Chapter Text
Marinette is so fucking done.
That tourist has the nerve to accuse her of pickpocketing! She’s a disaster….her clothes rumpled, hair wild, and she hasn’t showered in two days. Groggy and frazzled, her thoughts are as messy as her sweatpants.
She had just been bumped by a teenager her age. Did she care? Not at all. She muttered an apology and started to turn away when, out of nowhere, a man grabbed her arm, accusing her of theft.
“Thief, return my phone!”
Of course, he’s American. Olive skin, a black sleeveless turtleneck, cargo pants, hair perfectly brushed up, and those captivating green eyes!!!! damn, he’s hot. Marinette can’t help but stare.
And yet, Kwami forgave her. She’d acted on pure instinct. Kleptomania in charge, she’d snatched his phone without even realizing.
What now? The phone’s in her bag. Ugh. Insomnia’s killing her, and only coffee could ever bring her back to life.
I’m going to wind up in jail. Again.
She frantically plots her escape. His eyes narrow, all menace, but he finds nothing; she’s not giving herself up that easily.
Then!!!
He grabs her hoodie, patting down her pockets.
The rough search, the grabbing hands, the complete violation of her personal space -- all of it, unfiltered and creeping -- ignited a white-hot supernova of rage inside her.
Without thinking, she judo-chops him. Hard.
He stumbles but quickly recovers. This guy is dangerous. She backs away, heart pounding, sweat dripping down her cheeks.
“You had no right to touch me, Monsieur,” she spits, furious.
Their eyes meet…blue clashing with jade; sparks flying.
Marinette’s lips tremble with anger. With a million thoughts racing, she panics -- and bolts.
Because Kwami forgives her, she knows she’ll escape.
“Oi, get back here, thief!” he shouts after her.
She runs, furious. The phone is still in her purse.
Oh crap.
She’s not giving it back. No way. Jerk!!!!
Down the Paris streets she darts. The city is a maze she knows by heart. She slips into the busy market, blending in with the crowds as tourists swarm around the museum’s latest event.
She trips -- of course --a table crashes, someone yelps, and she’s already sprinting away. He’s stubborn, almost grabs her, but she lands a perfect kick to his groin, wriggles free, and disappears into an alley.
Move fast.
She climbs the fire escape, adrenaline surging through her veins as her Multimouse instincts kick in. She can't afford to expose her identity -- definitely not now, not ever.
Sometimes, she really wishes she wasn’t a kleptomaniac.
Adrien Agreste.
Stalking. Sneaking into his home in civilian clothes, swiping his phone. She knows it’s wrong -- she just can’t help herself.
Crushes are deadly. The Agreste family’s charges, the psychiatrist, the diagnosis -- obsessive-borderline disorder. Her world shattered that day.
Adrien would never want a mess like her. Heh, no one wanted an unhinged girl like her. She was worse -- so much worse -- than those obsessed fans who steal from their idols. She’d been Adrien’s classmate, for Kwami’s sake! Let’s not forget the time she snipped a lock of his hair, or that she even kissed his statue. Who does that? Only the truly crazy, or someone so hopelessly in love -- and lost in her own delusions -- that she couldn’t help herself.
Her kleptomania only worsened. Hawk Moth defeated, she retired. Mullo is back with Ladybug. Now she’s just a civilian, limping through her last year at lycee, forty-eight hours without sleep, running from a tourist like a wannabe criminal.
Oh great, Marinette, what a life! Kwami, help me.
She leaps like a street rat, skidding past laundry, tumbling, rolling, flipping onto another rooftop.
The American is fast -- parkour level fast. Kwami, he’s catching up!
The next jump is crazy. She hesitates -- too far in civilian form.
“You have no place to run. Give me my phone, thief!”
Cornered, she squeaks like a dying mouse, clutching the phone. Eyes squeezed shut, she blurts, “If I give it back, will you promise not to press charges? I swear, it was impulse. Kleptomania. Please!”
She goes full drama queen: puppy-dog eyes, pitiful face…the usual act she pulled whenever she accidentally conned André out of ice cream while searching for her soulmate. Heh, she knew André was a sweet, sweet man, but sometimes her impulses just took over whether it was snagging a free scoop or sneaking back later to slip a coin into his pocket without him even noticing!
“Tsk. As if I’d let you off. The police can deal with you. Hand it over.”
Stern, those blazing emerald eyes make her blush. Why now? Why is this guy hot? Why green eyes!!!! again?
