Miraculous Ladybug: The switch

by Cri21_cherry

Summary:

Follow the adventure of these amazing heroes, follow the story of Tikki and Plagg…this is the story of Ladybug and Chat D’or

( now the kwamis are the heroes in this story, it’s a switch)

(Ps. I already published the story in 2023 but now I wanted to change something)
(Ps. I want to give credit to LunaDiane because she is the one who invented this AU but I’m the one who will continue this AU)

Notes:

Hii!! This is my first time and first story, so I’m sorry if there are some errors ( Write in the comments if I commit them ) but I will do my best and I will accept structure comments, advice etc..
That’s all, have fun!

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: ~Miracoulous Awakening~

At Francois DuPont

“Class, please welcome our new student. Be kind.”

Nooroo stood trembling at the front of the classroom, eyes wide.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

“I-I’m N-Nooroo Chouko…” he stammered.

Tikki sat up straighter at her seat as the class observed the boy standing there. Next to her, Plagg mumbled in his sleep. She rolled her eyes and smacked him on the head.

Plagg woke up with a start, lifting his head from the desk. He gives at her a resentful look through his green eyes half-closed with his mouth open to protest but tikki silences him.

“The lesson has begun” I whisper nodding to the new student in front of them.

The new boy clutched his grey backpack straps tightly, shoulders hunched as if he was trying to disappear into the floor. He had pale, lavender-tinted ash hair that curled around his chubby cheeks, one lock falling over his forehead, and purple eyes that were rooted to his shoes. The baggy purple sweater he wore over a white shirt and tie made him look smaller than he already seemed.

 

He looked away painfully shy and quiet until the teacher came to his rescue. “Alright, Nooroo. I’m sure we’ll all get to know you by the end of today. Why don’t you take a seat next to Pollen at the back?”

the girl with two pigtails blonde was already flashing Nooroo a bright and waving at him from the last row, which spurred Tikki to send him more encouraging looks as he started up the steps. The rest of the class had already picked up on his nerves, with smiles on their faces – even Trixx, famously enigmatic, had a polite quirk to his lip as he rested his head on his knuckles to watch the boy.

Then Nooroo tripped on the stairs

Nooroo threw up his hands but the thud of his palms and knees against hard angles resounded painfully, his bulging bag swinging precariously off his shoulders. Everyone with expressions of shock and pity flashed on their faces.

Xuppu's laugh broke the silence as he threw his head behind with happy tears in his eyes and nooroo raised his head and with a speed never seen before he got up and ran away from the classroom with tears falling into his cheeks.

Tikki got up to follow him but was already on the run. The teacher indicated the way he left “ tikki please find him and try to calm him down” She nodded and was gone, determined to fulfill her role as class representative.

“Xuppu!” Mullo cried out in outrage, twin pink ribbons on her buns fluttering as she slapped her deskmate on the arm. “How could you laugh at him?! He was already so scared!”

“I c-can’t – ahahaha – help it!” Xuppu chortled, clutching onto his stomach. “The comedic timing was perfect!”

“That was very uncouth of you.” Kaalki sniffed, examining her manicured nails.

Their classmates expressed similar sentiments of indignation and disapproval, Sass shaking his head and muttering “Despite your intentions, you were mocking him, Xuppu”, while Pollen stood up and leaned forward with her hands slammed onto the desk, blue eyes burning with an anger that clashed with her sweet and cute appearance. “Stop laughing Xuppu!” She demanded. “You can be so insensitive sometimes!”

in the meantime in the boy's bathroom  

Nooroo locked up the door of the toilet his backpack hit the wall and he slid down into a crouch, attempting to muffle his cries.

" I-I can't do- do this, I don't wan-t to go-go to school"

“It wasn't your fault.” A deep voice joined him, the black and red-streaked Kwami phasing out of his bag to hover above him. “Children are cruel, as it is the nature of humanity. They would have disparaged you had you been confident.”

“Forced into an unfamiliar environment full of strangers eager to hurt and mock them, judged solely on their abilities – what child would?” The Kwami drawled. “You want to feel safe, and I can help you, Nooroo.”

Nooroo sobbed - "really?"

The Kwami regarded him with blood red eyes. “Of course, child. You know that you only need ask.

the boy nodded and his wet purple eyes turns red scarlet

in the class

Tikki sighed, plopping back onto her seat in defeat. Their homeroom teacher had left to find Nooroo after she hadn’t returned with him, and the class was now free to do as they pleased.

“So, where’d he go?” Plagg asked, his voice muffled by the cheese bread he was currently stuffing into his mouth.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t find him anywhere.” tikki says

“Reeeally.” Plagg snorted. He probably just went home if’ya asked me.” He crammed the rest of his bread into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open.

“Ugh.” Tikki recoiled in disgust, moving away from her best friend. “I’m worried about him. He seemed so nervous, a-and the way Xuppu laughed at him – Nooroo might get the wrong idea!”

"I think he already has a wrong idea sugarcube

"Nooroo looked so scared!” Tikki tugged on her short hair in frustration. “I just feel so bad for him!”

Plagg watched Tikki have an internal freakout for a few moments before sighing. “You’re panicking again, sugarcube and maybe the new kid thinks we’re all meanies now, but he’s eventually going to come back, and then we can just throw him a party or somethin’, like you always do.”

Tikki bit her lip. “Yeah…Yeah, you’re right, Plagg.”

“As always.” He smirked.

tikki rolled her eyes with a smile " I think that would be just what Nooroo needs to feel welcomed into our class. It could just be a small one-”

The comfortable buzz of their classroom was interrupted when Xuppu suddenly toppled out of his seat. Gasps turned into screams as he started writhing on the floor and shrieking in inhuman agony, a blinding red light encasing his body that grew in size until it revealed a massive, enraged Gorilla.

Gorilla-Xuppu’s roar shook the walls, before grabbing his desk and hurling it into the blackboard, upending Mullo’s and his school supplies all over. Mullo herself screamed, curling into a frightened ball on her bench. Pollen ran toward him, yelling, but was knocked aside with a swipe of the beast’s arm.

"Pollen" tikki yelled, The entire class became totally chaotic. Trixx had leaped across his own table (which Kaalki was hiding under) and was out of the door before anyone could react, Fluff was climbing out of a window she’d opened, Sass was yelling to a scary Mullo to go out, Daizzi was crawling toward an unconscious Pollen, and Tikki could see the other boys Roarr, Stompp and Longg conspiring on an attack plan and edging toward Gorilla-Xuppu.

"Guys don't do anything dangerous" tikki yelled to the boys

“YOU get out of the way, idiot!” Plagg hissed, quickly hauling Tikki away as Gorilla-Xuppu charged by them, missing Tikki by inches as the beast broke out of the classroom and left a massive crumbling hole in the wall.

An unnerving silence descended upon the ruined classroom at the beast’s departure, only interrupted by the crackle of rubble hitting the ground.

"let's go away" plagg whispered

Plagg's home  

Plagg wasn’t staying at school a second longer. He wasn’t the only one to make that decision either, given the number of fleeing students. Once he had made sure that Tikki was safely home, he had returned to an empty apartment (Mom obviously still at work) and crashed onto the couch until a little black box caught his eye.

"I didn't know my mom was having this jewelry box"

he opened it and was blinded by a flash of gold and dropped the box with a yelp. Once he could see again, a tiny gold creature with cat ears and a tail, nearly white, hovered above him, staring back with forest green eyes.

Plagg was shocked..." are you kidding me! What the heck are you?!"

"I'm aduur, the kwami of destruction and I can give you powers.. the city is in danger and I need your help, you can became a superhero." the kwami gold says

" it's a dream.. yeah it's dream, I think I gonna sleep now and when I wake up everything will be normal.."

" NO! you can't, cats are lazy, but this is taking it too far!” The creature snapped. “Now get up! The city is in danger and you’ve been chosen to be a hero!”

Plagg groaned, removing his arm. “Heroes aren’t even real, and if they are, I don’t wanna be one!”

At tikki's house 

Tikki stared at the creature floating in front of her, which had materialized out of a ball of red light when she had opened a small octagonal earring box. It was a navy colour, almost black, with deep blue eyes like the sea, bright red spots dotting its cheeks and forehead, and two antennae sprouting from its head.

" Hi Tikki it's nice to meet you, I'm Maary the kwami of creation and you were chosen to be a superhero, I can give you powers, yours is Lucky Charm. To trasform just put the earrings and say "Maary spots on ".

"Ehm..I can't understand, why are you here? In my house"

“Something has happened, has it not?” Maari prompted, " and that's why you were chosen"

" what do you mean!? W-wait you know what happened to Xuppu!?" Tikki gasped

" it's a transformation...yeah it's him... Tikki! you must fight the gorilla now!"

tikki gasped " How do I fight him?"

" your friend now it's a demon, every creature is called that is forcibly metamorphosed from an unwilling human. The Demon will have an object on them which the human previously carried, and that object is the source of the transformation. Break the object and you break the spell."

" O-ok I get it" tikki put the earrings

" Alright! Now say 'Maary spots on' "

"maary spots on" tikki yelled and she transformed in a red-spotted suit with a domino mask

at plagg's house  

"Come on Plagg! Get up NOW!" aduur crowed "there’s a monster loose in the city, you’re the only one – well, one of two – that can stop it, and you’re lying down here and doing nothing!”

"I already told you that I'm not interested, too much responsibility and I'll just fuck it up anyway!, why don't you go to Tikki? She's perfect for this and she loves helping the others unlike me."

“But you were chosen.” Aduur stressed. “You’re supposed to be the holder of Destruction, Plagg!”

“Destruction?!” Plagg spat. “Do you even know the kind of person I am?! I thought you mystical fairy spirits are supposed to be able to see into our hearts, or whatever!”

" I know who you are, Plagg Melanos! The fact that you were offered the power of destruction and you turned it down immediately speaks volumes!” The Kwami zoomed into Plagg’s face and pointed right at the boy who had started apprehensively scrambling back at the sudden gesture.

“Do you know how many people throughout history have sought me out for my powers, in order to serve their own ill-hearted goals?! How many people I have refused?!” Aduur asked

plagg was shocked

“A true destruction holder is rare because of the restraint required of the title, restraint that you clearly have! Destruction is not a power to the wielded lightly-“

A distant rumble sounded, followed by screams. Tirade ignored, Plagg got up with wide green eyes to dart over to the window, and Aduur backed away before he collided with his chosen’s face.

" Ugh alright! I will do it but only this time and after this we will never met each other ok!?"

" alright..if you want it (I think you will change idea )" aduur nobbed, " what you have to say it's Aduur claws out" 

“Aduur..claws out!” 

“ I look fucking ridiculous.” Plagg groused. “I bet this is payback for not wanting to be a hero.”

He’d briefly caught a glimpse of his reflection from a shop window before scaling a building Assassin’s-creed-style, and his black hair now had blonde highlights like a bad Yugioh cosplay.

"Better go now and finish all this so I can sleep" he says

He realised that he was very fast more than a cat and agile, he did somersaults and leaps never done before but he tripped and fell down.

“Hey you!" A soft, feminine voice called out.

"tikki?" He seemed to know that voice but it wasn't her, it's was an other girl with a superhero costume like he

“You’re my partner, the cat, right?” The girl said. “I’m Ladybug! It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Plagg said dismissively, grabbing her hand as he stood up with a wince. “I’m Chat D’or, or whatever. Come on Let's defeat him that I have other better things to do" he said “I should just use my powers.” He mumbled, before raising his hand in the air. “Catacly-“

"no wait! Don't waste it now, we'll need it later" tikki said

" So? What's the plan?" plagg said bored

"follow me!" Tikki said and jumped

Behind some walls

A young monk dressed in jade robes watched the two superheroes fly past, clutching a wooden box hidden in his sleeves.

“Excellent choice, Wayzz " The small crimson Kwami said, stroking his long moustache as he hovered at the boy’s shoulder.

" Did I made a right choice master?" Wayzz said doubtful

“Well.” Fuu drawled. “Cats are very finicky creatures who need a proper ladybug to draw them out. Tikki knew exactly how to motivate Plagg, and he is following her without question. You have found the balance needed for the Ladybug and Cat Miraculouses.”

Wayzz ducked his head modestly and reddened at the praise.

" Keep it up, your doing pretty well as guardian, now let's see what they will do" fuu said

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Summary:

2 part of the first chapter

On previous episode:  

"Dear students, this is our new student, be nice"

"I-I noo-roo chouko.."

"I- I don't wa-want to go school" nooroo cries

"I can help you nooroo" 

Xuppu yelled of agony and turns in gorilla

class yelled 

" please I want help" tikki said 

" why I have to be a superhero, I don't want it!" Plagg said

" Wayzz you did a good job, now we have to wait only" Fuu said 

Can the heroes defeat the gorilla together? 

Opening: Up ladybug ( ladybug PV) 

Over a roof

"alright what the plan?" Chat noir said

"well first he's a demon right now and it should have an object of the person who has transformed, I don't know if your kwami told you." Ladybug said

" nah we had a fight, I didn't even listen to him" plagg said

Tikki sighs " First of all we have to try to block it so that it doesn't do any more damage

" What we gonna do then?" Plagg said

"we need to find out its weak point and the object it holds" tikki said " I noticed he holds something in a fist, it's probably where the object is"

" ok! So let's go and weaken it" plagg said

A crash noise came from the Francois DuPont

" I think I know where it is, let's go" Chat noir said, he stretch his stick and he threw himself to the school

tikki follow his example, when she had arrived at the scene, plagg was already going to attack him, he was hitting him with a stick, punching him and used his Cataclysm but he missed the gorilla and he destroyed an other thing after he was soon hit by the Gorilla's arm.

plagg yelled 

"Hey, are you okay?" Ladybug said coming to his rescue

"Better than other times...definitely" he said sarcastically

tikki rolled her eyes

" I think I know how to stop it, but I need my...Lucky Charm!

A red light appeared and a water pipe came out

"What!? How can I use it.." tikki said surprised

she watched around her, she can see the gorilla, Chat D'or, she could see them black with red dots.

"I got it!" Tikki said, she tied Chat Noir with the water pipe and threw it towards the gorilla, "sorry but I need you"

" Are you crazy!?" Plagg yelled

the gorilla take Chat Noir and let go of the object by the fist, Ladybug threw her Yo-yo into the object and she took it but while she was taken by the gorilla

"NO!" Ladybug yelled

Both were trying to break free, a sound of metal hits the floor, the gorilla turns the visual contact from them to the noiseand the heroes too. There were some classmates of tikki and plagg watching the fight.

The gorilla yelled them

"Guys go away right now! It's dangerous!" Tikki yelled them

all of them tried to go away but the gorilla just threw a table into the exit and blocked them inside. The classmates watched the gorilla head to them. 

Chat Noir and Ladybug were looking them with a panic in their eyes.

some of their classmates threw at the gorilla papers, pencil, books , all the things have in their backpack.

Chat Noir and Ladybug managed to break free thanks to their friends who threw the objects at the gorilla and had loosened the grip on them then Ladybug break the object and threw her water pipe.

The spell was broken and everything returned to normal, finally even the Gorilla turns into Xuppu.

"we did it!" Tikki said happily

"finally I can't wait to go to home" plagg said bored and satisfied

"are you okay xuppu?" Tikki said

"ehm how do you know my name exactly? And who are you ?" Xuppu said confused

"Yeah!you guys are amazing! What’s your names?" Daizzi says

"I'm Chat Noir" plagg said

"I'm Ladybug" tikki said

their miraculous were ringing

"oh we have to go now" ladybug said

"see ya" plagg said

behind a wall

Maari spots off

"I'm happy that everything is alright now" tikki said

" you did a good job, you were a good choice" maari said

" thanks for let me help there, it's all thanks you" tikki said

plagg's house

"Ugh finally!!" Plagg said

" Soo did you change your idea about to be a superhero?" Aduur said

" meh not really but it isn't that bad, I think I gonna try it maybe a other one and after to see if I want it, anyway I'm hungry" plagg said

"well..it’s a good start.." aduur said with a little smile while plagg was looking for cookies in the kitchen.

Somewhere else..

In the dark, away from the eyes of others, Eiichi sat motionless in a room shrouded in shadow. Between his thin and sharp hands, like claws carved in the obsidian, a human puppet moved at his command.

Nooroo's eyes were empty. His body trembled imperceptibly, as if he were fighting against invisible wires.

"Shh... calm down, little one," Eiichi whispered, stroking his chin like a porcelain toy. "You are so perfect... fragile, unstable, insecure. Exactly what I needed.”

Nooroo moved, jerkily. Eyes wide open, scared, but with no more will. He was there, alive, but far away.

Eiichi laughed, softly.

"Miraculous of the Ladybug... Miraculous of the Cat... you thought you saved the day. But your weakness walks between you. Observes you. He listens to you. Speak with your voice.”

He watched Nooro get up, like a spring soldier.

"And this time... I won't make the same mistake."

His fingers closed around a black ring mottled with purple.

"Get ready."

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 ~Something new in the air~

Notes:

Hellooo I’m back again after..2 years..👉🏻👈🏻. Well better late than never right? Ehehe.
Anyway…for who didn’t know, this story is from Lunediane, I just continue the story (I asked her permission) soo credit to her for her amazing idea 💡
Enjoy!

Opening: Ladybug PV

Morning at Tikki’s Home

Tikki’s bedroom, warm morning light filters in.

Tikki adjusted her school tie in front of the mirror, her brow furrowed in quiet thought. The reflection didn’t offer answers, only more questions.

“Maari, do you think we’ll see him again?” she asked softly, not breaking eye contact with herself.

Maari, her Kwami, floated up beside her, arms crossed thoughtfully. “If you mean Nooroo… I don’t know. As you told me, he ran away after his fall on the ground”.

Tikki sighed. “He looked… scared, I hope he will come today.”

She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

 

School Hallways – Morning Buzz

At Francois DuPont, the usual morning chatter is buzzing.

Plagg leaned against the locker, arms crossed, watching the crowd with half-lidded eyes.

“You don’t look excited to be alive today,” teased Trixx, approaching him with Daizzi and Roarr.

Plagg shrugged. “I’m conserving energy. For emergencies.”

“Sure, and I’m the King of Paris,” Daizzi giggled. “Did you see the news? People think the two heroes are students like us!”

“That would be crazy,” Roarr said, half-joking. “What if we’re friends with them and don’t even know?”

Plagg blinked, suddenly paying more attention. “That… would be interesting,” he said with a casual smirk, masking a sudden internal alarm.

Before Trixx could answer, Stompp and Mullo joined.

“Xuppu’s not here yet?” asked Stompp.

“He texted me he’s running late,” said Mullo. “Still shaken, I think.”

Tikki arrived soon after, smiling warmly. “Good morning, everyone!”

She looked around instinctively. Nooroo wasn’t there.

Her smile dimmed just a little.

 

Nooroo’s Apartment – Late Morning

Dim lighting, a quiet apartment. Nooroo lies under his blanket, his eyes open, staring blankly.

Aunt Marisa knocks gently and enters with a bowl of soup. “You barely touched breakfast,” she says.

“I’m not hungry,” Nooroo mumbled.

Marisa sits at the edge of the bed, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You’re not sick, are you? Not really.”

“I just… don’t want to go. Not today.”

Marisa exhaled softly. “You’ve been through so much. I know it’s hard. But you’re not alone anymore.”

Nooroo turned away. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me,” she offered gently.

But inside, Nooroo was shutting down. The memory flickered again — the sound of the crash, the screaming, the sudden silence. His hands clenched the blanket tighter.

A voice slithered into his thoughts.

“They never cared. You were always the burden.” said Eiichi 

Nooroo closed his eyes, resisting it. “Go away.”

Marisa stood, misreading his silence as exhaustion. “Rest. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

As soon as she left, Nooroo sat up. His reflection in the mirror caught his attention — his eyes, dull with pain and something darker. A faint glow flickered.

“Eiichi… is it true what you said yesterday?”

The kwami floated behind him, his voice a whisper of silk. “You’re stronger than you know. You just have to let go… and take what you deserve.”

 

School – Before the Lesson Starts

Inside the classroom, the students start gathering, chatting about yesterday’s chaos.

“Okay but seriously,” Daizzi said, bouncing in her seat, “Xuppu turned into a gorilla. A real one!”

“And threw a chair!” Roarr added. “We were this close to being mashed bananas!”

Ziggy leaned forward on his desk, curious. “What did it feel like, Xuppu? You looked like you were in pain.”

Xuppu rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t remember everything. Just… pressure in my chest, like something inside was changing. It wasn’t just physical. It felt like someone else was… pushing me to lose control.”

A quiet fell for a moment.

“Do you think someone did it to you?” Orikko asked, voice low.

“I don’t know. All I know is, the moment I saw them—Ladybug and Chat D’or—whatever was inside me started to fade.”

Tikki, sitting nearby, frowned thoughtfully. She hadn’t said much yet, but the conversation made her stomach twist. “Do you remember anything strange happening before the transformation?”

Xuppu hesitated.

“Actually no.. I just wanted to hurt somebody in that moment, I don’t know why but I started to feel anger..sorry I can’t remember”said Xuppu 

Tikki smiled a little. “Don’t worry about that, the most important thing is we all are fine after all.”

“Yeah about that ‘We’, Do you think Nooroo will come back? Barkk asked. “After yesterday?”

“I hope so,” Tikki said, her eyes drifting toward Nooroo’s empty seat again. “Maybe we could do something for him” she suddenly suggested. “A little party, nothing big just a welcoming thing. He seemed really shy”

Daizzi clapped her hands. “Yes! Ballons, snacks, music, awkward dancing..count me in!”

Roarr chuckled. “You had me at snacks.”

The teacher entered the classroom, adjusting her glasses.

“Alright class, settle down. Let’s dive into today’s topic: the causes of World War II”

The class groaned.

As the lesson continued, Tikki found it hard to focus. Her eyes kept drifting to Nooroo’s empty chair. She couldn’t shake the feeling something darker was going on beneath the surface.

why does it feel like something’s not right? 

Nooroo’s Apartment — Later That Morning

Nooroo sat at the window, watching the faraway school rooftop as the sun filtered through the blinds. His hands rested on the windowsill, clenched.

“I don’t belong there,” he murmured.

Eiichi floated behind him. “You were never meant to blend in with them. You’re special.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone yesterday…”

“You didn’t. That fool Xuppu’s transformation was a result of his own weakness.

“I just want to stop being afraid” he whispered 

“Then embrace what you are” Eiichi said with a malicious smile.

 

School Cafeteria — Tension Rising

The lunchroom buzzed with energy as students queued for food. Tikki and Plagg stood side by side, waiting their turn.

“Nooroo still hasn’t come today,” Tikki said quietly. “I hope he’s okay.”

Plagg yawned, stretching his tiny arms. “He’s probably just avoiding everyone. You know how shy he is.”

“I guess…” Tikki sighed, scanning the crowd.

Suddenly, a loud, mocking voice cut through the chatter.

“Oh, look who’s here! Fluff, right? You really should watch where you’re going.”

Fluff blinked, startled. A tall boy with dark brown hair and streaks of white smirked at her. His friend snickered nearby.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to get crushed by a truck or something,” the friend added, laughing cruelly.

Stompp stepped forward, fists clenched. “Hey, cut it out.”

“Mind your own business,” the tall boy sneered, “unless you want a fight.”

Ziggy’s expression darkened. “That’s not cool. Stop it.”

Tikki frowned. Something about the tension made her grip her lunch tray tighter.

Fluff took a shaky step back. “Please, we don’t want trouble.”

“Too late,” the boy said. “We won’t apologize. Not today.”

Stompp’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’re not leaving until you do.”

The cafeteria fell silent. Suddenly, a teacher’s voice boomed:

“Enough! Stop this nonsense right now, or you’ll all be staying after school!”

The bullies sneered but backed off, leaving the group shaken.

Tikki turned to Fluff. “Are you okay?”

Fluff nodded weakly. “Thanks, Tikki.”

Just then, Kaalki, Pollen, and Trixx walked over.

“Did you hear the latest gossip?” Kaalki asked, grinning.

“What?” Plagg perked up.

“That Ladybug and Chat D’or are kids our age,” Trixx said, eyes wide.

“Seriously?” Ziggy whispered.

“Yeah, people have wild theories,” Pollen added, “like they’re actually superheroes born from a ladybug and a radioactive cat.”

Everyone laughed nervously.

Kaalki scoffed. “Maybe, but I’m way too mature for all this.”

Trixx smirked. “Sure you are.”

Suddenly, a scream shattered the lighthearted moment.

The cafeteria door burst open. A girl was thrashing wildly, her skin twisting into bark and branches, her eyes wild with fear.

“It’s a monster!” someone shouted.

Tables were upturned as the creature’s limbs stretched, turning into thick, wooden branches.

Tikki’s heart pounded.

“Everyone, get out!” she shouted, helping students escape.

Plagg whispered, “This is bad.”

