Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sharp buzz of his phone echoed in the cup holder, lighting up with a soft glow. Aiden glanced down just for a second.

“Severe Weather Alert: Heavy rain expected in your area within 10 minutes.”

Outside, the sky had already darkened to a deep, ominous gray. Fat drops began tapping against the windshield like warning knocks. He tightened his grip on the wheel as the wipers squeaked to life, clearing the first sheets of rain.

Aiden tapped the speaker button on his steering wheel while cruising up the gently winding mountain road.

Aiden: “Hey, Mom. Just letting you know I’m on my way. Tell Lily happy birthday again for me.”

His mom’s warm voice crackled through the car speakers.

Mom: “She’s been asking about you all morning. Don’t take forever, Aiden. You know how excited she is. And drive safe—no speeding up those mountain roads.”

Aiden (chuckling): “Relax, it’s sunny and clear. I’ll be there before the cake’s even out of the box.”

He ended the call with a smile, but moments later his phone buzzed again, flashing another alert.

[Weather Alert: Heavy rain approaching your area in 10 minutes. Drive with caution.]

Aiden blinked in confusion. “What the hell?”

The sky, just minutes ago calm and blue, was now slate-gray, rolling heavy clouds swallowing the horizon. The first raindrop splashed loudly against the windshield, then another—then the sky opened with a roar.

Aiden: “Yesterday said clear skies all day... What is this?”

As the wipers smeared rain away, the mountain road ahead glistened, slick and shrouded in fog. Then came the beep-beep of his GPS glitching. The screen flickered and froze for a moment, then suddenly rerouted.

GPS Voice: “New route found. Estimated arrival time reduced by 12 minutes.”

The new path cut through a narrower, winding stretch skirting the mountain’s edge. Aiden hesitated.

Aiden (muttering): “Shortcut? Now? In a storm? Are you kidding me?”

He tightened his grip. “Of course her party had to be at the top of a mountain.”

The phone buzzed again. The rain hammered harder now. Aiden sighed, eyes flicking between the storm outside and the glowing screen.

Aiden: “Happy birthday, Lily… this better be worth it.”

The rain screamed against the windshield.

Aiden’s hands clenched the wheel as the narrow mountain road twisted sharply to the left. The tires skidded. The GPS chirped again—useless noise now. He slammed on the brakes.

Nothing.

He pressed harder. Still nothing.

The car surged forward.

His eyes flew wide. “No, no—stop!”

He mashed the brake again—metal clunked beneath the dashboard, a hollow, dead sound. The engine growled like it had a mind of its own. The accelerator was stuck.

Up ahead, headlights appeared through the curtain of rain. Bright. Blinding. Growing fast.

A semi.

His breath caught.

The horn blared, deep and monstrous, shaking the very air.

Aiden jerked the wheel. Tires screamed. The world spun sideways.

Then—

White.

No impact. No sound. No pain.

Just silence.

Just light.

He floated, weightless, suspended in an endless, glowing void. No ground. No sky. Only the hum of something greater, ancient.

From the light emerged a shape—tall, humanoid, yet featureless. Radiant. Blinding but not burning. Its presence filled him with something... unnameable.

The Being didn’t speak, but somehow its message echoed inside his skull:

“One choice: Rest now—or begin again.”

Aiden stared. He had no body here, no breath, but his mind trembled.

His thoughts were scattered ashes: Lily’s cake. His mother’s voice. The headlights. The brakes. That awful sound.

Tears—if he still had eyes—burned somewhere behind the white.

He reached forward.

The light swallowed his hand—

Rain slammed the road in silver sheets. Aiden’s tires hissed over the soaked asphalt, the curve tightening too fast, too sharp.

He slammed the brakes. Nothing.

Panic spiked. The pedal clunked uselessly beneath his foot.

“No, no—stop!”

The engine growled, accelerator locked. His car veered into the oncoming lane.

From the other direction, Samir, a long-haul truck driver, squinted through his rain-drenched windshield. His eyes caught the blur of headlights—too close. Too fast.

Aiden’s sedan broke from the fog like a ghost.

Samir (muttering): “What the—?”

He jerked the wheel, horn blaring deep and long. The cab shuddered beneath him.

The cars were too close.

Samir: “Oh God. Oh no—what have I done?”

He slammed his brakes, tires shrieking across the wet road, but the weight of the semi made stopping hopeless. His hands gripped the wheel tight enough to crack bone. His chest tightened.

Inside Aiden’s car, he threw his arm across his chest instinctively, voice raw:

Aiden: “Help! Somebody—please!”

Through his rain-streaked windshield, Samir could see the other driver's mouth move—but not the words. Just the raw, frozen terror in his eyes. Just a kid.

Samir: “No—no no no no—”

And then—

Impact.

White.

Steam hissed from the engine. The cab shook from the violent stop. His hands trembled. He couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

His eyes darted to the crumpled car in the ditch. Aiden’s vehicle was a mangled shape of metal and glass, smoke curling into the air.

Samir (whispers): “I should call for help. I should go—”

His breath caught. A photo of his wife and daughters swung slightly from the dashboard.

He looked at it.

Then at the wreck.

Back at the photo.

Samir: “If I get out… if they test me… What if they say I was speeding? I wasn’t! I—I can’t lose everything…”

His chest heaved. His hand hovered over the door handle—shaking, frozen.

A memory—his little girl hugging his leg the morning he left.

Aiden’s voice echoed in his head, even though it had already gone silent.

"Help!"

Samir: “I didn't mean to… I didn’t…”

And then—

He reached for the handle.

The smoke thickened around the crumpled dashboard, the acrid scent of burning oil filling Aiden’s lungs. His body lay slumped, pinned beneath twisted metal, blood trickling down his temple. The rain hissed as it struck the shattered glass, a thousand tiny needles tapping around him.

Everything hurt—and yet, the pain was already beginning to fade.

His breath came shallow, uneven.

This can’t be it...

His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. A numbness settled in his fingers, spreading up his arms.

If I’d just woken up earlier…

The thought stabbed deeper than the wreckage. If he hadn’t ignored the hundred missed calls. If he hadn’t panicked. If he hadn’t taken that shortcut.

If I’d just gotten up… none of this…

His lips trembled. He tried to speak—maybe a prayer, maybe Lily’s name—but only a ragged breath escaped. The world around him dimmed further, and in that final moment, silence took everything.

No sirens.

No voices.

Just the rain.

And then—
light.

Not headlights. Not fire. Something else.

From the shadows that devoured the wreck, a soft white glow bloomed. It swallowed the crushed car, the rain, the world itself—until there was nothing.

Aiden blinked.

He was floating—weightless, unbound, untouched. The pain was gone. The cold was gone. Even his heartbeat was missing.

Around him: blackness. Infinite. A void that hummed with stillness.

And then—he saw it.

A figure emerged from the dark.
White. Pure. Absolute.

It had no face. No eyes. No mouth. Just a human-like shape radiating soft, unwavering light. It did not walk. It did not speak. Yet its presence filled the void like thunder without sound.

Aiden tried to speak but found no voice. Tried to move but had no limbs.

And then, it spoke without sound—a message that struck directly into his mind, deeper than thought:

“You are not dead. But you are no longer who you were.”

The figure drifted closer.

“Your story is not over… unless you wish it to be.”

Aiden’s thoughts reeled. The crash. His sister. His mother’s voice. The stupid shortcut.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To beg for another chance.

But he could only float—between the weight of regret and the pull of something new.

The figure extended a hand—light within light.

And without knowing why, Aiden reached back.

A soft creak echoed through the void.

Somewhere just beyond the blackness, a door opened—not suddenly, but gently, like someone afraid to wake a sleeping child.

Then came the footsteps. Light at first. Careful. Growing louder with each step, like ripples in still water drawing closer and closer.

Aiden—no, not Aiden anymore—felt a tightness in his chest. Nervous. Tense. The darkness had felt safe, quiet. This... this was different.

Something touched him. A hand—warm, delicate—slid beneath his back, lifting him with impossible tenderness. He was being held now, pulled close to something alive.

Then, a voice.

Soft. Musical. Brimming with emotion.

“Wake up, Felix... my little angel.”

His eyes fluttered open.

Light flooded in—golden and soft, not the blinding white of the void, but something warm, human.

A face hovered above him. A woman—blonde hair cascading in gentle waves, eyes a vibrant, leafy green. Her gaze met his like sunlight meeting the sea—gentle, unshakable, full of something ancient and endless.

Love.

Aiden’s thoughts tangled and stuttered.

Felix...?

Was that him now?

Is this... my mother?

Before he could make sense of it, her voice rang again—gentle but excited.

“Colt Fathom, come in! Our Felix has woken up!”

There was a pause—then the hurried rhythm of feet on polished wood.

A man appeared in the doorway, breathless. He wasn’t tall, but not quite short. Thin, almost frail, with skin as pale as porcelain. His dark eyes glinted with something between wonder and exhaustion. Hair the color of ash fell messily across his forehead—neither neat nor wild.

He came closer and peered down at the newborn boy in the woman’s arms.

A trembling smile broke across his face.

“It really worked,” he whispered, cradling the child like fragile glass.

Felix stared up at him, still too stunned to cry.

What worked? he wanted to ask. But no sound came—only the quiet thud of his new heart.

That’s when he saw it—pinned to the man’s chest. A brooch, shaped like a peacock in full bloom, shimmered with hues no eye should be able to name. Its feathers glowed faintly, each plume radiating a strange, shifting energy. Not magic, exactly—something older.

Something wrong and right, all at once.

The man’s grip tightened slightly. The woman leaned in, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead.

Felix blinked.

He was no longer falling.

He had already landed.

The first few months passed in a haze of lullabies and flickering candlelight.

Felix—once Aiden—grew quickly, but the warmth of that first day never truly returned. His mother, Alira, was his steady refuge: gentle hands, a soft voice that soothed the dark, and eyes that always found him, even in silence. She smiled through exhaustion, shielding him from shadows that loomed larger with every passing day.

But Colt Fathom—the man who once cradled him with trembling awe—began to change.

At first, it was subtle. Whispered mutterings in the study. Long nights spent staring into the flickering flame cast by that strange peacock brooch pinned to his chest. His health, already fragile, seemed to fray like a worn thread—his cheeks hollowed, his hands grew skeletal. But worse than his sickness was the bitterness that settled deep in his voice.

Colt grumbled that Felix cried too much.

That he was too loud. Too small. Too human.

Sometimes, when Colt thought no one was listening, he cursed under his breath, voice low and harsh:
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

But Felix didn’t bother himself with Colt’s unraveling. His mind had more urgent matters.

I need to get stronger, he thought, curling his small fists beneath the covers. The IT gave me knowledge—the martial arts, cultivation. I’ll build my Qi core. But only when they’re asleep or gone.

Felix’s first word came when he was barely two months old—“Mama.” The sound was fragile but pure.

His mother’s smile bloomed like sunlight after rain.

Neighbors whispered that Felix was a prodigy, a genius born under a rare star.

When Felix turned three, the first blow came—not from anger, but cold frustration.

An inkpot spilled across Colt’s precious manuscript. The man’s fingers gripped the toddler’s arm too tightly, shaking him roughly as a harsh word cut through the quiet room.

That night, his mother, Amélie, screamed. The sound shattered the stillness—a raw cry of pain and anger at what she’d seen.

Felix barely flinched. His body was already hardened by his Qi, now at Level 3—pain was a distant echo. But it tore at him to see his mother’s tears, the sadness etched into her face.

Colt didn’t strike again for months, but his health worsened steadily. Felix didn’t understand why—he just knew he had to help, for his mother’s sake.

He would wrap his small arms around her when she cried quietly at night.
“Mama, don’t be sad. Felix is here,” he’d whisper, holding her close.

Despite the tension in the house, Colt insisted Felix learn discipline—though not out of kindness. At just four years old, Felix found himself enrolled in karate classes. It was Colt’s way of shaping him into something useful.

“Strong body, strong mind,” he’d mutter, his tone devoid of warmth—more like reciting a rule than speaking to a son.

From the very first lesson, Felix stunned everyone. His movements were sharp, fluid, almost too perfect for a child his age. Each strike landed with precision, as if his body already knew the steps before they were taught.

The instructor leaned toward his assistant after a single session.
“He’s a natural,” he whispered. “Moves like he’s been doing this for years.”
“A genius in the making,” the assistant agreed.

Karate became a quiet refuge for Felix. Here, Colt’s voice didn’t follow. Here, things made sense—until they didn’t.

Before long, it became too easy. Sparring partners fell one by one. His punches landed before they even moved.
Too slow, he would think. Too predictable.

With the martial knowledge granted to him by the Entity—IT, as he called it—Felix was playing chess on a battlefield of checkers.

And speaking of chess…
He found an old wooden board in the attic, its pieces scattered like forgotten memories. It didn’t take long before he taught himself the game. He played against adults in the neighborhood, beating them without much effort.

“He thinks five moves ahead,” one neighbor marveled. “It’s like he sees the whole board.”

But even as trophies and praise piled up, Felix felt something missing. His talents were rising, but his understanding of the world remained shallow. He didn’t know why IT had sent him here. Or why the ring on his finger—a strange metal band that had appeared with him—remained dormant.

He still couldn’t access its power.

When Felix turned six, everything shifted again.

Colt’s health declined rapidly. The once-cold man grew quiet, his strength vanishing by the day. He no longer yelled. He barely spoke.

One cold evening, after a coughing fit that shook his entire body, Colt slumped in his chair. And didn’t get up.

Just like that, he was gone.

The silence afterward was loud.

Felix stood in the living room, staring at the still form of the man who had feared him, hated him, and yet shaped so much of him. The feeling was strange. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t happy either.

Just… unanchored.

Amélie cried openly now, no longer hiding behind half-smiles and tired lullabies. Felix had never seen her like this—so small, so broken.

“I’m here, Mama,” he whispered one night, hugging her knees as she sat by the fireplace. “Don’t cry. Felix is strong now.”

At the funeral, Felix stood quietly at his mother’s side, clutching the peacock brooch. It hadn’t glowed in years, yet he kept it close like a question with no answer.

People passed by with soft condolences. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the gravesite.

Then a woman approached, her heels clicking softly on the stone path. She looked exactly like Amélie.

“Amélie…” the woman whispered, wrapping her arms around her.

Amélie turned, her voice trembling. “Émilie…”

They embraced, tears flowing freely. Felix watched in silence, remembering something his mother once said in passing:
"My twin lives far away, but our hearts are always close."

Émilie sniffled and gave a soft smile. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sister.”

Before Amélie could reply, a new voice cut through the still air.

“I offer my condolences, Madame Fathom.”

It was deep, cold, and smooth like black marble.

Felix looked up and saw a towering man—over two meters tall—with snow-pale hair and sharp silver eyes. His black clothes were crisp, pristine, and an ornate locket brooch hung from his chest, glowing faintly with the same eerie light Felix remembered from his father’s.

Amélie stiffened immediately. She wiped her eyes, her lips pressing into a flat line.

“Gabriel Agreste,” she said, without affection.

Émilie cleared her throat awkwardly and stepped to the side.

Behind the man, a boy peeked out. He was the same age as Felix—six years old—with the same green eyes and soft blond hair. A mirror, almost. But his face was pinched with fear.

The boy clung to Gabriel’s coat, his small fists tightening at the seams.

Émilie gently pulled the boy forward.

“This is Adrien,” she said softly. “He’s my son… your cousin, Felix.”

Adrien looked up, eyes brimming with tears, and gave a small wave before hiding again behind his mother’s legs.

Felix said nothing. Just watched.

That was the last time he saw them.

Chapter Text

The house was become quieter after Colt’s passing , but still heavy—but different. Like a door had finally closed, and somewhere, far off, a window cracked open.

Most nights, Amélie sat by the fire in silence, her face bathed in gold and shadow as the flames danced. Felix would lie still in bed, pretending to sleep. But he never truly did—not when something unknown still hummed beneath his skin

The ring.

It rested on his right index finger—dull silver, smooth to the touch. Cool, but never cold. It had never made a sound. Never pulsed. Never glowed.

Too quiet.

And Felix didn’t understand why.

Why he couldn’t break past the third layer of cultivation.

Why the flow of qi always thinned—just before something deeper.

Why the ring remained silent.

Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes. Amélie had gone to bed hours ago. Her candle still flickered faintly in the corridor beyond, casting slow-moving shadows under her door.

Felix sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, a single candle burning beside him, its flame shivering slightly in the draft. The ring glinted faintly as he held his hand out before him.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

Held.

Released.

The qi inside him flowed like a soft current—gentle, patient. He had reached the third layer of refinement, a miracle for a child. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Still, tonight felt… different.

He shaped his fingers into the ancient gesture—one etched into his memory by it, the Entity that had cast him into this new life.

And then—

The ring pulsed.

Just once.

A vibration, low and deep. Like a heart beating for the first time.

Felix’s eyes snapped open. The candle snuffed out instantly.

Silence fell.

And then—a voice.

Not in the air.

Inside him.

“Finally… I wake… after so long…”

Felix recoiled, scrambling backward and knocking the candle over. His heart thundered—not with fear, but recognition.

That voice didn’t belong to the Entity.

It was older. Hollow. Worn by ages. It echoed with a resonance that felt like it had passed through ruins and bones and ancient wind.

He looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice. Then—

Floating in front of him, bathed in the pale moonlight from the window, was a small creature.

Completely white.

Its body was smooth, featureless except for three luminous eyes. A long tail curled behind it. On top of its head was a short antenna, twitching slowly.

Felix blinked. His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“Who are you?”

The creature hovered closer, eyes gleaming softly in the dark.

“I am Null,” it said, in a voice that sounded like emptiness made speech “The Kwami of Nothingness.”

Felix stared at the creature, unsure whether to speak again. It didn’t move like something alive. It hovered, as if gravity were a suggestion it had declined to follow. Its three eyes glowed faintly—not with light, but with absence. Like holes carved into the fabric of reality.

The candle’s flame bent sideways, like it was listening.

Null hovered in the stillness, tail curling behind it like a question mark. Its eyes—three glowing voids—watched Felix without blinking.

“You said… ‘Kwami,’” Felix repeated softly, his voice catching on the unfamiliar word. “The Entity mentioned it once. Something inside the ring. I didn’t… get to ask more.”

Null’s antenna twitched faintly, like a shiver of memory.

“We were once men,” it said, but not like a statement—more like a confession, pulled from somewhere deep and long buried. “Hungry, flawed… climbing toward the stars.”

Felix blinked. “You were human?”

“Yes. All of us. Before the binding. Before the fall.”

It turned in the air, slowly, as if weightless in water. The candlelight flickered against the white of its body, casting long shadows across the floor.

“We touched things we weren’t meant to. Secrets in the bones of the world. Power that belonged to no one… not even the ancient sovereigns who ruled above.”

Felix’s breath slowed. He could feel the air changing—thickening, like rain about to fall.

“And they were afraid?” he asked.

Null didn’t answer at first. Its voice, when it came, was low. Not angry. Just… hollow.

“They didn’t try to stop us. Not with words. Not with warning. One night, we were stargazers. The next, we were whispers in silver.”

The candle guttered. Felix could see it now—flashes behind Null’s words. A mountain torn in half by light. Men screaming as their bodies crumbled to ash and light. Rings falling into waiting hands.

“They called us kwami,” Null said. “Not because we were small. But because they made us that way.”

Felix looked down at the ring on his finger—at the faint pulse of silver in the metal.

“And the Miraculous?” he asked.

“Chains,” Null replied, drifting closer. “Beautiful ones. They handed them to mortals like gifts. Told them we were guardians. Spirits of balance. But we were never meant to serve.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with unspoken names.

Felix looked up, voice barely above a whisper.
“Why is your relationship with IT…?”

Null blinked—all three eyes, one after another, in a slow ripple.

“You mean Xuān,” it said softly, as if the name carried weight beyond words.

Null’s glow dimmed, its voice lowering to a near-whisper.

“Xuān was one of the ancient sovereigns… once.”

Felix leaned in, breath caught.

“He was betrayed,” Null continued, three eyes narrowing in a slow pulse. “Like me.”

The room felt colder now. The candle’s flame bent sideways, as if recoiling from something unseen.

“The others—those who called themselves divine—feared what we were becoming. They were hungry for power, drowning in envy. Xuān shone too brightly… and they could not bear it.”

A faint tremor ran through Null’s antenna.

“They cast him down,” it said. “And then… they turned on me.”

Felix’s voice was small. “And he… tried to help you?”

Null nodded. Its tail flicked once behind it, and shadows lengthened across the walls.

“He found my prison. He woke me. We merged—his soul, my essence. For a time, we were --------

-----/--------

The memory unfolded like a ripple in time.

The sky above the heavenly realm fractured with blinding light as Xuān and Null broke through the upper veil. His robes streamed behind him—white laced with obsidian—and his eyes burned with the furious gold of judgment.

Null’s voice echoed through him, deep and resonant, as their fused form streaked like a falling star across the firmament.

We are here. Let them answer for what they did.

Thunder boomed across the marble courtyards of the divine palace. Crystalline towers shook. The ground beneath the floating cities trembled.

And from the horizon… they came.

Seven lights, streaking toward them like comets.

Felix, through Null’s memory, saw their forms as they arrived—ancient sovereigns armored in light and smoke, each haloed by divine sigils. At their sides hovered the kamwi he’d seen in dreams—small creatures with impossible eyes.

Among them, two stepped forward.

A woman in crimson robes, her sleeves trailing like silk banners. Her armor shimmered with black spots. Her eyes burned with grief.

“Tikki,” Null whispered.

Beside her stood a man cloaked in sable and emerald, the slitted pupils of his eyes sharp beneath a jade headdress. His claws flexed once. His silence was louder than any war cry.