Is this Adrien 2.0?
So she does the only thing she can. She flings the phone away and launches herself off the roof.
Panic on his face as he grabs the phone, watching her leap for her life.
Time stops. She’s flying -- waiting for the crash.
Is this how she dies? No Akuma. No Ladybug. No miraculous reset.
But luck is on her side. She scrambles to the ledge, breathless.
She throws a dramatic wave across the widening distance, bowing like a diva.
“Farewell to you, American!” she calls, grinning as she vanishes from sight…having barely landed on the next Haussmann building.
Dizzy, Marinette stumbles through the aftermath, trying to calm her racing heart. She’s a proven thief, but at least she tossed the phone back. Maybe luck will keep that guy far, far away next time.
Alya’s apartment is nearby. She hurries over -- her best friend, Ladybug, will know what to do. Alya’s taken on the Miraculous Guardian role, with Mullo’s help and her own fierce sense of justice. Since Hawk Moth’s defeat, Chat Noir has retired, leaving Alya to patrol solo.
Marinette knocks, exhausted, stinking worse than Camembert. Alya opens the door, takes one look, and commands, “Marinette. Shower. Now.”
“Alya, you will not believe this! I accidentally stole a hot guy’s phone, there was a wild chase -- swear, it was an accident!”
Alya herds her to the bathroom. “Mari, breathe. Shower first, story later -- you stink. Clothes are in the cabinet.”
Marinette autopilots through the shower, finally clean. She grabs her phone -- wait. It’s blue. Sleek. Wayne Tech logo.
Definitely not her ugly pink disaster.
She screams. “I’m an idiot! NOOOO!”
Alya bursts in, “What happened, Mari?!”
Marinette, sobbing, thrusts the phone at Alya. Blue, shiny, military-grade. Alya’s eyes widen. “You stole someone’s phone, Mari. Let me guess; rich guy? This model’s not even out yet.”
She checks the phone …..encrypted, locked tight. Then she shakes Marinette gently. “Mari, breathe. Focus!”
Marinette’s thoughts spiral. The phones are switched. She’s doomed -- her own phone has all her designs. Jail, here she comes.
Suddenly, the phone rings.
With a panicked yelp, Marinette flings it upward, fumbles, and accidentally answers.
A tiny “Eep!” escapes her.
A smooth, teasing male voice in English: “Hey, Dames! How’s Paris? Glad you picked up…”
He stops. “...Dames? Wait. I heard a girl. Dames, don’t tell me; it’s true? Oh my God, Dames! I heard right--it’s a girl you’re with!”
Marinette freezes. Her brain blue-screens. “Hello, Miss! I’m his brother, by the way!”
Panic rockets through her. She blurts, “Sorry! He’s not here, call back later, bye!” and slams the phone into Alya’s hands like it’s on fire. Alya ends the call, staring in shock.
She answered the phone. Exposing herself like that was risky; who knew who might be listening?
Oh, Kwami, her luck had truly run out. Chest tight and short of breath, she stared in disbelief, hope flickering in her wide, tired eyes. Marinette could only gape, feeling like the world was spinning off its axis.
“Alya, I have no idea what to do! I answered the call, and now his brother thinks we know each other. Ugh, this is an absolute nightmare.”
With a wild, desperate look, she flailed toward Alya, flapping her arms like a frantic chicken.
“I really wish this was just a nightmare I could wake up from. Alya, could you slap me, please?”
Her eyes were vacant, hands cold in Alya’s as she pleaded for a reality check.
Alya’s brows drew together, her lips pursed with concern. She gently guided Marinette to the sofa, concern etched in every line of her face. Instantly, Alya morphed into her reporter persona, notebook at the ready, eyes sparkling with curiosity -- and the thrill of gossip.
“Let’s start from the beginning, Mari.”
Marinette recounted every chaotic detail, from her sleepless night working on a commission for the gala, to the fateful moment she’d bumped into a stranger and accidentally stolen his phone. Her words tumbled out, jumbled and frantic.
“He’s probably hacking into my phone right now, Alya. All my secrets; my designs, my notes, everything…..are about to be exposed.”
Alya’s phone, black and sleek with a dangling ladybug charm, was already in her hand. She swiped and dialed Marinette’s number. One long beep. No answer. The hush grew heavier, dread seeping in.
Marinette’s hands trembled, her whole body shivering with anticipation and fear. Would the police show up? Would a military-grade American come banging on their door, action-movie style, demanding his phone back?
