Chapter Text
Mrs. Rossi insisted I would forget to eat.
"I won't," I said for what must have been the fourth time that morning.
"You absolutely will."
She folded another napkin around a still-warm cornetto before sliding it into my lunch bag as though she hadn't already packed enough food for an entire class. Fruit. Sandwiches. Homemade biscuits I had complimented once three months ago and therefore apparently wanted every Tuesday for the rest of my life.
"You'll make friends faster if you share." A smile tugged at my lips. "I thought the point was for me to eat it." Mama Rossi gave me an amused look. "You can do both."
I laughed despite myself.
Mama Rossi adjusted the collar of my jacket with the kind of absent-minded tenderness that came from years of habit. Or perhaps months. Time had a curious way of rearranging itself around affection. The longer someone loved you, the harder it became to remember exactly when they had started.
"You'll call me after school?"
"I promise."
"And if anything happens—"
"I'll call."
"If someone bothers you—"
"I'll call."
"If Paris turns out to be less magical than everyone says—"
"I'll survive."
She smiled then, though it carried the faint sadness every parent seemed to wear when watching a child step toward something new. "I'm proud of you, Lila."
A few simple words. They settled somewhere beneath my ribs before I could stop them.
Being loved was an inconvenient thing. It complicated otherwise simple decisions.
The apartment we'd rented in Paris wasn't particularly large. Just enough for the two of us, whenever Mama Rossi's work brought her to the city. The walls still smelled faintly of fresh paint, half the boxes remained unpacked, and the tiny balcony overlooked a street noisy enough to make silence impossible. It was imperfect. Temporary. Exactly what I wanted.
She kissed my forehead before handing me my bag. "You're going to do wonderful."
"I know."
Not arrogance. Preparation. I had spent years learning how to become the version of myself people wanted most.
New city. New school. New audience.
I had always been good at becoming whoever people needed.
A talented student. A diplomat's daughter. A future journalist. A charity volunteer. A girl who had met celebrities, traveled the world, and somehow always had exactly the right story for exactly the right audience.
People assumed the difficult part was lying.
It wasn't.
Anyone could lie.
The difficult part was discovering which version of yourself someone wanted before they realized they wanted it. Hand them that version, and they would do the rest of the work for you.
My mothers called it a gift. I called it survival.
Italy had taught me that.
Not because Italy was cruel. Quite the opposite. It was beautiful. Warm. Familiar. It remembered me.
The café owner remembered my favorite pastry. The neighbors remembered my birthday. Teachers remembered my grades. Every conversation carried history, every lie had roots, and roots were dangerous. You couldn't become someone new when people insisted they already knew who you were.
Paris was different.
Paris forgot people all the time.
Millions of strangers crossed paths every day without learning a single name. That felt safer. Kinder.
My mothers had their own explanations for why I wanted to leave. Mama Rossi believed it was for better academic opportunities. Mama Bianca insisted I needed independence. Mama Verdi was convinced I was chasing artistic inspiration.
Three mothers. Three explanations. Three different versions of me.
None entirely false. None entirely true.
Sometimes I wondered which answer would have upset them the most.
Probably the real one.
I was bored.
Bored of maintaining stories everyone already knew. Bored of people who expected me to stay the same. Bored of being remembered.
So I came to Paris.
Looking for a new audience, for a new self.
Looking for absolutely nothing in particular.
The train slowed as the city blurred past in shades of gray and cream, and I smiled to myself.
Collège Françoise Dupont was prestigious enough to look good on applications and ordinary enough that nobody important would pay close attention. The perfect place to reinvent myself.
Again.
The city changed. The people changed. The names changed.
I remained.
Or perhaps there simply wasn't a version of Lila Rossi that stayed long enough to become real.
The thought lingered for only a moment before I dismissed it.
Paris waited.
A fresh start, a fresh script.
Just what I was looking for.
By the first period, I had already learned three useful things.
First, everyone worshipped Adrien Agreste.
Second, everyone talked far too much.
Third, nobody in this college paid nearly enough attention.
The first thing I learned about Collège Françoise Dupont was that classrooms had ecosystems.
Everyone orbited something.
Popularity. Music. Fashion. Heroes.
Finding the center of each person's orbit wasn't difficult.
Using it simply required paying attention.
Rose was the easiest to understand. She didn't just enjoy fairy tales—she believed in them. Not the ones trapped inside books, but the kind that might actually happen if the right prince arrived at the right castle at exactly the right moment. I listened to her talk for less than a minute before she mentioned Prince Ali twice.
Interesting.
"I actually met him once."
Her gasp came exactly when I expected it to. "...Really?"
I smiled softly, as though remembering something pleasant. "He insisted I visit Achu. His pilot flew me there on the royal jet."
Rose clasped both hands over her mouth. I watched her eyes brighten.
Delight always looked the same. Open. Unprotected. People rarely questioned miracles they desperately wanted to exist.
"...That's so romantic."
No. It wasn't.
But it was exactly the story Rose wanted to hear.
Chloé required even less imagination. She didn't care about romance; she cared about exclusivity. Status. Recognition. Being chosen above everyone else. The names themselves hardly mattered. Jagged Stone simply happened to be the currency that day.
"He wrote a song after we met."
Chloé stopped walking so abruptly that Sabrina nearly walked into her. "...Excuse me?"
"It was sweet, really." I shrugged with practiced indifference. "I told him it wasn't necessary."
I let the silence linger for exactly the right amount of time.
"...Ridiculous," Chloé scoffed, her expression twisting into offended disbelief. "He should've written one about me."
Of course. Envy was different. It tightened before it exploded. A clenched jaw. Straightened shoulders. The desperate need to convince everyone—including herself—that she deserved more than whoever currently had it. Recognition wasn't enough for Chloé Bourgeois. She needed exclusivity.