“Plagg.”

Null’s fused form faltered in midair. He hovered, wings of dark flame flickering behind him, disbelief written into every motion.

“How could you…?” he cried. “How could you stand beside those who caged us? I am your kin!”

The woman stepped forward, and for a moment, her voice trembled.

“No evil is my brother.”

Tears welled in her eyes—but she didn’t lower her weapon.

Plagg turned his head away, jaw clenched, unable to meet Null’s gaze.

Then the heavens opened, and the sovereigns struck.

A storm of sigils rained down like comets, crashing into Null and Xuān. The fused pair countered, exploding outward with shockwaves of null-light, swallowing entire patterns of divine flame in silence. Mountains crumbled in midair. Cloud citadels burned.

Xuān’s voice roared through the sky, calling the ancient names of stars long extinguished. Null’s power wrapped around him, erasing arrows of light before they reached flesh.

The battle became a dance of gods—flashes of black and white tearing across the firmament, carving glowing scars through the heavens. Tikki spun through the air, unleashing bursts of crimson genesis-fire that stitched time itself. Plagg countered with waves of entropy that bent space like rippling cloth.

Null surged toward them, wings burning with negative flame.

He slammed into Plagg, sending him crashing through a floating temple. Tikki cried out, spinning a shield of creation just in time to block Null’s second strike.

“Enough!” she shouted. “You’re tearing the balance apart!”

“You tore me apart!” Null howled, fire surging from his core, disintegrating the mountain beneath them.

But the tide turned.

Xuān and Null fought for days—each second a lifetime in destruction. Yet the divine forces wore them down. Layer by layer, their power was stripped.

The fused soul wavered. Null’s energy flickered. Xuān bled light.

At the end, when the last blow fell, Null remembered the silence.

Sealed. Again.

A ring, forged of Still-Silver, cold and dead.

-------------/--------

Back in the present, Null floated in silence.

Felix said nothing, his hands shaking slightly.

“That was the last time I saw them,” Null murmured. “The last time I knew who I was. And now… I wake again.”

The candle flickered.

And for a moment, the shadows looked like wings.

Felix’s voice cracked through the silence like a dropped needle on glass.

“What do you want me to do?”

Null didn’t answer at first.

It hovered in place, the dim glow of its form flickering like an uncertain candle. Then, at last, its voice returned—quiet, solemn, coiled beneath centuries of restraint.

“You must free us,” it said. “Help us reclaim what was taken. Restore what was severed. Then… we give you what you desire.”

Felix turned his back to the creature, eyes dark beneath the shifting candlelight. His voice carried a bitter edge.

“So I am a vessel after all,” he murmured. “A tool. Like Xuān. Like you. But he had power. You had strength. And me—” he held up his hands, eyes locked on the ring that pulsed faintly under his skin—“I’m just a mortal boy stuck halfway through a cultivation I can’t even finish.”

He turned, expecting silence.

Instead, Null floated forward—its three eyes wide in stunned disbelief. Its voice trembled.

“How…?” it whispered. “We… gave you everything we knew. Our memory. Our power. Your body should be—”

Then it stopped.
Mid-sentence.

Its antenna twitched, violently this time. Its form pulsed—a flash of light, then shadow, then stillness.

Its voice dropped. “Wait.”

It circled Felix once, slowly, like orbiting a strange sun.

That presence… it had been buried deep, hidden beneath layers of flesh and borrowed time. But now it hummed through Felix, undeniable. Familiar.

“No…” Null whispered, tone unsteady. “That feeling—that brings… some memories.”

Felix turned, wary. “What is it?”

Null’s glow softened. Its gaze, usually so still and distant, flickered—almost wistful. Like a shadow brushing against warmth.

“You’re not fully mortal,” it said. “You’re… a sentimonster.”

The word fell heavy between them, but Null didn’t recoil.
Not yet.

“A… what?” Felix blinked, his brows drawing together.

“A sentimonster,” Null repeated, slower now. Each syllable laced with memory. “A being crafted from will. Not born—but imagined, intended. Shaped by emotion. Breathed into existence through magic.”

Its tone shifted, and something strange entered its eyes. A gentle gleam. Not cold. Not bitter. Almost… fond.

“Only one of us had that power,” it said, voice hushed, distant. “Only my youngest brother… Duusu.”

The way it spoke the name—light, reverent, almost with a smile.

“He was small,” Null murmured, eyes flickering as though watching some invisible scene. “Always too full of feeling. Always humming some tune no one else could hear. While the rest of us fought or argued, he painted the sky with laughter.”

Its body brightened for a moment—soft blue light pulsing in its core.

“He was the only one who could do it,” Null went on. “Only he, with that strange, dangerous gift—could bind soul to shape and call it life. Could create something that felt… real.”

“But they weren’t,” it added, more quietly now. “Not truly. Sentimonsters don’t have souls. What they carry is a shadow of one—a simulation. Their feelings… they’re echoes. Replicas. They laugh, cry, rage… but none of it is their own. They are masks, worn by emotion.”

It floated still for a moment, watching Felix.

“But you… you’re different.”

Felix stepped back instinctively, confusion painted across his face. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s what’s wrong,” Null said. “You’re a sentimonster—yes. But you have a soul.”

It backed away, shadows tightening around it once more.

“And this changes everything.”

Felix stood still, the words echoing in his skull like a bell tolling in deep water.

He inhaled sharply—then exhaled as if it hurt.
The storm inside him—of doubt, anger, of truth too jagged to swallow—simmered just beneath his skin.

Then, voice low, almost childlike:

“…Can you do something, then?”
He didn’t look at Null. Just stared at his open palm, as if the answer might be written in the lines of his flesh.
“About my cultivation?”

Null didn’t speak. The silence stretched. A draft stirred the corners of the room. The candle hissed softly.

Felix’s fingers curled into a fist.

“I’ve tried,” he said. “Every method. Every principle. I walk the paths. I meditate until I’m numb. I mimic everything I’ve been taught—and nothing grows. Nothing moves. I’m stuck. Always stuck. Like I’m… locked behind glass.”

Null floated closer, the silence no longer empty, but filled with thought.

“That’s because your body,” it said slowly, “was never built to ascend.”

Felix’s breath caught.

“You weren’t crafted with flow in mind. You’re a closed circuit—perfectly constructed. Too perfect. No mortal flaws, no natural chaos… nothing for Qi to bind to.”

It drifted around him now, watching with clinical curiosity. “You are a sculpture given breath. An illusion made tangible. And cultivation… requires more than intent. It requires a crack. A faultline. Something human.”

Felix’s voice was hoarse. “So you’re saying I’ll never break through?”

Null’s glow brightened, then dimmed again, as if the light within it flickered with a deep conflict.

“I can help you,” Null said, voice low and steady but edged with exhaustion. “But there’s a price.”

Felix stared, the weight of those words sinking into his chest like stones.

“The power I wield—the same that shaped sentimonsters like you—it comes from a place of sacrifice.”

Null drifted closer, eyes glowing with a faint blue flame, almost mournful. “Each time I reach into the fabric of reality, bending it to my will, I give a part of myself away.”

Felix swallowed hard, searching Null’s expression for what was left unsaid.

“If I give too much,” Null continued, voice barely a whisper, “I will slip into a slumber. A deep, endless sleep that could last for ten years… or longer.”

Felix’s breath caught.

“Ten years?” His voice was barely audible. “That long?”

Null’s antenna twitched slowly. “Yes. Ten years of silence, trapped in a void between existence and nothingness. I have felt it before. Each sacrifice weakens me, but if I don’t act—if I don’t give you the help you need—you will remain a prisoner in your own form.”

Felix’s hands clenched tightly. “And what about me? What will happen to me while you sleep?”

Null’s eyes flickered, a faint sadness surfacing in their depths. “That’s the risk. You will be alone. Vulnerable.”

A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the faint hum of Null’s fading light.

Felix’s mind raced. Ten years. A decade lost. Could he bear that? Could he survive alone while Null was gone?

But something inside him stirred—a spark of determination, fueled by everything he had learned and lost.

“There’s more,” Null said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Felix turned sharply. “More?”

Null nodded slowly. “Yes. To lessen the cost, to regain some of what I lose in that slumber, you must find three items—artifacts hidden in the mortal realm. Each holds a fragment of power tied to my essence.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. “Artifacts?”

“Yes. They were scattered long ago to keep my power in balance. If you can reclaim them, they will restore part of my strength. And when I awaken, I will be stronger, better able to guide you.”

Felix considered this. “And if I don’t find them?”

Null’s glow dimmed further. “Then I will awaken weak, and the cycle of sacrifice will continue. Worse… the balance will tip, and the mortal realm may suffer.”

Felix’s breath was heavy. “How will I find these items?”

Null’s eyes brightened, hope flickering within them again. “I will give you clues. But you must grow stronger first. The journey will test you—body, mind, and soul.”

Felix’s chest tightened, but he nodded. “Then I’ll do it. I have to.”

Null pulsed with a radiant glow, almost like a smile. “Good. Because the path won’t be easy.”

Felix glanced down at his hands—calloused, trembling, mortal—yet now tingling with a strange energy.

“I’m not just a vessel,” he said quietly. “I’m going to prove it.”

Null drifted silently behind Felix, the soft glow of its three eyes casting a gentle light across his tense shoulders. Its tendrils of radiant energy flickered, reaching out like fingers of light weaving through the heavy shadows of the room.

Without a word, Null began to move, its glowing tendrils wrapping slowly around Felix’s body. The air thickened, charged with an ancient, crackling energy—something primordial and alive. Felix tensed, every muscle tightening as the warmth seeped beneath his skin.

“Stay still,” Null whispered, its voice both soothing and commanding. “This will not be painless.”

A sudden surge coursed through Felix’s veins—like a thousand electric needles dancing beneath his skin. His breath hitched, heart pounding wildly. He felt something unravel deep inside—threads of energy, once cold and static, now igniting with wild fire.

Null’s glow pulsed brighter, enveloping Felix’s entire form in a cocoon of shimmering light.

“You are more than what you were forged to be,” Null murmured, voice threaded with hope and power. “You were never meant to be a sentimonster locked in stasis. You are meant to be human.”

The light grew hotter, denser, wrapping around him like liquid fire that seeped into every fiber of his being. Felix’s body convulsed, bones shifting, skin tightening and stretching, muscles realigning.

Pain flared—sharp and blinding. He gasped, gripping the floor for support.

Null’s tendrils traced intricate patterns along his back, glowing runes shimmering in the air, weaving ancient sigils of transformation and release.

“You have no natural faultlines,” Null explained, voice steady despite the strain. “No cracks for Qi to flow. I will carve them for you.”

The energy folded deeper, carving through Felix’s essence like a sculptor shaping raw marble—removing the invisible chains that bound his soul.

Heat gave way to a cold calm, a settling as the energy rooted itself within him. Felix’s vision blurred, then sharpened—colors richer, sounds clearer. His breath slowed, muscles relaxing in a way they hadn’t in years.

He looked down at his hands—no longer trembling or unreal, but solid, alive.

“You are human,” Null confirmed softly. “Free to cultivate. Free to grow.”

Felix flexed his fingers, marveling at the unfamiliar sensation.

“But there is more,” Null warned. “My strength is tied to this world, to artifacts scattered long ago. If I am to fully aid you, I must restore my power.”

Felix’s eyes locked on Null’s glowing form.

“Where?”

“One item lies in China,” Null said, its light dimming slightly with exhaustion. “Two more are here in Paris.”

Felix nodded, resolve hardening.

Null’s glow pulsed a final time. Its form began to shrink, folding into itself, collapsing into the familiar ring gleaming coldly on Felix’s finger.

“I must rest now,” Null said, voice fading. “Ten years of slumber to recover.”

Felix clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the quest settle upon him.

“But I won’t wait,” he said fiercely. “I’ll find those artifacts. And when you awaken, we’ll finish what we started.”

The ring shimmered softly in response—promise sealed in silence.

Outside, far above, the city stirred—Paris, alive and endless beneath the night sky.

Duusu awoke slowly, a familiar presence stirring deep within him. It tugged at something long buried, a faint echo brushing against his consciousness.

He muttered the word under his breath, hesitant yet compelled.

“Brother…”

The name hung heavy on his tongue, but his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Doubt curled in his chest like a shadow.

Was this truly him? Or another trick of time and pain?

Duusu’s voice remained low, cautious, the skepticism thick in every syllable.

Chapter Text

The morning came without light.

The sky outside the tall windows of the Fathom estate hung low, wrapped in a shroud of leaden clouds. They pressed against the glass as though the world itself was exhaling slowly but refusing to let go. Rain slipped down the panes in thin, whispering threads—not storming, not screaming, just… existing. Quiet. Steady. The kind of rain that seeps into the walls of a house, that blurs the edges of things. A rain that remembered grief even when those inside tried to forget it.

In the heart of that gray silence, Félix sat cross-legged on the window seat in his bedroom, still as a painting. His back leaned against the wall. His chin rested on his drawn-up knee. His eyes were wide open and hollow, not blinking, not searching. Simply watching. He hadn’t slept—not because he couldn’t, but because it felt wrong. Foreign. His body now demanded things like rest and warmth and breath, but his soul hadn’t caught up.

Behind him, the room remained untouched by morning. A single candle near the dresser guttered softly, casting long shadows across the rug. The flame swayed now and then, nudged by a breeze that didn’t exist. The room felt suspended in a breath that hadn’t yet been released.

Félix turned the ring slowly around his finger—again. And again. And again. The metal was colder than usual, as though it too mourned. Where once it hummed faintly with Null’s quiet presence, it now sat silent. Lifeless. Not even a flicker of magic remained.

Null was gone.

Not dead. Just—sleeping. Dreamless and unreachable.

A decade. That’s what it had said, just before the light drained from its voice. A full ten years to rebuild what it had given up. Ten years without its guidance, its sarcasm, its loyalty. Null had never belonged to anyone but itself… and yet it had chosen Félix. Chosen to spend the last of its energy not on escape or vengeance or preservation, but on him. To remake him.

Not as an echo.

Not as a thing.

But as a real boy.

Félix was human now. He could feel it in the subtle dissonance of his own body—the ache in his joints from the cold, the dull hunger curling low in his stomach, the strange irregularity of his pulse as he breathed in and out. Everything was too loud, too raw. His thoughts weren’t framed in glass anymore. There was no buffer. No design.

And yet, despite everything, he felt smaller.

He pressed a palm against his chest. It didn’t feel empty. It felt… still. That was the difference. The stillness wasn’t mechanical or numbed. It was human. But the absence of Null—of that quiet presence always tucked just behind his thoughts—was like losing a second heartbeat. A twin soul. A voice that had always known him.

He hadn’t said goodbye.

He hadn’t said thank you.

A knock broke the quiet.

Soft. Barely audible over the hush of rain.

“Félix?” came Amélie’s voice, muffled through the door.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His voice lived behind a dam of silence he hadn’t yet learned to open.

There was a pause. The kind that held breath.

“I’m coming in,” she said, gently.

The door creaked open, and with it came the faint scent of jasmine tea and linen. Amélie stepped inside wrapped in a soft blue robe, her hair loosely tied back in a way that reminded him of old mornings, before the world changed. Her face was drawn, not with exhaustion from lack of sleep, but the deeper kind—the weariness that came from carrying something unspeakable for too long.

She took in the scene without comment. The boy at the window. The candle. The quiet.

She sat carefully at the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap like she was waiting for a verdict.

Félix didn’t turn.

“I made tea,” she offered. “Jasmine. Your favorite.”

He gave a small nod, more gesture than response. “Thank you.”

Silence again.

The words that came next didn’t sound rehearsed. They sounded fragile. Real.

“Do you hate me?”

His head lifted slightly at that.

“No,” he said. The word fell out before he had time to weigh it.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she said, quickly, breath catching. “You might not even know what to call it yet—this feeling. But when it comes, when the questions settle in, when it gets too heavy to—”

“I said I don’t,” Félix interrupted. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was steady. Clear.

He turned to look at her.

His expression wasn’t angry. Just tired. That same tiredness in the walls. In the air. In the rain.

“I’m not angry at you, Maman.”

The word slipped out like it always had. Unthinking. Unforced.

And it struck her—hard. Her shoulders drew up as if bracing against it… then slowly lowered. Softened.

“I… I don’t deserve that kindness,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Félix dropped his gaze to the windowsill. His fingers traced a crack in the wood, following it like a fault line.

“You stayed,” he said. “You held me when I was sick. You listened when I didn’t know how to speak. You never treated me like I was broken. You’re the only one who didn’t lie to me.”

His voice grew quieter.

“I think that counts for something.”

Amélie closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they shimmered.

She rose and crossed the room slowly, as though unsure if she was welcome. She stood behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was cool, trembling slightly. She rubbed her thumb in slow, grounding circles over the cloth of his sweater.

“You’ve changed,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“You’re softer.”

“I feel everything more clearly now,” he said. “Like I’ve been underwater my whole life and only just broke the surface.”

She bent forward and rested her forehead against the back of his head. They stayed like that. Breathing. Saying nothing.

But the silence was growing pregnant with something else.

The truth.

Amélie drew back gently and tucked a stray lock of Félix’s hair behind his ear before stepping away. Her hands trembled slightly as they fell to her sides. She stood there for a long moment, as if caught in some silent debate with herself.

“There’s something I need to show you,” she said at last, quietly. “Something I should have told you years ago.”

Félix didn’t ask what. He didn’t nod or speak. He simply rose to his feet, silent as the rain beyond the glass.

She led him through the corridor. The hush of the house pressed in around them, thick with memory and the kind of silence that only forms after too much is left unsaid. The windows lining the hallway gave little light. The sky outside remained a flat, oppressive gray, like the whole world was stuck between heartbeats.

The air smelled faintly of old cedar and dust. Paintings of stern ancestors loomed from the walls—long-dead Fathoms with colder eyes than Colt had ever managed. Their frames clicked gently in their hooks with the subtle shifting of the house.

They came to a stop before a tall door at the end of the hall.

Colt’s study.

It was locked, as it had always been. Even when he’d been alive, Félix had rarely been allowed inside. It wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctum. Colt’s own private cathedral of thought. Closed off from the world, from family, from warmth.

Amélie slipped a brass key from the pocket of her robe and held it in her palm for a moment before sliding it into the lock. Her hand lingered there.

“I haven’t been in here since…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

The lock turned with a soft metallic click.

The door creaked open on stiff, unused hinges. A gust of cool air escaped the room, carrying with it the scent of lemon oil, old vellum, and a cologne Félix hadn’t smelled in over a year. Colt had worn it sparingly—an austere scent, sharp and cold like bergamot and pine.

Félix stepped inside behind her. The room felt untouched by time, its shadows long and still.

Books lined the walls, arranged in perfect order, spines facing out in leather-bound silence. Shelves stretched to the ceiling. There were no trinkets here, no photographs or clutter. Colt had despised anything sentimental. He trusted logic, not memory.

A large desk stood in the center, its surface clean, save for a single leather blotter and a closed silver fountain pen. Behind it, a tall-backed chair faced the hearth. Above the mantel hung a self-portrait Colt had commissioned years ago—a grim likeness, angular and colorless, as if even his image refused to soften.

Amélie walked slowly to the hearth. She didn’t sit. She looked up at the portrait with tired eyes.

“He hated sentiment,” she said softly, as if reading Félix’s thoughts. “But it wasn’t because he didn’t feel. It was because he did.”

Félix stayed near the door, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the globe in the corner. It was old, lacquered, the continents slightly warped from time. He traced the outline of Europe with his eyes and tried not to think about what was coming.

Amélie finally turned from the portrait and crossed to the far bookshelf. She knelt beside one of the lower shelves and pressed a hand to the back panel.

There was a soft click.

A hidden compartment opened.

Félix moved closer.

From within the hidden panel, she drew out a black box. It was lacquered wood with small brass hinges and no visible lock. She set it carefully on the desk and opened it with both hands.

Inside lay an old book.

Its cover was thick and dark—worn with age, its corners scorched and edges stained. There was no title, only a symbol branded into the center: a circle split by a vertical line, with thorn-like branches curling out from each side.

It felt… wrong.

The air around it shifted, like pressure falling just slightly. Félix’s breath caught.

Amélie didn’t look at him. Her eyes were on the book, but her focus had turned inward, deeper than the room.

“This… was given to us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “To me. To Colt. To Émilie and Gabriel. A long time ago.”

She closed the lid slowly and sat down behind the desk.

Félix didn’t speak. He waited.

Amélie folded her hands in her lap. Not neatly. Her fingers twisted together—restless, uncertain.

“You already know that we couldn’t have children,” she said. “Colt and I tried for years. Doctors. Treatments. Prayers. Everything. Nothing worked.”

She swallowed.

“I thought I was broken. He never said it. But I saw it in his eyes. The disappointment.” She looked up. “Then one night… a man came to us. He said he knew a way.”

Félix felt the air in the room grow heavier.

“He offered us something strange. A brooch . And a promise. He told us it held a kind of magic—something ancient, something forgotten. He said it could create life. Shape it. If we used it together, Colt and I, we could create a child.”

Her voice cracked.

“I was so desperate. I didn’t ask enough questions. I told myself it was a blessing. That we were chosen. I thought… it must be fate.”

Félix’s eyes dropped to the black box.

“What was the cost?” he asked.

Amélie looked at him, startled by the question—startled that he already knew one had been paid.

She hesitated. Then answered, “He never told us. Not fully. He said only that power comes with balance. That nothing created could last unchanged. And that sometimes… the gift takes something back.”

Her hand reached instinctively for the silver ring on her finger. Not her wedding band—Colt had taken that with him to the grave. This one was simple, thin, unadorned. It seemed colder now.