Pollen grabbed Tikki’s arm. “Where do we hide?”

“Over there! The gym!” Tikki pointed.

The students scattered, but Tikki and Plagg slipped away unseen.

“Maari spots on!” Tikki said, transforming into Ladybug in a flash of red and black.

Plagg took a deep breath. “Aduur claws on!”

Chat D’or emerged from the shadows, ready.

The monstrous creature, its body twisting and crackling like a living tree, roared and slammed a huge wooden arm down onto the cafeteria floor. The impact sent shards of wood flying, splintering tables and chairs to pieces.

Ladybug’s eyes narrowed beneath her mask. This isn’t just some mindless monster—it’s clever, dangerous.

She darted forward, her Yo-yo spinning in her hand like a whip. With a sharp flick, she sent it wrapping around the demon’s thick arm, trying to slow its movements.

“Chat D’or, watch out!” she called as a splintered branch swung toward Plagg.

Chat D’or leapt nimbly to the side, claws flashing gold. His eyes scanned the demon’s form, searching for a weak spot.

It’s fast, stronger than I expected, he thought. And every hit it lands could turn someone into wood.

The demon’s eyes glowed with a fierce amber light. It lashed out again, smashing a pillar of tables in its path.

Ladybug dodged behind a pillar, catching her breath. She assessed the scene—the students were safely evacuated, thanks to their quick thinking, but the destruction was escalating.

We need to end this fast, before more people get hurt or turned to wood.

She shouted, “Chat D’or, can you use Cataclysm on the branches? Maybe we can break the limbs holding it together.”

Chat D’or nodded. “I’ll try, but it won’t be easy.”

As the demon raised a massive arm to strike, Chat D’or charged, slashing his golden claws. A surge of destructive energy exploded on contact, shattering the wooden limb into splinters.

The demon howled in pain but quickly regenerated the arm, its twisted bark reforming.

Ladybug’s mind raced. If we can weaken the limbs enough, maybe we can trap it.

She swung her Yo-yo again, looping it around two large branches and yanking hard, pulling the creature off balance.

“Now!” Chat D’or shouted, slashing the main trunk near its base.

The demon staggered, the cracks spreading like spider webs across its bark skin.

But Eiichi’s dark influence pulsed within the demon—no ordinary monster, but a corrupted soul bound to a sinister will.

Chat D’or felt a chill. This isn’t just a demon. There’s something controlling it…

Ladybug gritted her teeth. “We can’t let it win.”

Suddenly, the demon unleashed a wave of wooden spikes shooting from its body toward them.

Ladybug rolled to the side, using her Yo-yo to deflect a few spikes back. Chat D’or dodged and counterattacked, slashing at the demon’s glowing eyes.

The creature reeled back, a deep groan escaping its wooden throat.

Tikki’s mind flashed with a desperate plan. Lucky Charm… I need to use it.

“Chat D’or, cover me!” she called.

As Chat D’or blocked another strike, Ladybug’s Yo-yo glowed bright red. A small, mysterious object materialized in her palm—a golden key, gleaming with power.

“This… this is it,” Ladybug whispered, steeling herself.

The demon charged one last time, roaring with fury.

Ladybug threw the key toward the creature’s heart, and with a blinding flash, the wooden monster shattered, collapsing into a girl.

The cafeteria fell silent.

Chat D’or lowered his claws, breathing heavily.

Ladybug exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders.

“We did it,” she said quietly.

But deep down, both knew this was only the beginning.

 

Aftermath — Calm After the Storm

The shattered remains of the wooden demon lay scattered across the cafeteria floor, the smell of splintered wood and smoke still thick in the air.

Students cautiously began to peek from their hiding spots, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.

Tikki wiping sweat from her brow. Her heart was still pounding. Chat D’or stood nearby, his golden claws retracting as he breathed heavily, scanning the room for any injured.

“Is everyone okay?” Tikki(Ladybug) asked, her voice steady but gentle.

Daizzi stepped forward, her face pale but relieved. “Yeah, thanks to you two. That was… insane.”

“Who was that thing?” Roarr asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Tikki(Ladybug) exchanged a glance with Chat D’or, but they said nothing. No one could know the full truth—not yet.

“Let’s help clean this up before we transform again ” Chat D’or said, his voice calm but firm. “We can’t let this mess stay like this.”

As students slowly started moving broken chairs and tables aside, whispers filled the room.

“I heard the demon could turn people into trees…”

“Did you see the way Ladybug and Chat D’or fought? They’re amazing.”

Meanwhile, across the schoolyard, Nooroo sat alone on a bench, his eyes shadowed and distant.

He clenched his fists, his reflection flickering in the window behind him.

They don’t know. They have no idea what’s coming.

Eiichi’s whisper echoed in his mind, Soon, Nooroo. Soon they’ll all see what true power means.

Nooroo’s eyes glowed faintly purple.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves nearby, but the chill in the air was far from comforting.

Back inside, Tikki felt like somebody was watching them but she didn’t say a word. 
She just realized that the battle was over now but the war had only just begun.

Notes:

Hope you liked this chapter! If you have any advice please you are free to share with a comment. Thanks for reading my story ^^

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 ~The Echo of fear~

Notes:

Here we go again!! I hope you guys like my story and this chapter, I tried to make it a little bit longer :>

The gates of François Dupont, usually a chaotic vortex of colorful backpacks and boisterous laughter, were a silent, tense funnel that Monday morning. There was no usual pre-school effervescence; just a heavy, sticky air, like the first summer heat, clinging to the skin and seeping into the lungs. The "tree girl" incident was a long, deformed shadow stretching over every corridor, over every face. The principal had reacted with the predictability of a Swiss clock: tightened security protocols.

Two impossibly long lines, one for boys and one for girls, snaked slowly towards the main entrance. At the head of each queue, a metal detector, shiny and imposing like a menacing monolith, promised to reveal every secret. Its sharp, metallic, and unforgiving beep resonated at regular intervals, cutting through the muffled hum of conversations. Each beep was an accelerated heartbeat, a collectively held breath. Teachers, usually benevolent and distracted figures, now scrutinized every student with careful, almost suspicious gazes, their lips thin and brows furrowed. Some students kept their distance, hands clenched on their books, eyes fixed on the ground, almost fearing that contact could be contagious. Others, more restless, swayed on their heels, nervous energy vibrating around them like an invisible force field.

Tikki, in line, felt the weight of that atmosphere like a boulder on her chest. Her red pigtails seemed less vibrant under the pall of general anxiety. She wanted to do something, say something, but the words died in her throat. How do you reassure an entire school when fear has become a thick fog, penetrating everywhere? Each beep made her heart jump. She saw the looks on the other students' faces, some fearful, others angry at the invasion of privacy, but all united by that same, palpable unease. She felt somehow responsible, even though she knew she wasn't. She had been there, she had fought. But it hadn't been enough. Fear, it seemed, was harder to defeat than any tree demon.

Beside her, Plagg yawned, an exaggerated sound that failed to break the tension. "Ugh, what a hassle," he grumbled, rubbing his sleepy eyes. "I can't even eat my breakfast in peace with all this metal detector nonsense. What do they expect to find, a contraband cheese sandwich?" He complained, but Tikki caught a subtle line of tension around his green eyes, usually so lazy. Even Plagg, the king of indifference, wasn't immune to that oppressive air. Cynicism was his armor, but Tikki knew him well enough to spot the cracks in his facade.

Whispers, like thin tendrils of smoke, intertwined in the air. "Did you hear? They say the girl was possessed." "No, it was some kind of dark magic, like what you see in anime." "What if it's contagious? What if one of us transforms?" Theories multiplied, distorting reality, further feeding the invisible monster of fear. Each whisper was another grain of sand in the rapidly emptying hourglass of tranquility.

Further down the line, Mullo hugged her backpack even tighter, her hands white-knuckled on the straps. Her two pink pigtails, usually so lively, seemed almost wilted. Every beep of the metal detector made her flinch. Her goosebumps weren't from the cold, but from an electric jolt of anxiety that ran down her spine. She hadn't slept the night before. She'd replayed the scene of Xuppu transforming, the screams, the chaos. She had felt paralyzed. Not just by the terror of the moment, but by a deeper sensation, a cold shiver that whispered to her: it could happen to anyone. It could happen to you. That feeling hadn't left her. Every shadow, every noise, every glance seemed to conceal a threat.

 

Mullo tried to disappear into the crowd, to become invisible. She kept her head down, her gaze fixed on the scuffed toes of her sneakers. Even the familiar scent of the school  old textbooks, floor wax, and something vaguely metallic from the newly installed detectors seemed tainted, infused with the pervasive dread. She flinched when someone brushed past her too closely, a reflex born of raw nerves. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat that echoed the beeps of the security gate.

"Hey, Mullo! You okay?" a cheerful voice cut through her haze of fear. It was Stompp, his usual robust and unwavering presence a small beacon in the gloom. He clapped her gently on the shoulder, and Mullo almost jumped out of her skin.

"Oh! Stompp! Yeah, fine, just... just a bit tired," she stammered, trying to offer a weak smile that felt more like a grimace. Her voice was thin, reedy, barely a whisper.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, or ten," Kaalki piped up, her elegant mane of blonde hair shimmering even in the dull light. She offered a sympathetic glance, but her natural grace seemed at odds with Mullo’s disheveled state. "Still thinking about what happened to Xuppu?"

Mullo nodded, unable to articulate the swirling vortex of dread in her stomach. "It was... terrifying. I mean, he just... snapped. And then the girl yesterday. It's like... like anything could happen, anytime." She hugged herself, trying to compress the trembling in her limbs. The memory of Xuppu's distorted face, his sudden, uncharacteristic violence, was branded into her mind. And the girl-turned-tree... a primal, unreasoning terror tightened its grip around her throat.

"It's just a one-off, Mullo," Pollen chirped, though even her usually sweet voice had a slightly forced cheerfulness to it. Pollen, who usually exuded warmth and optimism, seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as Mullo. "Ladybug and Chat D'or handled it, right? They're amazing!"

"Yeah, they were," Mullo admitted, but her eyes darted around, scanning the faces of her classmates. "But... what if they don't know everything? What if there's more? Why are these things happening?“ She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "This feels... different. Darker."

A chill, not from the air conditioning, crept up her spine. It was a subtle shiver, an insidious whisper that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. She's right, Mullo. They don't know. They can't protect you.

Mullo shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. It sounded almost like her own voice, yet it wasn't. It was colder, more cynical, twisting her own anxieties into a sharper point. She felt an irrational urge to run, to flee the school, to hide under her blankets and never come out. Her stomach churned. The low hum of the metal detector, a constant, irritating thrum in the background, seemed to amplify the growing panic within her.

She tried to focus on Stompp's comforting presence, on Pollen's attempts at cheer, but her mind was a battlefield. Every casual glance from a classmate felt like a judgment, every hushed conversation a conspiracy against her. She imagined herself losing control, just like Xuppu, her own fears twisting her into something monstrous. The thought was so vivid, so horrifying, that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying out.

You see? the insidious whisper returned, a silky, persuasive voice that felt like a spider weaving its web in her mind. They say they'll protect you, but they can't even see the fear that consumes you. You are alone, Mullo. Truly alone in your terror.

Mullo's breath hitched. She felt a wave of nausea. The walls of the school seemed to press in on her, the ceiling to lower. The faces of her classmates blurred into an indistinct mass of potential threats. She felt exposed, vulnerable, her skin crawling as if thousands of tiny insects were scuttling beneath it. Her fear wasn't just in her mind; it was a physical entity, tightening her muscles, quickening her pulse, making her vision swim. She longed for the anonymity of her room, the safety of her bed, anything to escape the overwhelming sensation of being watched, judged, and ultimately, targeted.

The line moved forward, slowly, agonizingly. Each step brought her closer to the impersonal scrutiny of the metal detector, a symbol of the school's inability to truly protect its students from the unseen threats. It was just a machine, capable of finding metal, not the corrosive fear that ate away at their spirits.

 

While the fear at François Dupont tightened its grip, miles away, in a quiet, unassuming apartment, Nooroo existed in a different kind of prison. He hadn't set foot outside his small room since the incident, since the whispers had begun to solidify into a commanding voice. His parents, concerned by his sudden withdrawal from school, attributed it to shock and a need for recovery from the ordeal of the "tree girl." They saw a quiet, withdrawn boy; they didn't see the unseen chains binding him.

Nooroo sat hunched on his bed, the curtains drawn, casting the room in a perpetual twilight. Dust motes danced in the lone sliver of light that escaped the heavy fabric, shimmering like malicious spirits. His textbooks lay untouched on his desk, covered in a thin layer of dust. He stared at his phone, the screen dark, reflecting his own vacant eyes. He wanted to reach out, to text Tikki or Plagg, or even Xuppu, to apologize, to scream for help. But his fingers felt heavy, unresponsive, as if a layer of ice had formed over them.

A voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a razor, echoed in his mind. Such weakness, Nooroo. Such futile desires. It was Eiichi, ever-present, ever-demanding. The Kwami of Corruption wasn't just a voice; he was a subtle presence, a cold shadow that clung to Nooroo's soul, feeding on his loneliness, his guilt, his burgeoning despair.

"I... I don't want this," Nooroo whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. He dug his nails into his palms, trying to ground himself in something real, something that wasn't Eiichi's insidious influence. "I don't want to hurt anyone. The girl at school… she was so scared."

Fear is merely a tool, little Nooroo, Eiichi purred, his voice resonating deep within Nooroo's chest, a chilling counterpoint to his own frantic heartbeat. A most potent tool. Look at them. Cowering. Distrusting. Their so-called heroes can mend broken bones, but can they mend broken spirits? Can they truly eradicate the fear I sow? Never. It is the most powerful emotion. It binds them, blinds them, makes them utterly pliable.

Nooroo shuddered. He could almost feel Eiichi's smug satisfaction, a dark warmth that sent shivers of revulsion down his spine. He hated it, hated the feeling of being a puppet, of his own emotions being twisted and magnified for someone else's malevolent purpose. He tried to think of his friends at school, of Tikki's kind smile, of Plagg's lazy jokes, of the carefree days before Eiichi had entered his life like a toxic fog.

They are weak, Nooroo. Bound by foolish notions of good and evil. They understand nothing of true power, of true control. You, however… you are sensitive. You feel the currents of despair. You are a natural conduit. Eiichi's voice grew softer, more seductive, a poison cloaked in honey. Imagine, Nooroo. Imagine having the strength to protect yourself. To never feel that crushing fear again. To make others feel what you feel, so they might understand.

"But... but that's wrong," Nooroo protested, a faint spark of defiance flickering within him. He remembered the horrified screams when Xuppu had lashed out, the panicked faces when the tree girl had appeared. He didn't want to be the cause of that. He didn't want anyone to feel that way.

Wrong? Eiichi chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across pavement. There is no right or wrong, Nooroo, only power and weakness. You felt their fear, didn't you? The girl in the hallway, Mullo. She trembles with it even now. A delicious symphony.

Nooroo flinched. Mullo. He'd barely registered her presence at school, just a shy, quiet girl. But Eiichi seemed to know everything, to taste the emotions of everyone. It was terrifying. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the images Eiichi painted in his mind: Mullo's trembling hands, her wide, fearful eyes.

She is ripe for the harvest, little one. Her fear will be a masterpiece. And you, my dear Nooroo, will be the artist.

A wave of nausea washed over Nooroo. He clamped his hands over his ears, as if to physically block out the voice, but it was inside him, insidious and inescapable. He was trapped. Eiichi was not just a voice; he was a parasite, slowly consuming Nooroo's will, replacing his light with shadow. He hated it, yet he felt a terrifying, unwilling pull towards the power Eiichi offered. The power to never be afraid again. To be safe. But at what cost? He looked at his hands, watching them tremble. His own fear was the fuel.

He longed for the simple days of school, for the mundane worries of homework and tests. The tension at François Dupont, the new metal detectors – he knew of them, Eiichi had made sure he did. He should be there, experiencing it with his friends. A pang of guilt twisted in his gut. But Eiichi's presence was a barrier, an invisible wall that kept him confined, isolated. He was a spectator to the unfolding chaos, forced to watch as his own darkness was woven into the fabric of their lives.

Across the city, in their respective quiet corners, the kwamis who embodied the very essence of creation and destruction felt the tremors of the escalating fear. Maary, the Kwami of Creation, residing in Tikki’s house, impeccably organized apartment filled with design sketches and sewing projects, stared blankly at her tablet. News feeds flashed across the screen: "Unprecedented Security Measures at François Dupont High," "Panic Grips Paris After Mysterious Incident," "New Heroes Emerge: Ladybug and Chat D'or." Her usually vibrant blue eyes, the same shade as the Miraculous she represented, were clouded with concern.

"This isn't right, Aduur," she said aloud, though she knew he wasn't there. She often spoke her thoughts to him, a habit formed over millennia of shared existence. "It's too fast. Too... calculated."

Aduur, the Kwami of Destruction, was probably still asleep, or indulging in some questionable cheese in his own surprisingly opulent, yet perpetually messy, residence. Yet, Maary knew his mind, the depth of his understanding that lay beneath his laid-back exterior. He would feel it too, the distortion in the city's emotional current, the sour note of pervasive fear.

She remembered the strange energy from the first incident with Xuppu, and then the more recent one. It wasn't just raw negative emotion. There was a guiding hand, a sinister intelligence behind it. These weren't mere accidents, or even random bursts of malice. "were born of strong emotions, yes. But they never felt… coerced. Manipulated." She tapped her chin, a gesture of deep thought. "This feels like someone is deliberately cultivating them, not just waiting for them to appear."

Meanwhile..

in a tranquil, wood-paneled study filled with the scent of aged paper and subtle incense, Wayzz continued his tireless research. He sat cross-legged on a floor cushion, surrounded by towering stacks of ancient tomes and brittle scrolls. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the light from the antique desk lamp glinting off his spectacles. Fuu, the wise Kwami of Wisdom, observed him from a nearby armchair, a serene expression on his face, though his gaze held a flicker of deep concern.

"Have you found anything, Wayzz?" Fuu's voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it resonated with timeless authority.

Wayzz turned a page with meticulous care, his fingers tracing the faded script. "The old texts, Master Fuu, speak of... of 'shadow incursions.' Not the usual manifestations of negative human emotion, but a deliberate seeding of discord. It's rare. Forbidden." He paused, adjusting his glasses. "They describe a being, a Kwami, capable of such... influence. One whose very essence corrupts and amplifies despair."

Fuu's eyes narrowed. "A Kwami of corruption. A dark counterpart to the very balance we strive to maintain." His voice was heavy with ancient knowledge. "Such a being was thought to be a mere legend, locked away in the deepest recesses of the ethereal realm, or perhaps even destroyed."

"These passages suggest otherwise, Fuu," Wayzz replied, tapping a diagram of intricate symbols. "They speak of a 'resonance' that can awaken such an entity, if enough fear and doubt are present in the human realm. A fear that is nurtured, rather than simply born of circumstance." He looked up, his usually calm eyes troubled. "The fear spreading through Paris now... it feels orchestrated. Not organic."

"Indeed," Fuu mused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the faint sounds of the city could be heard. "Fear, Wayzz, is a door. And not all doors lead to salvation. Some lead only to deeper shadows." He paused, then added, "Continue your research. The answers we seek may be hidden in plain sight, if only we know how to read the signs." Fuu's cryptic words were meant to guide Wayzz, not to give him direct answers, fostering his growth as a future guardian of knowledge. Wayzz nodded, already returning to his texts, a renewed sense of urgency propelling him forward. The fate of the city, perhaps even the balance of their world, might depend on what he uncovered.

Library time

...Back at school, Tikki found herself in the library during lunch break, not to study, but to observe. She saw students huddled together, whispering conspiratorially. "Did you see that new kid, Nooroo? He seems really off since the first incident." Tikki's ears perked up. Nooroo had been quiet, yes, but not "off." She filed the observation away. Later, when she could speak privately with Maary, she would relay this.

"And Ladybug and Chat D'or aren't like the old heroes. They're... different. More intense."

Tikki felt a pang. They are new to this, she thought, the Kwami-of-creation, Maary, echoing in her mind. Learning on the fly. She and Plagg (Chat D'or, the hero) were still figuring things out, learning to coordinate, to understand the new nature of these threats. The burden of expectation weighed heavily. She sighed, her gaze inadvertently sweeping across the library. She noticed Plagg, the human, at a nearby table, seemingly engrossed in a comic book, a faint, almost imperceptible frown on his face. He seemed to be listening to the same conversations, his usual easygoing demeanor subtly tinged with concern. She wondered what he thought of it all, if his thoughts mirrored hers, if he felt the same escalating pressure. If only I could ask him , she thought, a fleeting, almost dangerous, curiosity.

Plagg, for his part, was indeed listening. He usually tuned out most of the school gossip, preferring the more practical pursuit of finding the next piece of cheese. But even his cynical ears couldn't ignore the rising tide of fear. He saw the anxious faces, the nervous glances. This is getting out of hand, he thought. People are starting to look at each other funny. Next thing you know, everyone's going to be accusing their neighbor of being a demon-in-waiting. Later, when he was alone, he'd share his observations with Aduur, who would probably grumble about the extra effort this "corruption nonsense" demanded. But even Aduur, the embodiment of destruction, would admit that this was different. This wasn't just about fighting monsters; this was about trust. And it's rotting away, Plagg concluded, a rare flicker of genuine concern crossing his features. The fear was corroding the very fabric of their community, and even a Kwami of destruction could see the insidious nature of that.

 

The lunch bell rang, a shrill, jarring sound that usually signified a release from academic constraints, but today it only amplified the underlying tension. Students surged into the cafeteria, not with the usual boisterous energy, but with a hurried, almost frantic urgency to claim a seat, a sense of safety in numbers. Mullo, her stomach churning with an uneasy mix of hunger and dread, found a quiet table in a corner. Stompp, Kaalki, and Pollen joined her, their presence a small comfort against the encroaching shadow.

"Are you sure you don't want anything, Mullo?" Pollen asked, her voice soft with concern as she offered a piece of her own pastry. "You barely touched your breakfast."

Mullo shook her head, pushing her tray away. The cafeteria food, usually palatable, looked utterly unappetizing today, like a grey, tasteless blob. "I just… I can't. My stomach feels all knotted up." She picked at a loose thread on her sweater, her eyes darting nervously around the crowded room. Every sudden noise – a dropped tray, a burst of laughter too loud for the subdued atmosphere – made her flinch.

A group of older students at a nearby table were arguing loudly, their voices carrying over the low hum of conversation. "I'm telling you, it's those new heroes! They're attracting all this weirdness!" one boy declared, slamming his fist on the table.

"Don't be stupid, they're saving us!" another retorted, but his voice lacked conviction.

The words pierced through Mullo's already frayed nerves. They're attracting it. It's their fault. And what if they can't save us from the next one? The insidious whisper returned, weaving through the angry voices in the cafeteria. They're fallible. They're just kids playing dress-up. And you, Mullo, you're the next one in line.

A cold dread spread through her veins. Her palms grew sweaty. Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the stares, imagined or real, burning into her back. The air around her seemed to thicken, pressing down on her, suffocating her. She felt like an animal caught in a trap, every instinct screaming at her to escape.

"Mullo? You're really pale," Stompp observed, his cheerful demeanor giving way to genuine worry. He reached out to touch her arm, but she recoiled instinctively, a sharp, involuntary movement.

"I… I can't breathe," she gasped, pushing herself away from the table. The noise of the cafeteria, the clatter of cutlery, the muffled conversations, the distant beep of the metal detector in the hallway – it all crescendoed into an unbearable cacophony. Her vision blurred, spots dancing before her eyes.

Run, Mullo. Before it's too late. Before they see you. Before you become one of them. Eiichi's voice was a chilling symphony in her mind, amplifying her every terror, twisting her deepest anxieties into a tangible, suffocating weight. He offered an escape, a dark promise of power over the very fear that consumed her.

Mullo scrambled to her feet, knocking over her chair with a loud clang that drew the attention of everyone in her vicinity. All eyes turned to her, curious, concerned, and a few laced with suspicion. Those glances were the final trigger. She felt their fear of her , the potential victim, the weak link. And that fear, combined with her own, was a volatile concoction.

A ripple of unease spread from her table. Mullo whimpered, tears stinging her eyes. Her reflection in the large glass window of the cafeteria seemed to distort, her face elongating, her eyes widening, her skin turning an unhealthy, ashen gray. She saw not herself, but a nascent monster, a puppet of her own terror.

"M-Mullo?" Pollen whispered, her usual cheer evaporating, replaced by a tremor of pure fear.

The Kwami of Corruption laughed, a soundless, echoing peal in Nooroo’s mind, simultaneously tormenting and exhilarating. Observe, little one. This is the true symphony of fear. And you, Mullo, are the instrument.

