Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Prologue – Ashes of a Vow
Felix didn’t move. He couldn’t.
The world had ended, and he was still standing in it.
Paris burned around him in a symphony of ruin. The Eiffel Tower, once a proud sentinel of light and romance, now leaned drunkenly to one side, its iron lattice glowing cherry-red from the fires that licked its base before it finally buckled and collapsed in a thunderous roar that shook the ground like the death knell of a god. Plumes of black smoke coiled upward into a sky choked with ash, blotting out the sun until the day felt like eternal midnight. The Seine ran thick with debris—shattered stone, twisted metal, the occasional lifeless form floating face-down in the current. Screams echoed from distant streets, faint and fading, like the last gasps of a dying animal. Sirens had long since gone silent; there was no one left to answer them.
The air tasted of copper and char. Every breath scraped Felix’s throat raw, but he welcomed the pain. Pain meant he was still alive. Pain meant he could still feel the agony of what he had lost.
In his arms, cradled against his chest in a bridal carry that felt both tender and profane, lay Bridgette.
His Ladybug.
His everything.
She was broken.
Her once-vibrant red suit, spandex woven with the ancient magic of creation, hung in tatters. Long, jagged tears split the fabric across her torso, her thighs, her arms—exposing pale skin marred by deep gashes that wept crimson. Black spots that had once been perfect circles were now smeared and distorted, stained with blood and soot. The suit's iconic polka dots looked like bullet holes in the flickering firelight. Her right leg dangled limply over his arm, the boot torn open to reveal a compound fracture that glistened wetly. Her ribbons—those long, flowing red trails that mimicked ladybug wings—were shredded, one completely severed and trailing on the ground like a discarded vein.
Her hair, that beautiful cascade of blue-black silk he had teased her about so many times, spilled over his forearm in twin pigtails that had come partially undone. The left one still held its shape, the red ribbon with its antenna-like curl drooping pathetically, matted with blood. The right pigtail had unraveled entirely, strands clinging to her sweat-slicked face and neck. Stray locks framed her features in a wild halo, making her look both fragile and feral. Her glasses—those round, oversized frames she wore even under the mask, a quirk of her transformation that never quite hid the civilian girl beneath—were cracked, one lens shattered completely, the other streaked with red tears that had leaked from her eyes.
Blood. So much blood.
It streamed from the corners of her mouth in thin rivulets, staining her lips a darker red than her suit ever could. More oozed from her ears, her nose, even from beneath her eyelids, as if the magic that had sustained her was hemorrhaging out in protest. Her mask, that perfect domino of red with black spots, was cracked down the center, revealing one dull blue eye staring sightlessly upward. The other eye was swollen shut, bruised purple-black. Her breathing came in wet, rattling gasps—each one a knife in Felix’s chest.
He held her close, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, her head lolling against his shoulder. His black catsuit was soaked through with her blood, warm and sticky, mingling with his own wounds. His bell still jingled faintly with every tremor of his body, a mocking reminder of the playful hero he had once pretended to be. His cat ears twitched at every distant explosion, but his green eyes—slitted and glowing with residual miraculous energy—never left her face.
“Bridgette,” he whispered, his voice low and sharp, a blade cutting through the haze of smoke. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t comfort. It was a vow etched in venom. “I told you I’d protect you. I always protect you.”
She tried to respond. Her cracked lips parted, more blood bubbling up. A weak hand—gloved, torn, fingers bent at wrong angles—reached up toward his face. She brushed his cheek, leaving a smear of red on his pale skin. Her touch was ice-cold.
“F-Felix…” The word was barely audible, a gurgle more than speech. “It’s… okay. You… tried.”
No.
It wasn’t okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
He tightened his grip, careful not to jostle her wounds, but possessive all the same. She was his. His partner. His Lady. The only light in the endless night of his existence. They had fought side by side since the beginning—since the prototype days when the miraculous first chose them, raw and unpolished, before the world had sanitized their story into something softer, something with Adrien and Marinette. Felix and Bridgette had been the originals: sharper, darker, willing to draw blood for victory.
He remembered their first battle. How she had stumbled into the role, clumsy and fierce, her yo-yo wrapping around his staff by accident. How he had smirked beneath his mask, calling her “my Lady” with that possessive lilt that made her blush even as she scolded him. They had grown together—through akuma after akuma, through Gabriel’s escalating madness, through the secrets and lies that bound them tighter than any lucky charm.
He had killed for her.