“I don’t know how it worked,” she said quietly. “Colt never explained. The man gave us the ring and instructions. Colt was the one who wore it. I only… felt it, afterward. A warmth, a pull, and then—” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Then the first sign. A heartbeat.”

Félix didn’t move. His own heart thudded quietly beneath his ribs.

“You were real,” she said. “To me, you were real from that moment. You grew inside me. I carried you. I loved you. You were never some construct or creation or spell. You were my son.”

The word hit like a prayer. Like a vow.

She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her voice shook now.

“I know that doesn’t undo what we did. I know it doesn’t make it right. But you have to understand—I didn’t see you as anything other than mine. Ours. I didn’t know what we were risking. Not until it was too late.”

She gestured faintly to the black box.

“Colt did. I think… I think he knew something was wrong long before I did. He studied this book constantly. He stopped sleeping. He grew colder. Distant. The more he learned, the less he told me.”

Her hands dropped into her lap again.

“I think the brooch broke him.”

Félix didn’t answer.

But his jaw clenched.

And somewhere in the corner of his mind, in the space where Null’s presence used to live, he felt the echo of silence deepen.

“Snow was falling the night we met him,” Amélie said softly, eyes distant, as if watching that long-ago evening replay behind her eyelids.

The wind howled outside, but inside the library, time slowed.

“It was Émilie—your mother’s sister—who insisted we take a walk. She said the cold air helped clear her mind between the endless IVF appointments. Colt grumbled the whole time, restless and distant. Gabriel wore his long wool coat like armor, silent and watchful. I clutched my scarf tightly, unwilling to leave Émilie’s side.”

She swallowed hard. “We walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg, near closing hours. The paths were empty except for the sound of our boots cracking against the cold stone. Our breaths hung in the air like ghosts.”

Amélie’s voice cracked as she recalled Émilie’s despair. “She stopped suddenly and said, ‘I don’t want to try another clinic. It’s always the same. Shots. Tests. Numbers. Waiting.’”

Gabriel’s hand went to her shoulder, comforting but uncertain. “We can try in Geneva. They specialize in—”

“No,” Émilie said, her voice breaking. “They all specialize in something. I’m tired of being a project.”

Colt looked away, eyes shadowed. His ambition was folding in on itself, shrinking with every failure.

“I stood beside him,” Amélie said, “unsure if I should speak or stay silent.”

That’s when the man appeared.

“He didn’t walk up to us. He was just… there, at the edge of the path beneath a flickering street lamp. Long black coat. Hood drawn low. Too thin to be threatening, too still to be harmless.”

Her voice softened. “I remember my breath caught. ‘Who—?’ I started to ask.”

The man spoke before she could finish. “You’re looking for something science can’t give you. But you already know that.”

Gabriel stepped forward, wary. “Excuse me?”

The man reached into his coat, and every eye tensed.

But instead of a weapon, he pulled out a small, lacquered black box.

“I’m here because your longing summoned me,” he said quietly. “You called out in silence, and silence answered.”

No one spoke. The weight of the moment was heavy.

He opened the box.

Inside lay two objects: a sapphire-blue Peacock brooch .

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Miraculouses.”

The word held weight—recognition without surprise.

Émilie looked to Gabriel. “You know what these are?”

“I’ve seen them in books,” he replied. “Myth, alchemy, superstition.”

The man smiled coldly. “Superstition that can give you what doctors cannot. A child. Life.”

Amélie’s heart hammered. “What do you mean?”

The man’s gaze pierced through her. “There’s more than one path to life. Flesh is only the vessel.”

Gabriel bristled. “You’re saying these can create a child? That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” the man asked. “You’ve exhausted every clinical path. These offer another—at a price.”

Colt finally spoke, sharp and skeptical. “What price?”

The man closed the box. “You won’t know until the time comes to pay.”

That night, they brought the box home.

They argued for days.

Gabriel was the first to study the Miraculouses. He learned how they worked—or at least, what legends said. The Peacock Miraculous could bring forth beings born of emotion—sentimonsters. Constructs of soul and intention. But ephemeral. Short-lived. Fragile.

Unless… they weren’t summoned whole.

It was Amélie who discovered the idea first, accidentally, while testing it.

“What if,” she had said, “we used it not to manifest a being instantly… but to spark something inside us? What if the emotion—the intention—was allowed to grow?”

Colt had called it madness. But then he tried it himself.

He used the Peacock Miraculous to form a single thought: a child. My son. My heir.

And he anchored it inside Amélie.

What followed was… unbelievable.

Within weeks, the test came back positive.

So did Émilie’s.

Two pregnancies. No IVF. No science. Just raw intention.

They never told the world. Not even the doctors. They used forged charts, private appointments. As far as anyone knew, it had simply worked—miraculously.

But beneath the joy was fear.

Because something had changed in Émilie and colt

Félix was born under spring rain. Adrien would come a few weeks later.

But Émilie was fading. Her skin yellowed. Her hair thinned.

Chapter Text

Snow still clung to the branches outside the Agreste estate, soft and silent, like a shroud over a world that felt increasingly fragile. Inside, the rooms were filled with quiet conversations, hushed footsteps, and the steady, weary breaths of those who watched helplessly as Émilie and Colt faded before their eyes.

The first signs had been subtle, almost dismissible.

Émilie, usually so full of energy and warmth, began to tire quickly. Tasks that once were effortless now left her breathless, her hands trembling faintly as she cradled her growing belly. She laughed it off at first, attributing the exhaustion to pregnancy.

But the exhaustion deepened.

There were mornings when she could barely rise from bed, and afternoons when her vision blurred unexpectedly. Colt noticed her pallor growing every day paler, a shade of ghostly white that no amount of candlelight could warm.

Colt himself was not immune.

At first, he buried his symptoms beneath his usual stoicism. His hand trembled when writing letters or handling delicate objects; his skin lost its usual warmth and glow. He grew gaunt, the sharp planes of his face etched deeper by fatigue.

But the hardest thing was how both knew this was no ordinary illness.

It began with shared silent looks — a flicker of understanding passing between them — that whatever this was, it was not just in their bodies, but deeper, creeping into their very souls.

Amélie watched Colt struggle to conceal his suffering, the rigid wall of his demeanor slowly cracking as his strength waned. She refused to admit her own growing fear, though every time she glanced at Colt, she saw the man she loved shrinking under the weight of a burden no one could see.

Émilie’s condition worsened in tandem.

Her hands, once steady and sure, shook uncontrollably as she tried to feed herself. The laughter that once rang through the halls was replaced by long silences and whispered prayers. Gabriel held her close, whispering words of comfort that neither fully believed.

Their doctors were baffled.

Consultations were held behind closed doors. Specialists were summoned from Paris and beyond, but the verdict was always the same: no identifiable disease, no known remedy.

Tests returned inconclusive, their results mocking the family’s hope.

Gabriel’s face became drawn and hollow. He spent countless nights pouring over medical texts and ancient manuscripts, searching desperately for an answer in a language no one else could speak.

Amélie stayed by Émilie’s bedside for hours on end, sometimes singing lullabies to her unborn child, her voice fragile but determined. She brushed Émilie’s thinning hair back gently, hiding the fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

In the quiet, dark corners of the estate, Colt and Gabriel found themselves fighting their own internal battles — fear, frustration, helplessness — emotions they both tried to hide beneath layers of resolve and pride.

Colt, usually the strongest among them, was losing that strength every day.

His once commanding presence diminished, replaced by a frail man who could barely stand without support. His breath came in shallow gasps; a persistent cough wracked his body, sometimes stealing his voice.

One afternoon, Amélie found him sitting by the fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answers.

“Colt,” she whispered, sitting beside him. “You need to tell me how you feel.”

He looked at her, his eyes glassy and distant. “I don’t want to worry you,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m afraid... I’m afraid I won’t make it.”

Amélie reached out, taking his trembling hand in hers. “We’ll find a way.”

But even as she spoke, she knew the words were empty.

Émilie’s deterioration was more visible, more heartbreaking.

She refused to give in, fighting with everything she had for the life growing inside her, but the sickness clawed at her relentlessly.

Her skin lost its warmth, becoming translucent. Her breath became shallow and rapid, like the flutter of a dying bird. She coughed endlessly, sometimes vomiting blood, leaving Gabriel cradling her as her body betrayed her.

One night, Gabriel found her awake in the dark, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m scared, Gabriel,” she admitted softly, the fear breaking through her usual strength.

Gabriel pulled her close. “I’m here,” he whispered. “We’ll face this together.”

But he didn’t know if that was enough.

The house was heavy with unspoken fears.

Amélie watched the love between Émilie and Gabriel falter under the strain, their hands sometimes trembling too much to hold each other. The unyielding hope they had clung to was slipping through their fingers like sand.

Colt, despite his own worsening condition, remained fiercely protective of Amélie, trying to shield her from the pain he couldn’t stop. Yet Amélie saw through the bravado; the man she loved was breaking too.

They tried experimental treatments, searching for any thread of hope.

Gabriel sought out old tomes in forgotten libraries, looking for any mention of ailments like this, anything that might explain the inexplicable. Amélie prayed in silent desperation, holding her belly and pleading for mercy.

Days blurred into nights. Time lost meaning beneath the weight of sickness and fear.

Émilie’s hair thinned until it was nearly gone, her cheeks hollowed by relentless sickness. Colt’s body shook with spasms, his face gaunt and pale.

One morning, Amélie awoke to find Colt unable to rise from bed. His breath was shallow, and his eyes filled with quiet despair.

“We need help,” she said softly, fighting tears.

But even as she spoke, she knew there was none left.

It was the breaking point.

Émilie’s collapse came suddenly on a cold morning.

She had been walking through the garden with Gabriel when her legs gave way. Gabriel caught her, holding her as she gasped for air, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “So very tired…”

Amélie screamed that day, the sound raw and ragged, an echo of all the pain and helplessness they felt.

They gathered in the dimly lit parlor, the four of them bound by grief and desperation.

Gabriel’s voice was cold and hollow as he paced, fists clenched.

“Is there truly no cure?” Amélie demanded, her voice breaking.

Gabriel shook his head. “Not one that I’ve found.”

Hope had become a fragile thread, stretched thin until it snapped.

Days passed in a haze.

Émilie was mostly confined to her bed, pale and weak. Colt’s strength ebbed away, the man who had once been her rock now needing her care.

Amélie stayed close, refusing to leave their sides.

And then—

The man returned.

No one invited him.

The snow had ceased its falling, leaving behind a brittle silence that settled like frost on the bones of the estate. The garden, once a sanctuary of life and renewal, lay dormant beneath a thin sheet of ice, the world outside muted and cold. Inside, the air felt heavier—laden with exhaustion, grief, and the unspoken weight of dread.

Amélie stood by the tall window, her fingers lightly tracing the frost that had gathered on the glass. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the empty courtyard where footsteps once echoed. Behind her, Émilie sat pale and frail on a cushioned chair, the faintest whisper of a pulse barely keeping time with the room. Colt’s restless pacing traced long arcs across the drawing room, each measured step a brittle attempt to hold back despair. Gabriel lingered near the heavy oak door, his eyes sharp and unblinking, as if daring the shadows themselves to move.

Then—a knock. Sharp. Deliberate. It fractured the silence like a crack in frozen glass.

Gabriel’s hand went to the dagger at his belt. “Who is it?” His voice was a low growl.

Colt’s face tightened, eyes narrowing. “It can’t be…”

Amélie’s breath caught in her throat. “Don’t open the door. Please.”

Émilie’s voice was a fragile thread of sound. “No. Not now.”

But the slow, stubborn resolve in Colt’s steps carried him forward. With a heavy creak, the door swung open.

There he stood.

The man in black—his robe swallowing the fading twilight, his hood shadowing every detail of his face—was a moving absence, a cold presence that seemed to suck the warmth from the air.

“I told you I would return,” his voice was quiet, but it vibrated through the stillness like a dirge. “You were right to wait for me.”

Gabriel stepped forward, fury boiling beneath his skin. “Why? Why come back now? What more do you want?”

The man’s eyes—dark, fathomless pools—held none of the warmth of apology. “Truths you were not ready to hear.”

Colt’s jaw clenched. “You lied. You gave us broken promises disguised as miracles. You gave us pain.”

His gaze flicked to Émilie, who straightened despite her weakening body, her eyes burning with a fierce, desperate defiance.

“The Peacock Miraculous is broken,” he said. “You never asked what ‘broken’ truly meant.”

Amélie stepped forward, voice trembling with years of fear and fury. “Then tell us. What did you do?”

A faint, cruel smile touched the man’s lips. “It was never meant to bind soul to flesh for long. Mortals cannot bear such a burden without paying a price.”

Gabriel’s voice cut through the cold like steel. “You warned us of a price. What price have you taken?”

Colt’s eyes burned. “Why did you not warn us? Why condemn us to destruction?”

The silence stretched between them like a chasm, deep and endless.

“Because true creation demands sacrifice,” the man said finally.

Émilie trembled. “Is there no cure? No hope to turn back this fate?”

Slowly, he reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a slender vial—a glass vessel filled with a dark liquid that seemed to drink in the light around it.

“This,” he said, “will delay the sickness. Not heal it. Only buy time.”

Gabriel snatched the vial with a shaking hand. “How much time?”

The man’s voice was grim. “Long enough to hold on to hope. Long enough to prepare for what is to come.”

Tension thickened the air, suffocating in its weight. Amélie, Colt, Émilie, and Gabriel faced the man together, hearts torn between hatred and despair.

“Who are you?” Gabriel demanded. “Why do this to us?”

The man tilted his head, a shadow crossing his face like a flicker of something unreadable. “I am neither enemy nor savior. I am the keeper of balance.”

Colt spat bitterly, “Balance? You stole years from Émilie’s life, tore our family apart. What kind of balance is this?”

“The balance of power and price. Life and death. Creation and destruction,” he replied.

Amélie’s voice cracked, raw with grief. “You offered us miracles wrapped in curses. Why? What purpose?”

“For you, the desire to create was overwhelming. You reached beyond mortal bounds. I gave you a path, knowing the cost. You chose to walk it.”

Tears glistened on Émilie’s cheeks. “I only wanted to hold my child. To feel hope again.”

His voice softened, a whisper beneath the storm. “Hope is powerful, but even hope casts shadows.”

Gabriel’s fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. “We didn’t ask for broken gifts and death sentences. We want answers. Why send us incomplete tools? Why leave us to suffer?”

His gaze hardened. “Because the Peacock Miraculous is but a shattered fragment of greater power—broken, incomplete.”

Amélie’s heart pounded like a drum. “Why didn’t you tell us this?”

The man’s smile was cold. “Because truth would have stopped you. True creation never waits for consent.”

Colt’s voice was a harsh whisper. “So, we are your experiments. Your playthings.”

“No,” the man said calmly. “You are proof that even broken things can birth life—though never without cost.”

Émilie gasped, breath shallow, strength fading. “Is there no healing? No way to fix this?”

He raised a hand, silencing her. “The vial will delay what is to come. That is all I can offer.”

Gabriel’s fury exploded. “This is not an offer. It’s a death sentence.”

The man’s gaze drifted to the door, the room suddenly colder.

“Do not blame me for what you chose. I am but the messenger.”

Amélie’s voice broke the heavy silence. “We trusted you. We believed.”

“And now, you see the ruin of that trust,” he said softly.

Émilie’s breaths came ragged, Colt’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, Gabriel’s face was a mask of stone.

“If this is the price, so be it,” Gabriel said. “But no more secrets. No more lies.”

The man nodded once. “So be it.”

With a final unreadable look, he turned and vanished into the night, swallowed by the shadows he had summoned.

The man had left, but his shadow lingered in the cold air, as if the very walls themselves had absorbed his bitterness. The estate’s great hall, once warm and alive with light and laughter, now felt like a crypt sealed by despair.

Amélie sank into the nearest chair, her fingers trembling as she clutched the empty space where the vial once rested. The promise of delay felt like a cruel taunt; a whisper of hope drowned beneath waves of inevitability.

Émilie lay on the fainting couch, her breath shallow but steady. Her eyes, glassy and dim, followed every movement around her. Even as sickness gnawed at her, a spark of unbroken will remained.

Colt stood rigid by the window, staring out at the snow-covered garden, the frozen branches mirroring the frost that had settled deep within his heart. His usually composed mask cracked, revealing a man burdened by guilt and helplessness.

Gabriel remained near the door, arms crossed, face set like stone. His jaw clenched as if grinding away the rage that threatened to consume him.

The silence was broken only by the quiet drip of melting ice from the windowsill.

Amélie swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “What do we do now?”

Colt turned slowly, his voice low and raw. “We survive. We find a way.”

Gabriel scoffed, bitter. “And how? We have a broken Miraculous, a poison coursing through Émilie’s veins, and a man who disappears like smoke whenever we demand answers.”

Émilie’s voice, though weak, held steady. “We fight with what we have.”

Amélie’s gaze found Émilie’s, and in that fragile connection, a faint warmth flickered. Despite everything, despite the looming shadow of death, they were still here. Still breathing.

Morning spilled soft and pale into the room. Colt rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, turning to Amélie with a rare admission. “The vial can only hold the sickness back, not cure it.”

Amélie nodded, steeling herself. “Then we must find another way.”

Gabriel, restless, suddenly spoke: “There’s something you don’t know.”

The two women looked at him, curiosity outweighing their weariness.

“The man left us a Grimoire,” Gabriel said quietly. “A book with knowledge of the Miraculouses. A guide to their power.”

Émilie’s eyes fluttered open, brighter now. “What kind of guide?”

Gabriel moved to an ancient oak chest and lifted the lid, revealing a worn, leather-bound tome. Strange symbols covered the cover, etched with a strange light.

Amélie touched it gently. “Can it save her?”

Gabriel’s eyes darkened. “It might. The Grimoire says two Miraculouses together could grant a wish. If that’s true… there is hope.”

The word hung in the air—a fragile, precious hope.

Six Years Later

When Felix turned six, everything shifted again.

Colt’s health deteriorated rapidly. The man who had once been cold and unyielding became quieter, his strength ebbing away like the dying embers of a fire. No longer shouting or commanding, he spoke little, often just staring into empty space.

One cold evening, after a coughing fit that rattled his entire frame, Colt sank into his chair—and did not rise again.

Just like that, he was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Felix stood motionless in the living room, gazing at the still figure of the man who had once feared him, hated him, and yet shaped the man he was becoming. Strange emotions swirled—no sadness, no joy—only a hollow feeling of being unmoored.

Amélie’s composure shattered. She cried openly, no longer hiding behind tired smiles or whispered lullabies. Felix had never seen her so small, so broken.

“I’m here, Mama,” Felix whispered one night, clinging to her knees as she sat by the dying fire. “Don’t cry. Felix is strong now.”

At Colt’s funeral, Felix stood quietly beside his mother, clutching the peacock brooch. It had not glowed for years, yet he kept it close—a riddle without an answer.

Mourners came with gentle condolences as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the gravesite.

Then, heels clicking softly on the stone path, a woman approached—bearing an uncanny resemblance to Amélie.

“Amélie…” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her.

Amélie turned, voice trembling. “Émilie…”

They embraced, tears flowing freely.

Felix watched quietly, recalling something his mother once said:
“My twin lives far away, but our hearts are always close.”

Émilie sniffled, a soft smile breaking through her tears. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sister.”

Before Amélie could reply, a new voice cut through the still air.

“I offer my condolences, Madame Fathom.”

The voice was deep, cold, smooth—like black marble.

Felix looked up to see a towering man—over two meters tall—with snow-white hair and sharp silver eyes. His black clothes were crisp and pristine. An ornate locket brooch glowed faintly on his chest with the same eerie light Felix remembered from his father’s.

Amélie stiffened, wiping her eyes, lips pressed tight.

“Gabriel Agreste,” she said, voice flat and devoid of warmth.

Émilie cleared her throat awkwardly and stepped aside.

Behind Gabriel, a small boy peeked out—six years old, the same age as Felix—with matching green eyes and soft blond hair. But the boy’s face was drawn tight with fear.

He clung to Gabriel’s coat, small fists clenched at the seams.

Émilie gently stepped forward. “This is Adrien,” she said softly. “He’s my son… your cousin, Felix.”

Adrien looked up, eyes glistening with tears, gave a small, shy wave—and then hid again behind his mother’s legs.

Felix said nothing. Just watched.

That was the last time he saw them.

Back in the Present

Amélie’s voice trembled.

“I thought… if we could keep going just a little longer, we’d find a cure. That science would catch up. But it never did.”

Félix stared at her, unmoving.

“You were… real to me, from the start,” she said. “Even if the world would say otherwise. Even if your soul was born in a whisper.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “You are my son, Félix. Not a creation. Not a construct. You are mine.”

The clock on the wall chimed once.

Her phone buzzed against the table.

She picked it up slowly. Her brow furrowed.

Then, her face drained of color.

Félix leaned forward. “What is it?”

She swallowed hard.

Her hand trembled.

“I need to… I’ll be back.”

She stood too fast, knocking the chair slightly.

Félix rose. “Mother?”

But she was already gone, leaving the door ajar and her words behind her.

A hollow silence returned to the library.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.

Chapter Text

The sky split at dawn.

Not with thunder or lightning—just the quiet grayness that follows grief too deep for storm. The kind of sky that presses down on you, heavy and unyielding. Over Paris, the clouds hung low and thick, draped like a shroud over the city’s rooftops. The morning light was cold and sterile, bleeding through the mist without warmth.

And at the edge of the world, the cemetery waited.

Rows of white stones stretched out in perfect, regimented lines, pale sentinels over names no one spoke aloud anymore. Rain fell in long, patient sheets, pooling at the bases of graves, running in quiet rivulets down the hill. The earth drank it without complaint.