Mullo’s body began to contort. Her bones seemed to shift, her muscles ripple under her skin. Her hair, normally pink, began to writhe, elongating into dark, wiry tendrils. Her eyes, once soft brown, turned into gaping black holes, reflecting only the abject terror she felt. A guttural scream tore from her throat, not her own voice, but a chorus of panicked whispers.

As the transformation took hold, her form swelled, her limbs growing gangly and disjointed. Her skin pulled taut, stretched over sharp, angular bones, taking on a translucent quality that revealed a tangled network of pulsing, dark veins beneath. From her back, two skeletal, bat-like wings unfurled, ragged and leathery. She no longer had a mouth, only a gaping maw of darkness, out of which emanated a high-pitched, piercing shriek that resonated with the primal terror of every student in the room.

This was the Fear Weaver , a creature born from Mullo's deepest anxieties, amplified and twisted by Eiichi’s dark influence. Its aura was not just menacing, but terrifying . It projected raw, unfiltered fear, causing students to drop to their knees, clutching their heads, their own deepest phobias manifesting as horrifying hallucinations. One student saw giant spiders scuttling towards them, another a tidal wave threatening to drown them, another an endless, suffocating darkness. The cafeteria descended into chaos, a symphony of screams and desperate cries.

Tikki, who had been lingering near the cafeteria entrance, saw the initial signs of Mullo’s breakdown. Her heart seized. No, not again! she thought. As Mullo’s transformation began, the familiar rush of urgency surged through her. "Maary, spots on!" she cried, ducking behind a pillar. In a flash of brilliant red light, Ladybug emerged, her expression grim.

Across the room, Plagg, who had been half-heartedly attempting to steal a croissant, heard the bloodcurdling scream. He cursed under his breath. "Of course. Just when I thought I could finally relax." He darted behind the nearest food counter, pulling out Aduur. "Aduur, claws out!" he muttered, transforming into the sleek, black-clad figure of Chat D'or.

Ladybug landed gracefully on a table, her yo-yo already unfurling. Chat D'or vaulted over a row of tables, his staff extending, his green eyes narrowed in determination. The sheer terror radiating from the Fear Weaver was palpable, a physical force that made even the heroes falter for a moment. Students were writhing on the floor, consumed by their own projected fears.

"This one's different, Chat Noir!" Ladybug yelled over the cacophony of screams. "It's not just physical! It's fear itself!"

"Tell me about it, My Lady," Chat D'or retorted, his voice strained. He could feel the whispers of his own fears – loneliness, helplessness – trying to creep into his mind. "My fur's practically standing on end!" He swung his staff, blocking a spectral claw that seemed to emerge from the Fear Weaver's shadowy maw.

The Fear Weaver shrieked again, a sound that ripped through their minds, intensifying the hallucinations. Ladybug saw herself failing, Paris crumbling, Maary fading away. Chat D'or saw himself utterly alone, powerless, his family's expectations crushing him.

"Lucky Charm!" Ladybug cried, instinctively knowing this wouldn't be a simple brute-force fight. Her yo-yo spun, and a small, delicate-looking hand mirror dropped into her outstretched palm.

"A mirror, My Lady?" Chat D'or quipped, dodging a wave of projected shadows. "Are you going to ask it to fix its makeup? Because I think it's beyond saving!"

"It's not for it, Chat Noir, it's for us !" Ladybug countered, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene, the mirror reflecting the writhing, fear-stricken students. Her Miraculous Ladybug vision highlighted the mirror, the terrified students, and the Fear Weaver's gaping maw. It projects fear... it doesn't absorb it. But what if it saw its own reflection? A dangerous idea formed in her mind.

"We need to get its attention, Chat Noir!" Ladybug called out. "Lure it to the stage!"

The Fear Weaver, fueled by the rising panic, soared through the cafeteria, its bat-like wings beating a slow, terrifying rhythm. Its shadowy form flickered, dissolving and reforming, making it difficult to target. As it passed, more students succumbed to their terror. Ladybug knew they didn't have much time.

Ladybug, with the hand mirror clutched tight, dodged another lunge from the Fear Weaver. "Chat D'or! Now!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the pervasive terror.

Chat D'or, despite the unsettling whispers trying to worm into his mind, understood her unspoken command. He used his staff to vault onto a high pillar, drawing the Fear Weaver's attention. "Hey, ugly! Looking for a dance partner?" he taunted, striking a pose that was half bravado, half genuine defiance.

The Fear Weaver shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror, and lunged at him. It was fast, a flickering, spectral blur. But Chat D'or was faster. Just as it closed in, he sprang off the pillar, landing lightly on the stage. The Fear Weaver slammed into the pillar where he had been, its shadowy form momentarily solidified by its frustrated rage.

"Now, My Lady!" Chat D'or yelled, already swinging his staff to redirect the creature.

Ladybug didn't hesitate. She threw the hand mirror with precision. It spun through the air, reflecting the stage lights, and just as the Fear Weaver recovered from its collision, it struck the center of its shadowy, formless 'face'.

Instead of shattering, the mirror became a focal point. The Fear Weaver shrieked again, but this time, the sound was one of pure agony. Its own projected fears, amplified by Eiichi's power, were now reflected back at it, a blinding, soul-crushing panorama of its own terrifying existence. Its form writhed, convulsing as if struck by an invisible current. The horrifying illusions it projected into the students' minds wavered, then dissipated like smoke. The screams slowly subsided, replaced by gasps and whimpers as the students slowly began to regain their bearings, their personal nightmares fading into the periphery.

"Cataclysm!" Chat D'or roared, seeing his opportunity. He lunged forward, touching the mirror still embedded in the Fear Weaver. A blinding flash of green energy erupted, not destroying the mirror, but dissolving the shadowy essence of the demon itself.

The Fear Weaver let out a final, ear-splitting wail, a sound of profound terror and despair, as its form disintegrated into a cloud of purple dust. The dust swirled for a moment, then coalesced into a small, trembling figure on the stage.

Mullo.

She lay curled on the wooden stage, her pink pigtails limp, her clothes tattered. Her face was pale, streaked with tears and grime, her eyes wide and unfocused, filled with a lingering horror that still clung to her like a shroud. Stompp, Kaalki, and Pollen rushed forward, hesitantly approaching her.

"Mullo!" Pollen cried, kneeling beside her.

Mullo stirred, her gaze slowly focusing on them, then on the two figures standing above her – Ladybug and Chat D'or. Her lips moved, forming a barely audible whisper. "The fear... it was so real..."

Ladybug exchanged a glance with Chat D'or. Their Miraculous were beeping, signaling their impending detransformation. "She needs rest," Ladybug said, her voice gentle. "And reassurance." She knew that just defeating the physical manifestation wasn't enough. The fear itself was the wound, and it ran deep.

"Who was that thing?" Roaar asked, shaking his head in disbelief, stepping out from behind a flipped table.

Ladybug and Chat D'or exchanged another glance. No one could know the full truth—not yet. Not about the nature of these "demons," or the insidious being behind them. "Let's help clean this up before we transform again," Chat D'or said, his voice calm but firm, masking the weariness in his own mind. "We can't let this mess stay like this."

As students slowly started moving broken chairs and tables aside, a low buzz of whispers filled the room. "I heard the demon could turn people into trees…" "Did you see the way Ladybug and Chat D'or fought? They're amazing." The fear was still there, a low hum beneath the surface, but for now, relief washed over the students. They had been saved.

Ladybug and Chat D'or moved amongst them, helping to right tables and calm the more traumatized students, their eyes constantly scanning, searching for any lingering traces of the fear. Ladybug felt a prickle of unease. This wasn't a simple defeat. The mirror had worked, but it was a temporary solution against a type of foe they barely understood. This is different, she thought. This isn't just about fighting monsters; it's about fighting an emotion, a state of mind.

As their Miraculous gave one final, insistent beep, they nodded to each other, a silent agreement to retreat. They found separate, secluded spots to detransform, returning to their human forms, their Kwamis popping out, exhausted but relieved.

Meanwhile, across the schoolyard, unseen by the still-recovering students, Nooroo sat alone on a bench, his eyes shadowed and distant. He had felt it, the surge of Mullo's terror, the exhilarating climax of the Fear Weaver's manifestation, and then... the sudden, crushing defeat. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, a backlash from the emotional turmoil he'd been forced to witness.

He clenched his fists, his reflection flickering faintly in the window behind him. They don’t know. They have no idea what’s coming.

Eiichi’s whisper echoed in his mind, not angry, but almost... contemplative. A setback, little Nooroo. A minor obstacle. But the seed has been sown. The fear now runs deeper, more insidious. They will suspect, they will doubt, they will turn on each other. And then… then the harvest will truly begin.

Nooroo’s eyes glowed faintly purple, a fleeting, terrifying reflection of the power that now coursed through him, a power he desperately wanted to reject. He felt utterly drained, yet a chilling certainty settled in his heart. The battle was over now, but the war had only just begun. The school, Paris, their very world, was slowly being poisoned, and he was a reluctant, unwilling accomplice.

Chapter 5: Not a chapter

Notes:

Hii Guys! I just wanted to let you know about the characters so I was thinking to do some profiles.
But! This will be updated during the story so more information will be added, so keep an eye

 

Classmate Profiles

Tikki Sato

– Calm, optimistic, kind, and encouraging. She’s empathetic and patient, though she can become exasperated—but quickly forgives. As class representative, she takes responsibility seriously. A caring daughter, she has a supportive family and gives thoughtful advice.

Plagg Melanos

– Carefree, easygoing, and indulgent. Often lazy, negligent, and sarcastic, Plagg shirks responsibility unless truly needed. Yet beneath it all, he’s cool, focused, encouraging when it matters most—and, even if he rarely admits it, he deeply cares for his friends.

Trixx Kitsu

– Friendly, encouraging, and insightful—he reads people well and highlights their strengths. His mischievous streak makes him unpredictable and sometimes unreliable. That cheeky side keeps everyone on their toes.

Wayzz Hirai

– Quietly courageous and gentle. A young monk, he dedicates himself to protecting the Miraculous and supporting the temple. Kind to all classmates, he’s especially close to Tikki and Plagg, bringing calm wisdom to the group.

Pollen Mitsuki

– Sweet, supportive, and respectful. Polite but not afraid to speak up or defend others. Brave and caring, though sometimes impulsive. She has an older sister but they aren’t in a good relationship.

Nooroo Chouko

– Shy, insecure, vulnerable to others’ judgement. Deep down, he yearns to be brave but fear holds him back. A victim of constant bullying, he’s changed schools often. Now, under Eiichi’s control, he is manipulated and emotionally fragile.

Sass Satoshi

– Mature, charming, calm, and responsible. A natural leader, admired by peers. Generous with advice and always ready to guide others when they err. Academically gifted and quietly passionate about instrumental music.

Xuppu Hiroki

– Energetic and talkative, often hilarious—but a bit immature and impulsive. Loves teasing others, sometimes crossing the line. A fun presence, but his joking can get rough.

Mullo Nezumi

– Compassionate, social, and emotionally perceptive. She has clear goals, though fear sometimes paralyzes her (as seen in Chapter 1). When she’s afraid, rational action doesn’t come easily.

Daizzi Kouki

– Excitable, curious, and heartwarmingly naive. Honest and playful, he loves cheering up his friends. Often grouped with Xuppu and Roarr, his endless enthusiasm makes him a natural friend. He overcame childhood illness.

Roarr Tora

– Fiercely confident and spirited. Energetic and eager to explore new things—but can be loud and overwhelming. He enjoys weekend runs with Stompp and is Daizzi’s best friend.

Ziggy Misaki

– Romantic, gentle, and artistic. Passionate about art and music, she’s best friends with Kaalki. Known as the “spring” of the class—her presence feels fresh and uplifting. She has a mother, father, and little sister.

Kaalki Masami

– Elegant and polished, with a strong sense of honesty and nobility. Deeply cares about aesthetics and is Ziggy’s best friend. Proud yet principled, she values integrity and composure.

Fluff Uzaji

– Outgoing and silly, she’s always chatting and sometimes out of tune with reality. Full of energy, she’s easily distracted and charmingly scatterbrained.

Stompp Yamato

– Brave, devoted, and unwavering. Committed to his goals and always ready to support others—especially his brother. His determination makes him a stabilizing presence.

Orikko Hiroto

– Proud and perfectionistic—quick to take offense and impatient, but self-aware enough to cool down. Driven by his desire to do things well.

Longg Tetsuo

– Formal, patient, and thoughtful. A morning fencing enthusiast who studies Chinese. He thinks before he speaks, preferring structure and responsibility over spontaneity.

Barkk Noriko

– Loyal and generous, serious when needed. Loves animals and nature, often visiting parks or zoos. Can panic when things deviate from her expectations—but she always cares deeply.

Chapter 6: Chapter 5 ~Echoes in the silence~

Notes:

It’s me again with another chapter!! Like always tell me if there’s something wrong or advice if you want :>

Opening: Ladybug PV

The morning after the cafeteria chaos, the halls of François Dupont were not merely quiet; they were hushed with an unnerving, almost reverent stillness. The usual morning symphony of lockers slamming, laughter echoing, and the eager chatter of friends had been replaced by a pervasive, suffocating quiet. Footsteps seemed unnaturally loud, echoing on the polished linoleum, and conversations were reduced to strained whispers that died quickly in the heavy air. At the main entrance, the metal detectors stood sentinel, their occasional beep now a sharp, almost accusatory sound, puncturing the strained silence like a needle through thin fabric. Each beep felt less like a security measure and more like a cruel reminder of the invisible threat that had invaded their sanctuary.

Students moved like specters, their faces drawn and pale, eyes darting nervously. The initial wave of relief, the gratitude for Ladybug and Chat D'or's intervention, had already dissipated, leaving behind a deeper, more insidious layer of fear. It wasn't the panic of the attack itself, but the chilling realization that such a thing could happen, had happened, twice now, and without warning. Distrust simmered beneath the surface, a low, dangerous current. Who could be next? Who among them might be carrying the hidden seeds of a monster?

Mullo, her two pink pigtails limp and lifeless against her shoulders, moved like a ghost. Her usual timid disposition had deepened into a profound fragility. She clutched her textbooks to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white. Every sudden movement, every hushed voice near her, made her flinch visibly. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, as if avoiding eye contact would somehow make her invisible, safe from the scrutinizing glances she imagined burning into her back. The cafeteria incident was a blur of horrifying images and overwhelming sensations – the all-consuming terror, the feeling of her own body betraying her, the monstrous form she had taken. She had no clear memory of being the Fear Weaver, but a chilling echo remained, a phantom dread that whispered: it was me. I was the monster. The thought sent shivers down her spine, making her stomach clench with nausea.

Stompp, his usual robust energy tempered by concern, walked beside her, his presence a silent anchor. Kaalki, elegant even in distress, floated protectively on her other side, her bright eyes often darting towards Mullo with worry. Pollen, usually a fount of sweet cheerfulness, offered quiet reassurances, but her own face was drawn, her smiles brittle. They tried to talk to her, to distract her, but Mullo would only offer brief, almost inaudible replies, her eyes still wide with a lingering, unshakeable horror.

Tikki moved through the crowded hall, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She saw Mullo, isolated even amidst her friends, and felt a profound ache of empathy. The silence in the school was louder than any scream; it was the sound of a community holding its breath, waiting for the next strike. Her usual vibrant red hoodie felt heavy, burdened by the weight of the city's unspoken fears. She wanted to rush to Mullo, to offer comfort, but what could she say? I saved you, but I don't know how to stop it from happening again. The thought was a bitter pill. She observed every subtle shift in the students' demeanor, every darting glance, every nervous fidget. Paris was her city, these were her people, and she felt their collective anxiety like a current running through her own veins.

 

Across the hall, near his locker, Plagg leaned against the metal, a half-eaten croissant forgotten in his hand. The uncharacteristic silence of the school grated on his nerves more than any amount of noise. "This is even worse than a math test," he muttered under his breath, though no one was close enough to hear. "At least those end. This... this just hangs in the air like a bad smell." His usual carefree slouch was subtly tenser, his green eyes scanning the faces of his classmates. Even the class clown, usually bouncing off the walls, was subdued. The school's most boisterous, most unshakeable personalities were quiet, wary, their usual bravado replaced by an unsettling caution. It was a stark visual representation of the corrosive power of fear, eating away at the very spirit of the place. He shoved the croissant back into his bag. Even food had lost its appeal in this oppressive atmosphere.

 

Later that day, the oppressive quiet of the school still clinging to her like a damp cloak, Tikki finally found refuge in the solitude of her apartment. The familiar, comforting scent of her art supplies and the soft light filtering through her window usually brought her solace, but today, even here, a knot of unease tightened in her stomach. She peeled off her hoodie, tossing it onto her bed, and sighed, collapsing onto her desk chair.

"This is getting out of hand, Maary," she said aloud, her voice strained. Her Kwami, Maary, shimmered into existence beside her, a miniature figure of serene, glowing red, her antennae twitching with concern. Tikki often found herself talking to Maary, the Kwami of Creation, as if the physical act of speaking could somehow lighten the burden on her soul. "It's like fighting a ghost! We beat the demon, but the fear just... lingers. And it feels wrong." Tikki ran a hand through her hair, frustration simmering beneath her worry. "We can stop the monsters, but how do we stop the fear? It's everywhere. It's in the air."

Maary floated closer, her large, empathetic eyes meeting Tikki's. "Because this isn't merely born of strong emotion, Tikki," the Kwami's voice, soft as a bell, resonated directly in Tikki's mind, a comfort only she could hear. "This is a deliberate cultivation of despair. It's a wound inflicted not just on individuals, but on the very spirit of the city." Maary hovered over a half-finished sketch of a vibrant Parisian street, her tiny form casting a faint, warm glow. "This… this is a creeping blight. It seeks to consume, not just to destroy a single moment. It twists human bonds, it erodes trust, it whispers doubts into the very fabric of their society."

 

Tikki leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "So, what do we do? We can't just fight a feeling."

"To create, you must understand destruction, Tikki," Maary replied, her tone gentle but firm. "And to counter this, you must seek the patterns in the chaos. This entity, it is not random. It is strategic. It is a craftsman of fear." Maary paused, her gaze fixed on Tikki. "You feel the city's heartbeat. Pay attention to who seems most affected, who might be showing unusual signs. Look for anomalies, things that don't fit the pattern of ordinary despair. The seeds of this evil are subtle, but they are there." Tikki nodded slowly, a new resolve hardening her features. If this was a pattern, then patterns could be broken.

Across the city, in his own ridiculously spacious yet perpetually dishevelled apartment, Plagg was in a similar state of disquiet. He'd discarded his school uniform for sweatpants, and was currently attempting to construct a fort out of cushions and discarded pizza boxes – a futile attempt at creating a sanctuary from the pervasive gloom.

"Seriously, Aduur, this 'corruption' thing is seriously cramping my style!" he grumbled, kicking at a cushion. His Kwami, Aduur, a small, sleek black creature with piercing green eyes, was floating disinterestedly near a discarded Camembert rind. Plagg rarely showed genuine distress, but the lack of an appetite for his beloved cheese was a clear sign of his inner turmoil. "The cheese just doesn't taste the same with all this gloom hanging around. It's got a bitter aftertaste now!"

Aduur, however, was unusually serious. He drifted closer to Plagg, his green eyes, mirrors of Plagg’s own, fixated on the human. "This isn't merely about inconvenience, Plagg," the Kwami's voice, raspy and ancient, echoed in Plagg's mind. "This... is an ancient poison. There are whispers in the ethereal currents, a resonance of malice that I haven't felt in centuries. It seeks to consume, not just to destroy. It's far more insidious than simple chaos." Aduur's antennae twitched, sensing the deep-seated dread that permeated the city. "Normal destruction clears the path for new creation. This... this is a decay that leaves only barrenness."

Plagg scoffed, trying to maintain his nonchalant facade. "Yeah, yeah, ancient evil, got it. So what, we just keep punching shadows until it gets bored and goes away?"

"You are the embodiment of destruction, Plagg," Aduur replied, ignoring the sarcasm. "You understand decay, the breaking of bonds. Use that insight. Look beyond the monstrous form. What is truly being destroyed here? It's not just the school's windows, but its spirit. The trust between people. The belief in a better tomorrow." Aduur settled onto Plagg's shoulder, a surprisingly heavy weight for such a small creature. "The enemy feeds on despair, Plagg. And despair is a subtle weapon. Be observant. Your cynical eye, for all its flaws, can sometimes see the rot where others only see a bruise."

Plagg grimaced, but a flicker of something uncharacteristically serious crossed his face. He hated being lectured, especially by Aduur, but the Kwami’s words resonated with an uncomfortable truth. The quiet tension at school, the fearful glances, the way even his own appetite had dwindled – it was all part of something larger, something more sinister than just fighting a few akumatized villains. He found himself, despite his innate laziness, beginning to truly observe the world around him, looking for the cracks in its foundation.

…

Far from the stifling anxiety of François Dupont, in a tranquil study steeped in the scent of aged parchment and subtle incense, Wayzz toiled. The silence here was a deliberate choice, a cocoon for concentrated thought, starkly contrasting the suffocating quiet that had descended upon the city. He sat cross-legged on a floor cushion, surrounded by towering stacks of ancient tomes and brittle scrolls, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. The soft glow from an antique desk lamp illuminated the intricate diagrams and faded scripts he meticulously pored over. Weeks of tireless research, spurred by the unsettling anomalies of Xuppu and the girl-turned-tree, had finally begun to yield fruit.

He had delved into forgotten histories, dusty chronicles that spoke of an era long before the current understanding of Miraculous and their holders. His fingers, stained with ink and dust, traced a particularly complex series of symbols on a scroll so old it threatened to crumble at his touch. He adjusted his spectacles, his eyes widening as he deciphered a passage that sent a chill down his spine, a coldness that penetrated deeper than the draft from the window.

"Listen Fuu," Wayzz whispered, his voice barely audible, yet trembling with a profound revelation. Fuu, the wise Kwami of Protection, sat nearby in a worn armchair, seemingly in a meditative state, but his ancient eyes were open, observing. He had known, with the quiet certainty of centuries, that Wayzz was on the precipice of something significant.

"What have you found, Wayzz?" Fuu's voice was soft, an ageless rustle of silk.

Wayzz pushed a stack of scrolls aside, revealing a faded illustration of a shadowy, formless entity, its tendrils reaching out towards a vibrant, light-filled city, slowly engulfing it in gloom. Beside it, intricate text described its nature. "The old texts... they speak of 'The Shadow Weaver,' Master Fuu. An ancient Kwami of pure corruption, believed to be merely a legend. His true name... is Eiichi."

Fuu's serene expression fractured, a flicker of ancient dread passing through his eyes. "Eiichi," he breathed, the name a forbidden whisper. "He was thought to be contained, banished to the deepest recesses of the ethereal realm after the Great Shadow Purge. A blight on the very essence of existence."

Wayzz nodded grimly, pointing to another passage. "These passages detail his modus operandi. It's not just about amplifying existing negative emotions, but a deliberate act. He orchestrates what they call 'The Ritual of Despair.' He feeds on accumulated fear and despair, weaving it into a powerful, almost tangible shroud over a region. This shroud not only empowers him, but it also subtly manipulates the minds of those within it, fostering paranoia, distrust, and eventually, turning them against each other." Wayzz paused, looking up, his face pale with the implications. "His ultimate goal isn't just chaos. It's to harvest the emotional essence of entire cities, draining them of hope and leaving them desolate, a barren landscape for him to rule."

Fuu's gaze hardened, his ancient eyes piercing. "He seeks to corrupt the very source of power, to twist the Miraculous themselves, or to render them useless by draining the world of its light," he stated, confirming Wayzz's unspoken fear. "This is a war for the very soul of Paris, Wayzz. A spiritual battle, not merely a physical one."

"The texts also mention his weaknesses, Fuu," Wayzz continued, his voice gaining a slight tremor of hope. "He cannot be defeated by brute force alone. His influence thrives on division and despair. He can be countered by concentrated emotions of unity, hope, truth, or a strong sense of purpose. There's mention of an 'Ancient Rite of Lumina,' involving focused positive energy, though the details are obscure."

Fuu closed his eyes, then opened them, his gaze direct. "The ancient tenets forbid revealing the Miraculous to too many, Wayzz. It is a sacred trust, a delicate balance. But this... this threat requires more than two. Ladybug and Chat D'or are powerful, but they are fighting an enemy that operates on a different plane. They fight the symptom, while the disease spreads." His words were heavy with the weight of centuries of tradition versus immediate, pressing danger.

Wayzz, usually so compliant, felt a surge of conviction. “If Eiichi's power grows with every act of despair, if he is turning Paris against itself, then the balance is already shattered. We need to empower those who embody the very qualities he seeks to extinguish. Hope, truth, unity. We need more than two defenders. We need a force to counter the darkness he sows, to ignite the light within the city."

