Chapter Text
Gone were the vibrant pinks and cheerful patterns Marinette Dupain-Cheng once favored. Now, she moved through the hostile halls of Collège Françoise Dupont cloaked in muted grays and deep blues, long sleeves pulled down tight over her wrists even on warmer days. The fabric was a shield, hiding the gnawing emptiness that had taken root in her chest.
Tikki watched her with worried eyes from the hidden depths of her purse, sensing the chill clinging to her chosen one but unable to breach the wall of numb efficiency Marinette had erected, even against her. Her parents saw the shadows under her eyes, the forced smiles, the way she picked at her food, but attributed it to the stress of social isolation, never suspecting the real, corrosive despair.
Lila Rossi had played her game masterfully. The initial lies had metastasized, poisoning every relationship Marinette held dear. Alya, once her rock, now looked at her with suspicion, her journalistic instincts warped by Lila's carefully crafted victim narrative. Nino was distant, caught between loyalties. Even Adrien, with his kind but ultimately unhelpful smiles, seemed to exist in a different world, oblivious to the true venom circulating through the school.
Marinette was adrift, a ghost in a sea of familiar faces that now felt like strangers. She clung to her duties as class representative, the last piece of her old identity still intact.
The end-of-year party preparations hummed with a forced cheerfulness that felt alien to Marinette. She focused intently on the banner spread across the worktable, the intricate silver paint detailing the constellations of their class – a symbol of unity she desperately wished was real. Her long sleeves felt too warm, but pulling them down tighter offered a small, secret comfort against the chill that had settled deep in her bones. Across the room, Lila Rossi held court, her laughter light and musical, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that seemed to follow Marinette.
Suddenly, Lila let out a sharp, theatrical gasp, clutching at her designer handbag. "Oh, no! It's gone!"
The room quieted. Alya was instantly at her side. "What's wrong, Lila?"
"The locket!" Lila cried, her eyes instantly welling. "My grandmother's charity locket! The sapphire and silver one I showed you? It was right here!" Her gaze swept the room, her eyes finding Marinette, lingering for just a fraction of a second too long. "It's… It's missing."
A sickening, metallic taste filled Marinette’s mouth. Sapphire and silver.
Kim, never one for subtlety, pointed directly at Marinette. "Hey, isn't that the same color paint Marinette's using?" He squinted. "Where'd you even get that fancy silver paint, Dupain-Cheng?"
All eyes snapped towards her. The innocent pot of silver paint suddenly felt like an accusation.
"And," Lila added, her voice trembling with manufactured distress, "she was admiring the locket yesterday. She said the design gave her… inspiration."
The accusation, unspoken, saturated the air. Thief.
Marinette’s paintbrush clattered onto the table. "I didn't take your locket, Lila," she said, her voice low, shaking slightly.
"Oh, I know you didn't mean to!" Lila rushed to reassure, stepping closer. Marinette instinctively recoiled. "Maybe you just borrowed it? For ideas? You do that sometimes, right? It's okay, Marinette, you can just give it back. No one will be mad. It just… it means so much."
Lila wasn't accusing outright; she was offering a gentle, understanding path back, painting Marinette as forgetful, perhaps a little unethical, but not malicious. It made denying it seem defensive, guilty.
"I didn't borrow it! I didn't touch it!" Marinette insisted, her voice rising despite herself.
"Then let us look!" someone shouted.
"Yeah, check her pockets!"
"Empty your bag!"
Marinette backed away as a few students started to move towards her. "No! Get away from me!"
Alya stepped forward, holding up a hand to stop the others, but her expression was hardening with that familiar, righteous disappointment that cut deeper than any accusation. "Marinette," she said, her voice coolly reasonable. "Just show us. If you have nothing to hide, then let them see. Prove her wrong."
The air left Marinette’s lungs. Alya. Her best friend. Asking her to prove her innocence against a known liar. The last filament of her trust, worn thin over months, simply ceased to exist.
Her shoulders slumped. What was the point? They wouldn't believe her anyway. Numbly, she turned out the pockets of her jeans. Lint, a stray button, nothing more. She gestured vaguely towards her small workspace near the banner. "Look there if you want."