On the path leading up the hill, the sycamores stood bare, their black limbs trembling under the weight of water and memory. They whispered with every drop that touched them, their branches twitching, creaking faintly in the breeze.

A single black car glided up the gravel drive, its engine softer than a whisper.

It stopped at the curb, and for a moment no one moved. The windows were fogged with breath, the door handles slick with rain.

Then Felix stepped out.

His shoes sank slightly into the soaked earth, but he didn’t flinch. His hair—usually neat, almost arrogantly so—was damp and flat against his forehead. He did not bother to smooth it back. His hands hung loose at his sides, empty. His eyes were dry. Not red. Not cold. Just… still.

A black umbrella opened above him, held without much care. He didn’t look up to see who held it.

He just stood there, staring into the rows of stones, his breath fogging faintly in the chill.

A moment later, Amélie followed.

She gripped the doorframe too long, as though afraid her legs might betray her once she let go. Her other hand clutched a folded piece of paper she had carried since sunrise. The rain darkened her coat almost instantly, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Her face was carefully made up, as always, but her grief had bled through anyway. Her mascara was already smudged beneath red-rimmed eyes. Her breath caught every few seconds, uneven, like a seamstress struggling to stitch together a fabric already torn beyond repair.

She stepped up next to her son, beneath the umbrella. Neither of them spoke.

Then Gabriel emerged.

He did not wear black.

He wore gray.

A lifeless, sterile gray, tailored to perfection. His posture was immaculate, his movements mechanical. His silver hair, unmoved by wind or rain, was set with almost unnatural precision. His face was a sculpture in stone, sharp planes of cheek and jaw and nothing soft left between them.

The faint scar on his cheek was already healing, but it was part of him now. Like the rest of his hard geometry, it fit him—too perfectly.

If there was grief, it was buried so deep no one dared go looking for it.

He carried nothing. Not even a single flower.

And then Adrien climbed out.

The boy stumbled the moment his shoes touched the grass, his knees buckling slightly under a weight too big for his small chest. His tears were already there, falling before the first footstep. His hand flailed in the empty air, reaching for something—someone.

Amélie’s instincts were faster than thought.

She turned, dropped to one knee, and caught him in her arms.

Adrien fell into her like a tide, sobbing against her shoulder, his thin little arms clinging desperately to her coat.

He didn’t speak.

The sound of his cries was quiet at first—tiny hiccups, small as bird calls—but they grew, climbing into shuddering, breathless sobs that seemed to tear right through her.

They walked slowly up the gravel path. Gabriel did not touch his son.

The cemetery spread wide around them, vast and watching. Every stone they passed bore some quiet story, eroded and softened by years of rain. The water pooled around the bases, filling the carved letters with blackness.

A crow called once, sharp and low, then fell silent.

The procession stopped in front of a new grave.

Too clean. The soil was too dark, freshly turned. The flowers—white lilies and roses—still too fresh, their stems wet and gleaming.

No grass had grown yet.

Felix’s gaze dropped to the stone but didn’t read the words at first. His eyes just drifted over it like water over rock.

It wasn’t until Amélie’s knees gave way that he blinked.

She crumpled to the earth—not with drama, but with the quiet inevitability of someone finally allowed to fall apart.

Her dress was instantly soaked through, but she didn’t care. Her hands trembled as they reached for the name etched into the marble.

ÉMILIE AGRESTE
Beloved Mother, Twin, Dreamer.

The rain thickened.

Gabriel stood motionless, his eyes locked on the stone. His face didn’t move—not a flinch, not a blink. He stared at the letters as if trying to remember what they used to mean.

Felix still did not cry.

He couldn’t.

The feeling was too big, too foreign—like standing outside a house while it burns, unable to tell if it had ever really been yours.

He looked down at Adrien.

The boy’s face was buried against Amélie’s shoulder, his small back rising and falling in uneven, frantic sobs. Felix couldn’t tell if the tears were really for Émilie… or for the silence that Gabriel carried like his own private tombstone.

The umbrella tilted further in his hand. He didn’t notice.

They stayed like that—Amélie kneeling, two boys standing still as stone, and a man who no longer remembered how to grieve.

The priest was gone. The guests had long since offered their hushed condolences and disappeared like morning mist.

No words remained.

The name on the grave stayed carved in perfect, precise lines.

Émilie.

The woman who laughed too loud at bad jokes. Who sent letters by hand, with pressed flowers inside. Who hugged you and never let go first. Who once danced barefoot on the wet grass of the Agreste garden while Colt muttered about “indecent nonsense.”

Now she was just soil. And silence.

Amélie’s voice cracked through the quiet at last, barely audible.

“She promised me…”

Her breath hitched.

“She said we’d grow old together. That we’d raise them… together.”

Gabriel didn’t move.

Felix crouched and laid a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t even know if there was anything to say.

Adrien’s head lifted. His face was blotchy, his eyes red and wide. His voice came out a quiver.

“She’s… not coming back… is she?”

Felix’s throat tightened.

Amélie swallowed and shook her head faintly.

“No,” she whispered.

Adrien’s lip trembled.

“I want her back,” he said.

It wasn’t angry. Just lost.

Small.

Felix didn’t answer. But somewhere inside him, something cracked. Something soundless and deep.

Gabriel finally turned away.

He didn’t kneel. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even look at his son.

He just looked back once, long enough to take in the grave, the child, and Amélie kneeling there.

Then he walked away.

Felix’s eyes followed him, watching him disappear behind the curtain of rain.

No goodbye.

No words.

The umbrella slipped from Felix’s hand, forgotten.

The stone stood alone.

Émilie Agreste.

The sky wept on her name.

“Adrien—”

The boy broke free of Amélie’s grasp, staggering after his father.

His thin shoes splashed through the mud, arms pumping awkwardly, chest heaving with hiccupped sobs.

“Father! Please—”

Gabriel didn’t stop.

The crunch of his shoes on gravel faded into mist.

Adrien couldn’t keep up. His legs gave out halfway down the hill, and he fell to his knees, crying into his hands.

Then he began pounding his fists into the shallow puddle that had formed where he knelt.

Over and over—splash, splash, splash—the water scattered under his strikes. His knuckles turned red, his cries raw and ragged, echoing up through the trees.

Felix caught up a few moments later.

He stood there first, just watching, the rain clinging to his eyelashes.

Then he crouched.

Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around Adrien from behind, pulling him close even as the boy kept striking the water.

“It’s enough,” Felix murmured, his voice low.

But Adrien kept going.

“We’ve had enough,” Felix said again, more softly.

He held Adrien tighter, until finally the boy’s arms went limp and he buried his face in Felix’s chest, shaking with quiet sobs.

Felix closed his eyes.

He couldn’t take the grief away. But he could keep Adrien from drowning in it.

They stayed like that, in the rain, until Adrien’s breaths slowed.

Then Felix helped him to his feet.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go home.”

Adrien sniffled but didn’t argue.

Felix kept an arm around him all the way back up the path.

Amélie was waiting by the car. Her hands were folded, her eyes blank and hollow.

She didn’t speak when they arrived. Just reached for Adrien, guiding him into the car with a light touch.

Felix slid in after him.

The driver started the engine, and the car rolled away from the curb, its tires hissing through the puddles. The cemetery faded behind them, swallowed by rain and mist.

But not everyone left.

At the far edge of the cemetery, beyond the last row of stones, a figure stood watching.

Tall. Motionless.

Dressed head to toe in black, his suit cut razor-sharp, his shoes gleaming even through the mud.

A sleek, featureless mask covered his face, reflecting the faint light like dark glass.

His hands were clasped behind his back.

He had been there the entire time.

And as the car carrying Gabriel’s fractured family vanished into the rain, a soft, low chuckle slipped from behind the mask.

“Oh… how exquisite,” he murmured, almost lovingly.

He tilted his head, savoring every shiver of grief, every thread of despair.

“This,” he added, his voice sweet and dangerous, “is the beginning of something spectacular.”

Then came the laugh.

Not soft anymore.

It rang sharp and wild, curling through the cemetery like a strange melody, bouncing from stone to stone.

And then he was gone.

No sound. No flash of light.

Just the faint swirl of mist where he had stood, and the lingering echo of his laughter in the rain.

The sky above gave one final shiver as the last of the storm broke.

And then the world fell quiet again.

Chapter Text

The library smelled of old dust, stale whiskey, and rain.

Outside, the storm rolled on. The windows rattled in their casements as the wind lashed at the shutters. Every so often, a flash of lightning illuminated the rows of shelves — thousands of books, lined up like soldiers, their spines gleaming faintly in the darkness.

Gabriel Agreste stood before the painting.

The frame was taller than he was, its gilt edges dulled by time. It had once hung in pride of place, centered above the library’s marble fireplace. Tonight, though, it leaned against the wall at an awkward angle, its canvas staring back at him in quiet accusation.

He was drunk.

Not enough to stumble — not yet — but enough that his breath carried the sharp tang of brandy and his steps came just a fraction too slow. His silver hair fell untidily across his forehead, damp from the sweat beading there. One cuff of his shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loose and sodden with spilled drink.

And his eyes…

His eyes were fixed on one figure in the painting.

The boy.

His boy.

Adrien stood between him and Émilie in the portrait — smiling, golden-haired, so bright he almost glowed against the muted palette of his parents. He looked younger then. Happier. Unmarked.

Gabriel’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“They… shouldn’t have taken the deal,” he muttered, his words slurring just slightly. “We… we shouldn’t have taken it. Not for him. Not for…” His voice trailed off into a bitter laugh, hollow and small in the vast room.

His gaze roamed over Émilie’s face in the painting — soft, warm, eternally kind — then back to Adrien’s.

That boyish smile.

That innocence.

Something in him cracked.

With a roar, Gabriel hurled his empty glass across the room. It shattered against the far wall, shards raining down over the parquet floor. His hand shot out, and before he could stop himself, he was clawing at the canvas.

He didn’t touch her face. He didn’t touch his own.

But Adrien’s?

He ripped it to ribbons.

The sound of tearing fabric filled the air, jagged and savage. Gabriel’s breath came in heaves as he ripped and shredded until nothing remained of the boy’s likeness but hanging strips of painted cloth.

Then silence fell.

Gabriel staggered back, his hands streaked with flecks of oil paint. He stared at the ruin before him, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

His knees felt weak.

And yet… even now… even now, some part of him whispered it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He turned away — and froze.

Someone was there.

Standing just beyond the halo of the fireplace’s dying embers, half-hidden in the shadows between two towering bookshelves.

A man.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in black. And wearing a featureless mask that gleamed faintly in the dim light.

The stranger clapped slowly, the sound low and mocking.

“Well done,” the man said, his voice smooth as silk, curling through the air like smoke. “Bravo. Very theatrical. Very… cathartic, I imagine.”

Gabriel’s stomach lurched.

“Who—” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. “Who the hell are you?”

The masked man tilted his head, amused.

“Ah, Gabriel. Always so quick to rage, so slow to remember. Don’t you recognize me?”

Something cold and ancient settled in Gabriel’s gut.

He did recognize that voice.

But that was impossible.

His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.

“You—”

“Yes. Me.”

Gabriel didn’t think. He just moved.

He charged forward, crossing the room in three long strides, his fist swinging for the man’s face.

The blow landed squarely against the mask — and stopped dead.

No give. No flinch.

It was like punching stone.

Pain lanced up Gabriel’s knuckles. He staggered back, clutching his hand, his breath ragged.

The masked man chuckled softly.

“Oh, Gabriel. You’ve always been such a creature of temper. That’s what makes you so much fun.”

Gabriel’s eyes blazed with fury.

“This is your fault!” he shouted, his voice raw. “Émilie. Everything. All of it—your fault!”

But the man only laughed again, a quiet, patronizing sound.

“No,” he said gently. “No, Gabriel. It wasn’t me.”

He stepped closer, and even through the mask, his eyes seemed to gleam.

“It was you. Always you. Your love for her. Your desperation to make her happy. To give her what she wanted. You took the deal. You paid the price. Not me.”

Gabriel’s hands shook.

“Liar.”

“Truth,” the man corrected lightly. “But then, truth has never been your strong suit, has it?”

And then — as if conjured from the air — the masked man opened his hand.

A rip in reality itself bloomed between his fingers, a perfect oval of blackness that shimmered faintly at the edges, as though it could swallow the whole room if it wished.

From that impossible darkness, he pulled forth a book.

It was bound in deep green leather, etched with strange symbols, its clasp glinting like gold.

The Giomer.

Gabriel’s breath caught.

The Giomer.

That book was supposed to be in Colt Fathom’s possession. That had been the agreement: Colt would keep the Grimoire, while Gabriel kept the Peacock Miraculous… and the Locket Brooch.

Gabriel’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“How…”

The masked man twirled the book lazily in his hand.

“Did you really think a little arrangement with Colt would keep this out of my reach? Oh, Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s composure fractured further.

“What do you want from me?”

The man smiled behind the mask — Gabriel could feel it.

“Ah. At last, the right question.”

The stranger stepped closer still, his presence suddenly towering, suffocating.

“Aren’t you still looking for them?” he purred. “The Cat. The Ladybug. The so-called Guardians’ temple?”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t already know the answer.”

The man chuckled darkly.

“I don’t need to pretend anything. You’re still searching. You’ve been using that… charming little organization of yours to comb the world for the temple. To uncover the Guardians’ secrets.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Sphinx. Really?”

Gabriel flinched at the name.

The man straightened and let out a theatrical sigh.

“You’ve always lacked imagination, Gabriel. Still, I admire your… tenacity.”

Gabriel’s bitterness boiled over.

“All my searching,” he spat. “All my resources. And still nothing. Not a trace. Not a single breadcrumb.”

He turned his back on the man, pacing toward the window.

“They’ve hidden it too well. They’ve buried themselves so deep the earth itself protects them.”

His words were bitter. Defeated.

But before he could say more—

His personal phone buzzed in his pocket.

The sound was sharp in the silence, jarring.

Gabriel froze.

Slowly, he pulled the device free, staring at the name on the screen.

He pressed it to his ear.

“Yes?”

The voice on the other end was crisp, efficient, and impossible to mistake.

“Monsieur Agreste. We’ve found it.”

Gabriel’s blood ran cold.

The line crackled faintly as the voice continued.

“The temple. We’ve found it. The coordinates will be sent to you shortly.”

Gabriel closed his eyes.

For a moment, he could neither speak nor breathe.

Then — at last — he smiled.

A small, hard, humorless smile.

He lowered the phone, his fingers tight around it, and turned back to the masked man.

“I suppose,” he said softly, “you’ll be wanting something from me now.”

The man’s laughter filled the library, low and chilling and delighted.

“Always,” he said.

And the shadows seemed to grow longer around him, curling up the shelves, swallowing the ruined painting, dancing at the edges of the firelight.

As Gabriel watched, the man melted back into darkness, his shape dissolving into mist, leaving only a faint whisper of silk and laughter behind.

Then even that was gone.

The library was silent once more.

Gabriel stood alone, staring at the shredded remains of his son’s painted smile.

And outside, the storm raged on.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of rain against the windowpane.

Adrien lay curled on his side, tangled in white sheets. Even in sleep, his face was restless — his brow faintly creased, lashes damp from half-formed dreams he would never admit to anyone.

The storm outside had been gentle all evening, but in Adrien’s mind, it was louder — crackling like glass breaking, spilling fragments of memory he couldn’t quite gather.

His mother’s laughter.
Her perfume on his coat.
Her cold, still hand in the casket.

He whimpered softly, clutching the pillow tighter.

And then — the air shifted.

The temperature dropped slightly, and the shadows in the room thickened like ink.

Adrien stirred faintly but didn’t wake — not until the whisper came.

“Adrien…”

His name, carried on a voice so familiar it froze the blood in his veins.

His eyes snapped open.

Standing at the foot of his bed was his mother.

Émilie.

She was exactly as he remembered — golden hair tumbling in soft waves, a blue silk gown catching the faint light, her delicate hands folded just so. She smiled faintly, and for one fragile second, Adrien couldn’t even breathe.

“…M—Mama…?” he croaked.

She tilted her head, her smile widening just a little — but something about it was wrong. Her eyes. Too sharp. Too dark. Glittering with something he didn’t recognize.

“Yes,” she murmured sweetly. “It’s me, Adrien.”

He sat up too fast, the sheets pooling around his waist. “I—I thought… I thought you were—”

“Dead?” she finished for him, softly. Her smile deepened, and for a fleeting moment hope flared in his chest.

But then her smile turned brittle, her gaze hardening.

“Alive?” she echoed, stepping closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. “Because of you?”

Adrien flinched, confusion and dread tangling in his chest. “What…?”

She took another step.

“You’re the reason I died, Adrien,” she said simply, almost gently.

His stomach dropped.

He shook his head automatically. “No. No, that’s not true—”

But her laugh was bitter, mocking.

“Oh, my little sunshine,” she sneered. “Do you really think I would’ve made that deal if not for you? Do you think your father and I would’ve risked everything — our family, our future — if it weren’t for you?”

Adrien’s breath hitched. “Stop—”

Her hands, once so graceful, curled into fists.

“You were weak. Sick. You couldn’t even survive on your own. And I stayed too long. Because you begged me to. Because you needed me.” Her voice cracked with venom. “And look where it got me.”

Adrien shook his head harder, his hair falling into his eyes. “That’s not true—”

“It is true!” she snapped, suddenly towering over him. The room seemed to darken around her, her figure blotting out the faint light from the window. “I wouldn’t be what I am now if not for you. I gave up everything for you, Adrien… and you still weren’t worth it.”

Adrien pressed his hands over his ears, his chest heaving, his vision blurring with hot tears.

“Stop it—stop saying that—”

But she circled him like a vulture, her voice calm and cruel.

“You’ll never forgive yourself,” she whispered. “You killed me, Adrien.”

That broke him.

The sobs ripped through his chest, wild and raw, as he slid off the bed and onto the floor. He clutched at the carpet like it could save him, his whole body shaking as the words echoed in his head.

Killed her. Killed her. Killed her.

The figure of his mother straightened, tilting her head as though satisfied, though her smile was sharp and cold now.

“You’ll never be free of it,” she said softly. “No matter how much you cry.”

Her form began to fade, the edges of her gown dissolving into wisps of shadow. Her cruel laugh lingered for a moment — low and mocking — before silence reclaimed the room.

Adrien didn’t see her go. He was curled on the floor, gasping, broken, whispering over and over:

“…my fault… my fault… it’s my fault…”

The bedroom door slammed open.

“Adrien!”

Félix stood in the doorway, his hair mussed, his expression tight with alarm.

In two strides he was at his cousin’s side, dropping to his knees.

Adrien was still on the floor, rocking slightly, repeating those same words under his breath.

“…my fault… my fault… it’s my fault…”

Félix froze at the sound, his chest tightening.

“No,” he said firmly, grabbing Adrien by the shoulders. “No. Look at me.”

Adrien’s tear-streaked face turned toward him, wide green eyes full of misery.

Félix’s jaw set, and he pulled Adrien into a rough hug, wrapping his arms tight around him.

“You listen to me, Adrien,” Félix said low and fierce into his cousin’s hair. “This is not your fault. Do you hear me? Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

Adrien sobbed into his chest, thin fingers clutching desperately at Félix’s shirt.

Félix held him tighter, murmuring soothing words he wasn’t sure Adrien even heard.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The boy shuddered against him, and Félix closed his eyes, tightening his embrace.

Whatever nightmare had done this to Adrien, Félix silently swore it wouldn’t win.

Not as long as he was here.

Not as long as Adrien had him.

Outside, the storm moved on. The rain slowed to a faint, steady drip, and moonlight slipped through the sheer curtains like silver, painting pale patterns on the floor.

Too quiet now.

But in Félix’s arms, Adrien was still breathing. And Félix held on.

Held on for both of them.

Félix stayed kneeling there on the floor for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Adrien’s crying slowed from harsh, shuddering sobs to soft hiccups and broken breaths, his grip on Félix’s shirt loosening slightly.

Even after the tears quieted, Félix didn’t let go. He just held him, resting his chin on the top of Adrien’s bowed head, fingers carding gently through his cousin’s hair.

When Adrien finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and quiet.

“She was here.”

Félix’s eyes narrowed faintly, though his tone stayed calm. “Who?”

Adrien swallowed, pulling back slightly to look at him. His green eyes were red-rimmed, glassy with the sheen of tears.

“My mother,” he whispered. “She… she was here. Right there.”

He gestured weakly toward the foot of the bed, his hand trembling.

Félix followed the gesture with his eyes, but of course — nothing was there now. Just a rumpled blanket and the faint glimmer of rain against the window beyond.

“She… she said…” Adrien’s voice cracked, and he pressed a fist to his mouth.

Félix’s grip on his shoulders tightened slightly. “What did she say?”

Adrien hesitated, then forced the words out through grit teeth.

“She said it was my fault.”

The words hung heavy in the quiet, sharp enough to sting even Félix.

“She said… they made the deal because of me. That I was weak. That I… killed her.”

Adrien’s shoulders shook again, though the tears didn’t fall this time. He sounded almost empty now, like saying the words had scraped him raw.

Félix’s breath left him slowly.

“I see,” he murmured, though his mind was already turning furiously.

He knew Adrien well enough to know how much guilt he already carried on a normal day. How he twisted himself up over every tiny misstep, every imagined slight.

Someone — or something — was preying on that now.

Félix wasn’t about to let it.

“Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice sharp enough to make Adrien flinch. “Whatever you saw… it wasn’t her. Not really.”

Adrien blinked at him, confused.

Félix cupped his cousin’s damp cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“You hear me? That wasn’t your mother. That was some trick. Some nightmare. Someone trying to hurt you.”