 

Fuu remained silent for a long moment, the scent of incense thick in the air, the weight of his decision palpable. He looked at the fragile scrolls, the ancient warnings, and then at Wayzz, whose earnestness burned with a quiet fire. "Continue your search for the Rite of Lumina, Wayzz," Fuu finally instructed, his voice low, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "And search for those whose spirits resonate with the light we need. Those whose hearts are true, and whose convictions are unwavering. The time for caution, it seems, is rapidly drawing to a close." His words hung in the air, a solemn decree that signaled a profound shift in their age-old approach to safeguarding the Miraculous. The path to more heroes was now open, born of necessity and dire circumstance.

At school 

The pervasive fear was a slow-acting poison, silently seeping into every corner of François Dupont. It didn't manifest in chaotic riots, but in the insidious erosion of trust. Classroom discussions, once lively debates, now often devolved into muttered disagreements or outright accusations. A casual bump in the hallway could ignite a furious stare. Whispers, once harmless gossip, now carried the weight of suspicion and paranoia, turning friends into wary strangers. Teachers, visibly strained, struggled to maintain order, their authority diminished by the unseen enemy. The very air in the cafeteria, where a day earlier terror had erupted, now felt charged with suppressed anxieties, making students huddle in smaller, wary groups, or eat in stony silence.

Pollen, usually a beacon of unwavering optimism, found herself fighting a losing battle. She tried to organize a small "unity circle" during break, suggesting they share positive thoughts or memories, hoping to counter the gloom. But her efforts were met with polite, strained smiles, or worse, outright suspicion. A few students even recoiled, their eyes darting away, as if her persistent cheerfulness was somehow unnatural, or even a sign of something dark. Pollen felt a crushing weight as her attempts to spread light were met with such resistance, her own bright spirit dimming under the pall. The burden of trying to be the "light" while everyone else descended into shadows was heavier than any physical weight.

Stompp, his usual robust energy now channeled into a vigilant protectiveness, stuck close to Mullo. He tried to mediate small arguments, his deep, steady voice a calming presence, but even his unwavering determination was tested. He saw friendships fraying over trivial misunderstandings, old alliances crumbling under the pressure of pervasive distrust. He clenched his fists, feeling the uselessness of his strength against an enemy that couldn't be punched. How could he protect them when the real danger was the fear in their own minds? He kept an eye out for Roaar, too, knowing his friend's impulsive nature could easily lead him into conflict in this volatile atmosphere.

Kaalki, ever elegant and principled, observed the escalating irrationality with a detached frustration. She spent her time in the library, not reading, but analyzing the social dynamics unfolding around her. She saw the illogical leaps, the baseless accusations. "This is not rational," she murmured to herself, tapping a manicured finger against a book. She found herself approaching a teacher, a logical mind seeking order. "These security measures are insufficient," she stated, her voice calm but firm. "They address symptoms, not the root cause. Fear is not metallic. It cannot be detected by a machine." Her pragmatic approach was often met with blank stares or weary sighs, but she persisted, convinced that logic was the only way through the spreading madness.

Xuppu, still navigating his own internal turmoil after his transformation, remained a quieter presence. He’d try to blend in, burdened by lingering guilt and the chilling memory of his own loss of control. He flinched at loud noises, his eyes constantly scanning the room, perhaps more acutely aware of the nuances of fear than anyone else. His presence, though subdued, served as a constant, subtle reminder to others of the unpredictable nature of the threat – if Xuppu could snap, anyone could. He sometimes caught Mullo's eye, a silent, shared understanding of a terrifying experience that bound them in an unspoken way.

Roaar, on the other hand, reacted with a simmering anger. He hated the pervasive fear, the way it made everyone weak. He'd snap at students who whispered behind his back, or shove past those who stood too close. During lunch, a minor dispute over a dropped tray escalated quickly. "Watch where you're going, idiot!" he snarled, his voice louder than necessary, his frustration boiling over. The argument quickly drew nervous glances, reflecting how easily conflict could erupt now, fueled by the widespread tension.

Trixx, enigmatic  and malicious ,he is actually watching all the people around him and tries to live the day as always. Trixx is not the type to panic right away. His cunning allows him to quickly assess the situation and look for a way out or a solution.

Sass, often found in the music room or a quiet corner of the courtyard, played soft, melancholic tunes on his guitar. He was a natural empath, and the pervasive despair of the school felt like a heavy shroud on his spirit, a constant, off-key hum. He could feel the specific 'frequencies' of fear radiating from individuals. He approached Mullo one afternoon, not with questions, but with a quiet, understanding presence. He simply sat beside her, gently playing a soothing melody on his guitar, a silent offering of comfort that, for a few moments, seemed to ease the tremors in her hands and bring a flicker of peace to her haunted eyes. He understood her trauma in a way others couldn't, sensing the residual fear that clung to her.

Longg Tetsuo, ever formal and disciplined, moved through the chaotic school environment with an almost detached focus. He spent his mornings fencing, a way to maintain mental clarity in a world that felt increasingly disordered. He was frustrated by the rampant irrationality, the emotional responses that overshadowed logical thought. He observed the spreading paranoia with a cool, analytical eye, searching for the logical progression, the cause and effect. He found himself questioning official statements, dissecting rumors, and calmly pointing out flaws in reasoning to whoever would listen, preferring structure and responsibility over the current spontaneity of fear. He saw the danger not in the "demons" themselves, but in the way fear was breaking down society's foundations.

As Tikki moved through the school, she felt a deep sadness watching her classmates. Friendships were fracturing, small kindnesses were disappearing, replaced by suspicion. She could see how Maary’s words were coming true: the fear wasn't just causing attacks, it was poisoning the very fabric of their community. She observed Trixx's relentless pursuit of truth, Sass's calming influence through music, and Longg Tetsuo's logical attempts to counter the chaos. Each, in their own way, was trying to cope, to fight back against the encroaching despair.

Plagg, for his part, noted the rapid breakdown of social norms with a cynical, almost clinical detachment. "See, Aduur?" he muttered, observing a whispered argument between two previously inseparable friends. "Told you. Everyone's turning on each other. It's just a matter of time before someone blames the last guy who sneezed." His observations, though laced with sarcasm, were chillingly accurate. The corrosion of trust was palpable, and he, the Kwami of Destruction, recognized the signs of something being systematically dismantled, not by force, but by insidious emotion.

 

Miles away, in the perpetual twilight of his drawn-curtained room, Nooroo was a trembling silhouette on his bed. The wave of exhaustion that had washed over him after the Fear Weaver’s defeat had not receded; instead, it had settled deep within his bones, a constant ache of physical and emotional depletion. His skin was paler, almost translucent, and his eyes, once soft and curious, were now perpetually shadowed, reflecting the deepening despair that Eiichi fed upon. Every breath was a struggle against the invisible chains that bound him, a battle he was steadily losing.

He could feel it – the lingering fear in the city, like a cold, damp fog. Eiichi’s presence was no longer a whisper; it was a constant, resonant hum in his mind, a parasitic consciousness that seemed to have merged with his own. He was a prisoner in his own skull, forced to witness the insidious spread of the poison. He could see it, vivid as a nightmare: the frightened glances, the fracturing friendships, the escalating arguments in the school hallways.

They are so fragile, little Nooroo, Eiichi’s voice purred, smooth as silk, yet laced with a chilling amusement. It was not a voice heard by his ears, but felt directly in the core of his being, a cold invasion. Such delicate creatures, so easily broken. You see how quickly their trust erodes? How swiftly their kindness turns to suspicion?

Nooroo whimpered, clutching his head, as if he could physically dislodge the entity. "Stop it," he croaked, his voice raspy. "They don't deserve this." He remembered the quiet desperation in Mullo's eyes. He had been forced to witness the terrifying spectacle of her transformation, the raw agony of her projected fears. It was a torment beyond comprehension, and the guilt ate at him, a festering wound.

They Don’t? Eiichi chuckled, a dry, rustling sound, like leaves skittering across barren ground. Everyone will hurt you..they don’t care about you..but it’s merely weakness, Nooroo. They are foolish people! They will betray you! They just want to you believe they are nice but trust me they AREN’T! They cling to hope, to joy, to empathy..they are carefree..And I, my dear Kwami, am the shepherd guiding them to their true nature: despair. He projected a chilling montage into Nooroo's mind: images of students arguing, families growing cold, the city lights dimming as if the very energy of hope was being siphoned away. “They have to learn the reality of the world.”

Nooroo writhed, bile rising in his throat. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't be a part of this. With a surge of desperate, raw defiance, he tried to sever the connection, to scream, to unleash a surge of chaotic power – anything to break free. A faint, uncontrollable ripple of purple energy pulsed around him, a desperate plea for help lost in the city's hum. But it was too weak, too unformed.

Eiichi’s presence pressed down, heavy and cold. Such a defiant spark, he mused, a cruel, mocking tone in his voice. A pity it is so easily extinguished. A sharp, icy pain lanced through Nooroo's mind, a direct psychic blow that left him gasping, curled into a fetal position, tears streaming down his face. The brief, pathetic surge of energy dissipated, leaving him weaker than before.

You see, little one? You are mine. Your will is my will. And your despair is my fuel. Eiichi’s voice then shifted, taking on a tone of chilling anticipation. The Ladybug and Chat D'or believe they are symbols of hope. They fight the monsters, they restore order. But what happens, I wonder, when the very essence of hope is corrupted? When the light they champion turns to shadow?

A new image flooded Nooroo’s mind, superimposed over the lingering fear of the school. It was a familiar face, vibrant and full of unbridled optimism. Daizzi Kouki. His bright pink hair, his wide, joyful smile, his relentless kindness that often bordered on naiveté. He was pure, almost childlike, joy personified in the school.

This time, Nooroo, the transformation will not be born of fear, but of the agonizing corruption of a pure heart. We will twist joy into bitterness, optimism into despair. And then, Ladybug and Chat D'or will understand. They will witness the true depth of my power, the true despair of a world stripped of its brightest light.

Nooroo’s eyes, wide with a horror far deeper than his own pain, glowed faintly purple, a fleeting, terrifying reflection of the power that now coursed through him, a power he desperately wanted to reject. He felt utterly drained, yet a chilling certainty settled in his heart. The battle was over now, but the war had only just begun. The school, Paris, their very world, was slowly being poisoned, and he was a reluctant, unwilling accomplice, now fully aware of who Eiichi's next, unsuspecting target would be.

 

Chapter 7: Chapter 6 ~The Fading Bloom~

Notes:

Damn guys I already wrote this chapter and decided to publish it! Now that there are vacations (still I have to study) I’m more free than ever.
I hope you liked this chapter and And it seems that Nooroo is realizing that what he is doing is wrong 🧐
For now…what do you think about my story? I’m still an noob 😂, it’s my first time so I will appreciate some advice to get better.
Anyway thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter, BYEEE!!

Nel mezzo della cupezza pervasiva che aveva avvolto François Dupont come un sudario soffocante, Daizzi era una scintilla di colore sfrontata. Era un ragazzo ottimista, i suoi occhi luminosi spesso si increspavano agli angoli in un sorriso genuino e disinvolto che sembrava sfidare la nozione stessa di disperazione. Mentre gli altri sussurravano a bassa voce, con le spalle curve e lo sguardo circospetto, Daizzi si muoveva con dolcezza, la sua presenza un controcanto silenzioso e persistente alla crescente cacofonia di paura della città.

Il suo ottimismo non era ingenuo, nato dall'ignoranza o da una mancanza di comprensione. Era, in realtà, duramente conquistato, forgiato nel crogiolo di una malattia infantile che un tempo aveva minacciato di spegnere la sua fragile luce. A volte avvertiva un tremore sottile, quasi impercettibile, nella mano sinistra, un'eco persistente della sua passata fragilità, un silenzioso ricordo di battaglie combattute e vinte. Eppure, lo superava con uno spirito incrollabile, la ferma convinzione che anche le nuvole più oscure avessero un lato positivo.

L'innato desiderio di Daizzi di risollevare gli altri era più forte che mai in quei tempi tesi. Poteva presentarsi con una piccola gru di carta finemente piegata per un compagno di classe introverso, o offrire una parola sinceramente gentile a qualcuno che faceva fatica a concentrarsi in classe. Ascoltava con profonda empatia quando gli amici confidavano le loro ansie, la sua gentile presenza un porto tranquillo in un mare in tempesta. Era particolarmente legato a Roaar, la loro amicizia un vibrante contrasto tra il costante ottimismo di Daizzi e la natura a volte impulsiva e focosa di Roaar. Roaar, nonostante le proprie frustrazioni per la paura pervasiva della scuola, era ferocemente protettivo nei confronti di Daizzi, riconoscendo la preziosa e silenziosa forza nell'allegria del suo amico.

"Ehi, Roaar, ho sentito che hai avuto un periodo difficile in storia", disse Daizzi un pomeriggio, raggiungendo il suo migliore amico vicino agli armadietti. La sua voce era dolce, ma aveva un tono chiaro e squillante. "Non preoccuparti, ho preparato delle schede. Possiamo ripassarle insieme, dopo che ti sarai sfogato un po'?" Mostrò un mazzo di schede ben legate, con un piccolo sorriso incoraggiante sulle labbra.

Roaar, che stava guardando accigliato il suo armadietto, lo chiuse di colpo con un grugnito. "Dire che è stato un momento difficile è un eufemismo. È stato come cavare un dente a un brontolone. Grazie, Daizzi", aggiunse, ammorbidendo considerevolmente il tono della voce mentre prendeva le carte. Apprezzava il silenzioso supporto di Daizzi, una mano ferma che spesso gli impediva di sprofondare nella frustrazione. Notò, però, un sottile velo di sudore sulla fronte di Daizzi e il leggero tremore nella mano dell'amico mentre gli passava le carte. Sta forse esagerando? si chiese Roaar, con un guizzo di preoccupazione che gli attraversava il viso.

Daizzi si trovava spesso anche con Xuppu e Stompp. Stompp, sempre una presenza rassicurante, osservava Daizzi con un silenzioso atteggiamento protettivo, notando quanto di sé Daizzi impiegasse nel tentativo di risollevare il morale degli altri. Xuppu, ancora alle prese con il suo mondo emotivo dopo la traumatica esperienza come prima vittima del "Tessitore di Paura", trovava uno strano conforto nella compagnia di Daizzi. Daizzi non giudicava mai, non faceva mai troppe domande sulle traversie passate di Xuppu; si limitava a offrire una parola gentile o un momento di pace condiviso.

 

Ma persino l'incrollabile ottimismo di Daizzi non era immune al sottile brivido che Eiichi stava ora intessendo nell'arazzo emotivo della città. L'influenza iniziò in modo quasi impercettibile, non come paura vera e propria, ma come un dolore sordo, un leggero smorzamento della sua innata vivacità. Si ritrovò a sentirsi insolitamente stanco, una stanchezza che sembrava insinuarsi nelle sue ossa, che ricordava le febbri estenuanti della sua malattia infantile. Una mattina, perse il suo album da disegno preferito, una piccola, insolita svista che gli provocò un fugace momento di frustrazione, con la fronte aggrottata in un modo che Roaar non vedeva da tempo. In seguito, i suoi tentativi di rallegrare un compagno di classe particolarmente introverso incontrarono un rifiuto più freddo e insistente del solito, lasciando Daizzi con un pizzico di autentica tristezza, uno scoraggiamento che gli si insinuò pesantemente nel cuore. Era proprio questo scoraggiamento, questo sottile indebolimento della sua gioia, che Eiichi stava prendendo di mira, tentando di sostituire la sua luce brillante con una disperazione totalizzante.

La casa di Tikki

Nel silenzioso rifugio della sua stanza, Tikki sedeva vicino alla finestra, osservando i familiari tetti parigini che ora sembravano incombere sotto un cielo più pesante. L'energia vibrante che di solito pulsava per la città sembrava smorzata, smorzata dalla paura persistente che si aggrappava a ogni cosa come una polvere invisibile. Persino le lontane risate dei bambini che giocavano in un parco sottostante avevano un tono fragile. Ricordava le parole di Maary del giorno prima: "Questa è una deliberata coltivazione della disperazione... una piaga strisciante". Tikki lo percepiva, una sottile dissonanza nella melodia della città.

Il suo sguardo si spostò sulla scuola, una sagoma scura e imponente contro la pallida luce pomeridiana. Pensò a Mullo, ancora introverso, con lo spirito ferito. Poi la sua mente si spostò su Daizzi. Era un'anomalia, una scintilla persistente e brillante nella luce fioca. Tikki lo aveva osservato nei corridoi, i suoi sorrisi gentili, i suoi silenziosi tentativi di offrire gentilezza, la sua incrollabile fede nel bene che ancora esisteva. Era in netto contrasto con gli sguardi sospettosi e i sussurri sommessi che lo circondavano. Si ritrovò attratta dalla sua energia positiva, percependo un piccolo, tanto necessario barlume di speranza nella sua resilienza.

"È come un piccolo sole, vero, Maary?" mormorò Tikki, attorcigliandosi distrattamente una ciocca di capelli rossi. Maary, appollaiata su una pila di libri di testo, inclinò la testa. "Daizzi possiede una profonda fonte di pura gioia e ottimismo, Tikki. Una caratteristica rara e preziosa, soprattutto ora. Lo rende... un punto di luce nell'oscurità crescente." Maary fece una pausa, i suoi grandi occhi saggi lo fissarono intensamente. "Ma lo rende anche un bersaglio. Un faro attira l'attenzione, sia benevola che malevola. Sii vigile, Tikki. Questa 'piaga' che senti, cerca di spegnere queste luci, non solo di amplificare le ombre esistenti." Tikki annuì, una fredda premonizione le si insinuò nel cuore. Aveva capito: Eiichi non stava solo amplificando la paura; stava attivamente cacciando la gioia.

Nel frattempo

Dall'altra parte della città, nel suo appartamento perennemente caotico, Plagg era impegnato in un timido tentativo di costruire un castello di carte, solo per vederlo crollare con un gemito di frustrazione. Calciò la fragile pila di carte, poi si lasciò cadere sulla sua poltrona a sacco, con una fetta di pizza mezza mangiata che gli pendeva dalle dita. La silenziosa ansia della città gli dava sui nervi. Prosperava nel caos, nella disgregazione energica, ma questo terrore insidioso e strisciante era diverso. Era noioso, pesante e assolutamente insipido.

"Sul serio, Aduur, tutta questa storia della 'paura' sta diventando noiosa", si lamentò con il suo Kwami, Aduur, che galleggiava vicino a un involucro scartato, osservando di tanto in tanto i resti della pizza. "È come se tutti avessero deciso di diventare dei guastafeste. Niente stile, niente drammi, solo... deprimenti." Masticò lentamente, poi aggrottò la fronte. "Tranne quel ragazzo Daizzi. È tipo, patologicamente allegro. È quasi irritante. Chi sorride così tanto, anche quando il mondo è impazzito?"

Aduur, da parte sua, era meno sprezzante. I suoi occhi verdi esprimevano una comprensione antica, quasi stanca. "È un'anomalia, Plagg", la voce roca di Aduur risuonò nella mente di Plagg. "Un persistente punto luminoso nell'oscurità che osservi. Una tale resilienza, anche se la trovi 'irritante', è notevole. Significa che combatte contro il decadimento. Si rifiuta di permettere che i legami si spezzino completamente." Aduur si avvicinò, con un'espressione insolitamente seria. "Questo nemico non si limita a distruggere in un colpo solo. Corrompe l'essenza stessa delle emozioni, trasformandole in qualcosa di autolesionista. Osservalo, Plagg. Comprendi cosa porta con sé che sfida questa disperazione dilagante." Plagg brontolò, ma si ritrovò, suo malgrado, a riflettere sulle parole di Aduur. La persistente allegria di Daizzi era fuori luogo. E in un mondo che stava rapidamente perdendo la sua vivacità, questo lo rendeva sia peculiare che, forse, pericoloso.

Nella quiete appartata del suo studio, Wayzz era assorbito dai suoi antichi testi. Tracciava le linee sbiadite di un nuovo passaggio, con le antenne che fremevano per la concentrazione. Ora stava studiando specificamente non solo il potere di Eiichi, ma anche il "Rito di Lumina" menzionato da Fuu: i contro-rituali, i metodi usati dagli antichi detentori di Kwami per respingere la corruzione pura. Le sue dita si fermarono, trovando una sezione che non parlava di grandi battaglie, ma di specifiche lunghezze d'onda emotive, risonanze spirituali che avrebbero potuto interrompere l'influenza della Tessitrice d'Ombre.

"Fuu", mormorò infine Wayzz, con la voce attutita dal peso della scoperta. "I testi... indicano che il potere di Eiichi è bilanciato da emozioni positive, pure e specifiche. Non una speranza qualsiasi, ma una gioia concentrata e incrollabile, una verità lucida, un'empatia incrollabile. Questi sono i veri antidoti." Indicò un'illustrazione di antichi Kwami, che non brandivano armi, ma irradiavano pura luce dal petto. "Sono le contromisure dirette alla sua corruzione. I loro tratti innati, quando pienamente abbracciati, risuonano con una frequenza che Eiichi non può tollerare."

Fuu, seduto di fronte a lui, annuì lentamente, con gli occhi chiusi. "Il momento della cautela, come ho detto, sta per finire, Wayzz", affermò, mentre le solenni parole del giorno precedente echeggiavano nella stanza silenziosa. "Non possiamo precipitarci, ma dobbiamo capire le prossime mosse del nemico e l'esatta natura dell'antidoto. Dobbiamo identificare coloro il cui Kwami interiore risuona con queste potenti contro-emozioni." Non incaricò esplicitamente Wayzz di trovare nuovi possessori di Miracoloso, non ancora. L'attenzione era rivolta alla comprensione profonda. "Continua la tua ricerca, Wayzz. Scopri come questi tratti interiori possono essere rafforzati, come possono essere manifestati per combattere questa insidiosa influenza." Il destino di Parigi, lo sapeva Fuu, non dipendeva solo dalla potenza di Ladybug e Chat D'or, ma dal potenziale puro e dormiente degli altri eroi intorno a loro.

Nella penombra opprimente della sua stanza, Nooroo giaceva rannicchiato in posizione fetale, il corpo tremante, non per il freddo, ma per un brivido interiore di puro terrore. La sua forma fisica sembrava rispecchiare il suo spirito: scarno, smunto, a malapena in grado di reggersi in piedi. Ogni respiro era uno sforzo stentato, un disperato tentativo di resistere alla presenza invadente di Eiichi, che ora sembrava meno un sussurro e più una ferita fredda e purulenta nel profondo del suo essere. Assisteva a tutto, costretto a essere un partecipe riluttante della malvagità che si stava dispiegando. Vide la luce fioca della città, il crescente sospetto negli occhi dei suoi compagni di classe, i sorrisi fragili di coloro che cercavano disperatamente di resistere.

"Una sinfonia di disperazione così delicata che si intrecciano", sussurrò la voce di Eiichi, un suono vellutato e velenoso che risuonò direttamente nella mente di Nooroo, bypassando completamente le sue orecchie. E la nostra prossima nota, piccolo Nooroo, sarà una dissonanza così profonda da mandare in frantumi la nozione stessa di speranza.

Nooroo gemette, stringendosi la testa, mentre un'implorazione disperata gli si formava sulle labbra. "M-Ma!... no, per favore, non farlo." Sapeva a chi si riferiva Eiichi. Aveva visto il radioso ottimismo di Daizzi, il ragazzo le cui azioni erano una testimonianza di gentilezza.

Eiichi ridacchiò, un suono simile a quello delle foglie secche che frusciano su un terreno arido. "La sua luce, la sua gioia incrollabile e folle, lo rendono la tela perfetta. Maggiore è la brillantezza, più profonde sono le ombre che posso proiettare. Non ci limiteremo ad amplificare la disperazione esistente come abbiamo fatto con il Tessitore di Paura. No, questa volta la creeremo, trasformando la gioia più pura in cenere amara".

Eiichi proiettò quindi una visione vivida e terrificante nella mente di Nooroo. Era un caro ricordo di Daizzi: un ospedale pediatrico, pieno di disegni colorati e dei deboli e allegri suoni di un clown. Daizzi, una piccola e fragile figura in camice, stringeva un fiore di carta fatto a mano, fragile simbolo di speranza in mezzo alla grave malattia infantile. Era un ricordo che Nooroo sapeva essere centrale nell'ottimismo duraturo di Daizzi, la ragione per cui si impegnava sempre per rendere felici gli altri.

Poi, la visione si contorse. I colori vivaci svanirono, sostituiti da grigi e gialli malaticci. Il sorriso del clown si trasformò in una smorfia grottesca. Daizzi, da bambino, piangeva, il fiore di carta si sbriciolava nella sua mano tremante.