A few students hesitantly poked through her nearby supplies – brushes, cloths, and a few tubes of standard paint. No locket.
Alya looked momentarily conflicted, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. But Lila was already recovering.
"Oh, maybe I put it somewhere else!" Lila exclaimed, forcing a bright, relieved smile. "Maybe I was mistaken! Or..." Her voice dropped conspiratorially, just loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Maybe she realized and hid it when I wasn't looking? It's okay, really. I just hope it turns up."
The verdict was in. No locket had been found, but the speculation didn't stop; it merely shifted tone. Where did she put it? Did she panic? She looked so guilty.
Marinette stared at the ruined banner, at the faces of her classmates – some hostile, some pitying, some simply indifferent. She saw Alya turn away, already caught back in Lila's orbit. She saw Adrien, frozen near his desk, his expression pained but passive.
Enough.
She couldn't do this anymore. The fight drained out of her, leaving only a profound, hollow exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, she began gathering her personal belongings – her worn sketchbook, her favorite set of pencils, the small tin of custom paint colors she carried everywhere. She didn't touch the banner supplies. She didn't acknowledge anyone.
"Marinette? What are you doing?" the teacher asked, finally noticing. "The banner isn't finished."
Marinette didn't answer. She zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked towards the door. Abandoning the project. Abandoning her duties. Abandoning the last shred of the girl she used to be in that room.
"Marinette!" Alya called after her, a note of confused frustration in her voice. "You can't just leave!"
But she could. And she walked out of the classroom, out of the life that had become a cage, and didn't look back.
The walk home was a smear of grey pavement and muted city sounds. Her thoughts were a flat, dull echo of the scene in the classroom: Lila's fake tears, Kim's pointing finger, Alya's betrayal, Adrien's silence, the whispers branding her a thief.
Worthless. The thought echoed in the emptiness inside her. They were right. Lila was right.
No one believes you.
No one cares.
You drive everyone away.
The familiar litany of self-loathing began its quiet chant. Maybe it would be better if you just disappeared.
The despair coalesced, thick and suffocating. It was a pressure building behind her eyes, a weight in her lungs. And in that moment of absolute, crushing darkness, she felt it. A cold, insidious presence brushing against the edges of her mind.
"Little Nightingale," a voice slithered, all velvet and venom. "Your song silenced by false accusations. Your heart is heavy with injustice. They refuse to see the truth, refuse to hear your pain. Give me your despair, and I will give you the power to make them listen. Make them see. Make them pay."
A jolt of icy promise shot through her, offering relief, offering retribution. An Akuma, shimmering black and purple, fluttered directly towards her, drawn by the overwhelming agony radiating from her soul. It hovered inches from the small silver charm bracelet she always wore – a gift from her parents.
Yes... Make them understand... Make them hurt like they hurt me... The thought was a seductive pull in the chaos of her misery.
But then, through the despair, a flicker. A flash of red and black spots, unwavering. The scent of flour and sugar, a bastion of unconditional love. The memory of a hand, calloused and leather-clad, reaching out to catch her whenever she fell.
No.
The spark flared. She wasn't worthless. She wasn't alone, not truly. This pain, this despair – it wasn't her. It was what they had done to her. And she wouldn't let them win. She wouldn't let him win.
"NO!" The word was a choked gasp, but it held the force of her entire being. She physically recoiled, stumbling back against a wall, her hands flying up as if to ward off a blow. "Get away from me!"
The Akuma faltered, stunned by the ferocity of her rejection. It hovered for another moment, then dissolved into harmless black dust, its connection severed. Hawkmoth's disappointed hiss echoed faintly in her mind before vanishing completely.
Marinette slid down the cold brick wall, gasping for breath, her entire body trembling violently. The phantom touch of the Akuma, the seductive whisper of Hawkmoth promising power and revenge, still echoed in her mind. She had pushed him away, resisted the darkness, but the victory felt like nothing at all.