Adrien’s breath hitched. “But it felt so real—”

“I don’t care how real it felt,” Félix cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. “Your mother loved you more than anything. She would never say those things to you. Never.”

Adrien stared at him, lips parting slightly as though he wanted to protest — but he couldn’t. Deep down, some part of him still believed that.

Félix softened his tone just a little, brushing Adrien’s hair back from his forehead.

“Don’t you ever forget that. You’re not weak. You didn’t kill her. You’re the reason she smiled every day she was alive.”

Adrien bit his lip hard, trying not to cry again — though his eyes still shimmered.

Félix gave a faint, wry smile. “You know me. If she ever did try to haunt you and say otherwise, I’d probably tell her off myself.”

That startled a weak laugh out of Adrien — a short, shaky sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

Félix’s expression softened.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

Adrien’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion catching up to him. His head dropped onto Félix’s shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

Félix glanced toward the bed and then back to his cousin, still holding him steady.

“You’re not sleeping alone tonight,” he said after a beat.

Adrien stirred faintly. “You… you don’t have to—”

“Yes. I do.” Félix stood, pulling Adrien up with him. “No arguments.”

Adrien blinked at him, dazed, but allowed himself to be steered back toward the bed.

Félix flicked the comforter back, guiding Adrien to sit, then climb under the covers. Adrien obeyed wordlessly, curling on his side again, though his shoulders still trembled faintly with the aftershocks.

Félix kicked off his shoes and slipped off his jacket before settling on the other side of the bed. He didn’t bother with the other pillow — just leaned against the headboard, one arm draped loosely over Adrien’s back.

Adrien peeked up at him once, his voice small.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” Félix said calmly.

And that was the end of that.

For a while, silence settled between them again — though this time, it was less oppressive. Adrien’s breathing evened out bit by bit, his tears drying on his cheeks.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

“Thank you.”

Félix only gave the faintest of nods.

“Sleep,” he murmured, his eyes already fixed on the window, watching the rain streak the glass.

But even as Adrien drifted toward uneasy sleep, Félix’s mind remained sharp and alert — his jaw tight.

Whoever — or whatever — had done this… wasn’t finished yet.

And neither was he.

___________________________

The black sedan glided smoothly through the slick Parisian streets, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt. Night still clung to the city, though the first faint blush of dawn threatened on the horizon.

Inside, Gabriel sat rigid in the back seat, hands folded in his lap, his sharp suit immaculate despite the hour. His gaze was fixed firmly on the road ahead, though his thoughts were miles — and years — away.

The driver said nothing. He knew better.

Gabriel’s mind was already in Shanghai.

For weeks, his people in Sphinx had scoured the old records, deciphering scraps of legend, chasing whispers. And last night… at long last… they’d found it.

The Guardians’ temple.

He could already feel the weight of the Miraculous in his hands. The culmination of years of sacrifice, of loss. Of Émilie’s absence.

Nothing — and no one — would stand in his way now.

He adjusted his cufflinks absently, his jaw tight. He hated how his hands trembled ever so slightly when he thought of her.

It wasn’t weakness, he told himself.

It was love.

A faint smirk touched his lips. Soon, he would show them all just how strong love could be.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the soft sound behind him.

Like a faint laugh.

His smirk froze.

He glanced at the driver, but the man’s eyes were fixed on the road, his posture steady.

Then came the voice.

“Surprise.”

Gabriel’s blood turned to ice.

Slowly — very slowly — he turned his head.

There, lounging casually in the backseat just a foot away, was the masked man.

His long black coat melted into the shadows, his sleek mask glinting faintly in the dim light.

One arm draped lazily across the back of the seat as though he owned it.

He was smiling.

Or at least, Gabriel could feel that he was.

Gabriel’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and venomous.

The man tilted his head, his fingers steepled lightly under his chin.

“What’s the matter, Gabriel? Not happy to see me?”

Gabriel seethed, but kept his voice quiet enough not to alarm the driver.

“You’ve made your point. You’ve taken what you wanted. Now stay out of my way.”

That earned a laugh — low, mocking, and far too amused.

“Oh, Gabriel,” the man said, leaning forward just slightly, his masked face close now. “You still think this is about what I want?”

Gabriel glared at him, every muscle in his body taut.

“Isn’t it?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “No, no. See, that’s the funniest part. This is all about you.”

Gabriel’s lip curled.

The man tapped one gloved finger against his own mask. “You’re the one who wanted the deal. You’re the one who begged. You’re the one who keeps clawing your way toward something you can never quite hold. I’m just here to watch.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“You’re enjoying this,” he hissed.

“Oh, immensely.” The man laughed again — and this time it was louder, bright and cruel, filling the car like the peal of a bell. “You should’ve seen your boy earlier. That was… delicious.”

Gabriel froze.

His entire body went cold.

“What?”

The man leaned back casually, crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, didn’t you know? Little Adrien had a… visitor tonight.”

Gabriel’s stomach dropped.

“What did you do?” His voice was quiet now — dangerous.

The man smirked.

“I reminded him of the truth. That all of this… every ounce of pain… was his fault.”

Gabriel’s fingers dug into his own thigh, his teeth grinding audibly.

“You stay away from him.”

The man made a soft tsk-tsk noise, wagging a finger. “Ah-ah. That wasn’t the deal, remember? There were no… exclusions.”

Gabriel’s glare darkened further, his breath coming through clenched teeth.

“You leave my son out of this. Or so help me—”

The man chuckled, cutting him off.

“Oh, Gabriel. Please. Don’t make threats you can’t keep.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

The man tilted his head, the faintest hum escaping him.

“I really do love this part,” he mused lazily, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “The desperate little hero complex. The righteous fury. You honestly believe you’re protecting him, don’t you? Even as you sell everything you are to keep your precious wife’s memory alive.”

Gabriel’s nails bit into his palm.

“I will bring her back,” he said, his voice low and steady now.

The man leaned closer again, his masked face inches from Gabriel’s.

“Of course you will,” he said softly — but there was laughter lurking behind the words.

Then he sat back, his hands clasped neatly in his lap, his tone suddenly light again.

“I just thought I’d… tag along, you know? A little road trip. It’s been too long since I’ve seen the Far East. And besides…”

His laugh came again, softer now, like a snake’s hiss.

“I did something very funny tonight. I couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when you find out.”

Gabriel’s lip curled, his jaw set.

But he said nothing.

For the rest of the ride, the man said nothing more either.

Just sat there, perfectly still, perfectly amused.

Watching him.

Always watching.

The sun rose pale and wan over the Agreste estate, casting long golden beams through the tall windows of the grand entry hall.

The air still smelled faintly of lilies — remnants of yesterday’s funeral arrangements — though most of the flowers were already wilting in their vases.

Nathalie stood near the door, tablet in hand, her posture crisp and immaculate despite what little sleep she’d gotten.

She hadn’t seen Gabriel since he’d left hours earlier, suitcase in hand, muttering a clipped order to the driver.

China, she assumed.

Always a business trip. Always another priority.

At least Adrien had someone else to lean on now.

She glanced to the door where Adrien was standing, arms wrapped tight around his cousin.

Adrien clung to Félix like a drowning man to driftwood.

“I’ll miss you,” Adrien murmured into Félix’s shoulder, his voice hoarse and quiet.

Félix gave a soft chuckle and patted his back. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

Adrien drew back a little to look at him, his green eyes still faintly red from crying.

“Not always,” he admitted under his breath.

Félix’s smile faltered at that — but only for a moment.

The memory of the night before was still raw: Adrien crumpled on the bedroom floor, shaking and sobbing, insisting over and over that it was all his fault.

Even now Félix wasn’t sure what to believe about what Adrien had seen — his mother, alive, accusing him — but something about Adrien’s haunted look still unsettled him.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Félix said at last, forcing his smirk back into place. “Don’t forget that. And you’ve still got Nathalie to keep you in line.”

Adrien almost smiled at that, though it was faint and watery.

“I know,” he said.

Félix squeezed his shoulder, then stepped back toward the open door.

Amélie was already standing outside, her coat immaculate, her expression carved from ice, her arms folded.

Her heels clicked sharply on the stone steps as she turned back, her eyes sweeping the room coldly.

When Adrien stepped toward her hesitantly, she didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, her gaze fixed on Nathalie.

“Where is Gabriel?” she demanded, her voice quiet but edged like a knife.

Nathalie blinked at her but didn’t flinch.

“On a business trip,” she replied evenly.

Amélie’s jaw tightened.

“A business trip,” she repeated flatly, each syllable laced with disgust.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes flashed with something bitter — rage, disappointment, grief, all tangled together.

“Of course he is,” she murmured finally, her words more to herself than to anyone else.

Félix, standing just behind her, shot her a faint look of warning.

“Mother,” he murmured softly, “we’ll miss the train.”

Her gaze lingered another moment on Nathalie before she turned sharply on her heel and strode toward the waiting car.

Félix gave Adrien a faint shrug, as if to apologize for her sharpness.

Adrien tried to smile back at him, though his eyes shimmered again.

Félix stepped closer and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Adrien promised.

Félix gave him one last small smile, then followed his mother to the car.

Adrien stood in the doorway and watched as it rolled away down the drive, its taillights fading into the morning fog.

Even after it was gone, he stayed there, his shoulders hunched, his hands buried in his pockets.

Nathalie stepped up beside him silently.

For a moment they just stood there.

Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“She hates him, doesn’t she?”

Nathalie didn’t answer at once.

At last she said:

“She’s grieving. People say things they mean when they’re grieving.”

Adrien let out a bitter little laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“That’s comforting,” he muttered.

Nathalie’s lips twitched faintly — something that might have been almost a smile — but she didn’t push further.

Instead, she murmured, “Go eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Adrien nodded, though he didn’t move.

His eyes stayed fixed on the empty drive, even as he felt the echo of his mother’s face — or whatever that thing was — still hovering in his mind.

This is all your fault.

He shut his eyes against the memory and tried to breathe.

Chapter Text

Shanghai burned at the edges of morning.

Not with fire—but with motion, noise, and light. The humid air clung to skin like a second layer. Neon signs flickered in pale daylight, refusing to dim even under the weak sun. The scent of jet fuel wove through perfume, coffee, sweat. Everything shimmered, slightly out of phase, as if the city were dreaming of itself.

Gabriel Agreste descended the steps of his private jet like a king long exiled—slowly, silently, with the weight of purpose sewn into every fold of his suit. The hem of his coat never touched the wind. His polished shoes found the ground as if the world had been made to hold them.

He wore sunglasses, but they did not hide the flick of his eyes—sharp, restless, calculating. He searched the crowd as if hunting ghosts.

Beside him, the man walked.

No one looked at him. That, in itself, was unnatural.

He wore black—robes that should have wilted in the heat. Yet not a bead of sweat touched his skin. His hands were folded behind his back, as if in prayer or judgment. His eyes—gray as smoke and far older than they had any right to be—drank in the airport with quiet contempt.

"It used to smell of rice paper and smoke," he murmured, voice no louder than the hum of passing luggage wheels. "Lantern oil. Firecrackers. Bone ink. Now it smells of plastic and wires. As if memory itself has been scrubbed clean."

Gabriel didn’t answer. The man spoke like this often—cryptic elegies for a world that no longer existed. Or perhaps never had.

They moved past customs without pause. Protocols had already been shattered in their favor. Outside, a black car waited with its engine humming low, like a predator with no patience for prey.

Gabriel stepped into the back seat, then paused, glancing over his shoulder.

The man still stood in the doorway of the terminal, unmoving, staring at the skyline as if listening to voices only he could hear.

And then, without a sound, he entered the car and shut the door.

The vehicle pulled away, swallowed by the labyrinth of Shanghai.

The city pressed against the windows like a memory trying to wake.

Towers scraped the sky like spears. Roads choked on themselves. Horns blared in bursts, always angry, always impatient. Gabriel sat in stillness, watching the world flicker by like a reel of film running too fast.

The man beside him traced a finger along the window glass. “There used to be rivers here. Gardens. Plum trees, thick with white blossoms. Do you know what this land was called, before it had a name?”

Gabriel exhaled, long and quiet. “You didn’t come to remember.”

The man’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “On the contrary. I came to remember perfectly.”

The car slowed. Then stopped.

Traffic. A sea of steel and rubber stretched ahead—vehicles locked in place, engines idling like beasts in cages.

Gabriel drummed his fingers against the leather seat. “We should’ve taken the helicopter.”

“No,” the man said. “You must walk the land to be accepted. You must touch it.” His voice turned sharp, almost bitter. “But I did not expect the land to be so... wounded.”

He closed his eyes, brow creasing.

“Is patience not one of your immortal virtues?” Gabriel asked, the edge in his tone hardening.

The man said nothing. The heat built. Time thickened. Outside, someone shouted in Mandarin and a motorbike howled past. Inside, the air grew unbearable.

And then—

“I tire of this,” the man said.

He raised one hand.

The light bent.

The sound of tearing silk split the air, and the world unraveled.

Silence.

Cool. Thin. Pure.

Gabriel stumbled forward a step—not physically, but spiritually, as if his very breath had been dislodged. The traffic, the chaos, the heat—gone. Replaced by trees whispering ancient secrets and the smell of pine and stone.

They stood at the edge of a camp.

His camp.

Tents dotted the slope like forgotten prayers. Generators buzzed in the distance. Men moved with rigid discipline—until they saw the two figures standing where no one had stood before.

Weapons were raised. Then lowered. Recognition dawned.

Gabriel. And the other.

Whispers passed. Eyes avoided contact. Some bowed their heads.

Gabriel straightened his collar. “You couldn’t wait five more minutes?”

The man did not answer. He stared toward the ridge, where the mountains bled into the horizon.

“I waited five hundred years,” he said.

A woman in tactical armor approached. Her voice was sharp, controlled. “Perimeter secure, sir. But the entrance—”

“The temple?” Gabriel asked.

She hesitated. “We can’t breach it. It’s... protected. Not by technology. Something else. Energy.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. He turned to the man.

“You knew.”

“I knew,” the man said.

“Then why bring me?”

He smiled, soft as a knife drawn in the dark. “Because you brought the key.”

The path was narrow and cruel.

Twisting between stones, guarded by trees that leaned too close, watching. The wind had a voice up here, and it whispered things none of them understood. Gabriel’s men followed, grim-faced, boots crunching dirt like bones.

At last, the temple came into view.

A dragon carved in silence.

It sat atop the ridge, shrouded in mist and shadow. Its walls were worn but unbroken. Red pillars. Golden glyphs. Lanterns that still burned, though no one had lit them.

Gabriel stopped.

He had seen diagrams. Blueprints. Ancient scrolls. But the reality of it punched the breath from his lungs.

This was the place.

The origin of the Miraculouses.

The end of his long hunt.

The last place she had been seen.

Émilie.

The man stepped ahead, placed one palm flat against the air.

It rippled.

Light bent around it—an invisible wall, humming with dormant fury.

He whispered. “It remembers. What we did. What we broke.”

Gabriel clenched his fists. “You said you could open it.”

The man pressed his hand deeper.

Nothing.

Then—sound.

A low tone, deep as thunder trapped in stone.

Cracks of light spidered across the barrier—golden veins on invisible glass.

And with a sound like an exhale, the barrier shattered.

The air trembled.

They stepped forward.

And the world attacked.

Blurs.

Red and white.

Monks—not soldiers—descended like wind turned to blade. Their feet made no sound. Their hands struck like iron.

Gabriel’s men opened fire.

It did nothing.

One by one, they fell.

Smoke. Screams. Chaos.

Gabriel fell back, breath catching in his throat.

“What is this?” he shouted.

The man only watched.

At the top of the temple stairs, an elder emerged—robes aflame with gold, face carved from silence. His gaze could have shattered glass.

“You are not welcome,” the elder said.

“You weren’t either,” the man replied softly.

The elder’s eyes narrowed. “Turn back, or drown in what you’ve forgotten.”

Gabriel stepped forward. “I came for her. I won’t leave without her.”

“Then you will not leave at all.”

He raised one hand.

The monks surged.

The camp behind them began to burn.

Gabriel turned to the man. “You said this would work.”

“It is working.”

“They’re dying.”

The man turned, his smile cold.

“Then use what you came to use.”

Gabriel reached into his coat.

The brooch.

It pulsed—hungry.

Nooroo appeared, wings fluttering with dread.

“Now?” the kwami whispered.

Gabriel’s voice was ice. “Now.”

“Say it. ‘Dark Wings Rise.’”

No hesitation.

“Dark Wings Rise.”

A storm of violet.

The world inverted.

Power consumed him.

A sleek suit of black and silver. A mask. The butterfly emblem, pulsing with dark promise.

He felt limitless.

He raised a hand.

“Come to me.”

The pain of his fallen men coalesced into dark light. Butterflies—black-winged, sharp-edged—spread outward.

They found the broken.

And made them whole in horror.

Beasts. Shadows. Avatars of wrath.

Gabriel’s grin was feral.

“Let’s see if your monks can fight this.”

And then the battle truly began.

While the clash of steel and scream of power echoed through the valley, the mysterious man walked untouched.

The temple grounds were ablaze with movement—Gabriel’s monstrous akumatized soldiers tore through the defenders, and the monks fought back with fluid ferocity, every movement a dance of centuries-old mastery. Yet amid the carnage, he was invisible. Not cloaked by magic—no glamour or trickery hid him. The world simply did not see him, as if it refused to remember a shape it feared too deeply.

Dust swirled in the air like incense smoke. Fire licked the rooftops. And he walked, calmly, slowly, as if time itself bent around his stride.

No blood touched his robe.

No gaze met his own.

He descended a hidden corridor beneath the main shrine—ancient stone, untouched by sunlight or memory. The torches along the walls lit one by one at his passing, without flame.

He reached a door of carved cedar, its surface weathered with countless years. Symbols etched in forgotten scripts glowed faintly, resisting his presence.

Still, he raised a hand.

The door groaned as it opened, the wood crying as if in protest.

Inside was silence.

A single chamber, circular. The floor was smooth stone, inlaid with the twelve signs of the Chinese zodiac. At the center, cross-legged and utterly still, sat a man.

Wang Fu.

He was older than any memory Gabriel Agreste had ever studied. His beard, white and immaculately combed, hung to his chest. His hands rested atop his knees. And though his eyes were closed, his awareness filled the room like fire.

The mysterious man stepped in.

And then—

Whshing!

A blade cut the air, faster than thought.

It embedded itself in the stone behind the intruder’s head, humming with chi-infused energy. A warning.

The mysterious man didn’t flinch.

He turned slightly, gazing at the sword with a mild, almost wistful expression. “Still sharp, I see.”

Wang Fu opened his eyes. They were clear, ancient, and filled with a patient fury.

“That was ten thousand years ago,” he said quietly. “But some wounds never close. Especially betrayal.”

The mysterious man stepped fully into the chamber. The door shut behind him.

“Still calling it that,” he said softly. “After all this time?”

Wang Fu stood. His spine cracked faintly, but his posture was straight as an oak. “You took the Miraculous beyond the Veil. You aligned with the darkness we were sworn to keep sealed. What else should I call it?”

“A choice,” the man replied. “A necessary one.”

“Your ‘necessary’ choice burned half the world.”

They circled each other now. No blades drawn. Not yet. But tension coiled between them like a waiting serpent.

“Look outside, Wang Fu,” the mysterious man said. “Your guardians fight like children. Their sacred arts are a whisper of what once was. They have forgotten the Source. Forgotten the price. I came to remember.”

“You came to take.”

“I came to restore.”

Wang Fu’s voice dropped to a whisper, deadly. “You want the vault.”

The mysterious man said nothing.

Wang Fu nodded once. “Then you’ve lost more than I thought.”

“I lost her,” the man said quietly.

The silence that followed that name was more profound than before.

Wang Fu looked at him, truly looked—past the robes, the power, the quiet menace. Into the soul he had once known.

“You still think she’s there.”

“She is,” the man said, voice hollow. “I saw it in the Mirror of the Deep Sky. Her light—trapped, echoing. Caught between this world and the one beyond.”

“You think power will bring her back.”

“No,” the man said. “Only truth will.”

Wang Fu’s fingers tightened. “Then let me show you some truth.”

With a roar that shook the stone, he moved.

No longer the weary elder. He moved like water through iron—each strike as fast as lightning, each motion refined by centuries. His chi surged, golden and fierce, rippling through the chamber like thunder.

The mysterious man blocked the first blow with his forearm, and the stone beneath them cracked.

They moved in spirals—strike, dodge, parry, pivot.

Neither spoke.

Their fight was a ritual. A memory retold through motion. Old scars reopened in silence.

Wang Fu struck with the ferocity of a dying star. The man countered with the inevitability of gravity.

Blood stained the floor. Dust filled the air.

Until, at last, they broke apart—breathing hard.

Wang Fu bled from the shoulder. The mysterious man’s lip was split, but his eyes burned brighter than before.

“You’ve grown stronger,” Wang Fu said, his voice calm again.

“I never stopped training,” the man replied.

“Nor did I.”

A pause.

Then the mysterious man stepped forward—not to strike, but to kneel.

Wang Fu stiffened.

“I came to fight you,” the man said. “But also to ask. One last time.”

He bowed his head. “Let me in.”

Wang Fu’s eyes narrowed. “And if I say no?”

The man looked up. “Then I will take it. And become what you always feared.”

The silence that followed was heavier than steel.

Wang Fu closed his eyes. “You’ve already become it.”

He turned his back.

The mysterious man stood, quietly.

Then something in him shifted.

The air around him darkened.

He raised a hand.

And the stone altar behind Wang Fu split open with a shriek of ancient wards breaking.

Wang Fu turned, horror dawning in his eyes.

“No—!”

It was too late.

The chamber walls shook. The twelve symbols on the floor began to glow, spinning slowly like a celestial wheel. The vault was opening.