She imagined undercover cars outside, or a billionaire on a mission, and the Miraculous at risk.
Panicked, she paced the tiny living room, eyes darting to the window, searching for threats among the ordinary Parisian bustle below.
Then a flicker of hope -- her phone must have died! It was only at four percent when everything began. Relief and frustration crashed together inside her.
None of this was going right. She was stuck with some rich jerk’s high-tech device, while her own phone -- and her whole life -- seemed out of reach.
From the balcony, Paris glowed in the late afternoon light, but it felt a world away from her current disaster. For a split second, Marinette considered tracking him herself. The urge was strong, but Alya’s sharp gaze cut through her thoughts.
“Mari, don’t even think about hacking! Remember Lila? That fiasco with Adrien and the photoshoot?”
Marinette flushed, guilt written all over her face. “I know, Alya. I promise I won’t do anything shady again. Really.”
Alya’s stern look softened. “You need rest, Mari. You’re about to pass out right here.”
Marinette glanced at the clock, panic rekindling. “What time is it? Oh no, Maman will kill me! I have to help with the gala tonight!”
The realization hit -- she was about to let her mother down, all because of a stupid phone and a series of unfortunate (and very Marinette) mistakes.
Alya’s eyes sparkled with excitement, trying to lift her spirits. “Mari, this gala is huge! All the big names in Paris will be there. I even heard the Wayne heir is attending.”
“The who?”
Recognition dawned as she stared at the mysterious, expensive phone. Wayne. As in Wayne Enterprises. The billionaire philanthropists. The dots connected in her mind and, oh, the irony.
Alya grinned. “Tonight, you’ll be serving the fanciest pâtisserie to some of the richest people in the world. Try not to steal anything, okay?”
Marinette gave a sheepish smile, hugging her best friend tight before heading out --but not before Alya paused, hand hovering suspiciously.
Mari patted her pockets, pulling out a toothbrush, a keychain, a pin, and Alya’s favorite fountain pen.
“…Sorry, Alya. Habit.”
Alya just laughed, gently reclaiming her things as Marinette shuffled sheepishly toward the door, mentally checking for anything else she might have swiped.
And with that, Marinette was out the door; off to face the most eventful night of her chaotic Parisian life.
Marinette was on the brink of collapse after everything she’d just been through. She managed to squeeze in a two-hour power nap before the biggest event of the year; her family’s pâtisserie was catering the grand celebration tonight.
Yes, she was there as a server. Her skirt flared out, hair twisted into a bun, makeup barely hiding her puffy eyes. She looked like she could fall asleep standing up, but she had to work, be helpful, and, above all, be a good daughter.
Wait!!!wasn’t this the gala at the upscale Paris hotel, with former mayor Bourgeois overseeing it? Oh no, she hadn’t forgotten.
She entered the hotel, recalling that the charity gala tonight was to recognize the late Gabriel Agreste with a posthumous award. Her fashion hero had died six months ago. And of course, that obsession had led to her obsession with his son, Adrien. She always dreamed to be the girl to save his loneliness, his own personal heroine. She was naive enough to believe that gifts and affection would win him over, that he would finally see her. How selfish of her to take advantage of his weakness?
Her train of thought crashed when…..
“Mon chérie, are you all right? The event hasn’t even started. Take a moment to breathe.”
Her father. He looked at her with that warm, worry-filled smile, ready to swoop in and fix everything.
“Sure, Papan. Thanks!” she replied, guilt gnawing at her. Did she really look that bad? Maybe she should take a seat before she collapsed.
She escaped to the staff room. Floral decorations spilled into the grand hall -- a total extravaganza. She knew how the rich worked: throw a giant charity gala, make themselves the center of attention, brag about helping the poor. She scoffed. As if a party could fix anything.
Collapsing into a chair, she sighed. Coffee, thank Kwami. She grabbed an espresso, inhaled, and took a sip….heaven in a cup. Even cheap coffee was a luxury right now. She could honestly nap here and skip the whole night.
Apron tied, she reached for the phone. Yep, she still had it…..the rich guy’s phone, all sleek and expensive, practically oozing money. She couldn’t help it. Curiosity itched at her fingers. What did a billionaire keep on his phone? If she could just crack it...
Let herself drown in a little temptation -- just for a second.
She thought of those green eyes, the sharp jawline, those broad shoulders, and -- oh, Kwami -- those biceps, sweat-slicked from chasing her over Paris rooftops.
