued as though none of them had spoken.

“You are all here because someone, somewhere, believed you had potential," she said evenly, folding her hands before her. “I congratulate all of you for successfully enrolling in Lycée Dupont.”

Then her smile became ever so slightly dangerous.

"Now allow me to disappoint your parents.” Several students exchanged uneasy glances with each other. “I do not care who your families are, I do not care how much money they possess, and I certainly do not care whose face appears on magazine covers.” Her hand landed right on her desk with a loud slam.

“You will be expected to meet the academic standards of this institution, regardless of your family background. You will be expected to behave with maturity, respect your classmates, and understand that being wealthy does not make you inherently more intelligent than anyone else in this room.”

Her eyes briefly landed on Damien, who almost immediately sat straighter.

Chloé noticed, and unfortunately… So did Alix.

Max, meanwhile, had already begun writing down what appeared to be a summary of the teacher's expectations, because apparently the words behave with maturity were important enough to be archived for future reference.

Madame Delacroix finally turned toward the digital board and began pulling up the year's schedule and continued with orientation.

Chloé leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a small breath—Well, that had been surprisingly painless.

Her first morning at Lycée Dupont had included a luxury car parade, a minor social war, the rediscovery of three old friends, several dozen people recognizing Adrien, and the successful acquisition of someone else's seat.

Honestly, she had expected worse,

then her yo-yo began vibrating inside her bag.

Merde.

She slowly glanced down inside her bag, already seeing Tikki’s head peeking out as she held on to the red spotted communicator, an alert coming from Carapace.

For half a second, she simply stared at it, because the universe had decided that her first day at an elite lycée was not sufficiently stressful without adding a supervillain attack to the schedule. “Unbelievable,” Chloé's fingers tightened around the edge of her desk.

Adrien, seated beside her, glanced over. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” it was the answer of a woman who had absolutely something going on.

Adrien looked at her for another second.

Chloé immediately turned her attention back toward the front of the classroom with the exaggerated concentration of someone suddenly fascinated by the school's disciplinary policy.

Madame Delacroix continued speaking, “Your first assessment will take place—”

Chloé raised her hand.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Bourgeois?”

Chloé gave her the most innocent smile she could manage, “I'm afraid I need to leave.”

The madam merely raised her brow, “You need to leave?”

“Yes.”

“During orientation?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And why is that?”

Chloé hesitated.

She needed a reason, a believable one.

Something urgent enough to justify leaving a prestigious lycée in the middle of the first lesson without sounding like she was simply bored.

Her eyes flicked toward the window, already seeing the faint silhouette of sheer destruction on the other side of Paris. “...A family emergency.”

Adrien looked at her weirdly.

Chloé gave him a warning glance,

He wisely said nothing.

Madame Delacroix studied her for a moment. “Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely not,” the teacher's expression immediately shifted into concern.

Chloé quickly corrected herself, damn it, “I mean—yes. Everything is perfectly fine.”

“That is a rather contradictory answer.”

“I am aware.”

Madame Delacroix eventually sighed, knowing this would only delay things even further. “Go to the administration office and make sure they contact your father.”

“Do they have to?” Chloé's expression immediately soured at that.

“Yes.”

“Of course they do,” Chloé had to resist the urge to roll her eyes as she began gathering her things.

Adrien watched her, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you need help?”

Chloé paused what she was doing.

The question was simple; the concern behind it was not.

For just a second, she was reminded of the Adrien she had known before everything had become complicated. Before Kagami had left for Japan. Before Adrien had begun withdrawing into himself. Before the two of them had somehow become people who could still joke together but no longer knew how to talk about the things that actually mattered.

She forced the thought away. “No,” She turned toward the door before he could respond, her bag hanging over one shoulder as she attempted to look like a perfectly ordinary student leaving class for a perfectly ordinary reason.

Once Chloé hurriedly left, it took approximately 5 seconds before Adrien also stood up. “I just remembered that I also have a family emergency.”

“...”