And from the crack between worlds, something looked back.

Meanwhile, outside…

Gabriel’s army, now monstrous and warped by akumatization, tore into the temple’s defenses. Fire crackled. Energy screamed. The once-pristine grounds of the temple were reduced to rubble, ash, and broken bodies.

Gabriel hovered above the fray, his transformed body crackling with violet light. His mask gleamed.

He could feel the power now—calling to him.

The Miraculous.

The Source.

All of it.

He touched his chest, where the brooch pulsed like a heartbeat. Nooroo, inside, shuddered.

“This is not what I meant,” Nooroo whispered.

Gabriel didn’t answer. He didn’t need permission anymore.

He was already too far gone.

Below, a remaining monk unleashed a final cry and sent a wave of golden energy through the field. Three of Gabriel’s monsters shattered in response.

But more took their place.

It was over.

The defense was broken.

The temple had fallen.

And at its heart—

A storm was awakening.

Back in the chamber…

The mysterious man stood before the opening vault.

From the crack came light and shadow woven together—a stream of impossible time, memories not yet lived, pain that had never been born. His face was calm, but his fingers trembled.

Wang Fu staggered forward.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“You’ll break everything—”

“I already did,” the man said softly.

He reached into the vault.

And pulled out—

A mask.

Gold and jade, with eyes closed and mouth sealed. It pulsed in his hands like a heart.

Wang Fu gasped. “No…”

“The Oni Mask,” the man whispered. “She wore this when she fell. Her essence is sealed inside.”

Wang Fu’s legs gave out. He fell to his knees.

“You brought it back.”

“I never let it go.”

Outside, thunder roared.

The world shifted.

The mask opened its eyes.

The Oni Mask opened its eyes.

A pulse of raw, ancient energy rippled through the temple, silencing even the chaos outside. The wind stopped. Flames froze mid-flicker. Time hiccupped.

The mysterious man cradled the mask like something sacred, though his hands trembled from the weight of its soul. His voice was quiet, almost reverent.

“She’s here. I feel her. Trapped... but awake.”

Wang Fu, still kneeling, whispered like thunder:

“No. You don’t feel her. You feel what’s left of her.”

The man’s gaze flicked to him, narrowed.

“You sealed her, Fu. You bound her soul inside this tomb.”

“I did what I had to. You were the one who let the shadows take her. You were the one who opened the gate.”

The mysterious man stepped forward, mask in hand, his face more haunted than triumphant.

“I’m going to bring her back.”

Wang Fu’s gaze hardened. Slowly, he stood. Blood ran down his arm, but his posture held.

“Then I must stop you. Even now.”

The man raised his hand—

—but in that instant, Fu moved.

Faster than he had in centuries, he drew from his sleeve a glowing orb carved with sigils—its surface humming with compressed chi. An ancient relic. One he had sworn never to use.

A boom-spell.

He slammed it against the floor.

BOOM!

A thunderclap tore through the chamber. Light and shock tore through stone. The Oni Mask flew from the mysterious man’s hands as he was thrown back by the blast, crashing into the far wall with a grunt of pain. Cracks split across his ribs, and for a brief second, his glamor shimmered—revealing a far older face beneath the veil. Worn. Wounded.

Smoke clouded the chamber.

And in that chaos—

Wang Fu vanished.

But he had taken something with him.

Not the mask.

No.

The Miracle Box.

The true heart of the temple.

It had been hidden behind the altar, beneath layers of perception spells. But Fu had always known where it was.

The mysterious man groaned, coughing blood. He staggered to his knees, clutching his side, eyes searching the dust. The mask lay cracked, its once-glowing eyes dim.

He looked toward the shattered vault—and the altar.

Empty.

His scream echoed like thunder.

“NO!”

He pushed to his feet, limping forward, dragging a trail of blood.

The Miracle Box was gone.

Wang Fu had stolen it.

Elsewhere, above the ruins…

Gabriel Agreste turned sharply as the blast rocked the earth. Even through the chaos, he felt the shift—a change in energy, something taken from the vault.

“What was that?” he hissed.

His monsters staggered, confused. The light guiding them dimmed for a moment, faltering. Nooroo screamed from inside his brooch:

“The Box! He’s taken the Miracle Box!”

Gabriel’s eyes flared. “No...”

Below, deep beneath the stone and ash, the mysterious man emerged from the broken sanctum—bloodied, limping, clutching his side.

He looked up, through the temple ruins, at Gabriel.

Their eyes met.

No words were spoken.

But both understood.

Wang Fu was gone.

And with him, the last true key to the Miraculous—vanished into the world once more.

Far away, down hidden paths…

Wang Fu ran through the forest paths with speed unnatural for a man of his age. His robes were scorched. His limbs trembled. But the Miracle Box was safe, clutched tight beneath his arm, wrapped in spells to mask its presence.

His breath came in rasps.

His mind replayed the moment—the Oni Mask awakening, the look in the mysterious man’s eyes, the wound he’d inflicted, the betrayal so ancient it had no name anymore.

His chest ached—not from the battle, but from grief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the trees.

Then he vanished into the shadowed world.

Once again…

…the Guardian was in exile.

Back in the ruined temple…

The mysterious man sat among the rubble.

His face was pale. His hand pressed to his wound. Blood soaked the floor beneath him.

But his eyes were open.

Sharp.

Focused.

He reached for the Oni Mask, now cracked… and pressed it gently to his chest.

“I will find her,” he whispered.

“I will find them all.”

He stood, slowly, with great effort.

And vanished into the smoke.

Chapter Text

The fog pressed soft and white against the wide windows of the Fathom townhouse, blurring the rooftops of London into pale silhouettes. Somewhere beneath that hush, the city stirred—buses grumbled past narrow streets, a kettle shrieked from a distant flat, and the Thames whispered beneath its bridges. But high above the ground, tucked in a room washed with slate gray and morning blue, Félix stirred alone in silence.

The alarm didn’t ring. It hadn’t in years.

He rose when the world felt ready.

There was something precise about the way he moved: not rushed, but deliberate. The cotton sheets folded themselves into neat quarters beneath his hands. His slippers lay at an exact angle on the floor, waiting. He bypassed the bathroom mirror without looking, but as he fastened the silver clasp of his collar, a flicker of light caught the thin scar just beneath his jaw. Faint, almost invisible—but still there.

He blinked it away.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already warm.

Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling, casting golden lattices across the dark stone countertops. Amélie was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something fragrant with a wooden spoon. She wore no shoes—just her pale feet brushing across the tiled floor, and a silk robe cinched loosely at her waist.

Félix paused in the doorway for a moment before entering, his footsteps quiet.

She didn’t turn around when she said, “You slept well.”

“Did I?”

She smiled softly. “You didn’t scream.”

He took his seat at the small dining table near the window. A polished silver tea set was already arranged there—two cups, a small white sugar bowl, cream in a crystal dish. Scones, still steaming, sat beside a pot of lemon marmalade. No one else would be joining them. There hadn’t been anyone else for years.

She set down the spoon, wiped her hands, and sat across from him.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Not out of discomfort—just a kind of quiet ritual. Amélie broke her scone and layered it with jam. Félix poured the tea. Earl Grey, as always. The scent curled into the air, citrus and smoke.

He stirred the sugar slowly, watching the ripples.

She noticed the way he held the spoon—tight, careful. As if it might fall.

“You’re thinking something,” she said, not unkindly.

“I am,” he replied, and then took a breath. “I want to go to China.”

Her eyes lifted.

“For my birthday,” he added. “Just for a while.”

Amélie leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowed, not suspicious—just searching.

“You’ve never asked to leave before.”

“I think I need to,” he said. “Just for a few weeks. There’s... something about the mountains there. I want to see them.”

A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the herb pots lined along the sill. Rosemary, mint, and basil brushed against each other.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she poured more tea, and when she finally spoke, her voice was calm.

“Adrien will be coming with us.”

Félix blinked. “He will?”

She nodded. “His father’s still in Shanghai. Three years and no sign of returning. Nathalie called yesterday—she said Adrien’s not been speaking much lately. So... I thought it might help.”

He looked down at his cup. The sugar had long dissolved.

“You already planned the trip?”

“I was waiting for you to ask.”

There was a silence that wasn’t exactly empty—just suspended. Like the moment before a snowfall.

Félix finally said, “He’ll come tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then he said, more quietly, “You’ve always known me too well.”

She reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the edge of his plate.

“I held you before you had a name,” she said. “Of course I know.”

He nodded, lips pressed together.

“I just thought maybe this time, I’d make the first move.”

Across the Channel, the sun had risen higher in Paris, casting amber light through tall windows and dusted parquet floors. In a bedroom lined with soft green curtains and paper cranes strung across the ceiling, a girl danced to music that played only in her head.

She spun once, holding a pair of slippers in her hand like they were delicate artifacts, then collapsed onto her bed with a happy sigh.

Her name was Mei. ten years old. And nothing could shake the bright enthusiasm that filled her bones this morning.

“Passport, check,” she said aloud, flipping onto her stomach. “Toothbrush, check. Bribery chocolates for Grandpa? Double check.”

She rolled onto her back, holding a small tin box above her face. A clumsy dragon was painted on the lid.

“Do not melt,” she warned it, “or I swear I’ll eat you before we even land.”

From the hallway, a voice called, “Mei! The taxi will be here in twenty minutes!”

“I’m ready!” she called back, already hopping up.

She wasn’t, of course. Her backpack still lay open. She hadn’t packed her book, or her phone charger. But it didn’t matter.

Because she was going to China.

To the village in the mountains where the air smelled like smoke and pine needles, where her grandparents lived in a wooden house older than electricity. Where time moved differently. Slower. Wiser.

Where the stars didn’t look the same as they did in Paris.

She paused at the window, gazing out at the narrow street below. Parisians rushed past in their usual morning blur—coats flying, dogs barking, bicycles weaving.

And yet, everything in her heart was still.

Still and expectant.

A whisper of something on the wind.

Back in London, Félix stood in the conservatory, watching the sky. His suitcase stood ready near the door—perfectly packed, immaculately zipped. He didn’t bring much. Just what he needed. The same way he always did.

From her room upstairs, Amélie called, “The car will be here soon. Adrien’s plane lands in two hours.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he opened his hand.

Inside, a folded scrap of paper.

A sketch. Rough. Ink-smudged.

Mountains.

And something beneath them. A temple. Or what might’ve once been a temple.

He stared at it for a long moment before slipping it into his coat.

“I’m ready,” he said aloud.

The departures hall hummed with the subdued rhythm of travel. Soft footsteps, low murmurs, the whirr of suitcase wheels. Announcements echoed like ghosts overhead, distant and impersonal. The great glass ceiling filtered a milky wash of daylight onto the polished floor, where travelers looked like pale sketches moving across parchment.

Félix stood near the entrance of the private lounge check-in. His silver suitcase was upright by his leg, one hand lightly resting on the handle, the other folded behind his back. He was dressed in slate gray—always a shade too composed for someone his age—but his eyes tracked the crowd with a quiet intensity.

Behind him, Amélie stood with her arms lightly crossed, sunglasses tucked into the neckline of her coat. She wasn’t speaking—just watching her son. The way his posture straightened every time the glass doors swished open. The way his breath paused, then resumed. She said nothing. She knew this moment belonged to him.

And then, finally, Adrien arrived.

He came into view with a little momentum—half-walking, half-hurrying, the strap of his backpack slipping off one shoulder. His blond hair had grown longer, curling slightly at the ends, and there was a flush on his cheeks from moving too quickly. No assistant. No luggage but one rolling case. No father.

Just Adrien, and the way he brightened when he saw them.

“Hi!” Adrien said, breathless but smiling. “Sorry if I’m late—there was traffic from the hotel.”

“You’re early,” Félix said evenly.

Adrien looked at the clock. “By five minutes.”

“Fourteen,” Félix corrected.

Amélie smiled faintly. “Boys.”

Adrien laughed—a soft, grateful sound that released some invisible tension. “I missed this,” he said without thinking, then blinked, as if surprised he’d said it aloud.

Félix looked at him—searching for sarcasm, maybe—but found none. “Did you,” he said simply.

They turned together, beginning the walk toward the private gate. Amélie followed, a few paces behind, her heels soundless on the carpet.

“I like your coat,” Adrien offered as they walked, nodding toward Félix’s tailored ensemble. “You always look like someone out of a movie.”

“I don’t watch movies,” Félix replied.

Adrien grinned. “You don’t have to. You’re already in one.”

Amélie gave a quiet, amused hum.

As they reached the gate, a staff member in uniform stepped forward. “Mr. Fathom, Mr. Agreste, and Madame Graham de Vanily—boarding is ready when you are.”

Félix handed over their documents in perfect order. Adrien fumbled slightly with his passport, earning a small shake of the head from Félix, who reached to steady the boarding pass before it could slip.

“Still... disorganized,” Félix murmured.

“Still... a human being,” Adrien quipped back.

Behind them, Amélie exchanged a glance with the attendant. “We’ll board early, please. The boys could use some quiet.”

She turned then, placing a hand gently on Adrien’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, darling.”

Adrien looked up, surprised. “You too, Aunt Amélie.”

She smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’ve grown so much. Taller than your cousin now, I think.”

Adrien glanced sideways at Félix. “By a millimeter.”

Félix didn’t respond, but he walked slightly faster.

Once inside the jet bridge, the hush of the airport gave way to silence. The air here smelled faintly of ozone and fabric softener. Private travel was quieter, neater. Less frantic.

Amélie hung back as the boys moved forward, letting them settle into the cabin first. She watched them sidelong—two silhouettes against the morning light filtering in from the oval windows. Félix sat by the window, Adrien beside him. There was still a space between them, but smaller than it used to be.

When Amélie finally took her seat across the aisle, she leaned over gently.

“Félix,” she said softly, as the engines started to hum beneath them.

He turned toward her, eyes alert.

“Be kind,” she said. “He’s never had a proper holiday.”

Félix hesitated. Then nodded—barely.

Amélie turned to Adrien next. “And you,” she added, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. “If he tries to push you away, ignore him. He’s better than he pretends.”

Adrien smiled at her, touched. “I know.”

The jet began to taxi.

The city outside blurred into motion—gray tarmac, blinking lights, a line of gulls lifting from a railing like confetti.

Neither boy spoke. But they sat side by side, and didn’t move away.

Above them, the sky opened.

And somewhere far ahead, a country waited. Mountains, secrets, and something that none of them—not even Amélie—could yet name.

-------------------
The hum of the airplane was like a constant lullaby—soft, low, always there. Overhead, the seatbelt sign blinked off with a soft chime, and a flight attendant passed by offering a tray of drinks. But the girl by the window barely noticed.

Her forehead pressed lightly to the glass, Mei squinted down at the cottony clouds stretched far below. Her reflection hovered faintly in the window—dark eyes wide with wonder, soft waves of brunette hair pulled into a messy braid that had started coming undone two hours into the flight.

“We’re really doing it,” she whispered to no one in particular. “We’re finally going back.”

From the seat beside her, her mother smiled over the rim of her paper coffee cup. “Yes, sweetheart,” she said, her voice as gentle as warm milk. “We’re really going.”

Mei turned to face her, practically bouncing in her seat. “Do you think Gonggong and Popo will be at the airport when we land? What if they’re waiting right at the gate like last time?”

Her mother gave a soft chuckle, brushing crumbs off her lap. “If they are, you’ll knock them over again.”

“I didn’t knock them over,” Mei said defensively. “Popo just got... really emotional. That’s not my fault!”

“You ran at them like a firecracker.”

“Because I missed them!”

“I know, bao bei. So did I.”

Mei quieted for a moment, then leaned back against her seat. She looked older in that instant—still young, but with that early teenager air of growing into emotions too big for her chest.

“I just… I want to smell their house again,” she said. “The weird jasmine soap, and that burnt rice Popo makes on purpose. And Gonggong’s old radio that always plays that same creepy opera music.”

“Peking opera,” her mother corrected gently.

“It sounds like ghosts,” Mei whispered, eyes wide.

Her mother shook her head with a chuckle, ruffling Mei’s hair. “Maybe a few. But they’re friendly ghosts.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the light from the window painting soft shadows across their faces. The world below was shifting slowly eastward, and with every mile, the girl’s heart felt like it beat faster.

She reached into the pocket of her carry-on and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Her fingers untied it with reverence, revealing a jade pendant, smooth and cool to the touch. Its soft green hue shimmered slightly in the filtered sunlight.

Her mother glanced down. “You brought that?”

“Of course I did,” Mei said. “Popo gave it to me. Said it was her mother’s. I always wear it when we go.”

She slipped the pendant over her head and held it against her chest like armor. “It’s lucky.”

Her mother didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out and gently rested her hand over Mei’s.

“It’s part of your story,” she said. “Just like they are.”

Mei nodded, suddenly quiet again.

A few seats behind them, a baby started crying, and a man coughed loudly into his sleeve. But here, by the window, there was a small pocket of stillness—one that wrapped around mother and daughter like a soft, invisible shawl.

“You know,” her mother said after a moment, “there’s a whole world waiting when we land. New foods, new words, cousins you’ve never met, temples older than some cities.”

Mei’s eyes lit up again. “And street markets, and those little turtles they sell in bowls!”

Her mother grimaced playfully. “We’re not getting a turtle.”

“But maybe just to look…”

“Not even to look.”

They both laughed.

Mei turned back to the window and watched as a wing cut through a misty layer of cloud. For a second, she imagined the plane wasn’t flying, but gliding—like the old paper kites Gonggong used to help her build in their courtyard.

“Mom?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you think… do you think I’ll still feel like me there? Like I belong, I mean?”

Her mother looked at her with a softness that only mothers can carry. “You’ll always be you, Mei. No matter where we go. But being there will remind you of the parts of yourself that bloom differently. Like plants that only flower in certain soil.”

Mei absorbed that in silence. Then she grinned. “I’m gonna bloom so hard.”

Her mother burst out laughing. “That’s the spirit.”

Outside the window, the clouds began to thin, revealing patches of green and brown earth below—hints of landscape, rivers like thin veins, mountains in the distance. East. Always east.

Mei leaned closer to the glass again, her eyes wide and full of light.

“Here we come,” she whispered. “Get ready, China. I’m coming home.”

Chapter Text

The airplane trembled slightly as it descended through thick white clouds. Outside the small oval window, the jagged outline of China’s southwestern hills emerged—layered like brushstrokes fading into mist. Somewhere nestled within them waited Zhaoxing Dong Village, the place her grandparents called home.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng pressed her forehead to the cold glass, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement. Her breath fogged the window as she whispered, “Almost there.”

Beside her, her mother,
, looked up from her tablet. “Remember, don’t run off the moment we land. Gonggong and Popo are meeting us outside the gate.”

“I know,” Marinette said, bouncing in her seat. “I just want to see the bridges. The wind-rain bridges you told me about.”

Li Xiu smiled and touched her daughter’s hand. “And the drum towers. They say when they echo, they carry the stories of the village.”

Marinette leaned back into her seat, her imagination already painting the village in lantern gold, wood grain, and stone paths. It had been five years since their last visit. She was just eight back then. Everything had seemed bigger, more mysterious. Now, she was thirteen—and ready to remember it all.

The plane landed. The terminal smelled of jet fuel and spices. Outside, thick green hills and bright banners welcomed arriving passengers. Her grandparents stood waiting beyond the gate—her grandfather Wu Nianzu in a short-sleeved shirt and woolen vest, and her grandmother Mu Yuelan in her embroidered traditional blouse, a woven basket on her arm.

“Marinette!” Popo called.

The girl rushed forward and hugged them both. “I missed you!”

“Come,” Nianzu said, patting her head. “The village awaits.”

They drove into the hills in a battered white van that smelled like dried tea and wood. The road twisted around waterfalls, bamboo groves, and rice terraces. As the sun sank low, painting the mountains in orange and lavender, they turned into the valley.

Zhaoxing Dong Village stretched like a storybook across the riverbanks—wooden stilt houses with sloped rooftops, red lanterns swinging in the breeze, stone paths winding beneath flowering trees. Five towering drum towers stood like sentinels above it all, and the intricate wind-rain bridges connected sections of the village like delicate threads in a tapestry.

Marinette rolled down the window and stuck her hand out, letting the air sweep through her fingers. “It’s just like I remember,” she murmured.

“Still beautiful,” Yuelan said, her voice soft.

The van stopped near a large circular courtyard framed by old banyan trees. Chickens clucked softly in the distance. A few children chased each other past, barefoot and laughing.

They entered the grandparents’ house—a sturdy wooden home passed down for generations. The interior was warm and dimly lit, filled with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine. Wooden beams overhead were carved with birds and clouds. An ancestral altar stood at the far end of the room, candles flickering beside faded photographs.

Lucien Dupain, Marinette’s father, stepped out from the kitchen, a towel slung over one shoulder. Tall and broad-shouldered, with flour-dusted hands and a warm smile, he hugged his daughter tight.

“There’s my little dragonfly,” he said.

“Papa!” Marinette squealed.

“You beat us here,” Li Xiu said, taking his hand.

“Had to make sure the kitchen hadn’t fallen apart in five years,” Lucien chuckled. “The clay stove still works. I’ve got steamed buns going.”

That night, they gathered around the low dining table, cross-legged on bamboo mats. The meal was simple—sticky rice, pickled vegetables, pork with ginger, and fresh buns. Outside, crickets sang. Inside, laughter flowed.

“Tell us about school,” Yuelan said, sipping tea.

Marinette launched into a rapid stream of stories about friends, teachers, and a recent art project she had nearly ruined by spilling ink across her sketchbook.

“You still draw?” Nianzu asked.

“Every day.”

“Then tomorrow,” he said, “we go to the ink market. Zhaoxing has the finest brushmakers in the region.”