Not akumas—those were purified. But the henchmen Gabriel had sent. The corrupted guardians who stood in their way. The lines he crossed grew blurrier with every threat to her life. She had never asked him to. She had begged him not to, tears in her eyes, saying it would destroy him. But Felix had smiled, sharp and cold, and done it anyway. Because losing her would destroy him more.
And now… now the world had taken her anyway.
Across the shattered rooftop where they had made their final stand, Gabriel Agreste—Hawk Moth, Shadow Moth, Monarch, whatever mask he wore that week—stood unmoved. His purple suit was pristine, untouched by the chaos he had unleashed. His face, visible now that his transformation flickered, was a mask of cold triumph. He had won. The unified miraculous rested in his palm, glowing with the stolen power of creation and destruction. He had wished for Emilie back. And the price… the price was everything else.
Felix’s father in all but blood. The man who had raised him in shadows, who had twisted him into a weapon long before the cat miraculous claimed him. Gabriel had never cared for Felix—only for what he could use him for. And now, he watched his “son” cradle the dying girl with detached curiosity, as if observing an experiment’s failure.
“You fought well, Felix,” Gabriel said, his voice smooth and emotionless. “But sentiment weakens you. She was always your flaw.”
Felix’s head snapped up. His eyes burned with a hatred so pure it could have ignited the air. “You did this,” he snarled, voice dropping to a growl that rumbled like thunder. “You destroyed everything for your selfish wish.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Sacrifices must be made. Emilie will live again. The world will rebuild.”
Not with her gone.
Felix looked down at Bridgette again. Her chest hitched once… twice… then stilled. The light in her visible eye dimmed, fading to glassy emptiness. Her hand slipped from his cheek, falling limp against her side.
She was gone.
A sound escaped him—not a cry, not a scream. Something primal. A roar of pure, unadulterated rage that shook the crumbling rooftop. The smoke swirled violently around him, as if feeding on his fury. His claws extended fully, digging into the fabric of her suit—not to hurt, never to hurt her, but to hold on as if he could anchor her soul by force.
“No,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. Her skin was cooling already. “No. You don’t get to leave me. Not like this.”
Memories flooded him, vicious and unrelenting.
Their stolen moments on rooftops, her laughter bright against the night sky as he spun her in his arms. The way she scolded him for his recklessness, but always patched his wounds afterward, gentle fingers tracing his scars. The nights they detransformed in hidden alleys, sharing pastries from her parents’ bakery, her glasses fogging up from the warmth while she ranted about designs. How she had confessed her love first, shy and stumbling, under a rain of purified butterflies. How he had claimed her lips with a hunger that frightened even him, whispering “mine” against her skin like a brand.
He had promised her forever.
And forever had lasted until Gabriel’s ambition tore it apart.
The rage built, layer upon layer, until it consumed him. The boy who had once been playful, who had flirted and punned to hide his darkness, was dead with her. What remained was something colder. Sharper. Evil, if that’s what the world wanted to call it.
He laid her down gently—reverently—on the cracked concrete, arranging her torn ribbons around her like a funeral shroud. Her pigtails framed her face perfectly, even in death. She looked almost peaceful, if not for the blood. His gloved hand stroked her cheek one last time, smearing the red tears away.
Then he stood.
Gabriel watched him warily now, sensing the shift.
Felix’s smile was slow, predatory. His fangs glinted in the firelight. “You think it’s over?” he said softly, voice laced with venom. “You think your wish ends this?”
The unified miraculous in Gabriel’s hand pulsed erratically. The wish had been made, but the magic… the magic was unstable. Creation and destruction in one vessel, twisted by grief and greed. Felix could feel it—cracks in reality itself, fissures where new possibilities bled through.
He had nothing left to lose.
And everything to take.
Felix lunged—not at Gabriel, but at the miraculous. Claws raked, cataclysm surged. Gabriel recoiled, but too late. The power exploded between them, a storm of black and red light that swallowed the rooftop, the city, the world.
In that maelstrom, Felix made his own wish.
Not for reversal. Not for peace.
For *her*.
“Give her back to me,” he demanded of the void, voice raw and unbreakable. “In any world. Any form. Any life. I will find her. And this time… no one will take her from me.”
The magic answered—not with mercy, but with malice. It twisted his desire into something darker, granting passage at the cost of his old self.
Reality shattered.
Felix fell into the abyss, Bridgette’s blood still warm on his hands.
And in the ashes of Paris, the man who would become something far worse than a hero was born.
He would do anything.
Anything.
To have her again.