A hot, prickling shame crawled up her neck. He had found her. He had sensed her weakness, her despair. He had deemed her broken enough, angry enough, to be his puppet. The fact that she had resisted didn't feel like strength; it felt like a horrifying confirmation of how close she had come to shattering. She had almost become one of them. She had failed to stay strong.
She pushed herself back to her feet, pulling her sleeves down further over her wrists, trying to gather the shattered pieces of her composure. The grey fog outside was mirrored by a deeper, colder fog within. She just wanted to get home.
"Marinette?"
The voice startled her, pulling a sharp gasp from her lungs. She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Adrien stood a few feet away, his school bag slung over his shoulder, his usual placid mask replaced with an urgent, naked concern. His green eyes were wide, searching her face as if looking for injuries. He must have been walking home the same way, perhaps lingering after the disastrous party planning. He must have seen... something.
"Are you okay?" he asked, taking a hesitant step closer. "You looked... I don't know. You stumbled."
Marinette instinctively took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself. Seeing him now, after the betrayal in the classroom, after his silence while she was being torn apart by accusations, felt like acid on an open nerve. He was the very picture of the passive acceptance she had been crashing against for months. Her breath caught, not just from the lingering shock of the Akuma, but from a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety at his proximity.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, her voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. She couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a crack in the pavement.
Adrien stopped, clearly sensing the invisible barrier she had thrown up between them. He fidgeted with the strap of his bag, his brow furrowed with a mixture of worry and... yes, guilt. "Are you sure? Back in the classroom... and just now... You seemed really upset."
Upset? The understatement was so profound it was almost grotesque. She had been accused of theft, betrayed by her best friend, and nearly lost herself to Hawkmoth, and he thought she seemed upset? A bitter retort rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. What was the point? He wouldn't understand. He never did.
"Just tired," she said, her voice clipped. "Long day." She started walking again, her pace quicker now, desperate to put distance between them.
Adrien hesitated for only a second before falling into step beside her, though he kept a careful, awkward distance. "Marinette, about what happened with the locket..." he began, his voice low and uncertain. "I know you didn't take it. Lila... she twists things."
Marinette kept walking, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "Does it matter?" she asked, her voice hollow. "Everyone else believed her." Including you, by your silence, the unspoken accusation hung heavy in the air.
Adrien flinched almost imperceptibly. "It matters to me," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I should have said something."
She finally glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Why didn't you?"
The question was blunt, devoid of her usual hesitant adoration. It caught him off guard. He opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for an answer that wasn't just a weak excuse. "I... I froze," he admitted, shame coloring his cheeks. "It all happened so fast. And I didn't want to make things worse."
Marinette let out a single, humorless puff of air that wasn't quite a laugh. "Right. Wouldn't want to make things worse."
They walked the rest of the block in a heavy, suffocating silence. Marinette felt brittle, like she might shatter if he said another word. Adrien looked miserable, clearly wrestling with his own conscience but unsure how to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.
As they reached the corner where the Dupain-Cheng bakery stood, its cheerful facade a stark contrast to the gloom surrounding them, Marinette stopped. "I'm home," she said, the words flat.
Adrien stopped too, looking torn. "Marinette, I really am sorry—"
"Goodbye, Adrien," she interrupted, not unkindly, but with a finality that left no room for further discussion. She turned and walked quickly towards the bakery door, disappearing inside without a backward glance.
Adrien stood alone on the sidewalk, the cheerful chime of the bakery bell echoing in the sudden quiet. He watched the door close, the weight of his silence settling in his stomach like cold stones. He hadn't just failed to help her; he had driven her further away. And he had no idea how to fix it.
The cheerful chime of the bakery bell felt jarringly loud as the door clicked shut behind Marinette, sealing her off from the grey street and the boy she had left standing there. For a moment, she leaned her forehead against the cool glass, the familiar scent of yeast and warm sugar filling her lungs, a scent that usually meant safety, comfort, home. Today, it just felt like another mask she had to wear.