Bad, Marinette! Now is not the time to drool over mysterious strangers.
Lost in thought, her fingers moved on their own, poking at the phone, desperate for a way in. Her past obsession with Adrien had made her tech-savvy….she’d even learned hacking just to peek at his schedule. How was she this strange?
Face glued to the screen, one eye squeezed shut, cheeks puffed -- a comically serious expression.
Suddenly, the phone beeped. Flash.
A blinding light. The phone snapped a picture: her mouth hanging open, one eye closed, perfect blackmail material.
Merde!
“Identity denied. Facial recognition failed.”
Of course it had biometrics. Putain!
She panicked, tossing the phone into the air. It bounced off the table and hit the floor. “Ouch!” Even the phone was a jerk.
And then it rang. Loud, insistent, flashing red. She froze.
But the screen glitched….green light, numbers spinning, files opening. Documents flooded the screen. What the hell?
She clicked the first file. Her blood ran cold.
"Initial proceeding report: Potential candidate Ladybug identity—Alya Césaire."
No. No. No.
Tears welled up, her face twisted in horror. Cold sweat trickled down her arms. The Miraculous. Their secrets. Everything was in danger. She had to warn Alya, but her phone was dead.
Stay calm. Stay the fucking calm.
But dread clawed at her. Hawk Moth was gone, but rumors said a new Butterfly wielder Chrysalis -- was everywhere. Was this guy involved? Was he Chrysalis? Was she being watched right now?
She gasped, fighting for breath, flashes of Chrysalis’s attacks rattling her brain.
A voice yanked her from her spiral.
“You’re needed in the front, Marinette. The gala’s starting!”
“Of course!” she sniffled, wiping her cheeks, trying to reassemble her face.
That guy; he was investigating the Miraculous. No doubt. He was a threat. She clenched her fists, knuckles white. If he hurt her friends, he’d regret it.
Entering from the back, she was hit with a wall of perfume so strong it made her eyes water. The room sparkled with gowns, jewels, and suits -- louder, richer, and smellier than ever. She sneezed, mortified, and ducked her head, beelining for her parents.
The crowd’s chatter rose. Someone shrieked at the entrance…..must be another celebrity. The peanut gallery was abuzz. “The Wayne heir is here!”
Curiosity sparked. A Gotham elite here in Paris? The crime capital’s golden boy? She snatched a tray and tiptoed for a better look.
“Excuse me, coming through!” she sang out, excitement tingling in her veins…imagine the gossip Alya would get tonight! For a moment, she actually forgot the phone’s secrets burning in her mind.
She spotted him from the back: navy suit, white accents, sharp style. Hair perfectly brushed up. She narrowed her eyes. Why did he look so familiar?
“Hmmm...”
Then he turned, and -- beep -- those unmistakable green eyes caught hers.
Putain. Oh, this night was going to be a disaster.
Merde! Marinette’s brain short-circuits. The Wayne heir. Wayne Tech. Putain!
So the one snooping through their secrets is him!! of course he’s got rich backing. Someone at the top of the ladder would know her identity, but why? What does he want?
Worst case: he’s Chrysalis. But the supervillain’s supposedly been lurking in Paris for six months; there’s no way. Judging from their disastrous rooftop chase this morning, he didn’t know the city at all. Tourist vibes, 100%.
His name: Damian Wayne. A billionaire son terrorizing Paris from afar? Even Marinette can't believe it. She ducks down, praying he won’t spot her. But with her luck? Of course, he pauses, that faint, smug smile like he knows exactly where she is.
Run.
Subtlety is for people who don’t have their lives and families on the line. Her parents are here …if she gets caught, the fallout would be nuclear. She dives behind a marble pillar, heart thundering, body on autopilot. The Paris Grand Hotel is a freaking labyrinth. She slips through a side door, life unraveling like a snagged thread ever since she handed the Kwami box to Alya.
Master Fu would be proud of these ninja moves. Multimouse: queen of hiding, queen of panic. If they caught her now, her life; and Alya’s secrets…would be toast. Like a pâtisserie chicken. Or, honestly, more like extra-crispy Oriko fried chicken -- oh great, now she was drooling. Oi, Marinette, focus! Don’t drift out of reality now!
She’s got to get to Alya. Lobby phone, first floor. She’s on the third. Time is ticking and she’s running on adrenaline and two hours of sleep.
Quick glance -- no Wayne heir. The tourist with a billion-euro trust fund knows Alya’s secret. How? She peeks from the door, checks right, then left, every sense screaming for more info. She digs for the phone in her apron-- wait. Where the hell is it?