"Capisce la sofferenza", continuò Eiichi, la sua voce un'agghiacciante dissezione dell'anima di Daizzi. "Conosce il dolore. Ma la sua risposta fu abbracciare l'ottimismo, diventare un guaritore di cuori. Un'impresa folle. Useremo la sua forza più grande contro di lui, Nooroo. Prenderemo quell'innato desiderio di guarire, quella gioia del dono disinteressato, e la trasformeremo in una fonte di schiacciante dolore. La sua debolezza passata, il suo corpo fragile, saranno un vivido ricordo della sua totale impotenza".

Eiichi rivelò il catalizzatore, un piano che fece gelare il sangue a Nooroo. Daizzi stava organizzando con passione una raccolta fondi per il reparto pediatrico di un ospedale locale, proprio quello in cui un tempo era stato ricoverato. Era un carnevale in stile "Giorno della Gioia", con tanto di giochi, una vendita di dolci e un piccolo talent show. Daizzi ci aveva messo anima e corpo, sperando di portare un sorriso sui volti dei bambini malati, proprio come altri avevano fatto per lui.

"Faremo in modo che i suoi sforzi non siano solo un fallimento, ma una grottesca perversione delle sue intenzioni", esultò Eiichi. I bambini che desidera aiutare saranno testimoni della sua disperazione. La gioia che cerca di creare diventerà fonte di profonda tristezza. Trasformeremo il suo atto disinteressato in un monumento di futilità. Pura, schiacciante futilità.

Nooroo urlò, un grido silenzioso e disperato intrappolato nella sua mente, ma la presenza di Eiichi era di una potenza assoluta. Un dolore acuto e gelido trafisse l'essenza stessa di Nooroo, un colpo psichico così intenso da mandarlo in una convulsione silenziosa, il suo piccolo corpo scosso da tremori.

"Creatura sciocca e patetica", sogghignò Eiichi, reprimendo facilmente la scarsa resistenza di Nooroo. "La tua volontà è mia. Il tuo dolore è solo un piccolo inconveniente. Ora, osserva. Osserva come un fragile fiore appassisce all'ombra della disperazione. Lo spettacolo sta per iniziare.

Nooroo non poteva far altro che osservare, impotente, la presenza di Eidichi mutare, concentrandosi sulla luce vibrante e speranzosa che irradiava da Daizzi, preparandosi a trasformarla in qualcosa di oscuro e soffocante. Sentì l'imminente dolore emotivo di Daizzi come se fosse il suo, un dolore fantasma che gli si annidava nel profondo del petto. La consapevolezza di essere direttamente complice della corruzione di un'anima così pura intensificò il suo tormento oltre ogni misura.

Il carnevale "Giorno della Gioia" doveva essere un vibrante contrappunto al terrore strisciante della città. Daizzi vi aveva riversato tutto se stesso, ogni dettaglio una testimonianza della sua fede nella felicità. Striscioni colorati raffiguranti soli sorridenti e fiori allegri adornavano la palestra della scuola, trasformandola in un improvvisato paese delle meraviglie. Gli stand offrivano truccabimbi, giochi semplici e una prodigiosa vendita di dolci traboccante di dolcetti fatti in casa. L'attrazione principale era un piccolo talent show, con bambini delle elementari, il cui ricavato era destinato al reparto pediatrico dello stesso ospedale dove Daizzi stesso aveva trovato speranza durante la sua malattia.

Daizzi, nonostante la stanchezza latente che ormai gli consumava costantemente le energie, si muoveva nell'affollato corridoio con un sorriso radioso, offrendo incoraggiamento, aiutando a preparare e assicurandosi che ogni bambino si sentisse benvenuto. Il suo migliore amico, Roaar, assisteva lealmente al gioco dell'"uomo forte", brontolando bonariamente ma aiutando diligentemente. Stompp e Xuppu gestivano la cabina del truccabimbi, con i volti imbrattati di vernice, la loro presenza un silenzioso sostegno a Daizzi.

Le prime ore furono un trionfo. Risate autentiche e incontenibili riempirono la palestra, contrastando momentaneamente l'ansia diffusa in città. Daizzi osservava i bambini, con gli occhi spalancati dalla meraviglia, e provava un profondo senso di scopo. Era questo: era questo il motivo per cui lottava, questo il motivo per cui viveva.

Poi è iniziato il sabotaggio.

Il primo incidente fu di poco conto. I palloncini, meticolosamente gonfiati da Daizzi in persona, iniziarono a sgonfiarsi lentamente, raggrinzindosi in forme patetiche e flaccide. Un gruppetto di bambini li indicò, le loro risatine che si trasformarono in smorfie confuse. Daizzi si precipitò verso di loro, con un sorriso tirato, cercando di giustificare il fatto. "Oh, forse erano solo un po' vecchi, eh?" ridacchiò, ma un lampo di sgomento gli attraversò il viso. Cercò rapidamente di sostituirli, ma i sostituti subirono la stessa sorte, appassendo come fiori trascurati.

Poi, alla vendita di dolci, i vassoi di biscotti e cupcake, disposti con cura, iniziarono a deteriorarsi a una velocità inquietante. Un bambino, dopo aver dato un morso a quella che avrebbe dovuto essere una delizia, la sputò con un'espressione di disgusto. Iniziarono i sussurri. "C'è qualcosa che non va nel cibo?" "Ha un odore strano..." Il viso di Daizzi impallidì. Aveva supervisionato personalmente la cottura, assicurandosi che tutto fosse fresco. Si scusò profusamente, ritirando gli articoli incriminati, ma il danno era fatto. I genitori iniziarono a guardare il cibo rimasto con sospetto e la fila si ridusse. Daizzi sentì un dolore familiare al petto, un fantasma della debolezza che ricordava dalla sua infanzia, come se le sue energie stessero venendo prosciugate.

Durante il talent show, l'impianto audio, che funzionava perfettamente, gracchiò e si spense pochi istanti prima che una bambina timida si preparasse a cantare. Daizzi si precipitò a ripararlo, controllando freneticamente i cavi, ma rimase ostinatamente silenzioso. Il viso speranzoso della bambina si contrasse, le lacrime le salirono agli occhi, e i suoi genitori la portarono via in fretta. Il cuore di Daizzi sprofondò, un peso nel petto. Riuscì a riavviare la musica con un altoparlante ausiliario, ma l'attimo andò perso. Lo slancio gioioso si spezzò.

"Va tutto bene, Daizzi", disse Roaar, con voce roca per la preoccupazione, notando le rughe di stanchezza sempre più profonde intorno agli occhi dell'amico. "Sono cose che succedono." Ma persino la voce di Roaar mancava della solita convinzione.

Daizzi cercò di andare oltre, il suo ottimismo era una supplica tesa e disperata contro i crescenti fallimenti. "No, no, possiamo sistemare tutto! Possiamo ancora far sì che sia una giornata fantastica!" insistette, con la voce leggermente incrinata. Cercò di organizzare un coro improvvisato, ma l'energia era svanita. L'atmosfera luminosa e allegra di pochi istanti prima era stata sostituita da un sottile ma pervasivo senso di delusione e disagio.

Il colpo finale arrivò proprio mentre Daizzi stava per annunciare l'importo totale raccolto per l'ospedale. Un improvviso, stridulo stridio eruppe dagli altoparlanti principali, seguito da una voce distorta e agghiacciante che risuonò per tutta la palestra: "Che patetica dimostrazione di gioia fugace. Cerchi di offrire speranza, quando c'è solo disperazione. Questa è la tua vera eredità, Daizzi: un fallimento, costruito su fondamenta di falso ottimismo".

La palestra piombò nel silenzio, tutti paralizzati dall'orrore. Daizzi fissò chi aveva parlato, gli occhi spalancati, il suo ottimismo conquistato a fatica che si infrangeva come vetro. Non era sfortuna; era una voce mirata, maligna. La voce lo conosceva, conosceva il suo scopo. Il dolore non era solo delusione; era l'agonia delle sue aspirazioni più profonde distorte e schernite. I ricordi della sua malattia infantile, di giorni trascorsi deboli e indifesi, gli inondarono la mente, sovrapposti all'immagine di quei bambini dagli occhi luminosi in ospedale, ora privati ​​del loro momento di gioia. I suoi sforzi, tutto il suo essere, sembravano completamente vani.

Un dolore profondo e straziante lo travolse, più profondo di qualsiasi tristezza avesse mai conosciuto. La sua natura gentile si contorse, le sue mani iniziarono a tremare in modo incontrollabile e la sua vista si offuscò. Sentì la sua essenza tirata, distorta, corrotta. Non aveva paura; era semplicemente... distrutto. I colori vivaci della palestra sbiadirono, si prosciugarono, mentre la luce gli abbandonava gli occhi. Il suo sorriso, un tempo luminoso, si contorse in una smorfia silenziosa e piangente.

Con un ultimo, straziante singhiozzo, la figura di Daizzi iniziò a dissolversi, non in polvere, ma in una nuvola scintillante di petali scuri e iridescenti che pulsavano di dolore. I petali turbinarono e si fusero, formando una nuova, terrificante entità sul pavimento della palestra. Era bellissima in modo grottesco, una figura snella e umanoide avvolta in quelli che sembravano fiori viola scuro e neri, perennemente appassiti. I suoi arti erano rami sottili, quasi scheletrici, e il suo volto era liscio, senza lineamenti, fatta eccezione per due grandi occhi vuoti che lacrimavano continui rivoli di liquido scuro e scintillante. Questa era la Fioritura della Disperazione, un'entità silenziosa e addolorata che irradiava profonda disperazione. Le risate e le chiacchiere cessarono del tutto. Al suo posto, un'apatia pesante e soffocante scese su tutti i presenti nella palestra, prosciugandone la volontà, lasciandoli vuoti, vuoti e completamente privi di emozioni. Rimasero lì, con gli occhi vuoti, come statue.

Ladybug e Chat D'or arrivarono sulla scena con un nodo allo stomaco. L'atmosfera attorno a François Dupont non era carica del terrore frenetico che avevano affrontato durante l'attacco dei Tessitori di Paura. Al contrario, un'ondata pesante e soffocante di apatia permeava l'aria, un dolore profondo che prosciugava ogni energia e volontà. La palestra vibrante, solo pochi istanti prima satura dei suoni di un gioioso carnevale, ora era inquietantemente silenziosa, le sue decorazioni colorate sembravano appassire e smorzarsi sotto un'influenza invisibile. Gli studenti erano immobili, gli occhi vuoti e senza vita, i volti privi di espressione: niente urla, niente panico, solo un vuoto emotivo opprimente.

Al centro di tutto, dove Daizzi si era fermato l'ultima volta, c'era il Fiore della Disperazione. Era un mostro di una bellezza inquietante, una figura snella e umanoide avvolta in quelli che sembravano fiori eternamente appassiti, viola scuro e neri. I suoi rami, sottili e scheletrici, si piegavano tristemente, e il suo volto senza lineamenti piangeva continui rivoli di liquido scuro e scintillante sul pavimento, che trasformavano all'istante le linee dipinte e i colori vibranti al suo tocco in un grigio opaco e smorzato. L'aria stessa intorno pulsava di profonda disperazione, rendendo i movimenti degli eroi lenti e la loro determinazione incerta.

"Questo è... diverso", sussurrò Chat D'or, la sua solita spavalderia giocosa spenta dalla tristezza opprimente. La sua innata gioia di vivere sembrava pericolosamente vicina a svanire. "Questo non è caos. Questa è l'erosione dello spirito. Una distruzione che lascia solo il vuoto.

Ladybug sentiva il suo cuore spezzarsi per un dolore che non le apparteneva. L'energia creativa che di solito la pervadeva si sentiva soffocata, la sua mente faticava a trovare soluzioni.

Il Fiore della Disperazione si muoveva con una grazia lenta e lugubre, le sue lacrime piangenti diffondevano un'aura di apatia. Non attaccava con artigli o raffiche di paura; al contrario, la sua stessa presenza ne risucchiava la vitalità emotiva. Gli studenti vicino a cui si avvicinava si accasciavano ulteriormente, i loro corpi perdevano tensione, i loro occhi diventavano ancora più vuoti.

"Dobbiamo farli uscire da questa situazione!" incalzò Ladybug, cercando di scrollarsi di dosso uno studente lì vicino, ma il ragazzo si limitò a sbattere lentamente le palpebre, senza reagire. Le sue solite strategie a raffica sembravano inutili contro quel nemico passivo e devastante. Guardò Chat D'or, vedendo il barlume della sua vibrante energia iniziare a affievolirsi.

"Cataclisma!" urlò Chat D'or, forzando il potere, con voce piatta. Si lanciò in avanti, toccando uno dei rami piangenti del Fiore della Disperazione. Il ramo si seccò all'istante e si sbriciolò in polvere, ma il mostro stesso oscillò semplicemente, la sua forma si rigenerò all'istante, le sue lacrime scorrevano incessanti. L'atto di distruzione gli sembrò vuoto, insoddisfacente. "È come colpire l'aria!" borbottò, la sua solita arguzia sostituita da una sorda frustrazione.

Ladybug sapeva cosa doveva fare. "Portafortuna!" esclamò. Un piccolo uccellino di legno finemente intagliato le volò tra le mani, con le ali dipinte di un rosso acceso. Era assolutamente inutile in una lotta contro un mostro. "Un uccellino? Cosa dovrei fare con un uccellino?!"

Aspetta... certo Gioia! Creare non significa sempre costruire con la materia fisica! Pensiero di Ladybug 

Ladybug guardò l'uccellino di legno, poi i volti senza vita intorno a lei. Ricordò l'amore di Daizzi per il creare piccoli e allegri doni, la sua pura gioia nell'incoraggiare gli altri. L'uccellino era un simbolo di libertà, di canto, di spirito libero. "Chat D'or, distrailo! Dammi un po' di spazio!"

Mentre Chat D'or attirava con riluttanza l'attenzione del Despair Bloom, Ladybug scrutava freneticamente la stanza. Il palco dove avrebbe dovuto svolgersi il talent show. Gli strumenti musicali silenziosi e abbandonati. Corse verso il palco, appoggiando con cura l'uccellino di legno sul podio. Poi, con un impeto di disperata ispirazione, usò la sua visione da Miraculous Ladybug. Scie rosse illuminavano gli strumenti musicali, il microfono, le luci del palco e i materiali artistici di carta abbandonati di Daizzi.

Aveva capito. Non si trattava di usare la forza fisica; si trattava di riaccendere la gioia.

"Chat D'or! Ci serve musica! E luce! Spezzate quelle luci se dovete, ma fatele lampeggiare!" ordinò Ladybug.

Chat D'or, sebbene sconcertato, si fidò di lei. "Ce l'ho fatta, Bugaboo!" Usò il suo bastone, colpendo con precisione l'impianto audio difettoso (non un Cataclisma, ma un colpo mirato), poi balzò in piedi, usandolo per oscillare e aprire alcune luci del palco, creando improvvisi e stridenti lampi di colore. La luce cruda e inaspettata sembrò far trasalire il Despair Bloom.

Ladybug prese un microfono e, con un respiro profondo, iniziò a cantare. La sua voce, solitamente udibile solo in privato, era limpida e sincera, piena di tutta la speranza e la gioia che riusciva a raccogliere. Non era perfetta, ma era sincera, una pura effusione di emozioni. Cantava di piccoli momenti di felicità, della bellezza dell'amicizia, della forza che si trova nella risata.

Il Despair Bloom indietreggiò, il suo pianto lugubre esitò. L'emozione pura e cruda era per lui un'agonia. Il suo potere, che prosperava nell'apatia, veniva sconvolto dalla pura forza dell'ottimismo spavaldo di Ladybug. Mentre Ladybug cantava, Chat D'or, vedendo l'effetto, iniziò a ballare selvaggiamente, facendo smorfie buffe, persino prorompendo in un rap improvvisato e ridicolo, qualsiasi cosa pur di generare una scintilla, una risata, un'emozione per combattere l'apatia. Alcuni dei volti vuoti del pubblico sussultarono, alcuni riuscirono persino a un fugace sorriso disorientato.

Cogliendo l'occasione, Ladybug puntò il suo yo-yo, colpendo direttamente Despair Bloom, che ora si ritraeva. Con un lampo di luce scintillante, il mostro si dissolse in una nuvola di particelle iridescenti, che poi si fusero nella forma di un ragazzino familiare. Daizzi giaceva sul pavimento della palestra, respirando affannosamente, con gli occhi aperti ma colmi di un dolore profondo, quasi straziante. La palestra riacquistò lentamente il suo colore, ma era più spenta di prima, come se un filtro vibrante fosse stato rimosso con delicatezza.

Più tardi, su un tetto silenzioso, Ladybug e Chat D'or rimasero fianco a fianco, con le luci della città sottostanti che offrivano scarso conforto. La vittoria sembrò vuota.

"Si sta evolvendo, Chat D'or", disse Ladybug con voce cupa. "Non era paura questa volta. Era... tristezza. Apatia. Sta avvelenando Parigi dall'interno." Ricordava gli occhi spenti di Daizzi, la profonda stanchezza che si era posata sul suo volto solitamente ottimista. Era una ferita molto più complessa del panico che aveva colpito Mullo.

Chat D'Or si appoggiò a un camino, il suo solito atteggiamento giocoso sostituito da un profondo disagio. "Non sta solo creando mostri, Bugaboo. Sta distruggendo tutto. Sta prosciugando Parigi della sua stessa anima."

A chilometri di distanza, Nooroo osservava dalla finestra, completamente distrutto. Era stato costretto ad assistere alla trasformazione dello spirito di Daizzi, alla sua gioia trasformata in agonia. La risata fredda e trionfante di Eiichi gli echeggiava nella mente, confermando i suoi peggiori timori. Eiichi non stava solo diffondendo paura; stava distruggendo tutte le emozioni positive, un'anima pura alla volta.

Chapter 8: Chapter 7 ~The Echo of Sadness and the Rooftop Promise~

The Parisian night air, usually vivid and infused with the scent of coffee and distant chatter, felt heavier that evening, almost leaden. An unusual silence enveloped the streets, as if the city itself had held its breath, drained of its most basic joy. Ladybug and Chat D'or remained on the rooftop, their silhouettes outlined against a sky dotted with indifferent stars. Chat D'or's words, spoken moments earlier – "He's not just making monsters, Bugaboo. He's destroying everything. He's draining Paris of its very soul" – echoed in the silence between them, a bitter resonance of a victory that felt like a defeat.

Ladybug stared at the dark rooftops, the lit windows appearing like dull eyes. A feeling of powerlessness squeezed her heart, a grip she had never felt before, not even in the face of the most aggressive Akuma or the most tangible dangers. This threat was different. It wasn't fought with punches and yo-yos; it infiltrated, corrupting the most fragile and pure part of every human being. She had seen Daizzi's gaze, the grey shadow that had extinguished his radiant smile, and that image was burned into her soul like a brand. It wasn't anger, it wasn't envy... it was a void, an emptiness that made her tremble.

"You're right," Ladybug said, her voice barely a whisper that the wind seemed eager to carry away. She clenched her fists, knuckles white beneath her red gloves. "It's not just fear. It's worse. Fear makes you react, flee, or fight. But sadness... apathy... it paralyzes you. It consumes you until nothing remains." She turned to Chat D'or, her blue eyes dark with worry, but also with fierce determination. "We have to figure out how to fight this, Chat. It's a kind of battle we've never faced."

Chat D'or, who until that moment had maintained an uncharacteristically serious posture, shook his head. A deep sigh hollowed his chest. "I don't even know where to start, Bugaboo. How do you fight the absence of emotions? How do you heal a drained soul?" His voice lacked its usual sarcasm, revealing a genuine vulnerability he rarely showed. He leaned on the chimney, watching the lights of the Eiffel Tower, which shone with an almost mocking beauty in that oppressive atmosphere. "I feel... useless. My Cataclysms can destroy, but they can't bring back a laugh. They can't ignite a spark of hope."

Ladybug approached him, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. The rough fabric of her suit and the soft texture of his non-fur were an almost comforting contact in the cold air. "Don't say that, Chat D'or. We're not useless. We're the only ones who can do this." She searched his green eyes, which seemed even deeper and more tormented in the dim light. "We don't have all the answers, it's true. But we'll find them. Together." Her voice was firm, instilling a confidence she herself struggled to feel, but which she knew he deserved. "As long as there are people willing to fight, as long as there's even a single spark of light, we won't give up."

Chat D'or looked at her, and for an instant, in those eyes that hid a tormented soul, Ladybug saw a flash of his usual spirit. A weak but sincere smile creased his lips. "Always so optimistic, Bugaboo. That's why you're our Ladybug. And I... well, I'll be your black cat covering your back, even if my claws are useless against sadness."

Ladybug smiled back, a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, but was still a sign of that special bond forming between them. "And I'll be the one to keep you from falling into pessimism, Chat D'or." It was a promise. A promise made on a Parisian rooftop, under the threat of an invisible enemy seeking to drain the city's soul. They knew the road would be long and difficult, but for the first time, the feeling of being "alone against the world" had eased. They had each other.

Ladybug's Miraculous beeped, signaling that her time was almost up. "I have to go," she said, her tone regretful. "But... think about it, Chat. We have to find a way to understand this, to stop this... this draining."

"I will, Bugaboo," he replied, his voice slightly livelier again. "Sweet dreams, My Lady." And with a nod, Ladybug launched herself into the darkness, her yo-yo cutting through the air with a familiar whistle, leaving Chat D'or alone with his thoughts and the imminent beep of his ring.

Chat D'or watched Ladybug's silhouette disappear into the night, her yo-yo a fleeting red blur against the dark sky. The last beep from his Miraculous echoed, sharp and insistent, in the sudden quiet. He felt the familiar tingle as the magical energy receded, and in a flash of green light, the leather suit vanished, replaced by his casual clothes. Plagg stood there, the cool night air now a sharp bite against his skin. His hand went instinctively to the ring, no longer glowing, feeling strangely heavy on his finger.

"That was... heavy," Plagg muttered to himself, the words feeling foreign without his usual playful lilt. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "It's one thing to smash a giant rock monster. It's another to fight... sadness." He kicked a loose pebble across the rooftop, watching it clatter. His initial scoff at becoming a hero, the very idea of "too much work," now felt like a cruel joke. He hadn't wanted the responsibility, the endless battles, and now, it felt like he was facing a foe he couldn't even touch. How was a Kwami of Destruction supposed to destroy apathy? How was he supposed to Cataclysm a feeling?

The feeling of uselessness gnawed at him, a bitter taste in his mouth. He thought of Ladybug’s unwavering determination, her belief that they could figure it out. He admired it, he really did, but right now, it felt impossibly naive. He was Chat D'or, the powerful force of destruction, yet against this invisible, creeping dread, he felt like a kitten batting at shadows. He preferred tangible threats, something he could sink his claws into, something that crumbled under his touch. This new enemy was formless, insidious, seeping into the very fabric of Paris.

He sighed, the sound lost in the quiet hum of the sleeping city. He thought of Daizzi, whose bright smile had dimmed to a faint, melancholic curve. It was personal now, affecting people he knew, people he cared about, even if he pretended not to. He might joke about being lazy, but the thought of his friends being consumed by this invisible darkness made something cold clench in his stomach. This wasn't the heroic adventure he had grudgingly accepted; this was a slow, agonizing decay. And he, the Kwami of Destruction, the one meant to solve problems with a touch, felt completely and utterly useless.

His own apartment, when he finally swung back into it through his window, felt strangely cold despite the lingering warmth of his blanket. He dropped onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sounds of Paris, usually so comforting, now seemed muted, filled with an unspoken weariness. He was tired. Not just physically from the battle, but mentally. The weight of this new kind of fight, the profound apathy that had settled over the city, pressed down on him, suffocating his usual lightheartedness. He needed to find a way to be useful, to make his destruction mean something against this. But for the life of him, he couldn't think of how. He just lay there, the silence of his room amplifying the quiet dread in his heart, waiting for the dawn that promised more of the same muted sadness.

Tikki detransformed in the quiet solitude of her room, the vibrant energy of Ladybug fading to leave her feeling uncharacteristically drained. She clutched her earrings, now just simple black studs, the weight of their responsibility pressing down on her. Plagg’s words about Paris’s soul being drained echoed in her mind. It wasn't just dramatic flair; she had felt it, too. The silence on the streets, the subdued energy of the people they had saved – it was a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

Sleep came fitfully, haunted by images of Daizzi’s vacant eyes and the dullness that had permeated the gymnasium. When the alarm finally chimed, pulling her from a restless slumber, Tikki felt anything but refreshed. A heavy blanket of unease seemed to have settled over her, mirroring the gray light that filtered through her window.

Getting ready for school felt like moving through treacle. The usual morning rush and the excited chatter from downstairs were noticeably absent. Her parents, usually bustling with their own routines, seemed quieter, their smiles strained, their movements a little slower. It wasn't overt sadness, just a listlessness that was almost more unsettling. They spoke in hushed tones, about mundane things, without their usual warmth. Tikki forced a cheerful "Good morning!" but it felt thin and hollow, a fragile shield against the creeping gloom.