“Really?” Marinette’s eyes lit up.

“They say the best ink smells like pine and sounds like silk when it moves on paper,” Yuelan added.

Later, as the adults chatted by candlelight, Marinette sat on the steps of the back porch. Fireflies danced over the rice fields, and the distant sound of a drum echoed through the hills.

She remembered what her mother had said—that the drums carried stories.

Maybe she’d find one of her own.

Morning brought mist. The hills looked like they were dreaming.

Marinette helped her grandmother prepare breakfast—scrambled eggs with scallions, soybean porridge, and sweet rice balls. Yuelan showed her how to roll the dough into perfect spheres.

“Your hands are steadier than last time,” she said.

“I’ve been practicing,” Marinette replied proudly.

After breakfast, Nianzu led her down to the village’s central square. It was market day. The stone paths were crowded with vendors selling handmade cloth, carved wood charms, fresh vegetables, dried herbs, and brushes—dozens of calligraphy brushes in all sizes and colors.

Marinette’s fingers lingered over the handles, admiring the craftsmanship—crimson lacquer, gold inlays, delicate horsehair tips.

“Pick one,” Nianzu said.

She chose a medium brush with a bamboo handle, its bristles perfectly tapered.

“It’s yours,” he said.

As they walked back, a group of young villagers played music near the central drum tower—pipes, string instruments, and the rhythmic beat of the large ceremonial drum.

Marinette paused, entranced.

“Do they do this every week?” she asked.

“Every five days,” Nianzu said. “A rhythm of the old calendar. The drum tower is the heart of the village.”

Marinette listened to the beat until it echoed inside her.

That afternoon, she wandered the village on her own, sketchbook in hand. The houses stood on tall stilts, their weathered planks rich with age. Red banners fluttered from balconies. Children giggled beneath wind chimes.

Near a stream, she stopped to draw the reflection of a bridge. Her brush moved in careful strokes, guided by the memory of the rhythm she’d heard earlier.

“You draw the wind,” said a voice behind her.

She turned. A boy, no older than sixteen, stood nearby with a basket of mushrooms. His face was tanned, and he wore the village’s traditional vest.

Marinette blushed. “I was just… trying to catch the moment.”

He nodded. “That’s what the drum does too.”

Then he walked off.

She watched him disappear down the path and smiled to herself.

As the sun set, casting a golden sheen over the rooftops, Marinette returned home, her sketchbook filled with new pages.

That night, before she fell asleep, she opened the window beside her bed. The drum tower sounded again in the distance.

And beneath it, the village breathed like a living story.

Tomorrow, something would change. She could feel it.

And in the shadow of bridges and drums, her tale was beginning.

Another van rolled into Zhaoxing Dong Village, weaving its way along the narrow mountain roads. Terraced hills unfurled beside them in quiet rows, the mist still hanging low over the green, as though reluctant to rise. Wooden rooftops layered the valley below, curved and black-tiled, humming with ancient stillness.

Inside the van, Félix sat in the front seat, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His gaze tracked the landscape outside—eyes sharp, but quiet, dulled by thought. The rhythm of the hills seemed to echo something unspoken.

Beside him, Adrien sketched calmly in his notebook, the pencil moving in even strokes across the paper. The silence between the two boys was companionable, a kind of hush neither of them felt the need to break. Félix occasionally glanced over, catching glimpses of Adrien’s lines: the terraces, the fog, a child standing by a wheel.

Behind them, Amélie sat straight-backed, her posture elegant, hands folded in her lap. But her eyes never stopped watching Félix. His silence was not out of character, but it was heavier today—more rooted, more internal.

"You’ve barely said a word,” she said softly.

Félix didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed fixed on the road winding below them.

“I told you,” he said at last. “It’s beautiful.”

Adrien glanced up, then down at his notebook again. “You said that already.”

Félix didn’t respond.

What he didn’t explain—what he couldn’t—was that he’d seen this village before. Not in pictures, or travel logs, but somewhere quieter. Somewhere inside. Just once, in the fading haze of a dream Null had left behind before slipping into dormancy. A name murmured, a corner of a landscape, a feeling. He’d followed it like a string through fog.

The van came to a gentle stop.

They stepped out together.

The village stretched out before them like a half-forgotten painting. Dragon-roofed towers rose like wooden sails, and the hum of water moved beneath bridges carved with forgotten stories. Félix’s feet touched the ground as though it were sacred, though he didn’t know why. It felt familiar. Not like a memory—but like something older.

“Is this it?” Adrien asked, stepping close beside him.

Félix nodded slowly. “It’s enough.”

There was a reverence in Adrien’s voice when he spoke again. “It feels like a secret.”

Félix gave a small smile. “Maybe that’s why I came.”

Amélie approached a tea vendor seated near the square. “Good afternoon,” she said in Mandarin, polite and clear. “We’re looking for a quiet place to stay.”

The woman looked them over, her expression warming. “Past the fifth drum tower,” she said. “There’s a guesthouse—my cousin’s. Peaceful. The tourists don’t know it yet.”

Amélie bowed her thanks. “We’ll walk.”

The village paths were narrow, made of stone worn smooth by rain and generations. Children played between doorways. Lanterns bobbed under the eaves. The scent of smoke and plum tea drifted from half-open kitchens.

Félix walked slowly, letting his gaze move over the architecture—the curled corners of roofs, the wooden beams etched with phoenixes and tigers. Ivy grew over shutters. Paper charms fluttered on strings like whispers.

Adrien trailed a little ahead, camera swinging from his neck. “It really does feel like a dream,” he murmured.

“Like ink that bled too far,” Félix said quietly.

Adrien looked back at him with a blink of surprise, but smiled. “That’s... exactly right.”

They crossed a narrow wooden bridge. Beneath them, the stream moved lazily, petals drifting on its surface. Félix stopped at the center, his hand resting on the railing. The reflection in the water trembled—his eyes, the edge of his face, and the faint flash of metal on his finger.

Amélie approached behind him. “Why here, Félix?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His fingers curled around the ring. It had gone cold since Null fell asleep, but still it pulsed faintly, like a stone with a heartbeat buried too deep to reach.

He looked out across the rooftops.

“I think there’s something I was meant to see,” he said. “Or maybe remember.”

She didn’t question him. Just reached out, gently brushing his sleeve. “Then we’ll stay as long as you need.”

The guesthouse sat at the village’s edge, framed by camellia trees and low stone steps. A red gate swung open to reveal a wide courtyard shaded by prayer flags. The wooden beams were faded and cracked, but the place breathed peace.

Their host welcomed them with a bow and offered hot tea with candied ginger. He spoke with Amélie in low Mandarin, arranging rooms overlooking a garden.

Adrien wandered off toward a row of carved statues, kneeling to sketch. Félix remained still, eyes drifting over the woodwork, the flickering lanterns, the worn calligraphy inked into the beams.

He said nothing.

The rooms were simple but warm. Wooden floors, lattice windows, pale curtains that swayed in the evening breeze. Félix’s room faced a narrow trail that led to a tiny shrine hidden among the herbs. He stood at the window, watching the last light sink into the hills.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

But something in him did.

That night, they ate in the courtyard. Steamed rice, smoked tofu, pickled roots, and wild greens. Félix picked at his meal without appetite. Adrien asked questions politely, curious about the drum towers, the village customs, the way musicians once settled disputes by playing through the night.

The host laughed gently. “In Zhaoxing,” he said, “every tower has its own song. You can tell the families apart by the way they play.”

Félix let the words wash over him. He imagined it—a village in darkness, lit only by lanterns and music. And people listening in silence, not for who was right, but who understood.

After dinner, he slipped away.

He stepped barefoot onto the balcony outside his room, pressing his hands to the rail.

The village below was soft with lantern glow. The mist was returning, curling in the alleyways like breath. A woman’s singing echoed faintly from the hills. Somewhere far off, a fox barked once, then was gone.

Félix looked down at the ring.

“I brought you here,” he whispered. “Because I think this is where you began.”4

The metal didn’t warm.

But for a moment, something stirred.

Not Null. Not memory.

Just a stillness inside him that felt whole.

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t hurt.

It listened.

----------------------------------

The sun hung low behind the mountain ridges, casting long shadows over the village’s ancient rooftops. The air was cool but held the last warmth of the day, soft and fragrant with the scent of pine and earth. Narrow stone streets wound between wooden houses, alive with the quiet murmur of evening—chatter in distant courtyards, the clatter of shutters closing, and the faint notes of a bamboo flute drifting from somewhere up the hill.

Félix and Adrien strolled side by side, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone as they moved slowly through the heart of the village. Adrien’s camera hung from his neck, its strap swaying with each step. Félix’s eyes were half-closed, taking in the peaceful scene with a muted reverence. Despite the calm, there was something taut in his posture—as if a thread of tension ran just beneath his skin.

Ahead, a girl stepped out from between two houses, moving quickly down the path. Her hair was a deep, rich brown, loosely tied back but with stray strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a faded brunate-colored blouse that caught the fading light and a skirt that swayed as she hurried.

Félix’s gaze met hers for a fleeting moment—a flash of surprise, then distraction.

Before he could react, the girl collided with him, the impact sudden and unsteady.

She staggered, eyes wide in shock, and tumbled to the ground, her hands hitting the stone roughly. A sharp intake of breath escaped her lips.

Félix’s body moved without hesitation. He reached down, steadying her with firm hands on her elbows.

“Are you okay?” His voice was soft but steady.

She blinked, cheeks flushing a bright crimson as she scrambled to her feet. The warmth of embarrassment seemed to radiate from her like a visible heat.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see you.”

Her eyes darted away, lowering to the ground, twisting a loose thread on her blouse with trembling fingers. Her breath hitched slightly as if overwhelmed by a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

Félix released her arms gently, stepping back to give her space.

She nodded quickly, forcing a tight smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to betray her calm facade.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned sharply and hurried away, her footsteps uneven and quick as she disappeared down a narrow alley.

Adrien watched the exchange silently, his brow furrowed with curiosity.

Félix remained still, watching the spot where the girl had vanished, a strange mixture of sympathy and confusion stirring in his chest.

“Who was she?” Adrien finally asked.

Félix shook his head, lips pressed together. “I don’t know.”

Adrien glanced back at him, sensing something unspoken.

The two boys resumed their walk, the village now dimming into twilight. Lanterns flickered on, casting pools of warm light that danced with the evening breeze. The sounds of life softened, the rhythms of the day folding gently into night.

As they approached the guesthouse where they were staying, the wooden gate creaked softly open before them.

But before they stepped inside, a faint murmur of voices stopped them. From the slightly ajar window by the courtyard, a woman’s voice drifted out—low, tense, and unfamiliar in its hardness.

Chapter Text

Félix’s voice called out first as he pushed open the door, his muddy shoes skidding a little on the old tiles.

“Mom, we’re back!”

From the sitting room, Amélie’s voice floated out, softer than usual. “Already? That was fast.”

She appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Flour still dusted her fingertips and the corner of her sweater. Her mouth curved into a smile—but only for a second. It stalled the moment her eyes flicked past Félix.

Adrien stepped through the door after him, clutching the book he’d gone back for. It was the one with the faded red spine and the illustration of Saint-Malo’s shore on the cover—something about it felt important. He held it tight against his chest like a treasure that might vanish if he loosened his grip.

“Félix forgot this,” he said, lifting it slightly.

Amélie gave a small laugh—too light, too quick. “Well, thank you for retrieving it.”

But her eyes weren’t on the book.

They flicked sideways, almost nervously, to the room behind her. Just a glance. But Félix caught it. The kind of look someone gives when trying not to draw attention—there, then gone.

He leaned slightly to peek around her.

Someone was standing near the fireplace.

A woman neither of them had seen before.

She was tall—taller than Amélie—and not very old. Maybe thirty, maybe a little younger, but she had the posture of someone who had lived far longer than her age allowed. Her coat was deep gray, perfectly smooth, not a wrinkle or splash on it. Her shoes were dry. Spotless, despite the rain outside.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

She had the kind of stillness that didn’t feel passive. It felt... measured. As if movement was a choice she only made when it suited her.

When she finally turned her head toward them, it was slow. Quiet. Almost too smooth. Like she wasn’t surprised they were there.

Félix stepped slightly closer to Adrien, one hand tightening around the strap of his satchel. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Who’s that?”

Amélie’s answer was calm. But it didn’t sound natural. “That’s Li Xiu. The landlord’s daughter.”

Adrien tilted his head. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, then stopped. ‘Daughter’ didn’t sit right. It landed strangely in the sentence, like a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong spot.

From the corner of his eye, Félix saw Adrien frown. He’d caught it too.

Li Xiu stepped forward just slightly—enough to emerge from the shadows cast by the tall marble hearth. The fire behind her crackled but gave off almost no warmth.

“You must be Félix,” she said. “And Adrien.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm either. It was… careful. Clean. Like someone who had spent a long time practicing how not to sound like anything at all. It didn’t waver. Didn’t stumble. It wasn’t accented, but it had the polished edges of someone who had learned their words later than their thoughts.

She didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of her mouth moved—barely. Like the suggestion of a smile that hadn’t quite been approved.

“I have a daughter your age,” she added. “Ten years old. Just like you.”

That sentence landed in the room with a strange kind of weight. Not friendly. Not warm. More like a coin being dropped onto a glass table and left there, still spinning.

Félix blinked. “Is she here?”

Li Xiu’s eyes flicked, subtly, toward the hallway. Toward a closed door near the back.

Then back to them.

“Yes. She’s here. But she’s a little shy.”

She paused, like she was waiting for something. When neither of them spoke, she added, “If you wish, I can call her.”

Félix didn’t answer. He glanced at Adrien, whose arms had folded more tightly over the book now, like a shield. There was a small crease between his brows.

Li Xiu tilted her head, just a touch. “Perhaps she’d like to meet you.”

The room felt too still. Like the whole house had leaned in to listen.

“No need to bother her,” Amélie said quickly, with a smile that felt stitched on. “They’ve had a long walk. And they’re hungry.”

Li Xiu’s eyes rested on her for a long second—unblinking, unreadable.

Then she nodded. Once. Like a queen granting a favor.

“Of course.”

She turned and moved back toward the hearth. Not walked—glided. That’s what it looked like. Like her feet didn’t quite trust the floor. Or maybe the floor didn’t trust her.

The firelight licked the edge of her coat. But it didn’t catch the way it should have.

Félix didn’t realize how tense he was until they were halfway up the stairs and his shoulder finally relaxed.

“She gives me the creeps,” Adrien muttered when they reached the landing.

Félix didn’t reply. He was still thinking about the look Li Xiu had given him. Not angry. Not kind. Not even curious. Just… assessing. Like someone trying to decide where a piece belonged in a larger game.

In their room, they tossed their things aside. Félix pulled his sketchbook from his bag and sat on the floor near the little round table. He opened it and began to draw, or at least pretended to.

His hand moved, but the shapes meant nothing. Not yet.

Adrien sat cross-legged on the rug, tapping his fingers on the book’s hard cover.

“She knew our names,” he said finally.

Félix’s pencil paused.

“She said she has a daughter our age,” Félix replied. “But she didn’t say her name.”

Adrien looked up. “Do you think… she’s real?”

Félix didn’t answer.

From below came the sound of murmuring. Not conversation. Just… fragments. A few words too quiet to catch. Too slow to be normal speech.

Then the creak of a door.

Then another.

Then nothing.

Dinner that night was odd. Amélie spoke more than usual, filling every silence like she was afraid of it. She asked questions she didn’t wait to be answered. Commented on the food. The weather. How long the walk must’ve been.

She never mentioned Li Xiu.

Never said who the woman really was.

Not even a hint.

When Félix asked casually, “Is the landlord back, too?” she pretended she hadn’t heard.

That night, Félix couldn’t sleep.

The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that held its breath.

He turned over again. Saw the moonlight strip across the wall. Watched Adrien fidget under the covers, restless.

Just past midnight, Félix sat up.

Something felt… off.

Then he heard it.

A soft creak in the hallway.

Then the faintest… giggle.

Not loud.

Not playful.

Just… out of place. Too faint. Like a recording of a laugh being played back from far away. Slightly warped at the edges.

Félix slipped out of bed and padded to the door, careful not to wake Adrien. He opened it just a crack.

The hallway was empty.

But he could feel it.

That door at the end—the one near the back stairs—was still shut.

But someone was standing just behind it.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Just there.

Like a thought too quiet to finish.

Félix closed the door again slowly.

His heart was thudding, but not fast. Not wild. Just heavy.

He lay down again.

But he didn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the streets slick and shining under the faint light of the moon. Félix slipped out of the house quietly, careful not to let the old door creak. The air hit him like a cool cloth, damp and clean, carrying the faint smell of wet earth and burned wood from the chimneys.

The village at night felt different—slower, heavier. Roofs hunched low beneath the mist, and every shuttered window looked like a closed eye. His boots made soft, quick sounds on the packed dirt, water seeping around the soles with each step.

He hadn’t meant to leave the house. But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, every sound in the walls had felt like it was crawling toward him. His skin itched with a restless energy, the kind that refused to sit still. Out here, at least, the air moved.

He moved with it.

His breath came steady and quiet, each inhale tasting faintly of rain. His muscles shifted under his coat, smooth and controlled, like they were tuned to the rhythm of the night itself. It was a strange kind of awareness—his own heartbeat felt louder than his footsteps, and every drop of water sliding from the eaves sounded as sharp as a pebble falling.

Halfway down the narrow lane, something made him pause.

Not a sound. Not yet. More like the shape of a sound, caught at the edge of his hearing.

He tilted his head slightly, letting the night settle into him. The faintest scrape. A footstep that wasn’t his.

Félix kept walking, eyes forward, but his body adjusted—weight shifted to the balls of his feet, his shoulders loosening without thought. His senses stretched out like invisible threads, tracing the space behind him.

Another sound, softer this time. A small splash of water in a shallow puddle.

He stopped.

So did the sound.

The road ahead was empty, silvered with moonlight. The road behind… just as still. He let the silence hang, counting the beats of his own pulse.

“Not very good at hiding,” he said quietly.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a shadow stirred near the low stone wall to his left. A head poked out, followed by a small figure stepping into the pale glow.

It was a girl.

Félix blinked. Recognition came quick—the same girl who had bumped into him in the market earlier that afternoon. She looked even smaller in the moonlight, wrapped in an oversized jacket with sleeves that almost swallowed her hands.

“You,” he said, his voice breaking the stillness.

The girl froze for a heartbeat, then shifted her weight like she couldn’t decide whether to run or stay put.

Félix turned fully to face her. “Why are you following me?”

“I wasn’t,” she said quickly. Her voice was soft, but not frightened. More defensive, like someone caught peeking through a keyhole.

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you call it?”

She hesitated, scuffing her shoe lightly against the wet ground. “I saw you leaving. Nobody goes out this late unless they’re… I don’t know. Doing something.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Félix said. The words sounded flat even to him.

The girl glanced down, then up again, her dark eyes catching a bit of moonlight. “You’re not from here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Félix shifted his satchel on his shoulder. “And you shouldn’t follow strangers in the middle of the night.”

A small pause. Then the corners of her mouth lifted—just a fraction. “Neither should you.”

The reply caught him off guard. He almost laughed, but didn’t. Instead, he studied her for a moment, letting the silence draw out. Her breathing was light, quick, like a bird ready to dart away at the first wrong move.

“What’s your name?” he asked finally.

“Marinette.”

He nodded once. “Félix.”

“I know.”

He frowned slightly. “How?”

Her shoulders lifted in the faintest shrug beneath the oversized jacket. “My mom, Li Xiu, told me about you. And your cousin.”

Félix’s breath caught halfway through his chest. “You’re… her daughter?” The words came out rougher than he meant, like they’d tripped on the way out.

For a moment, the whole street seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the slow drip of water sliding from the eaves and the faint whisper of wind curling through the alley. Félix shifted his weight, feeling the soft give of damp earth beneath his boots.

Marinette tilted her head slightly, studying him with a directness that felt far too calm for someone her age. “You walk funny,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “What?”

“Not bad funny,” she added quickly, her voice small but sure. “Just… different. Like you’re trying to hear the ground instead of step on it.”

Félix opened his mouth, but no reply came. The comment landed somewhere deep, heavier than it should have.

He looked away first. “You should go home.”

Marinette’s mouth tugged at one corner—not quite a smile, but something that wanted to be. “Maybe you should too.”

Before he could answer, she stepped back, her shoe making the softest splash in a shallow puddle. For a second, he thought she might disappear into the mist pooling at the edge of the street. But she stayed there, her small figure steady in the moonlight, as if waiting for him to decide what came next.

Marinette stood still for a moment longer, the pale light casting soft shadows under her hood. Félix glanced around, noticing how quiet the village had become. Doors were shuttered, the occasional flicker of candlelight from behind curtains the only sign anyone else was awake.

“Well?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you going to tell me why you’re out here?”

Félix hesitated. His hand tightened around the strap of his satchel. “I’m looking for something.”

“Like what?” Marinette asked, stepping a little closer, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

He wasn’t sure how much to tell. The temple had been on his mind all day—the way it loomed just beyond the hills, whispered about but never visited. And the way the elders watched them, like shadows ready to strike.

“Something important,” he said finally, keeping his voice low.

Marinette nodded, as if she understood more than she let on. “You know about the temple?”

“Only what people say.” Félix glanced down the street. “That it’s old. That no one goes there.”

She laughed softly, a little sound that slipped through the still air like a breeze. “That’s true.”

“But some people do go. Sometimes.”

Marinette’s eyes grew wider. “Who?”

Félix shrugged. “Not many. Mostly the elders. They don’t talk about it much.”

“Sounds scary,” Marinette said, biting her lip. “My mom says the temple keeps secrets.”