Apron? No. Back pocket? No. Merde! Of course. Staff room. Clumsy. Disaster Prone Marinette strikes again!!!
She’ll have to brave the main hall again, cross the gala, retrieve the phone. She can’t let him get it. The Miraculous are at stake, and she’s not about to let some billionaire brat ruin everything.
Deep breath. Change of plans: get in, grab the phone, get out. Easy. (Ha! Who is she kidding? Nothing -- literally nothing -- ever goes to plan when she’s involved. At this point, bad luck might as well be her first name.)
She drops to all fours, scrambling across the floor, dodging legs and glittering shoes. She’s halfway to the staff room when…. slam! the door shuts. She freezes, clamps her hand over her mouth.
Eeep.
She scrambles into a mahogany cabinet, barely pulling the door closed with a sliver to peek out. And -- oh no.
It’s him. Damian Wayne, sweeping the room with that cold, calculating gaze, moving like he owns the entire city.
Anxiety. Dread. Horror. This is it. She’s toast. Face buried in trembling hands, fighting tears, she waits for the end. Kwami, save me!!!
Help me, Plagg, mythic, full of cheese! Misfortune and destruction -- I will never, ever rat you out for stealing my cheese macarons for Adrien, and I swear I will never punch Chat Noir again just because he has no social boundaries. She missed Chat Noir so much -- those stakeouts in the middle of the night, his smile like a cat’s, his bragging that he was the greatest sidekick ever. Or how he had once told her that he wished he could be free at last.
She felt the prickling sensation of a wound that would never heal. She missed Chat Noir-- ever since he’d retired after Hawk Moth’s defeat, he hadn’t even said goodbye. The jerk. She found herself scouring the city for glimpses of blond hair, a flash of silver bell, or that familiar leather and spandex… then shuddered, forcing herself back to the present.
Every second drags. The tip of his designer shoes stops right in front of her hiding place. If he opens this drawer, she’s going full honey badger. Billionaire or not, she’ll scratch his eyes out.
The hinges creak. His face appears overhead, sleek hair, icy eyes, hand reaching for the handle…
When….
“Damian?”
He freezes. Turns away. Thank God.
Someone else is here!!!! a girl, voice familiar. They collide in a dramatic hug. Seriously? She’s about to get caught and these two are having a soap opera reunion?
Marinette tries not to care. But there’s this pang….why does she feel... disappointed? No time for that, brain. Focus!
The girl’s voice is urgent: “Damian, oh, I missed you, but we don’t have time. Did you get the encrypted files I sent?”
He’s grumpy: “What encrypted files? Tt. My phone was stolen this morning.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“I’m suspicious. A girl had it. I have her phone. She’s here. I already hacked into the phone…and it’s damning.."
“Damning, like???Is she working with them?”
“Not sure… It’s full of selfies-- thousands of them-- and photos of a fashion brand model. I might have accidentally taken the phone of a fanatic.”
"Okay… that definitely reeks of convenience -- too convenient, honestly. But never mind. We need that phone. The data on it is the only copy. If they have it, we’re screwed. Paris is in danger.
The girl’s voice trembles, dread thick in the air. “Their plan starts tonight. Damian, I’m scared. If they win... the blood of Paris is on me.”
He hugs her tighter. “Do not fret, Ukht. I’m here. I won’t let them hurt you again. We’ll end this. Three years, you haven’t contacted us. Goliath misses you.”
Marinette’s brain is spinning. Paris in danger? Who are “they”? What’s going on? She’s hiding in a drawer while the Wayne heir and his mystery girl plot world-saving stuff? Of course. This is her life.
The girl is falling apart. “I don’t want to continue the mission. Damian... I want to go home. They broke me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
He kneels, voice soft but fierce. “You matter. You’re my Ukht. We’ll stop them. Believe in me.”
They share a forehead touch, all raw emotion and drama. Marinette feels like she’s intruding on a telenovela. Why me, Kwami? If only she’d kept her sticky fingers to herself, she wouldn’t be in this mess, caught between the Wayne heir, a secret mission, and... whoever this girl is.
She peers through the gap. The girl shifts and with horror, Marinette recognizes her.
Long, noodle-like hair. Tanned skin. Curves for days. Those crocodile tears.
The eyes of the world’s biggest liar.
The Lying Bitch!
Putain. It’s Lila Rossi.