The walk to school was equally unnerving. The vibrant colors of Parisian architecture seemed muted, the bright awnings of bakeries looked faded. People moved with a languid pace, their faces lacking expression, their gazes unfocused. Even the pigeons, usually a chattering, bustling presence, seemed to peck at the crumbs with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. It was like watching a film in desaturated colors, the life force subtly leached away. Tikki’s heart ached. This was the work of someone who want Paris become an despair city, she knew. This silent, insidious assault on the very spirit of the city.

When she finally arrived at the school gates, the usual boisterous energy of her classmates was strangely absent. Groups stood in quiet huddles, shoulders slumped, their conversations barely audible murmurs. Laughter, usually a constant presence in the schoolyard, was nowhere to be heard. Even the usually energetic Mullo looked subdued, her green eyes holding a distant, worried look.

Tikki spotted Daizzi leaning against a wall, his round glasses slightly askew, staring blankly at the ground. His colorful bracelets seemed stark against the paleness of his skin. He wasn't crying, he wasn't visibly upset – he just wasn't there. The very spark that made Daizzi Daizzi seemed dimmed, almost extinguished.

"Daizzi?" Tikki said softly, approaching him.

He blinked slowly, turning his head towards her, his gaze taking a moment to focus. "Oh... hey, Tikki." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual effervescence. "You here for the festival stuff? I... I don't think I can help today. Just don't feel up to it." He gestured vaguely with a hand that seemed too heavy for him to lift properly. "It's all a bit... pointless, isn't it?"

Tikki's heart squeezed. This was exactly what Ladybug and Chat D'or had talked about. Apathy. A sense of meaninglessness. She longed to wrap her arms around him, to shake him awake, but she knew it wouldn't work. This wasn't something a hug could fix. She glanced around, seeing similar expressions of weary indifference on other faces. This wasn't just Daizzi. It was spreading.

Mullo, having noticed their interaction, walked over, her small frame radiating a rare somberness. "He's been like this since yesterday," she whispered to Tikki, her voice low. "It's like... the life has gone out of him. And it's not just him. Everyone feels... flat." She shivered despite the mild morning air. "It's creepy."

Tikki nodded grimly. "I know." Her gaze scanned the schoolyard, looking for a familiar shock of black hair, hoping to find some shared understanding, even if it was just in their civilian forms. She saw Plagg leaning against his locker, scrolling through his phone, a rare frown on his face. He seemed less animated than usual, his usual witty remarks noticeably absent. He too, was feeling the weight.

The bell finally rang, its cheerful chime sounding strangely hollow in the muted atmosphere of the school. As students slowly shuffled towards their classes, Tikki walked beside Mullo, her mind racing. This was worse than any monster they had faced. This was a battle for the very soul of Paris, and it was being fought in the silence of apathy. She had to find a way to fight it. They both did.

Far from the hushed school corridors and the weary streets, in the quiet sanctuary of his antique shop, Wayzz sat hunched over a collection of ancient scrolls. The air, usually thick with the scent of aged paper and dried herbs, felt heavy, tinged with an invisible sorrow that seeped through the very walls. He could feel it – a pervasive dullness, a quiet draining of spirit that was spreading across Paris like a slow-moving tide. It resonated with the chilling tales he’d read of Eiichi, the Banished, a Kwami whose corruption was not loud and violent, but insidious and consuming.

His eyes, magnified by ancient spectacles, scanned a faded prophecy. It spoke of a shadow that would fall upon the heart, not to destroy it, but to hollow it out. He traced a glyph depicting a Kwami, distorted and weeping. This was no ordinary Akuma attack; this was the work of something far more primal, far more patient. Eiichi didn’t seek to dominate Paris; he sought to dismantle its soul, piece by agonizing piece.

He pressed a hand to his temple, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. The general despair of the city was one thing, but beneath it, a discordant note vibrated, a faint, persistent hum of agony that was subtly different from Eiichi's malicious essence. It was a resonance that felt... familiar, yet corrupted. A Kwami's essence, he realized with a jolt, but twisted, used. He had felt it before, a faint whisper in the ethereal network that connected all Miraculous, but never so clearly, so painfully.

"He's not alone," Wayzz murmured to the empty room, his voice raspy. "There is another... a victim." He closed his eyes, concentrating, trying to identify the source of this profound suffering. The sensation was like trying to grasp smoke – present, yet elusive. It was tied to Eiichi's power, yet fundamentally distinct. Someone is trapped and contorted by the malevolent will of the Kwami of Corruption. But which one? And how? The ancient texts spoke only of Eiichi's banishment, not of his ability to ensnare another of their kind.

He opened a particularly fragile, leather-bound volume, its pages brittle with age. This one contained the most obscure lore, riddles and fragmented verses that hinted at deeper, more dangerous magic. The thought of Ladybug and Chat D'or, so young, so determined, yet so unaware of the true depths of the darkness they faced, sent a pang of worry through him. They were fighting a phantom, a whisper of malice that stole the very essence of joy. And now, he felt the tragic echo of a captured soul, manipulated for this very purpose. He needed more answers. He needed to find a way to sever this unknown connection, to free this captive Kwami, whatever its identity. The fate of Paris, perhaps even the balance of the Miraculous itself, depended on it. His fingers trembled as he turned another page, the faint glow of the symbols illuminating his worried face in the dim shop.

 

The first bell for class felt less like a summons and more like a reluctant drag. Inside the classroom, the usual morning buzz was replaced by a heavy silence. Students shuffled to their seats with a listlessness that made Tikki's stomach clench. Even the vibrant posters on the walls seemed to have lost their pop, blending into the background of muted energy.

Madame Bustier entered, her usually bright smile dimmed, her voice lacking its customary warmth. "Good morning, class," she announced, but the words fell flat, met by a chorus of half-hearted mumbles. "Today, we'll be starting our project on... on historical landmarks." Her gaze swept the room, and for a moment, it lingered on the blank, unenthusiastic faces of her students. Tikki could almost see the effort it took for Madame Bustier to maintain her composure, to push through the pervasive apathy. It was clear the teacher, too, felt the drain on the city’s spirit.

 

As the lesson droned on, Tikki found herself sketching on the corner of her own notebook, small, intricate patterns that spiraled and connected, a quiet act of creation against the invading apathy. She wasn't drawing anything specific, just lines and shapes, letting her hand move, a small spark of her own self asserting its presence. It was a tiny rebellion, a silent promise to herself and to Paris that some things, some spirits, refused to be extinguished entirely.

 

The afternoon classes dragged on, each hour feeling longer and heavier than the last. Even art class, usually a vibrant explosion of color and creativity, was subdued. Students, who normally hummed with individual projects, now worked with a listless efficiency, their movements methodical, their expressions flat. Their work, too, reflected the pervasive mood – colors were muted, lines were hesitant, and there was a noticeable lack of daring or joy.

Tikki watched them, a profound ache in her chest. It was a silent, insidious war being waged, not with explosions, but with the slow decay of spirit. She glanced towards Plagg. He was sketching too, idly, on a scrap piece of paper – a crude drawing of a block of cheese with a tear rolling down its side. It was a silly, very "Plagg" thing to do, but even that small attempt at humor felt heavy, a stark contrast to his usual mischievous grin. He caught her eye across the room, and his lips curved into a faint, almost sardonic smirk. It was a silent acknowledgment: This is painful. Can we be done now?

When the final bell rang, the exodus from the classroom was strangely quiet, less a joyous burst of freedom and more a slow, weary shuffle. Tikki usually loved walking home, observing the bustling Parisian life, but today, the city felt different. She decided to take a longer route, passing through a small park she often frequented.

The park, usually alive with the laughter of children and the murmur of elderly couples on benches, was eerily quiet. A young child sat alone on a swing, pushing himself back and forth with a desultory rhythm, his gaze distant. An elderly man, usually seen feeding pigeons with a twinkle in his eye, simply sat on a bench, a bag of breadcrumbs untouched beside him, staring into space. The pigeons themselves pecked half-heartedly at the ground, their usual energetic squabbles muted.

Tikki felt a wave of profound sorrow wash over her. This wasn't just individual sadness; it was a collective void, a gaping hole where joy and vibrant life used to be. It was the "draining Paris of its very soul" that Chat D’or had spoken of, laid bare and agonizingly visible. She bit her lip, her heart clenching. How could they fight something so intangible, so deeply rooted in the very fabric of emotion? Her powers of creation felt impotent against such an enemy. What was there to create when the very desire to feel was gone?

Plagg’s walk home after school wasn’t much different from Tikki’s. The usual cacophony of Parisian rush hour seemed muted, replaced by a low, almost imperceptible hum of weariness. His favorite boulangerie, usually vibrant with the scent of fresh bread and the chatter of customers, felt quiet, its pastries less inviting. Even the street performers, who typically drew crowds with their energetic acts, went through their routines with a lack of conviction, their movements mechanical, their smiles absent. He saw a couple, usually entwined, walking with a palpable distance between them, their hands not touching. It was as if the city’s heart had slowed to a near halt, pumping thin, cold blood through its veins. This insidious apathy was a silent strangler, tightening its grip with every passing hour. He felt it in his own bones, a dullness that dampened even his natural cynicism. What was the point of a witty remark if no one would laugh? What was the point of heroism if joy itself was being extinguished?

Later that evening, under a sky that seemed perpetually bruised with twilight hues, Ladybug and Chat D'or met on their usual patrol route. There had been no emergency call, no obvious sign of a new monster, but the silent agreement was there: they needed to see, to understand, to be ready.

"Anything new, Chat D'or?" Ladybug's voice was low, her gaze sweeping over the rooftops. The city lights below sparkled, but even they seemed to hold less brilliance, swallowed by the overarching gloom.

Chat D'or shook his head, leaning against a gargoyle. "Just... more of the same. Everything feels… flat. Like the volume got turned down on Paris. You felt it too, didn't you, Bugaboo? In class, walking home?" His usual attempt at a joke was absent, his tone heavy with the unspoken dread.

"Everywhere," Ladybug confirmed, her voice barely a whisper. "People aren't just sad, Chat. They're... indifferent. Like they've forgotten how to care." She remembered Mullo's dulled eyes, her struggle to articulate the absence she felt. "It's like he's stealing the very reason to feel."

Chat D'or pushed off the gargoyle, stepping closer to her. "So, what's our move? My Cataclysm can't destroy nothingness. Your Lucky Charm can't create emotions out of thin air." His frustration was palpable, a stark contrast to his usual nonchalance.

Ladybug looked out at the city, a fierce determination hardening her features, pushing past the weariness. "We find a way, Chat D'or. We have to. Paris can't survive without its soul. We just have to figure out.. how do we give it back?"

As if in answer to her unspoken question, a subtle change began to ripple through the very air. Not a sound, not a visible distortion, but a growing stillness, a profound quiet that was deeper than the night’s usual hush. The distant hum of the city faded further, replaced by an unnerving void. The faint glow from apartment windows seemed to dim, one by one, like candles extinguishing in a vast, unseen draft. It was a creeping, suffocating emptiness that seemed to drain the very oxygen from the atmosphere.

Ladybug’s eyes widened, and Chat D'or stiffened beside her. This wasn't just pervasive apathy; this was an active extraction. A fundamental loss. The very light of the city seemed to be receding, not just emotionally, but almost physically. A low, almost imperceptible hum began to resonate from beneath the city, a sound too deep to hear, but felt in the very marrow of their bones. It was a mournful, drawing sensation, like a vast, unseen vacuum had begun to hum to life, slowly, inexorably, pulling the vibrancy from everything.

They exchanged a horrified glance. This was it. Their enemy made his next move. It wasn't just feelings he was corrupting anymore; he was siphoning off the very essence of light and life, preparing for something truly catastrophic. The night had only just begun.

Notes:

First of all Thanks for reading!
And secondly…things are starting to become more darker right? What do you think will happen?

Chapter 9: Chapter 8 ~The Silence that Consumes~

Notes:

Helloo! How are you? This should be a “second part” of chapter 7.
I hope you like it and feel free to give a kudos or comment if you want ^^

The low, resonant hum deepened, growing from an unsettling vibration into a suffocating pressure that seemed to squeeze the very air from Ladybug and Chat D'or's lungs. It wasn't merely a sound; it was a physical force, palpable and insidious. Paris, which had been merely muted by apathy, now began to visibly fade. The vibrant glow of neon signs flickered, not in an electrical fault, but as if their light was being absorbed. The distant shimmer of the Eiffel Tower dimmed, its iconic silhouette dissolving into the oppressive gloom. Below them, the faint, comforting sounds of the city – a distant car horn, the bark of a dog, the murmur of a late-night cafe – were swallowed one by one, leaving behind an unnatural, profound silence.

"What is this, Bugaboo?" Chat D'or's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide with horror as he gripped the gargoyle beside him. His usually sharp senses, attuned to every subtle shift, were overwhelmed by this draining void. He felt a profound chill, not from the temperature, but from an emptiness that seeped into his very bones, threatening to extinguish his own fiery spirit.

Ladybug stood rigid, her eyes scanning the rapidly fading city. This isn't merely Akuma energy. This is a direct assault on the fundamental essence of light and vibrancy. She felt her own Miraculous hum faintly, defensively, but it was like a small ember against an encroaching blizzard. "He's not just taking emotions, Chat," she breathed, her voice tight with a newfound fear. "He's taking... everything. The light, the sound, the life."

As they watched, a ghostly mist began to rise from the streets below, not thick and opaque, but translucent, shimmering with stolen light. It coalesced into ethereal tendrils that snaked towards the highest points of the city, drawn by the residual energy. A particularly large wisp drifted towards the Eiffel Tower, wrapping around its base like a shroud. With a soft, almost inaudible shhhht, the tower's remaining lights winked out, plunging it into complete darkness. The hum intensified, a hungry, satisfied purr.

Suddenly, a choked cry echoed from a nearby apartment building. A woman stood at her window, her face pale, her hands clasped to her chest. As the mist curled around her building, the colorful flowers on her balcony withered, their petals turning brittle and grey in an instant. Her usually vibrant apartment, filled with a warm, inviting glow, became cold and desolate, as if the very energy of her life was being pulled from it. She stumbled back, her eyes wide, but her expression not of fear, but profound, exhausted emptiness.

"He's draining them!" Chat D'or yelled, his voice cracking with urgency. "He's consuming the very essence of their lives!"

The mist continued to rise, forming into a massive, swirling vortex directly above the darkened Eiffel Tower. From its center, two colossal, glowing red eyes slowly opened, devoid of pupils, burning with an intense, consuming hunger. The hum became a deafening roar, pulling at everything, threatening to tear Paris apart and leave only a desolate husk.

Ladybug didn't hesitate. "Lucky Charm!" she cried, throwing her yo-yo skyward. The familiar surge of power crackled through her, and in a flash of red light, a small, ornate pocket mirror clattered into her hand.

She stared at it, bewildered. A mirror? Against a colossal, light-devouring vortex? It felt utterly useless, a cruel joke in the face of such an overwhelming threat. "Seriously?" she muttered, scanning her surroundings for any clue as to its purpose. But there was nothing, just the deepening gloom and the terrifying, consuming hum.

"Bugaboo, what is that thing doing?!" Chat D'or yelled, his voice strained. He felt a profound weakness begin to creep into his limbs, as if the very energy of his transformation was being leached away. The black suit felt heavier, his muscles sluggish. "I can barely move!"

Despite the mirror’s apparent uselessness, Ladybug instinctively took action. "Chat, keep it distracted! Cataclysm anything it sends our way!"

"Distracted with what, my Lady? My irresistible charm?" he forced out, but there was no laughter in his voice. He launched himself towards the vortex, a desperate streak of black against the oppressive grey. "Cataclysm!" he roared, lunging with an outstretched hand towards the swirling mist. His power, usually so immediate and destructive, simply passed through the ethereal tendrils of the vortex, leaving no mark. It was like trying to destroy smoke with a touch.

The colossal red eyes in the center of the vortex flared with cold, unfeeling light, utterly ignoring Chat D'or’s attack. Instead, the very air around him seemed to thin, pulling at his essence, making him stumble, gasping for breath. He felt a profound sense of loss, as if cherished memories were being tugged from his mind, replaced by an empty echo. He clutched his head, fighting the dizzying sensation.

Ladybug, meanwhile, desperately tried to make sense of the Lucky Charm. The pocket mirror felt cold, reflecting only the dimming, distorted light of Paris. As the hum vibrated through the very rooftop they stood on, she saw, in the mirror's surface, not just the physical world, but a fleeting, shimmering image within the vortex itself. It was barely there, a ghost of a vibrant, golden light, almost drowned out by the oppressive grey. It was accompanied by a distant, almost imperceptible sound – not the roar of the vortex, but a faint, high-pitched whirring, like a tiny, intricate mechanism struggling to turn. It was quickly swallowed by the hum, but she'd heard it.

The entire city now groaned under the immense pressure, the sound an agonizing symphony of fading life. The Eiffel Tower became a skeletal shadow, its metal structure creaking as if under an unbearable weight. From the streets below, they could hear faint, echoing whimpers, not of pain, but of utter, hollow exhaustion. People were collapsing, not dead, but utterly devoid of will, of animation, their bodies inert as the mist coiled around them, drawing out their inner light.

"It's not just physical!" Ladybug gasped, fighting against the draining sensation that threatened to numb her own thoughts. "He's pulling out the spark! The light from within!" She looked at the pocket mirror again. The golden shimmer was gone, but the faint echo of that tiny whirring sound resonated in her mind. It was a clue, she knew, but what did it mean? How could a sound, a fleeting light, fight a giant, soul-sucking vortex? She felt the weight of Paris, of every fading light, every silenced laughter, pressing down on her. Her powers felt useless, her Lucky Charm a cruel joke. Yet, the image of that struggling golden light, and the faint whirring sound, clung to her, a tiny, bewildering flicker of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Just as the despair threatened to overwhelm her, Ladybug’s gaze, drawn by an instinct as old as her own Kwami being, swept across the city. Her eyes landed on a dimly lit apartment window, several blocks away, where a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer caught her attention through the mirror. It was so tiny, so fragile, against the overwhelming grey, yet it pulsed with a defiant warmth.

In that apartment, an elderly Kwami human, whose human form as a Kwami of celebration had once brought festive energy to every gathering, lay on his bed, his eyes glassy, his body heavy with the pervasive apathy. He had been a musician in his youth, and his old, worn violin lay silent beside him. The draining had reached him, stealing his memories of music, of joy, of vibrant sound. Yet, as the last vestiges of his inner light threatened to vanish, a single, clear note, unplayed, unheard, resonated deep within his fading consciousness. It was the memory of a beloved melody, one he had composed for his partner, a testament to joy and connection.

A single tear, not of sorrow but of quiet, stubborn remembrance, traced a path down his cheek. It wasn't a powerful surge, not a grand act, but a tiny, internal flicker—a refusal to let that one, precious memory be consumed entirely. It was a defiant act of being, against the tide of nothingness.

Ladybug saw it, through the mirror’s strange reflection, not with her physical eyes but with the deeper sight of her Miraculous. A faint, almost imperceptible golden shimmer pulsed around the man, a tiny ember in the encroaching darkness. It was the "spark of life," the very thing Eiichi was consuming, fighting back. It didn’t stop the vortex, but it was a vibrant, undeniable proof that the spark could resist, even when everything else faded.

A new kind of resolve surged through Ladybug, a fierce, protective fire. This was what they were fighting for. Not just to stop a monster, but to protect those fragile, defiant sparks of life and memory that made Paris, and its people, truly alive. The mirror in her hand felt lighter, no longer useless. It was a beacon. She finally understood. The key wasn't to destroy the vortex, but to reignite the inner light of Paris, to empower the very thing Eiichi was trying to steal. But how? And before all the light was gone?

"Chat D'or!" Ladybug's voice was sharp, cutting through the droning hum. She spun to face him, the small mirror held tightly. "I know what we have to do! It's not about destroying the vortex directly. It's about empowering the sparks of life he's trying to steal!"

Chat D'or pushed through the debilitating haze, forcing himself upright. The oppressive weight of the void was still immense, but Ladybug's renewed urgency cut through it like a blade. "Empower... how, Bugaboo? What about the Lucky Charm?" He glanced at the insignificant mirror. "Are we going to reflect his gloom away?"

"No! This mirror... it shows me the spark! The essence! And I think... I think my Lucky Charm isn't for stopping him, but for amplifying what he's trying to take away!" Ladybug's eyes darted between the mirror and the looming vortex. The golden shimmer she'd seen, the faint whirring of life... she had to bring it back, amplify it, make it too strong for Eiichi to consume. "He's not just taking joy, Chat. He's taking their will to live, to create, to connect! And that old man... he resisted! Just a tiny bit, but he did!"

The roar of the vortex intensified, its glowing red eyes fixed on Paris with an insatiable hunger. The mist tendrils descended lower, thicker now, wrapping around buildings like hungry vines, pulling more forcefully at the very fabric of reality. Paris was fading fast, its streets becoming literal shadows, its landmarks losing their solidity. There was no time for elaborate plans, only desperate intuition.

"Okay, Bugaboo, tell me! What's the plan?" Chat D'or braced himself, pushing through the draining exhaustion, his eyes fixed on Ladybug, ready to follow her lead even if it seemed impossible. His Cataclysm might be useless against the void itself, but if Ladybug had a way to fight the void, he would be her shield, her last line of defense. The thrill of a direct, impossible challenge ignited a familiar, defiant spark within him, fighting back against the pervasive apathy.

"My Lucky Charm," Ladybug began, holding up the small pocket mirror, "It's not just a mirror. It's a lens. It reflects, but it also focuses." Her gaze swept over the city, the areas of fading light, then back to the colossal red eyes of the vortex. "The spark, the light from within... it's scattered, diffused. Eiichi is collecting it. But what if we collect it too? Not for us, but to send it back, amplified?"

She pointed the mirror towards a particularly dark spot on the horizon, where a cluster of buildings had almost completely lost their glow. "Chat D'or, your Cataclysm may not destroy the void, but it destroys form." She looked at him, a desperate hope shining in her eyes. "I need you to create a pathway for me. A direct conduit from the ground to the vortex. Something physical that can carry energy."

Chat D'or's brow furrowed. "A pathway? Through buildings? But... what if I destroy something vital?"

"We don't have a choice!" Ladybug urged, the roar of the vortex growing louder, the ground trembling beneath them. "The mist is everywhere, but it's ethereal. It needs a point of contact. Your Cataclysm can break through the shell of apathy and give us a direct line to the very core of his siphoning!" She shifted her grip on the mirror. "I'll use this to pinpoint the strongest, most concentrated points of fading life—the rawest sparks. You strike them, creating a cascade. Then, I'll project the collected and amplified light back through your conduit, straight into the vortex!"

It was a reckless, desperate plan. It depended on the mirror not just reflecting, but absorbing and focusingessence, and on Chat D'or creating a precise path of destruction without causing irreversible damage. And it depended on the "spark" being strong enough to fight back.

 

Meanwhile, in the unseen realm, Eiichi's ethereal form pulsed with renewed power. He reveled in the delicious agony of Paris, the city's vital essence flowing into him like a river of sweet, concentrated life. The captured Kwami, Nooroo, shivered faintly within its shadowy bonds, its sorrowful hum a constant, agonizing counterpoint to Eiichi's triumph.

"Foolish insects," Eiichi's cold voice resonated through his realm, his "eyes" on the physical plane now burning brighter with collected power. "They try to fight what they cannot grasp." He watched Ladybug pointing her minuscule mirror, then Chat D'or preparing his Cataclysm. A flicker of something that might have been annoyance, or perhaps morbid curiosity, crossed his non-face. "They understand the spark. How... quaint. They believe they can rekindle a fire I have mastered how to consume."

He chuckled, a sound like dry bones rattling. "Let them try. Their futile struggle only feeds the despair, weakens their resolve. Every ounce of their effort will only hasten their city's demise." He extended his will, and the vortex above the Eiffel Tower pulsed ominously, its gravitational pull on Paris intensifying, draining the city faster, plunging more areas into absolute, lifeless shadow. "Let them see how powerless creation is against the ultimate consumption!"

As Ladybug aimed her mirror, focusing with all her might, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the vast vortex. Eiichi’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly. He felt it – a faint counter-current, a tiny ripple in the torrent of absorbed essence. It was too small to be a threat, but it was there, an echo of the life force he was siphoning. Ladybug was using the mirror not as a simple reflection, but as a lens, an anchor for her own essence of creation.

He scoffed. A mere child’s attempt to defy the inevitable. But the annoyance festered. They understood more than he gave them credit for. He would crush this flicker of defiance before it could ignite. With a surge of his corrupted will, Eiichi compressed the vortex, drawing in the surrounding mist at an even more ferocious rate. The very air around Ladybug and Chat D'or grew colder, denser, the draining sensation becoming an unbearable suction. The last remaining glows from Paris winked out, plunging the city into near-total, suffocating darkness, leaving only the ominous red eyes of the vortex and the faint, struggling light of Ladybug's Miraculous. He would drown their spark in the ultimate void.