She could hear her parents moving around in the back, their familiar chatter a low hum. She couldn't face them like this. Not yet. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Marinette straightened up, forcibly smoothing the fractured pieces of her composure into something resembling normalcy. She wiped furiously at the corners of her eyes, plastered a brittle smile onto her face, and pushed through the inner door into the heart of the bakery.
"I'm home!" she called out, her voice higher, thinner than usual.
Sabine emerged from the kitchen, wiping flour on her apron, her warm smile instantly faltering as she took in her daughter's appearance. "Marinette! Miel, are you alright? You look pale."
"Just tired, Maman," Marinette replied quickly, avoiding her mother's perceptive gaze. She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, needing something to do with her hands. "End-of-year party planning is exhausting. Think I'll just head upstairs and work on some designs."
Tom came out next, his booming presence usually a comfort, now felt overwhelming. "Long day, princess?" he asked, already reaching out to ruffle her hair.
Marinette managed a weak nod, ducking slightly. "Yeah. Just need to rest a bit." She edged towards the stairs leading up to their apartment. "See you for dinner?"
Her parents exchanged a worried glance over her head, but they didn't press. They knew their daughter, knew when pushing would only make her retreat further. "Of course, sweetheart," Sabine said gently. "Take all the time you need."
Marinette offered another tight smile before practically fleeing up the stairs, the weight of their concern an additional weight on her shoulders. She reached the sanctuary of her room, shutting the trapdoor behind her with a sigh of relief that was quickly swallowed by rising panic.
The moment she was alone, the mask of "fine" dissolved. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. She sank onto her chaise lounge, the brittle smile dissolving into a grimace of pain.
"Marinette?" Tikki zipped out of her hiding spot, her large blue eyes filled with profound worry. "That was... difficult. Are you—"
"Don't," Marinette snapped, the word sharp and cutting. She immediately flinched at her own harsh tone, but the dam had broken. "Just... don't, Tikki. Don't ask if I'm okay. Don't tell me it'll get better. Don't tell me to be strong. I can't. Not right now."
Tikki recoiled slightly, her tiny form radiating hurt, but also understanding. "I just want to help," she whispered.
"You can't!" Marinette cried, burying her face in her hands. The trembling started again, frustration, shame, and the chilling memory of Hawkmoth's voice all swirling into an unbearable vortex. "No one can help! They don't believe me! They hate me! And he... Adrien just stood there! He just watched! He said he was sorry but it's too late!" Her voice cracked. "It's all falling apart, Tikki. I'm falling apart."
She looked up at her Kwami, her eyes wild with a despair that terrified them both. "Maybe Hawkmoth was right. Maybe I should just make them understand."
"Marinette, no!" Tikki cried, zipping towards her.
"Just leave me alone!" Marinette yelled, scrambling away from her Kwami's approach as if her touch might burn. "Please! Just... go."
Tikki stopped, hovering in the middle of the room, her tiny heart aching. She saw the raw pain in Marinette's eyes, the self-loathing twisting her features. Pushing now wouldn't help. Marinette needed space, even if being alone was the last thing she truly needed. With a small, sorrowful nod, Tikki phased through the floor, leaving Marinette in the suffocating silence of her room.
Marinette sat there for a long time, the echoes of her own harsh words hanging in the air. Guilt pricked at her, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming tide of despair. The room felt too small, the cheerful pink walls mocking her. She needed air. She needed... out.
Climbing the ladder to her balcony, she pushed open the hatch and stepped out onto the small rooftop space. The evening air was cool, carrying the distant sounds of the city. Below, Paris moved on, oblivious to the storm raging inside her. She sank onto the weathered cushions of her outdoor chair, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them tightly.
She stared out at the familiar skyline, at the distant, unlit silhouette of the Eiffel Tower. This used to be her escape, her place of peace. Now, it just felt like a higher cage. The dark thoughts she fought so hard to keep at bay resumed their patrol. Failure. Weak. Burden. Maybe they're right about you. Maybe you deserve this.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against her knees, trying desperately to find some solid ground in the churning sea of her own mind, trying to ward off the darkness that felt closer than ever before.