Madame Delacroix stared at him. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Adrien hurriedly nodded.

“What kind of family emergency?”

Adrien nervously smiled, practically sweating bullets despite how flawless he still looked. “...A very... family-related one?”

“Mr. Agreste, if this is related to your modeling schedule, you need to submit your absence requests through the administration,” Madame Delacroix pinched the bridge of her nose, her sigh long and resigned, “you may also go, but I expect proper documentation of the reason for your absence.”

“Thank you so much, Madame!” And without looking back, Adrien already bolted through the door.

Max glanced toward the classroom clock. “They’ve been here for less than an hour.”

“Give it 10 minutes.” Alix merely grinned up at him before dozing off once again.

 Chloé ran in the complete opposite direction of her homeroom, ducking into the nearest empty stairwell and pulling the door shut behind her. The moment she was alone, the mask of irritation slipped just enough for her to exhale.

Her first day at Lycée Dupont had barely begun, and now she had an akuma to deal with.

Chloé reached into her bag as Tikki emerged, already looking deeply unimpressed. “You know, you could have simply said you were going to the bathroom.”

“And get a reputation as a girl needing a bathroom 24/7 on my first day? No thanks.” Chloé appeased the probably starving kwami with some macarons.

Tikki considered that “fair.” After all, she did have a point.

“Tikki, spots on.” 

The transformation released her in a flash of light, her immaculate blazer vanishing as the school uniform disappeared beneath the familiar scarlet-and-black suit. The weight of her bag was gone, her polished shoes replaced by boots built for rooftops, and the carefully composed Chloé Bourgeois who had spent the entire morning trying to make the perfect first impression had disappeared—and in its place stood Scarlet Luck.

Scarlet Luck glanced toward the city beyond the glass windows, where distant sirens were already beginning to echo through the streets of Paris. The dark cloud of violet butterflies had spread across the skyline, blotting out part of the morning sun as the akuma's influence began to ripple through the city. Having made her escape from the institution, she landed on the ledge of a nearby rooftop, overlooking the current state of Paris.

She was still Scarlet Luck.

And Paris, unfortunately, still needed her.

"... Couldn't that damned moth at least wait until after orientation?” Scarlet Luck let out a long, thoroughly unimpressed sigh.

Behind her, she could already hear panicked footsteps echoing through the corridors as teachers hurried students toward designated safety areas. Somewhere farther down the stairwell, the muffled voice of Madame Delacroix was calmly instructing her class to remain inside, sounding every bit like a woman who had already accepted that "supervillain attack" was simply another item on the school's attendance sheet.

Lycée Dupont certainly knew how to make a first impression.

Scarlet rolled one shoulder, adjusting the weight of her yo-yo at her hip out of pure habit. The movement was familiar now, almost comforting. Two years ago, she'd needed a full minute just to remember where she'd clipped the thing.

“...Well," she muttered to herself, stepping onto the narrow ledge with considerably more confidence than common sense.

"My first day hasn't been a complete disaster," she paused for her usual dramatic effect. "...Yet."

With that, Scarlet Luck leapt.

Her yo-yo shot forward in a brilliant ribbon of red, catching securely around the nearest rooftop chimney before pulling her effortlessly into the open air. The wind rushed past her face as she glided through the city streets, the city unfolding beneath her.

Far below, students crowded against the classroom windows, pointing excitedly toward the streak of scarlet crossing the skyline.

Someone gasped at the sight of their familiar heroine.

"Look!"

"Scarlet Luck!"

"I knew she'd show up!"

Phones were already being lifted to capture the moment, though Scarlet paid them no mind. She sailed effortlessly over the rooftops, red and black flashing beneath the morning sun before vanishing towards the growing cloud of butterflies. And somewhere across Paris, an akuma was about to discover that the city already had more than enough problems without adding Chloé Bourgeois to the list.

Then she accelerated across the Paris skyline, disappearing into the morning sunlight. "...Poor thing," Scarlet said with a grin that looked dangerously familiar.