 

Now, Chat D'or! Now!" Ladybug's voice was a desperate cry, strained against the overwhelming hum. She held the mirror steady, its surface shimmering faintly as she poured her will into it. Through its lens, she could see them now – dozens of tiny, golden pinpricks scattered across the darkened city, each a defiant ember of life refusing to yield completely. She chose the closest, a vibrant pulse emanating from a bookstore below them, where amidst the grey, a single, glowing dust mote danced stubbornly in the stagnant air.

Chat D'or roared, pushing through the debilitating cold. "Cataclysm!" he unleashed, striking the roof of the bookstore. His power, usually a violent explosion of decay, now carved a singular, impossibly neat tunnel directly downwards, through the ceiling, through the floors, burrowing a precise, temporary conduit straight into the heart of that stubborn spark. It was less destruction and more a momentary opening, a surgical cut through the void. A faint, golden glow erupted from the hole he'd made, a tiny beacon in the surrounding gloom.

Immediately, Ladybug focused the mirror on that tiny, golden light. A beam, thin yet vibrant, shot from the mirror, plunged into the Cataclysm-hole, and then amplified the golden glow. It wasn't just light; it was warmth, the echo of forgotten laughter, the whisper of dreams. The light pulsed, growing brighter, gathering strength as it streamed upward through the channel Chat D'or had created, a golden artery pumping life back into the dying city.

The moment the amplified light hit the mist, the colossal red eyes of the vortex above the Eiffel Tower blazed with an infernal, furious intensity. Eiichi's smugness vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated rage. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected them to understand so quickly, or to find a way to redirect his own harvest against him. The golden light, though still small, was an unbearable affront, a burning ember in his carefully constructed void.

With a guttural shriek that ripped through the very air, shaking the rooftops and rattling the heroes' teeth, Eiichi retaliated. The swirling mist of the vortex condensed rapidly, forming three massive, claw-like tendrils of pure darkness. They lashed out, not at the golden beam, but directly at Ladybug and Chat D'or, moving with terrifying speed, aiming to crush them, to silence the source of this defiance before their desperate plan could fully ignite.

"Watch out!" Chat D'or yelled, his voice strained. He shoved Ladybug hard, propelling her out of the path of the first tendril as it swept over their previous position, leaving a trail of deeper, absolute blackness where the rooftop stone instantly crumbled into inert dust. The cold radiating from the tendrils was excruciating, stealing breath and warmth.

Ladybug, recovering her balance, saw the other two tendrils bearing down on them. Her first instinct was to dodge, but then her gaze flickered to the golden beam still flowing from the Cataclysm conduit, a fragile thread of hope in the suffocating darkness. She couldn't break concentration. "Chat! Keep them off me! Keep the path open!"

Her focus on the mirror intensified, trying to pour more of her Creation energy into the golden beam. It pulsed, a desperate counter-force against the overwhelming might of the vortex, but it was being stretched thin. Chat D'or, meanwhile, became a blur of black leather and green energy. He spun his staff, deflecting the second tendril with a desperate block that sent painful vibrations through his arm, the staff groaning under the strain. He knew he couldn't destroy these ethereal constructs, but he could redirect them, absorb some of their impact, buy Ladybug time.

The third tendril coiled, poised to strike. Chat D'or gritted his teeth, knowing he couldn't dodge both. With a burst of raw, defiant energy that momentarily pushed back the insidious cold, he swung his staff, connecting with the tendril just as it lunged. The impact was less a physical collision and more a violent rupture of negative energy against his Miraculous. He cried out, not in pain, but from the sudden, profound emptiness that slammed into his mind, threatening to extinguish his very sense of self. His vision blurred, colors draining from his sight, replaced by a dull, aching grey.

But his strike had diverted the tendril, sending it veering off course just enough. It scraped past his side, leaving a chilling burn, but the golden beam remained untouched. He stumbled back, gasping, feeling his own Kwami, Plagg, fight desperately within him to keep his essence from being completely siphoned. The light of his ring flickered precariously. He was barely holding on.

Ladybug, seeing his sacrifice, felt a surge of desperate power. The mirror flared, collecting the faintest echoes of light from dozens of dying sparks across Paris and pouring them into the golden beam. The conduit Chat D'or had made pulsed with greater intensity, pushing back against the encroaching darkness. It was like trying to force a river upstream, but for a moment, the golden light held firm.

Eiichi shrieked again, a sound of pure, frustrated fury. The fact that they could even resist infuriated him. He would not allow it. He channeled every ounce of his destructive apathy into the tendrils, preparing for a devastating, final sweep. He would crush the heroes and then consume the last vestiges of Paris without further impedance.

Ladybug saw the final, massive tendril coalesce, thicker and faster than the others, aimed directly at the golden beam flowing from the conduit. If that beam was severed, their desperate plan would fail, and Paris would be lost. Chat D'or was too weak to intercept it. There was only one option.

"Chat, pull back!" Ladybug yelled, her voice hoarse, her eyes locked onto the incoming tendril. With a burst of speed, she darted forward, throwing her yo-yo not at the tendril, but at a nearby lamppost, swinging herself directly into the path of the oncoming attack. She couldn't block it, not like Chat D'or. Her Miraculous wasn't for defense against pure consumption. But she had to protect the conduit.

As the tendril rushed towards her, Ladybug didn't try to stop it. Instead, at the last possible second, she twisted, pulling her body to the side just enough for the tendril to graze her. It wasn't a direct hit, but the corrosive darkness, imbued with the entity's essence, swept over her Miraculous earrings. A jolt, like an electric shock mixed with profound cold, jolted through her. Her vision flickered, and she felt a painful lurch as if a piece of her own essence, her own light, was ripped away. Her Kwami, Maari, whimpered faintly within her, fighting to maintain the connection.

But her desperate maneuver had worked. The tendril, instead of severing the golden beam, had been deflected a hair's breadth. It scraped past the conduit, its destructive force momentarily diverted. The golden light, amplified and flowing from the spark below, pulsed brighter in that brief window, pushing back against the mist with renewed vigor. It didn't defeat the vortex, but it carved a small, struggling path of vibrant, defiant light directly towards its core.

The roar from the vortex seemed to falter, a momentary gasp, as if surprised by this unexpected counter-force. Its colossal red eyes widened fractionally. It had inflicted pain, consumed a piece of her essence, but she had used that very attack to allow her plan to progress. The sheer audacity, the resilience, the hope of these two Kwami-heroes, burning like embers in the darkness, was an unbearable affront.

The cost was immense. Chat D'or slumped against the gargoyle, his ring blinking a single, desperate light, dangerously close to detransforming. Ladybug, though still standing, felt a profound emptiness where a part of her had been, a chilling void that mirrored the city's fading spirit. The golden beam flickered precariously, holding its ground but not expanding. They had made their mark, they had created a tiny artery of light, but Paris was still drowning. The true battle, the battle to truly reignite Paris, had just begun.

Chapter 10: Chapter 9 ~Echoes in the Void~

Notes:

Hii again! This should be the third part of chapter 7! Enjoy

The last tendril of darkness dissipated, leaving behind a silence far more terrifying than the preceding roar. It was the silence of emptiness, the sound of a city that had truly lost its voice. Ladybug staggered, her hand flying to her left ear where the miraculous earring pulsed faintly, the red fading to a dull, almost brownish-maroon. The emptiness she felt was profound, a chilling echo of the void that had brushed against her, taking not just energy, but a sliver of her very essence, her connection to the vibrant force of creation. It was as if a part of her soul had been quietly scooped out, leaving a hollow ache.

Beside her, Chat D'or slumped against the gargoyle, his body trembling uncontrollably. His transformation had flickered, his suit threatening to dissolve into a burst of green light. His ring pulsed with only one dot, dangerously close to reverting him. His eyes, usually gleaming with playful defiance, were dull, glazed over with the pervasive grey apathy. The impact of the tendril had drained him, not just physically, but of his very drive, his usual spark of rebellion. Plagg’s presence within him was a faint, struggling warmth, barely enough to maintain the form.

"Chat... D'or?" Ladybug whispered, her voice rough, barely audible above the lingering hum that still permeated the air. She reached out, her hand brushing his shoulder, and felt the chilling cold emanating from him, a deep-seated apathy that felt like a prelude to total cessation.

He looked up, his gaze unfocused, then slowly, painstakingly, his eyes found hers. "Bug... aboo..." The word was slurred, heavy, like pulling words through thick tar. "It's... cold."

The golden beam, their hard-won conduit of amplified life, still pulsed weakly from the hole in the bookstore roof below them, a lone, struggling artery against the vast, consuming darkness. It was a pinprick, a defiant spark in an ocean of nothingness, barely noticeable against the backdrop of a Paris that was now almost entirely monochrome, its vibrant colors leached away, its iconic landmarks standing as ghostly silhouettes. The hum of the vortex above was no longer a furious roar, but a deep, constant thrum, a sound of profound satisfaction from a predator that had claimed its prey. Its colossal red eyes, though momentarily shocked by their resistance, now settled back into a chilling, self-assured glow. It had what it wanted. Most of Paris was consumed.

Ladybug knew they couldn't continue this direct fight, not now. He was spent, and she felt the insidious chill of the void trying to creep into her own core. Her Lucky Charm, the mirror, still in her hand, felt heavy. It had worked, yes, but at what cost? And how could they amplify a tiny spark enough to reignite an entire, dying city?

She looked at the mirror again. The golden light from the conduit below was still reflected there, flickering, struggling. But beyond it, in the deep, dark reflective surface, she saw something else, something she hadn't noticed before, or perhaps hadn't been able to perceive until now, with the city's overall energy so low. It was a faint, almost invisible pattern, like a spiderweb of incredibly fine, golden threads, overlaying the reflections of the darkened city. They pulsed with a rhythm she instinctively recognized – the rhythm of life, of creation, of vibrant Kwami energy.

These threads seemed to converge. Not on the vortex, but on something else, far below, hidden within the very depths of Paris, untouched by the direct siphoning. A thought, desperate and audacious, sparked in her drained mind. He was harvesting the outer manifestations of life, the emotions and potential that resided in the living beings and the city itself. But what if the source, the root, of Paris's enduring vitality, the heart of its creative spirit, lay deeper, untouched by his immediate grasp?

If the Kwamis had woven their very essence into the fabric of Paris, there had to be a primary anchor, a deep-seated core of creation, a sacred place of immense, untapped energy. A place he couldn't simply drain, only corrupt if accessed directly.

"Chat," she rasped, pulling herself closer to him. "We have to go. We have to find the source."

He barely registered her words, his head lolling against the cold stone. "Source... of what, Bugaboo?"

"The true heart of Paris's creation," Ladybug insisted, looking at the faint, converging golden lines in the mirror. "It's not just the people, or the buildings... it's something else. Something deeper. If he is taking the leaves, we need to find the root. The mirror... it's pointing the way."

She felt a shiver of fear, then resolve. This was a new level of desperation, a gamble on a legend. But with Chat D'or fading, and Paris little more than a corpse, they had no other choice. They had to seek out the ancient, hidden heart of the city's spiritual energy, the ultimate source of the Kwami's woven magic, before it too was suffocated by the encroaching void.

With renewed purpose, Ladybug helped Chat D'or to his feet. Every movement was an effort, the void’s pervasive cold trying to anchor them in despair. She wrapped her arm around his waist, half-carrying, half-guiding him as they stumbled from the rooftop. The usually bustling streets of Paris were eerily deserted, paved with a thick layer of grey mist that seemed to absorb all sound. Buildings loomed like silent, forgotten monuments, their windows blank and unseeing. The cold seeped through their suits, a constant reminder of the encroaching entropy.

The golden lines in Ladybag's mirror, though faint, provided a desperate compass. They pulsed weakly, guiding her down abandoned boulevards, through silent squares, deeper and deeper into the hushed city. The air grew heavier, thick with apathy, making each step an immense exertion against an unseen force. She felt the chill trying to latch onto her own will, whispering insidious doubts, but the memory of the old musician’s single tear, his defiant spark, fueled her forward.

 

Far above, within the churning core of the vortex, Eiichi felt the heroes' retreat. His colossal red eyes tracked their struggling forms as they vanished into the city’s shadows. The golden beam from their desperate plan still pulsed, a minor irritation, but ultimately insignificant. He could crush it at any time, but he allowed it to persist, a final, mocking display of their futility.

They flee, he thought, his non-voice a low, satisfied hum that echoed through his realm. As expected. Their small fire, a mere distraction before the inevitable. He had consumed so much. The vast majority of Paris’s emotional and creative essence now flowed within him, solidifying his nascent form, preparing him for the ultimate manifestation. He sensed their intention to go deeper, to seek something else. He did not yet comprehend their target, but he was confident that whatever they found, it would be within his reach. Everything was within his reach. He was the end of all things, the silence that consumes.

 

Their descent into the silenced city was an arduous crawl. The mist on the streets wasn't just grey; it shimmered with the faint, stolen lights of Paris, a spectral reflection of what had been lost. It was heavy, like walking through thick, cool molasses, and it pressed in on them, trying to fill their lungs, to slow their minds. Discarded umbrellas lay collapsed on sidewalks, their colors drained, their fabric brittle. A child's abandoned toy, once brightly painted, now lay on its side, a dull, lifeless husk of plastic.

The insidious whispers intensified. For Ladybug, it was the chilling echo of her own stolen essence, a nagging voice suggesting futile surrender. For Chat D'or, reeling from the void's direct touch, the whispers were louder, more seductive. "Give up, Chat Noir," a hollow voice seemed to murmur directly into his mind. "It's easier. Just... stop caring. There's nothing left to fight for. She's failing too. Look at her, she's broken."

Chat D'or stumbled, his knees buckling. "It's... too much," he gasped, his breath misting faintly in the cold air. His green eyes were losing their vibrancy, becoming clouded.

"No, Chat! Don't listen!" Ladybug gripped his arm tighter, forcing herself to push past her own exhaustion. "Remember your spark! The laughter, the joy, the puns! It's still in there! Fight it!" She pulled him forward, her unwavering determination a small, fiery anchor in the oppressive cold. The golden threads in the mirror pulsed faster now, pulling them towards a less familiar part of the city, away from the well-trodden tourist paths, into forgotten alleyways and crumbling courtyards. The reflection of the vortex above them in the mirror seemed to expand, its red eyes blazing, almost as if it sensed their deepening intrusion.

They navigated through what felt like an endless labyrinth of silent stone, the golden threads leading them steadily downwards. The hum of the vortex was muted here, replaced by an ancient, earthy quiet. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they found it. Tucked away behind a collapsed wall, shrouded by overgrown ivy, was a gaping maw in the earth, leading into darkness. The golden threads in the mirror glowed intensely, drawing them into the abyss.

They descended into what felt like a forgotten realm beneath the city. The air here was strangely still, cool and damp, devoid of the oppressive mist above. The golden threads from the mirror didn't just point; they illuminated, tracing glowing paths across rough-hewn stone walls, revealing faint, ancient carvings that depicted Kwamis interacting with the very foundations of Paris, weaving their light and essence into its bedrock.

The passage opened into a vast, cavernous chamber, the air thick with an ethereal, humming energy that vibrated against Ladybug’s skin, a stark contrast to the draining cold outside. In the center of the chamber, suspended as if by pure will, was an enormous, multifaceted crystal, glowing with an inner light that shifted through all the colors of the Miraculous spectrum – red, green, yellow, blue, and countless others. It pulsed with a steady, powerful rhythm, a heartbeat in the silent depths. This was it. The true heart of Paris's creation, the nexus where Kwami essence had been woven into the city's very soul.

As they stepped into the chamber, a new, unsettling pressure began to build from above. Eiichi’s vast presence, initially confident in their retreat, now throbbed with a different kind of awareness. He had felt the shift in Paris’s remaining essence, a vital source being accessed that he hadn't yet touched. His colossal red eyes, far above in the vortex, narrowed to mere slits, burning with a fresh, terrifying comprehension. This was not a minor distraction; this was the root. The very core he needed to truly conquer.

He unleashed a new, focused torrent of pure apathy, directing it like a drilling beam towards the chamber far below. The air in the chamber grew instantly colder, the crystal's vibrant glow flickering precariously. The golden threads connecting it to the city outside strained, beginning to fray.

"Oh No!" Ladybug gasped, the void's chill biting at her. She looked at Chat D'or, whose light was almost gone, his body swaying. "We have to... activate it! Now!" But how? The sheer power of the crystal was overwhelming, yet fragile against the invading apathy.

Chat D'or forced himself to stand upright, his single blinking ring light barely illuminating his strained face. He looked at the crystal, then at Ladybug, a flicker of his old determination returning. "Cataclysm..." he whispered, his voice weak but resolute. "I can... use it. To merge it. To become the conduit."

Ladybug's eyes widened in horror. "No, Chat! That's too much! You're too weak! It would consume you!" To use Cataclysm directly on a pure source of creation would be an incredible risk, a merger of diametrically opposed forces. It could empower the crystal, but it could also utterly destroy him, body and soul.

"It's... the only way," he choked out, his hand already reaching towards the pulsating crystal, his ring's last dot blinking urgently. He was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Notes:

This is the end of chapter 9..what do you think will happen to Chat D’or? Will they found out a new way to save Paris?

Chapter 11: Chapter 10 ~The shattered silence~

Summary:

Chat D’or decided to sacrifice himself…being in the void with all his fears. Can he find his light in this darkness?

Notes:

Hello guys! The silence that follows a sacrifice is often more deafening than any explosion right? In this chapter, we delve into the immediate consequences of an impossible choice, exploring the profound cost of destruction and the fragile hope of rebirth. We will see Plagg face the ghosts of his past. While Nooroo has to face his guilt..

The crystal pulsed like a slow, dying heartbeat. Dark tendrils of corrupted magic slithered across its surface, whispering doom with every flicker of its energy. The air around it grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and decay, a metallic tang that scraped at the back of Ladybug’s throat.

The city held its breath, a collective gasp caught in the suffocating stillness of the impending catastrophe. Every building seemed to lean in, every shadow deepen, as if the very fabric of Paris braced for an impact it could not withstand.Chat D’Or stood before it, a solitary figure against the encroaching twilight. His claws, usually vibrant with playful energy, flickered with fading magic, the emerald glow dimming to a sickly, intermittent pulse.

The ring on his finger, his Miraculous, blinked its final, desperate warning, each flash a stark reminder of the power he was about to unleash, and the price he was about to pay. A tremor ran through his arm, not of fear, but of the immense, destructive force gathering within him, a force he had always wielded with a certain reckless abandon, but never with such solemn intent.Ladybug’s voice rang out behind him, raw and cracking, torn from her throat by a terror that seized her very core. "Don’t do it! If you use Cataclysm now—it’ll destroy you too!" Her hands instinctively reached out, as if she could physically snatch him back from the precipice, her fingers twitching with the desperate urge to pull him into the safety of her embrace. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence, each beat echoing the horrifying certainty of his sacrifice. She stumbled forward, then froze, rooted by the sheer, unyielding resolve radiating from his back.

But he didn’t look back.

He couldn't. His gaze was fixed on the corrupted crystal, its malevolent energy a challenge he had to meet. Instead, he gave her the smallest, saddest smile, a fleeting curve of his lips that held a lifetime of unspoken goodbyes, of shared laughter and whispered fears. It was a smile that acknowledged her pain, yet offered no reprieve, a final, tender cruelty. "I’ve always broken things," he said, his voice barely a whisper, almost like a joke, a dark, self-deprecating humor that had always been his shield. "Might as well break this for the right reason." The words hung in the air, a testament to his self-perception, a quiet acceptance of his own destructive nature.

He remembered every shattered object, every accidental crack, every time his power had felt like a burden, a force too wild to control. Now, for the first time, he was choosing to break with purpose, to shatter for salvation.He raised his hand, the black magic forming at his fingertips like a final word, a swirling vortex of pure, unmaking energy. The air around his hand hissed, crackled, growing impossibly dense, drawing in all light, all sound, all hope. It was a hungry, consuming darkness, a void made manifest.

He felt the familiar, terrifying pull, the urge to unleash, to obliterate. But this time, it was different. This time, it was controlled, focused, aimed at a single, desperate purpose."Cataclysm."The instant the word left his lips, the world changed. Black met crystal — and the universe shattered. There was no explosion, no deafening roar. No scream, not even from Ladybug, whose own breath seemed to catch and hold in her throat. Only light. A blinding, all-consuming white light that swallowed everything, Paris, the crystal, Chat D’Or himself, leaving behind an echoing silence that was more profound than any sound. And then, nothing.There was no ground beneath him. No air in his lungs. No light in his eyes.Plagg floated. Or fell. Or drifted. He couldn’t tell. The sensation was utterly alien, a complete dissolution of all physical anchors. He was a consciousness untethered, a thought adrift in an infinite, formless expanse. Panic, a cold, sharp claw, tried to seize him, but there was no body to clench, no breath to quicken. He was pure awareness, suspended in an endless, gray twilight that stretched beyond comprehension.

The silence was absolute, a crushing weight that pressed in on him from all sides, yet offered no resistance. It was the silence of non-existence, a terrifying void where even echoes dared not tread.This place — if it even was a place — was all sensation, no form. Memory without substance. Feeling without skin. He tried to reach out, to grasp, to feel, but there were no limbs, no fingers, only the phantom sensation of trying. Sometimes there were whispers. His own voice, a faint, familiar rasp, distorted and distant. Tikki’s voice, a sweet, clear chime, so achingly close yet impossibly far. A laugh, light and carefree, like the tinkling of bells. A sigh, heavy with unspoken burdens. A distant breath, a soft, rhythmic pulse that hinted at life, at warmth, at a world he could no longer touch.

They were fragments, echoes of a past that felt both intimately known and utterly lost. He tried to focus on them, to pull them closer, but they danced just beyond his reach, like motes of dust in a sunbeam he couldn't see.He remembered warmth. The comforting heat of a sun-drenched rooftop, the gentle pressure of a hand stroking his fur. The smell of Paris in spring, a symphony of blooming jasmine, fresh bread, and damp cobblestones after a sudden shower. The comfort of stolen cheese, its pungent aroma a promise of illicit delight, melting on his tongue. The crisp, cool caress of a rooftop breeze, carrying the distant murmur of the city below.

These memories, once so vivid, now felt like faint impressions on a canvas he could no longer perceive, fleeting glimpses of a life that was no longer his. He clung to them, desperate to find an anchor in the formless expanse, but then the silence swallowed it whole, pulling the warmth, the smells, the comfort, back into the gray.

This is it, then, a thought, formless as the Void itself, drifted through him. This is the end. The price. He had known it, intellectually, but the reality was a profound, aching emptiness that transcended physical pain. He was Cataclysm, the power of destruction, and he had finally destroyed himself. A wave of self-recrimination, cold and sharp, washed over him. You’re just the cat who breaks things. The thought wasn't new; it was a familiar refrain, a shadow that had always clung to him, even in his brightest moments. He had always been the one to shatter, to dismantle, to bring things to an end. Was this his ultimate purpose? To break himself for the sake of others? The thought was bleak, devoid of comfort.

"You’re just the cat who breaks things," said a voice, not a whisper this time, but a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through the very essence of the Void. It was his own voice, yet twisted, imbued with a cruel, mocking certainty.He didn’t answer. Didn’t argue. Because maybe… it was true. The thought settled over him, heavy and suffocating. He had always been drawn to the edge, to the thrill of chaos, to the raw power of unmaking. Had he ever truly created anything? Had he ever truly built? Or had he merely existed to tear down, to clear the path for others to rebuild? The shame of it, a cold, creeping sensation, began to coalesce around him, forming a subtle weight in the formless expanse.

Somewhere in the gray, a flicker of gold bloomed. Small at first, a pinprick of light, like a distant star in an endless night. Then a slow warmth that curled through the silence like a memory waking, a gentle, insistent heat that pushed back against the encroaching cold. It was a warmth that felt familiar, ancient, and deeply comforting, like the first rays of dawn after a long, dark night.A voice came with it. Low, calm. Familiar. "If you still feel pain, it means you still exist." The words resonated, not just in his non-existent ears, but through the very core of his being, a truth that cut through the existential dread. "And if you exist… you can still return.""Aduur…?" Plagg whispered, the name a fragile hope in the vast emptiness. He knew that voice, that presence. It was a part of him, a forgotten echo, a deeper current within his own essence.