Félix’s gaze flicked back to her, surprised. “She does?”

“She says it’s a place where you have to be careful. Where things aren’t always what they seem.”

They walked slowly, footsteps soft on the wet ground. Marinette pointed out the small details only someone who grew up here would notice—the crooked fence posts, the way the stone walls caught moss in patches, the smell of woodsmoke carried on the breeze.

“People say the temple’s protected,” she said, glancing up at him. “Like something’s watching.”

Félix’s heart quickened. “You believe that?”

She shrugged, looking down at her shoes. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

They reached the village square, empty and silent under the moonlight. Félix paused, the weight of the place pressing around him.

“It’s not just stories, is it?” he asked quietly.

Marinette looked at him then, her eyes steady. “No. It’s real.”

For a moment, the two of them just stood there, two kids caught between curiosity and caution, the secrets of the village lingering between them like a shadow they couldn’t quite shake.

The village square lay quiet beneath a blanket of thick clouds, the moon hidden behind a haze of mist. The steady rhythm of raindrops falling from the eaves created a gentle, soothing soundscape. Félix glanced around, taking in the worn wooden signposts swaying slightly in the breeze and the narrow alleys winding like veins through the cluster of small houses.

Faded posters clung stubbornly to a noticeboard, their edges curling with age. Paint peeled from the shutters of closed windows, and the scent of damp earth mixed with faint traces of woodsmoke lingering from earlier fires. Here and there, small lanterns cast pale pools of light, flickering as if reluctant to illuminate the stillness of the night.

Marinette kicked a pebble gently, watching it roll and settle among the cobblestones with a soft clatter. She seemed entirely at ease, her small figure wrapped in a baggy jacket that swallowed her slight frame, her breath visible in the cool night air.

“People don’t talk about the temple much,” Marinette said quietly, her voice blending with the whisper of the wind. “But everyone knows it’s there. Everyone knows to stay away.”

Félix glanced at her, curious. “Why?”

She shrugged, a motion so small it barely disturbed the folds of her jacket. “Because it’s old. Really old. Older than the village, even. Some say it’s magic. Some say it’s cursed.”

Félix frowned. The word magic always carried weight, stories spun in the dark corners of the village by old storytellers and frightened children. “Magic?”

Marinette grinned faintly, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Maybe. I don’t know. But my mom says the elders keep watch for a reason.”

There was a softness to her words that didn’t quite hide the respect and fear lurking beneath. Félix felt the same tug—the temple was a place of quiet power, something ancient and unyielding, watching the village like a guardian or a sentinel.

“Have you ever been there?” he asked, stepping a little closer, eager for more.

Her eyes flicked away, then back to him, bright with mischief and maybe a hint of pride. “No. But I’ve been close. I once snuck near the edge of the woods where it’s hidden.”

Félix’s breath caught in his throat. The forest near the village was dense and tangled, the trees standing like silent watchers. “What did you see?”

She smiled like she was about to say something important, then shook her head slowly. “Nothing. Just trees. And silence. But I know it’s there. I feel it.”

There was a weight to her words—an unspoken understanding that some places held a presence beyond sight or sound.

They were about to continue when a faint scraping noise interrupted the stillness. Both froze, ears straining to catch the source.

“Did you hear that?” Marinette whispered.

Félix nodded and led the way, following the sound to the edge of a low stone wall bordering one of the quiet lanes. Peering over, they spotted a small turtle lying on its side, its shell cracked and one leg bent awkwardly beneath it.

“Oh no,” Marinette murmured, kneeling down carefully. “It’s hurt.”

Félix’s senses sharpened instinctively. The air seemed to thicken, a subtle shift he couldn’t ignore. The creature appeared ordinary, but beneath that calm exterior, something felt… off. A faint ripple of unease flickered through him.

“Maybe we should leave it,” Félix suggested cautiously.

Marinette shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to take care of it until it gets better.”

He opened his mouth to object, the strange feeling growing stronger like a quiet alarm, but her determined gaze stopped him. There was a stubborn kindness in her eyes, a refusal to turn away from something small and broken.

“Please,” she said softly, “I can’t just leave it here.”

Félix glanced again at the turtle, noting the dull gleam in its eyes and the slow, shallow breaths it took. The shadows around them seemed to lengthen, and the village felt suddenly far less ordinary.

“Okay,” he said at last, his voice low. “But we have to be careful.”

Her relief was immediate, and she gently scooped up the creature, cradling it as if it were a precious treasure.

As they resumed their walk, Marinette talked softly about the village—the old well near the edge of the square, the stories of the elders who watched silently, and the quiet rules that everyone seemed to follow without question.

Félix listened, his mind racing with thoughts of the temple and the unseen forces woven through the village’s fabric. The turtle in Marinette’s arms was small and vulnerable, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it carried a deeper secret, one tied to the ancient shadows stretching beyond the trees.

They walked beneath twisted branches dripping with rain, their footsteps muffled by thick moss and fallen leaves. The air was thick with the scent of wet wood and earth, and somewhere nearby, the faint sound of chanting echoed—soft, distant, and full of meaning.

Marinette glanced at Félix, sensing his tension. “Don’t worry,” she said with a small smile. “The village looks strange at night, but it’s our home. We’re safe.”

Félix nodded slowly, though his eyes remained watchful.

When they reached the path leading back toward Marinette’s house, she paused. “You should get back before anyone notices,” she said.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

They stood quietly for a moment, the weight of unspoken things hanging between them like the thick fog drifting in from the hills.

Marinette’s smile returned, warm and genuine this time. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” Félix replied, feeling both relief and something deeper—an unease that stretched far beyond the village limits.

As she turned and walked away, the soft splash of her footsteps faded into the night. Félix pulled his coat tighter around him and looked up toward the dark hills where the temple waited—silent, ancient, and watching.

And somewhere deep inside, he knew this night was only the beginning.

The moon hung low, a pale crescent carved into the deep indigo sky. Shadows stretched long beneath twisted trees, the night whispering secrets only the wind dared carry. Somewhere deep within the forest, a sharp snap—the brittle crack of a broken branch—shattered the stillness. Urgent. Out of place.

Three figures burst through the undergrowth, boots pounding the damp earth. Leaves and twigs clung to their dark clothing, breaths ragged and visible in quick bursts, flickering like the sputter of a dying candle.

The tallest led, his broad frame slicing through the brush with deliberate force. Cold, hard eyes flicked anxiously behind him. His jaw clenched tight, lips pressed thin. Tension knotted his shoulders, sweat beading despite the cool air.

“We lost the old man,” he muttered, voice low and grim, void of relief—only brittle edge.

Behind him, a younger man with narrow eyes jerked his head toward the dark canopy above, as if expecting watchful eyes lurking in the branches. His fingers twitched near his belt, brushing the curve of a hidden blade. His expression twisted—anger and disbelief colliding—like the hunt was slipping through their fingers at the crucial moment.

The third, smaller but no less fierce, kept pace with mechanical precision, scanning every shadow, every rustle, every flicker of movement. His gaze fixed on the narrow path ahead—a tightrope stretched between pursuit and peril.

The forest closed in like a living thing—branches twisted into grasping fingers, snagging coats and tearing sleeves. Roots rose like ancient serpents, threatening to trip the careless. The air smelled sharp, earthy, thick with moss and decay. Somewhere unseen, a twig snapped again, sending a flock of birds into frantic flight.

The leader’s breath hitched, eyes darting right—to a faint glow barely visible through the thicket—the temple.

Its weathered stone walls rose like a relic from another age, stained by time and secrets. Lanterns, long extinguished, hung askew along crumbling archways. Yet despite the ruin, the temple pulsed faintly, as though it breathed beneath cold stone, guarding a heartbeat that refused to fade.

Gritting his teeth, the leader whispered, “We can’t lose it. Not now. Not here.”

Frustration bloomed in the younger man’s narrowed eyes. “How do we find him if we can’t follow?”

The leader’s gaze sharpened, piercing the gloom. “By scent. By will. By whatever it takes.”

His hand dropped to a worn leather pouch at his belt. The faint clink of metal echoed—a sound ancient and precious.

They pressed forward. The forest closed tighter. The air grew heavy. Charged.

A sudden rustle to their left froze them mid-step. The smallest figure tensed, muscles coiled like a predator’s. The leader motioned sharply, and the three melted into shadows, backs pressed against gnarled trunks, breaths slow and shallow.

From the darkness came a low, guttural sound—a whisper of movement, a presence not quite human. Something stirred in the underbrush, and a faint glow shimmered briefly, like a spirit flickering at the edge of sight.

The leader’s eyes snapped to it—sharp and unblinking.

Then silence.

The glow vanished.

They waited. Every second stretched into eternity.

Finally, the leader hissed, “Move.”

Like ghosts, they slipped away, swallowed whole by the night.

Chapter Text

A low breeze stirred the early light, threading through the neighborhood like a whisper. Shadows still clung to the corners of fences and hedges, the morning not yet strong enough to burn them away. The sky hovered in a pale liminal blue, not quite day, no longer night. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang a single, tentative note and then fell silent, as if reconsidering the effort.

She stood on the cobbled walkway, one foot nervously tapping against the stone, her other hand clutched tightly around the strap of her canvas satchel. A faded blue hoodie hung from her shoulders, sleeves slightly too long, the cuffs damp with dew. Her dark hair was half-loose, tangled in places like she hadn’t bothered with a brush. Marinette Dupain-Cheng had the look of someone who’d woken in a hurry — not rushed by panic, exactly, but pulled by something she didn’t entirely understand.

The house before her was modest yet clean, front garden trimmed and orderly, the kind of quiet Parisian townhouse that held its breath even in the quiet hours. She reached out and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed distantly inside.

From within her bag, something shifted. She opened the flap just enough to peek in: a small turtle, pale green and bandaged, nestled in a folded towel. It blinked up at her slowly, one eye still swollen shut. She winced and whispered something soft — reassurance, apology, a promise she couldn’t quite articulate.

Then the door opened.

“Félix!” she blurted, relief flooding her tone.

The boy in the doorway blinked. His hair caught the morning light like gold dust. He wore a soft white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and his expression was one of cautious politeness — and confusion.

“Uh… sorry,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken yet that day. “Who are you? And how do you know my cousin?”

Marinette froze.

Her eyes scanned his face — the high cheekbones, the sharp jawline, the familiar narrow eyes that always looked a little like they were hiding something. It was him. Wasn’t it? It had to be him. The resemblance was uncanny. But the voice was wrong. Softer. Less… calculating.

“Wait,” she stammered, drawing back half a step. “You’re not… you’re not Félix?”

“No,” he replied, brow furrowing slightly. “I’m Adrien. Adrien Agreste. Félix is upstairs.” His gaze drifted down to her bag, where a faint rustling sound came again. “Are you… okay?”

Marinette’s face burned.

“I—sorry, I thought—” She clutched the strap tighter, visibly flustered now. “This is really embarrassing, I just— I thought you were him. You look just like him!”

Adrien gave a sheepish smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. We get that a lot.”

Above them, the creak of floorboards stirred. Somewhere in a second-floor bedroom, light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a lattice of pale gold across the floor. Félix stirred in the shadows, still seated cross-legged on the worn carpet, breath steady, posture unmoving.

His eyes were open now.

He hadn’t slept.

All night, he’d remained still, channeling the quiet hum of qi through his limbs, pushing it deeper into his bones until the marrow itself began to pulse with something ancient and slow and vast. Bone Tempering — the second stage. The transformation was subtle, but unmistakable. His limbs felt lighter, denser. His hearing, sharper. His sense of time, stretched.

Seven stages remained.

Seven gates, and then the next realm.

He ran a hand through his hair, still half in a daze, and blinked. His body felt weightless. Not from fatigue — no, this was the high that came after breakthrough. A thrill that set every cell humming.

Then he heard it — a voice downstairs.

Two voices. One was his cousin and The other…

Marinette?

The edge in her voice — nervous, uncertain — caught his attention like a thread tugged tight. He rose without a sound, feet gliding across the floor. His footfalls made no creak. No breath disturbed the air. Just the faint flutter of curtains as he passed through the door and moved down the hall.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. Below, Adrien stood in the open doorway, turned halfway toward a girl with ink-dark hair and trembling hands. Félix’s gaze narrowed slightly, reading the lines of tension in her shoulders. Something clutched tight in her hand.

He moved.

A blur — not fast, exactly, but deliberate. Controlled. Like a cat descending a ledge.

Then he was behind Adrien, arms folded loosely, voice smooth and unhurried.

“Marinette?” he said. “What are you doing here this early?”

Adrien turned at once, surprised. Marinette’s eyes snapped up.

The change was immediate.

Her entire posture shifted — straightening, grounding. She took a full breath, and the nervous flicker behind her eyes stilled, replaced by something steadier. She turned toward him fully and opened her satchel.

“Because of what happened yesterday,” she said, her voice now clear.

Félix tilted his head slightly. “You brought him?” he asked.

She nodded. The turtle stirred again in the folds of the towel, small and slow. “I didn’t know where else to go. He recognized you. I thought you’d know what to do.”

Adrien looked between them, baffled. “Wait—hold on, you both know each other? What happened yesterday?”

Marinette hesitated. She glanced at Félix, waiting — asking, silently. He gave a subtle nod.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “I’ll explain. Can we come in?”

Adrien stepped back automatically, still trying to make sense of it. As they entered, Marinette cast a final glance at the two cousins. They stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment — identical silhouettes in the foyer light. She stared.

“You two…” she said slowly, “…really do look exactly alike.”

Félix smiled faintly, but said nothing. Adrien just gave a short laugh.

“I get that a lot.”

Chapter Text

A hint about who the mysterious man is and his past: —————•

Adrien watched them both, his expression edging toward disbelief. His cousin, Félix—mysterious, private, about as social as a locked door—was now standing beside this girl like they shared a secret language

The turtle, bandaged and slow-blinking in her arms, seemed to confirm something had indeed happened… something Adrien had completely missed.

He opened his mouth, gesturing vaguely between them.

“So… wait. How do you two even know each oth—”

But Félix raised a hand slightly, not rudely, but with a quiet finality. His gaze didn’t leave the window.

“I went out last night,” he said, voice low but clear, “after everyone was asleep.”

Adrien blinked. “You—what? Why?”

Félix didn’t acknowledge the interruption.

" I sleep couldn't , so I went for an walk. I wasn’t planning to go far,” Félix said, his voice quieter now, edged with something Adrien couldn’t quite name. “But halfway between the guesthouse and the old shrine path, heard a gentle footsteps"

Félix’s gaze flicked toward Marinette.

Adrien turned his attention to Marinette, eyes narrowing with new scrutiny. “You were following him?”

She looked up then. Not startled, but measured. Her expression was calm, but something beneath her eyes trembled faintly—like a reflection on dark water disturbed by an unseen ripple.

“I wasn’t following him,” she said softly. “I didn’t even know anyone was out there. I thought I was alone.”

Her voice was quiet but steady, like someone accustomed to being dismissed and not easily shaken.

Adrien frowned. “Then what were you doing?”

She hesitated. Her fingers curled gently around the edge of the towel where the turtle lay, drawing strength from the creature’s fragile weight.

“I sometimes walk near the temple at night,” she said.

Adrien opened his mouth, uncertain how to respond to that.

“But last night,” she continued, “I saw someone unfamiliar walking around.”

She glanced toward felix.

“I thought… maybe he was lost. Or looking for something. I don’t usually speak to strangers, but…”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The room held its breath.

Félix shifted slightly, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable.

Adrien watched them both, the silence deepening into something more than awkwardness — not quite suspicion, but not far from it either.

Adrien blinked. Then, slowly, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Interesting… he thought, watching the two of them with fresh curiosity. Very interesting.

He let the silence linger just long enough before sitting up straighter.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands lightly once, “now we’re left with the small matter of why you have an injured turtle.”

Marinette looked down at the bundle in her lap. The towel shifted as the turtle stirred — a slow, careful movement, like it was still gauging the room.

“we found him by the shrine path,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “He was crawling through the undergrowth, barely moving. There were deep cuts on his shell and was Glowing"

Adrien squinted. “Glowing?”

Marinette nodded. “Only for a second. Then it faded.”

“And you didn’t think that was… you know. Weird?”

Of course I did,” Félix said evenly. “That’s why I insisted we leave him behind—”

But before he could finish, Marinette stepped in, her tone calm but insistent.

“—after I convinced him we should at least keep the turtle until he fully recovered.”

Adrien blinked, visibly baffled. His gaze swung from Marinette to Félix and back again.

“You… convinced Félix?” he said, eyebrows rising as he looked squarely at his cousin. “What did she do—blackmail you?”

Félix didn’t respond. He simply crossed his arms and looked out the window, as if the conversation no longer concerned him.

Marinette smiled faintly. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Debatable” Adrien muttered.

Adrien leaned back, arms crossed, giving them both a look that hovered somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So you adopted a glowing, bandaged turtle. Great. Now what?”

Félix didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the towel where the turtle was nestled, motionless but alert. Whatever internal calculations he was making, he kept them to himself.

“We wait,” he said at last.

Adrien arched an eyebrow. “That’s your plan? wasn't?”

For him to recover,” Marinette clarified. “And then.... maybe we return him back into his habitat place"

Adrien looked between them. “So we’re just… turtle rehabilitation volunteers now?”

“It’s the least we can do,” Marinette said. “He’s injured. He needs time.”

“It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that,” Félix added.

Adrien stared at his cousin, trying to read him — and failing, as usual.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Félix almost smiled. “Mildly.”

Adrien groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Alright. Fine. But if this turns into some kind of wildlife rescue mission, I want it on record—I was not consulted.”

Marinette gave a quiet laugh. “Noted.”

Félix knelt one more time beside the turtle, checking the towel gently, making sure the wrappings were still in place. Then he stood and dusted off his hands with the kind of precision that made Adrien roll his eyes.

“We’ll keep him safe,” he said simply.

Adrien sighed. “Of course we will.”

ll

Marinette adjusted the towel in her arms and looked down at the turtle nestled inside. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Her thumb brushed lightly across the edge of the cloth, checking the bandages for the fifth time that morning.

Then, without looking up, she said, “I need you to take him for the day.”

Félix, who had just crossed the room to straighten a stack of books on the side table, turned slightly. “What?”

“The turtle,” she clarified, still not meeting his eyes. “I need you to watch him.”

There was a pause.

“No.”

Her head snapped up. “No?”

Félix leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded. “You’re the one who insisted on bringing him here. Why should I be the one to keep him?”

“Because,” Marinette said, her voice calm but with that unmistakable edge of logic layered in, “if I bring him home, my mother will find out. She’s already suspicious about me sneaking out last night.”

“Not my problem,” he said flatly.

She gave him a look. “You say that like you weren’t there with me.”

“I didn’t bring home a turtle.”

“No,” she replied, stepping closer. “You just happened to be out in the middle of the night for completely unrelated reasons, found an injured animal, and now refuse to take responsibility for it.”

Félix narrowed his eyes slightly. “It’s not my animal.”

“But he trusted you,” she said quickly, holding the towel up like a piece of evidence. “You said that yourself.”

“I said he didn’t run away from me. That’s not the same thing.”

“You checked his bandages twice.”

“That was caution.”

“You whispered to him.”

“That was…” Félix’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. “Not important.”

Across the room, Adrien sat on the edge of the couch, one hand lazily cradling his chin. He was watching the scene unfold like it was a stage play.

“You know,” he said lightly, “this is the most animated I’ve seen you all week, Félix. I should’ve introduced you to wildlife sooner.”

Félix shot him a sidelong glance. “Do you want the turtle?”

Adrien raised both hands in mock surrender. “Nope. This looks like a two-person problem.”

Marinette turned back to Félix, undeterred.

“I don’t need you to keep him forever. Just the day,” she said. “Just until tonight. I’ll come back for him after my mother’s asleep.”

Félix remained silent.

“He’s quiet. He won’t bother you. And you can put him in a box or something, he doesn’t even need a lot of space.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Félix hesitated. His arms were still crossed, and his expression hadn’t changed, but something in the air around him shifted slightly — almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t annoyed. He was… uneasy.

“I’m not used to taking care of things,” he said at last, quietly.

Marinette tilted her head. “So?”

He blinked.

“So,” she continued, “start small.”

Félix stared at her, and for a moment, his usual wall of indifference faltered — just a crack. Just enough for something else to show through: doubt, maybe. Or the fear of doing something wrong.

“I could mess it up,” he said.

“You won’t,” she replied without hesitation.

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to.” She held out the towel again, gently but firmly. “You’re careful. That’s enough.”

He didn’t take it.

Marinette stepped closer, closing the final bit of distance between them. “Please. Just for today.”

Félix looked at the towel, at the small green shape resting inside, bandaged and silent. Then he looked at her. Her eyes didn’t waver. There was no judgment in them, no pressure — only quiet insistence. The kind that didn’t rise or push, but simply waited.

He sighed.

And very, very reluctantly, he reached out and took the towel from her hands.

“There,” she said softly, smiling now. “Was that so hard?”

Félix didn’t answer. He held the bundle like it might explode.

Adrien, still on the couch, clapped once — slowly. “That was genuinely touching. I’m tearing up over here.”

“You’re welcome to take a turn,” Félix muttered.

“Nope,” Adrien said again, clearly enjoying himself. “But I will enjoy watching you bond with your new friend. What are you going to name him?”

“I’m not naming it.”

“You will,” Adrien said confidently.

Félix grumbled something incomprehensible.

As the door shut behind her, silence returned to the room.

Félix stood in the center, still holding the bundle like it was fragile glass. He looked down at it. The turtle blinked once.

Adrien leaned back and smirked.

“So. What now?”

Félix didn’t look up.

“Now,” he said, “I find a box.”