Nino wandered into the conversation before she could continue, curiosity written all over his face. "You've actually met celebrities?"
His interests practically introduced themselves before he opened his mouth properly. Music. Film. Directing.
"A few," I answered casually. "Hollywood's surprisingly small once you know the right people."
"...No way."
I pretended to think for a second. "I could probably mention you to Steven Speilberg one day."
His jaw nearly hit the floor. "...Seriously?! You’d recommend me?!" His excitement wasn't loud. It spilled out of him before he could contain it, genuine enough that his grin reached his eyes. Ambition had a particular expression. It looked less like greed and more like someone suddenly believing the impossible might actually happen.
Fortunately famous people rarely verify these things.
Alya took the longest.
Not because she was difficult. Because she asked questions. Good questions. The kind that demanded consistency.
She didn't care about celebrities nearly as much as everyone else. She cared about Ladybug with a sincerity I hadn't seen all morning.
Interesting.
Heroes.
"She saved me once. We stayed close after that"
Silence.
"You... what?"
"We've spent time together."
I could have added another lie.
Instead, I stopped talking.
People always filled silence better than I ever could.
"...You mean..."
"We're friends."
Alya's phone was already in her hand before I finished speaking. "...Can I interview you?"
Curiosity moved faster than caution. Her fingers were already reaching for her phone before the rest of her caught up. Fascination had momentum. Once it found something worth chasing, it became almost impossible to stop.
After that, the stories spread without any effort from me. I barely had to repeat them. People preferred hearing extraordinary things from someone else instead of directly from the source. Somehow, it made them feel more believable.
By lunchtime, I had become five different people.
Reinvention was never about changing myself. It was about discovering which version people were already waiting to meet.
To Rose, I was the girl who had stepped out of a fairy tale.
To Chloé, I was someone admired by celebrities.
To Nino, Hollywood knew my name.
To Alya, Ladybug trusted me enough to call me a friend.
None of them had asked the same questions.
So none of them received the same answers.
Adrien Agreste, however, wasn't interested in any of it.
Adrien was beautiful enough to make people stupid. I noticed this immediately. Girls stared. Boys admired. Teachers smiled differently around him. The entire school seemed caught in his orbit. Predictable. I was prepared for predictable.
The boy himself turned out to be exactly what everyone claimed. Kind, polite. Dangerously trusting.
People often mistook kindness for intelligence.
I never did.
Still, he was pleasant company. Easy to talk to. Easier to impress.
I suddenly lifted my hand and traced his shirt with my index, getting in his personal space. He stared at me like he never experienced physical touch in his life. It seemed to confuse him.
He didn't step back. Most people didn't know what to do with unexpected closeness; Adrien simply accepted it as though assuming the best in others was second nature. Trust wasn't visible in someone's smile. It revealed itself in all the moments they never considered defending themselves.
Well that’s excellent.
The class noticed.
That should make introductions easier.
I brushed an invisible speck of dust from the front of his overshirt. "History?" I asked, getting close to his face again, lowering my voice. "We do have homework." Adrien stutters slightly. "The library?" I suggest, already tugging him towards it. "Sure."
Simple. So unbelievably simple.
I left him alone for a moment to go and grab our history textbooks.
When I came back, he immediately covered the book he was reading with something. Then he leans back in his chair, pretending to be cool.
What have you got there, Agreste? And why are you hiding it?
I snatch the book from his hands. A weird looking man in a purple-black suit. Coded text. Butterflies.
I did hear rumours this morning from the other students about someone… Hawkmoth they said. Exploiting negative feelings. Has butterflies named Akumas that possesses people, turning them in supervillains. Temporarily.
Fascinating.
“What’s that?” I ask immediately.
“Uhh nothing! Just…stories. About superheroes!” Adrien stammers.
Transparent, I sigh to myself.
Outside, on the other hand, I decide to play along. He likes superheroes? I can work with that. I cover his hand with mine, giving him my most dazzling smile.
“I love superheroes.” It’s not entirely a lie.
I hear a weird sound around the shelf behind me. Weird. I keep flipping through the pages of this interesting book. Adrien is getting more tense.
What is this? And why is it coded? Wait- Ladybug?
“She’s amazing…” Adrien says dreamily.
I scoff. Of course he is infatuated with her. I’ll take his mind off her a bit.
“A girl doesn’t need to wear a costume to be amazing, you know.”
I could see the internal panic in his eyes. Such a considerate boy.
“Oh uh, I don’t know- I mean I—“
Gotcha.
“So you’ve got a little soft spot for the bug, huh~?”
“Me? Oh not at all—“
Liar.
A small cart with books moves closer, though no one is around. And a weird flash of blue-black hair.
Whatever.
Back to Blondie.
“I actually happen to be very close friends with Ladybug,” I murmur, like a secret between us.
Adrien’s jaw drops. He proved to be so disappointingly easy to impress. “Really?” His eyes practically lit up.
Now I just need to get him alone with me.
“We can chat about it, if you want. Not here, though. Why don’t we meet at the park after school and I’ll tell you everything”
The book cart slams into a wall. Me and Adrien jump out of our seats, startled and confused.
Suddenly, Adrien’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He mumbles something about his fencing classes and packs up in record time. When he is just about to swing his bag over his shoulder, I step closer again. Way too close. He drops his bag. The book falls out.
“So…the park?” I suggest again, and slide the interesting tome away from him with my boot. Then lift his bag and hand it to him.
“Uh sure!” he nods fast, then rans off.
I pick up the tome and open it to a random page. An orange superheroine. A fox superhero.
“A vixen superheroine? Hm…interesting.” I looked at the drawn pendant on the paper. The model was familiar.
Oh this year will be fun~