The light pulsed, growing brighter, warmer, pushing the oppressive gray back, revealing subtle currents within the Void itself, like shimmering heat haze. "I am part of you. A shadow you buried in yourself when you chose to act. You can drift here forever… or you can choose to move." The words were a challenge, an invitation, a stark choice laid bare before him. He felt the weight of his past choices, the moments he had hesitated, the times he had allowed others to bear the burden. Aduur was the part of him that had always pushed for action, for responsibility, for the difficult choice.Move? Where? To what? The thought was a desperate plea. He felt the pull of the silence, the seductive ease of simply drifting, of letting go. The fear of what lay beyond, of what he might have to face, was immense. The fear of failure, of breaking something else, of not being enough. He remembered Ladybug’s face, her desperate face, the look in her eyes as he had turned away. Had he truly been enough for her? Had he ever been enough for anyone? The Annientatore’s words echoed, You only care because she looked at you like you were worth something. Was that true? Was his entire drive to be better, to act, merely a reflection of her belief, rather than an intrinsic desire? The thought was a bitter pill."I’m not ready," he admitted, the words a raw confession of his profound self-doubt.

He wasn't ready to face the consequences, not ready to confront the parts of himself he had buried, not ready to truly be the hero he had pretended to be. He was still the cat who broke things, wasn't he? What if he returned only to break more? What if he failed again? The thought of disappointing Ladybug, of proving the Annientatore right, was a cold dread that settled deep within his non-existent core.The light pulsed again, a gentle, insistent thrum. "Then be afraid. But move anyway." The words were not a command, but a profound truth, a recognition of his fear, and a challenge to transcend it.

It was the essence of courage: not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act in spite of it. And the light faded — not gone, but waiting, a shimmering golden presence just beyond the edge of his perception, a silent promise of guidance.The light of Aduur’s voice faded—and the Void shifted.

The oppressive gray began to churn, to writhe, as if responding to the tremor of his nascent will. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, no longer fragmented echoes but a cacophony of self-doubt, of past mistakes, of every moment he had felt small or inadequate. They swirled around him, a vortex of his own insecurities.A new shape took form in the gray, coalescing from the swirling shadows and the bitter whispers. Looming. Breathing. It didn’t walk. It slithered, a creature made of shadow and shape, with eyes that flickered like broken glass, reflecting his own fractured self-image. It was a grotesque parody, a twisted mirror of his deepest fears. The air around it grew colder, heavier, carrying the faint, acrid scent of ash and decay, the lingering stench of every Cataclysm he had ever unleashed, every destruction he had wrought.

Plagg stared, a profound sense of recognition chilling him to his core. It had his ears, elongated and sharp, twitching with a predatory awareness. His grin, but stretched, cruel, exaggerated, a rictus of malevolence that mocked his own playful smirk. It was him, yet utterly alien, a monstrous distillation of his worst impulses."What..a-are you?!..you are me..," Plagg whispered, the words barely audible, a raw acknowledgment of the terrifying truth."You buried me," the creature hissed, its voice a grating echo of his own, laced with venomous resentment. "I am every time you stayed silent. Every moment you let her carry the weight. Every second you wanted to run, I'm the Annientatore." It circled him, a sinuous coil of shadow, its broken-glass eyes piercing him, forcing him to relive every instance of his perceived cowardice, every moment he had shirked responsibility.

He saw flashes: Ladybug struggling alone against the conduit, his own hesitation, the fleeting thought of simply vanishing, of letting someone else handle the impossible burden. He saw the countless times he had offered a joke instead of a solution, a quip instead of a commitment. The creature was a living embodiment of his shame, a relentless tormentor."I am your failure. I am your shame. I am what you would become… if you stopped pretending you cared." The words struck him like physical blows, each one a direct hit to his deepest insecurities. He felt the phantom weight of his past failures, the crushing burden of his perceived inadequacy. He had always been the one to break, never truly to build. Had he truly cared, or had he merely been playing a part, basking in the light of Ladybug’s unwavering belief? The Annientatore was the voice of his inner critic, amplified, distorted, relentless."I do care," Plagg asserted, the words a desperate, defiant cry against the torrent of self-loathing. He remembered the warmth of Ladybug’s hand, the fierce protectiveness that surged through him when she was in danger.

He remembered the quiet moments on rooftops, the shared laughter, the unspoken understanding. These were not pretenses; they were real."You only care because she looked at you like you were worth something." The Annientatore’s voice was a sneer, a final, cutting blow. It struck at the very core of his nascent self-worth, the fragile foundation he had begun to build.

Was his entire existence, his entire drive to be better, merely a reflection of her light, rather than an intrinsic spark within himself? Was he truly so empty, so dependent?Plagg’s jaw clenched, a phantom tension in his non-existent muscles. The accusation stung, because there was a kernel of truth in it. Ladybug had seen something in him, something he hadn't seen in himself. Her belief had been a lifeline, a mirror reflecting a potential he hadn't dared to acknowledge. But that didn't invalidate his own feelings. It had been a catalyst, not the sole source."Maybe," he conceded, the word a quiet admission, a moment of profound vulnerability. He didn't deny the influence, the profound impact she had had on him. "But that was enough to change me."

The words resonated with a newfound power, a quiet strength that pushed back against the Annientatore’s corrosive influence. It wasn't about where the spark came from, but what he had done with it.

He had chosen to act.

He had chosen to protect.

He had chosen to be more than just a force of destruction.

The creature lunged, a blur of shadow and malevolence, its broken-glass eyes blazing with fury at his defiance. It was a desperate, final attack, a last attempt to drag him back into the abyss of self-loathing.Plagg didn’t flinch. He had faced his deepest fears, confronted the darkest parts of himself. The Annientatore was merely a reflection, a shadow he had to step through. He remembered Ladybug’s voice calling his name, a clear, strong bell that cut through the Void’s oppressive silence.

He remembered the wind in his fur, the exhilarating freedom of soaring above Paris, the city he had sworn to protect. He remembered the moment he chose to protect, not destroy, the conscious decision to wield his power for good, to be a shield rather than a weapon. These memories, sharp and vivid, coalesced into a powerful, undeniable truth within him.A blade of golden energy formed in his hand — not a weapon, but a memory sharpened into will, a pure manifestation of his resolve. It hummed with a quiet power, radiating the warmth of Aduur’s light, the strength of Ladybug’s belief, and the fierce determination born from his own internal battle. He struck, not with anger, but with a precise, unwavering certainty, aiming for the core of the Annientatore’s twisted essence.

The golden blade sliced through the shadow, a clean, decisive cut.The Annientatore screamed, a sound like shattering glass and tearing silk, a shriek of pure, unadulterated agony and dissolution. Its form convulsed, then broke into ash, disintegrating into a fine, dark powder that scattered into the gray, vanishing as if it had never been. The air, which had been heavy with its presence, suddenly felt lighter, cleaner, though still tinged with the lingering scent of ozone.The ashes scattered and a ripple tore through the Void, a profound disturbance in the fabric of non-existence. A crack — small, flickering — opened in the gray, a hairline fracture in the oppressive stillness. It pulsed like a heartbeat, a soft, rhythmic thrum that echoed the very rhythm of life. Like the moment between inhale and exhale, a pause before a new beginning. Like a door about to swing open, revealing a path back to something real.Plagg stepped toward it, drawn by an irresistible force, a deep, primal urge to return.

The air around it buzzed, a low, vibrant hum that promised sensation, form, and existence."If you pass through," whispered a voice from the gray, Aduur’s voice, soft and resonant, "you will lose something. Your pain. Your clarity. A piece of what you saw here." The warning was gentle, but firm. He felt a subtle shift within him, a faint echo of the Annientatore’s accusations, a lingering ache of self-doubt. Was he truly ready to let go of that pain, that clarity? Would he forget the lessons learned in this desolate place? Would a part of him, forged in this crucible of self-confrontation, be left behind? The thought was unsettling, a subtle fear of losing the very growth he had just achieved."I’ll lose more if I stay," he replied, his voice stronger now, imbued with a quiet certainty. To remain in this limbo, to cling to the remnants of his trauma, would be to deny the very purpose of his sacrifice, to reject the chance for true change. The lessons were etched into his essence, not just his memory.

He pressed his hand to the light, feeling a faint warmth, a gentle pull, a promise of solidity.And stepped through.

Above Paris, under a veil of early night, Nooroo sat on a rooftop. The air was still. Too still. An unnatural quiet had fallen over the city, a heavy blanket that muffled the usual symphony of urban life. He felt it, a subtle tremor in the magical currents that flowed beneath the city, a break in the familiar rhythm, a tension snap that resonated deep within his own Miraculous. It was a profound disturbance, a ripple in the very fabric of reality, and he knew, with a chilling certainty, its source. Chat D'or had done it. He had unleashed the Cataclysm. The thought settled in Nooroo’s chest, a cold, heavy stone. He had felt the surge of destructive energy, the terrifying, all-consuming light, and then… nothing. A void where a powerful presence had once been. He had given everything. For them. For us. For me.

The words echoed in his mind, a silent tribute to the sacrifice, but also a bitter accusation.Nooroo didn’t smile. The guilt sat like frost on his skin, a pervasive chill that seeped into his bones, a constant reminder of his own complicity, his own inaction. He had watched. He had known. And he had done nothing to stop it. The weight of his past choices, his long-standing subservience to Eiichi, pressed down on him, a suffocating burden. He had allowed so much to happen, so many lives to be twisted, so many innocent souls to be corrupted. Chat D'or 's sacrifice, so pure and absolute, only magnified the darkness of his own past.Behind him, the air warped — thick and cold, a sudden drop in temperature that made the hairs on his arms prickle. A presence folded into the shadow, a familiar, insidious chill that announced itself without a sound. Eiichi. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The very air seemed to crackle with a malevolent energy, a subtle hum of dark magic that made Nooroo’s own Miraculous thrum with a nervous energy."You watched him fall," Eiichi’s voice was a silken whisper, laced with a cruel satisfaction, a predatory purr that sent shivers down Nooroo’s spine. "And you think that makes you clean?"Nooroo’s shoulders tensed, a subtle hunching of his posture, a physical manifestation of his shame. "I didn’t stop him."

The words were a quiet admission, a confession of his helplessness, his complicity."No. But you didn’t stop me either." Eiichi’s voice was closer now, a breath against his ear, a chilling reminder of the countless times Nooroo had stood by, silent and compliant, as Eiichi had twisted and corrupted.

The memories flashed through his mind: the faces of victims, their despair, their rage, their fear, all orchestrated by the one he had served.Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that pressed down on Nooroo, amplifying the accusations. He didn’t speak. Not out of fear — not anymore, not entirely but out of shame. The shame was a deeper, more corrosive pain, a wound that festered within him. He had been a tool, a silent accomplice, and the knowledge gnawed at him, a constant, bitter taste in his mouth.

He had allowed his own fear, his own perceived powerlessness, to dictate his actions for too long.And still, something inside him whispered: You’re not done yet. A faint, persistent spark of defiance, a quiet refusal to succumb entirely to the crushing weight of his guilt. It was a fragile hope, a nascent will to act, to finally break free from the shadows that had defined him.The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. A stillness that felt unnatural, a heavy blanket woven from unspoken anxieties.

Nooroo sat at the kitchen table, fingers laced, his hands clasped tightly together, as if holding himself together. His heart was heavy, a dull ache in his chest, a constant reminder of the rooftop, of Chat D'or 's sacrifice, of Eiichi’s chilling presence. He hadn't spoken since Eiichi vanished, not a single word. Not to Marisa, who moved around him with a quiet, worried grace. Not even to himself, his mind a chaotic swirl of guilt, fear, and a burgeoning, terrifying resolve. He was lost in his own internal landscape, a prisoner of his thoughts.He barely noticed she’d entered the room until she touched his shoulder, a light, hesitant touch that nonetheless startled him. "Nooroo?" Marisa asked softly, her voice a gentle murmur that barely broke the oppressive silence. "You okay?"He looked up, his eyes, usually bright with a mischievous spark, now dull and shadowed. Her eyes were glassy, a faint sheen of unshed tears. Her face..too pale, a ghostly white that made his own heart clench with a sudden, sharp fear. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He felt a cold dread seep into his stomach, a premonition of impending disaster."Auntie…?" he managed, his voice a strained whisper, barely recognizable.Her voice cracked, a fragile sound that tore at his heart. "I dreamed… you disappeared."

The words were a physical blow, echoing his own deepest fears. He felt a surge of protectiveness, a desperate urge to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and promise her he would never leave.Then the room darkened, not in light, but in feeling. The shadows around her deepened, stretching and twisting, taking on a malevolent life of their own.

The air turned cold, a sudden, unnatural chill that made the small hairs on his arms stand on end. Her skin shimmered with ghostly flickers of red threads, thin, almost invisible filaments that pulsed with a faint, unsettling energy. They seemed to weave themselves into her very being, like corrupted veins."I don’t want to lose you…" Her voice was no longer Marisa’s, but a distorted echo, laced with a profound, ancient terror.

Darkness bloomed from within her chest, a swirling vortex of black and crimson that expanded rapidly, consuming her from the inside out. Her body contorted, her features twisting into a mask of pure anguish. And she screamed. A guttural, primal scream that tore through the quiet apartment, a sound of pure, unadulterated horror and despair that ripped through Nooroo’s very soul. It was the sound of a heart breaking, of a spirit being consumed.A figure rose where Marisa stood — tall, floating, wrapped in torn photographs and red silk strands. The photographs, faded and sepia-toned, depicted fragments of memories: Nooroo as a child, laughing, his face bright with innocent joy. A birthday candle, flickering, then blown out, plunging a small, happy face into shadow. A hospital hallway, stark and sterile, leading to silence.

These images, once cherished, were now twisted, imbued with a profound sense of loss and abandonment. The red silk strands, vibrant and sinister, pulsed with a dark, corrupted magic, binding the memories together into a grotesque tapestry. Her hands were delicate but jagged, like broken porcelain, tipped with sharp, claw-like extensions. And her eyes… were hollow, empty sockets that stared out with an infinite, aching void.Memora. A corruption made real from a pure, terrible fear: the fear of losing someone you love. She was the embodiment of Marisa’s deepest, most primal terror, twisted and weaponized.Nooroo staggered back, his breath catching in his throat, his mind reeling in horror. "Auntie! It’s me!" he cried, his voice raw with desperation, reaching out a trembling hand. He had to make her see, to make her remember.The creature tilted her head, a slow, unnatural movement. She recognized the name — a faint flicker of something almost human in her hollow eyes, but not the boy. The connection was tenuous, almost severed. "You left me," she whispered, her voice a haunting echo of Marisa’s, filled with an ancient, profound sorrow. "They all leave." The accusation was a direct hit, striking at Nooroo’s deepest guilt, his past failures to protect those he cared for."I didn’t leave," he said, stepping forward, his voice gaining a fragile strength, a desperate resolve. "I’m here now." He would not abandon her. Not again. Not ever.Dark red threads lashed out, thin as spider silk but strong as steel, wrapping around his arms, binding him. They pulsed with a malevolent energy, and as they tightened, memories stabbed at his mind..every failure, every lie, every time he stood by while Eiichi corrupted someone else. He saw the faces of the akumatized, their pain, their despair, all of it a direct consequence of his inaction.

He saw the moments he had chosen silence over defiance, obedience over protection. The threads were not just binding his body; they were binding him to his past, to his shame."You didn’t protect me," Memora cried, her voice rising to a wail, a crescendo of Marisa’s deepest fears and Nooroo’s profoundest guilt. "You protected him." The accusation was a brutal, undeniable truth. He had protected Eiichi, served him, enabled him, while others suffered.Nooroo fell to his knees, the threads pulling him down, the weight of his guilt crushing him. "She knows it.." he thought.

He didn't fight them. He couldn't. The truth of her words was too overwhelming, too painful."I know," he whispered, his voice broken, raw with a lifetime of regret. "I know I did." It was a full, unreserved admission, a surrender to the truth of his past. He had to acknowledge it, to own it, before he could move forward. The room pulsed like a wound, throbbing with the raw, exposed pain of their shared history."But you’re still here. And that means I still have a chance." The words were a desperate plea, a fragile hope born from the depths of his despair.

He had made mistakes, terrible ones, but he was still here. He was still fighting. And Marisa, even in her corrupted form, was still here, a flicker of the woman he loved.He reached for her, his bound hands straining against the red threads, his fingers outstretched, desperate to make contact. He would not let her go. He would not fail her again. "You held me when I was broken. Now it’s my turn." He remembered her arms around him, the gentle comfort of her embrace after his parents died, the quiet strength she had offered when his world had shattered. She had been his anchor, his solace. Now, he had to be hers.For a moment, nothing changed. The threads remained taut, the hollow eyes of Memora stared, unseeing. The air throbbed with the raw energy of fear and guilt.Then a memory snapped into clarity, sharp and vivid, cutting through the haze of pain and despair. Marisa holding him after his parents died, her small, strong arms wrapped around his trembling body, her voice soft but firm. "You are enough, Nooroo. Even broken, you are loved."

The words, spoken so long ago, resonated with a profound truth, a balm to his wounded soul. He had been broken, yes, but he had been loved. And that love had been enough to heal him, to make him whole. It was a memory of unconditional acceptance, a powerful counter to the Annientatore’s accusations, a testament to the transformative power of genuine connection.The threads unraveled, dissolving into faint wisps of red smoke, releasing him. The creature gasped, a sound like a soul finding breath for the first time, a shuddering intake of air that was Marisa’s own. And in a final burst of white light—pure, cleansing, radiant—Memora shattered, dissolving into a shower of shimmering, golden dust that sparkled in the air before vanishing. The apartment was still, the air clean, the oppressive chill gone. Marisa stood there, swaying slightly, her eyes fluttering open, her face pale but whole.

Miles away, Ladybug turned sharply on her rooftop perch. She had felt it. Not a villain’s attack, not the familiar, sickening sting of an akuma’s corruption. This was different. A rupture. Emotional. Deep. A profound shift in the city’s subtle energetic currents, a release of immense, concentrated emotional pressure. It was a wave of pure, raw feeling, a surge of pain and then, unexpectedly, a profound sense of peace, like a storm breaking and the sun finally piercing through the clouds. She gripped Chat D’Or’s broken staff, its splintered wood rough against her palm, a tangible anchor to her grief and uncertainty. The staff, usually a symbol of their partnership, now felt like a hollow echo of what was lost.She closed her eyes, focusing, trying to decipher the lingering echoes of the emotional rupture. The city felt different now. Not healed, not safe, but lighter. As if something dark had pulled back just a bit, a subtle easing of the oppressive weight that had settled over Paris. A fragile hope, a tiny, persistent flicker, ignited deep within her chest, pushing back against the cold despair that had taken root since Chat D’Or’s disappearance.

Then— A warmth. A pulse. The staff shimmered — just for a moment — with golden light, a faint, ethereal glow that emanated from within its broken core. It was a familiar light, a comforting presence, a resonance that vibrated through her very being. Then it disintegrated into sparkles in her hands, a shower of golden motes that danced in the twilight before vanishing into the air, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and a lingering warmth on her skin."Chat D'or…?" she whispered, the name a desperate plea, a fragile hope. She felt it, a deep, undeniable connection, a tether that had stretched to its breaking point but had not snapped. No response, no voice, no physical presence. But deep inside her chest, something shifted. A profound sense of relief, a quiet certainty that settled over her like a warm blanket. He was alive. The knowledge was a silent, powerful promise, a beacon in the darkness of her uncertainty.

A sharp gasp broke the silence.

Plagg opened his eyes. Not in the Void, not in the fracture. In a bed. In a room. It was dark, the pre-dawn gloom clinging to the corners, but real. The air was cold, crisp with the scent of dust and old fabric, but it was air, filling his lungs with a profound, aching relief. He could feel the rough texture of the sheets against his body, the soft give of the mattress beneath him. His chest ached, a dull, persistent throb that radiated through his ribs. His limbs were heavy, a leaden weight that made every movement an effort. But he was alive. Truly, undeniably alive. The sensation of his own physical form, after the formless expanse of the Void, was overwhelming, a dizzying rush of sensation that made him feel both grounded and strangely alien. He felt a lingering emptiness where the Annientatore had been, a subtle numbness where his deepest anxieties once resided, making his return to "real" feel both comforting and subtly alien.He sat up slowly, groaning as the covers fell around him, revealing his weak body. His Miraculous ring was still faintly warm against his finger — a comforting, familiar weight — but it didn’t glow, its power dormant, resting after the immense exertion. He felt a subtle change in his connection to it, a deeper understanding of its destructive potential, a more cautious approach to his abilities. He walked to the window, his movements stiff, and opened it gently, the cool night air a welcome caress against his face.The city lights blinked in the distance, a scattered constellation of gold and white against the deep indigo of the sky. He could hear the faint, distant hum of traffic, the occasional siren, the murmur of a city slowly waking. It was the sound of life, of normalcy, a symphony he had feared he would never hear again.

Somewhere far above, a soft red light danced, a fleeting, familiar glow, then vanished like a heartbeat in the sky. It was a beacon, a promise, a whisper of connection.He closed his eyes, a profound sense of longing washing over him. "Ladybug…" A whisper. A promise. A tether not yet broken. He didn't know where she was, or who she was, but he felt her presence, a faint, undeniable warmth that resonated with his own. He was back. And he wasn't alone.

Morning. Sunlight streamed through the apartment like spilled gold, painting the kitchen in warm, gentle hues. The air was clean, fresh, carrying the faint scent of brewing tea. Marisa sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, its steam curling gently around her fingers. She was pale, tired, a faint shadow beneath her eyes, but she was there. Whole. Her presence was a quiet miracle, a testament to Nooroo’s courage.Nooroo sat across from her, quiet.

The guilt still lingered in his posture, a subtle slump to his shoulders, a slight tension in his jaw. He watched her, a profound sense of relief and gratitude washing over him. He had almost lost her. He had almost failed. But he hadn't.She looked at him, her eyes soft, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips.

"I had the strangest dream," she said, her voice a little hoarse, but clear. "I was lost… and you found me.""I did," he said, his voice cracking slightly, thick with emotion. He had found her. He had saved her. He had finally acted.She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers warm against his, a gentle, reassuring pressure. "I don’t know what happened," she said, her gaze steady, filled with an unwavering trust that pierced through his lingering shame. "But I know this—whatever’s inside you… it’s good."

He looked down at her fingers wrapped around his, at the simple, profound gesture of her touch, and for the first time in days, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It was a shaky, ragged breath, but it was a release, a quiet acceptance of her words, of her belief. The frost of guilt on his skin began to melt, replaced by a fragile warmth. He was not clean, not yet, but he had a chance. A chance to be good. A chance to be enough.

Ladybug wandered the quiet streets. The city felt different now. Not healed. Not safe. But lighter. As if something dark had pulled back just a bit, a subtle easing of the oppressive weight that had settled over Paris. The air felt crisper, the distant sounds of the city more distinct, less muffled by despair. She walked with a renewed sense of purpose, her steps lighter, her gaze more focused.She passed a park bench, its wooden slats worn smooth by countless lives. A flicker caught her eye. She knelt, her movements fluid and graceful, her gaze drawn to a small, charred object. A burned photograph. Two people. Smiling. One clearly a boy — but his face was blurred, charred away, an indistinct smudge where features should have been. The other, a woman, her smile gentle, her eyes kind. Ladybug felt a strange pull towards it, a lingering energy that resonated with the emotional rupture she had felt earlier. The blurred face of the boy, obscured by the burn, hinted at a hidden identity, a past trauma.She flipped it over. On the back, in faded pen, was a single word: "Noo—" The rest was lost, consumed by the fire, a tantalizing fragment of a name, a mystery. Ladybug held it tightly, her fingers tracing the faint, faded letters.

Someone had helped stop that corruption. From inside. And they didn’t want to be found. The thought sparked a new kind of curiosity, a new mission. Who was this hidden ally? And why were they so determined to remain in the shadows? The photograph was a clue, a breadcrumb leading to a deeper, unseen conflict.

Night again. Plagg curled in a blanket, exhausted. Still aching — a dull, persistent throb in his chest and limbs — but slowly remembering who he was. The memories of the Void, of Aduur, of the Annientatore, were still sharp, but they no longer consumed him.

He was grounded, real, and the quiet hum of his Miraculous, though still dormant, was a comforting presence. He was no longer just the cat who broke things. He was the cat who had broken himself to save others, and had returned, changed.

Ladybug stood above the rooftops, looking out over her city. It wasn’t safe yet. Not over. The darkness still lingered, a subtle threat on the horizon. But something was changing. A shift in the balance, a new energy stirring beneath the surface. She felt it, a quiet hum of possibility, a nascent hope for the future.

meanwhile..

Nooroo lay awake in bed, eyes open to the stars, visible through his window. The apartment was quiet, peaceful. Marisa slept soundly in the next room, her breathing even and calm. The guilt was still there, a faint echo, but it no longer consumed him. He had faced his shame, acted with courage, and found a path towards redemption. A single voice echoed in his heart: "You’re not lost." It was Marisa’s voice, but also his own, a quiet affirmation of his newfound purpose.And high above Paris, something shimmered briefly. Not a threat. Not a storm. A promise. A golden light, faint and fleeting, like a distant star winking into existence, a silent beacon in the vast, dark sky. A promise of return, of balance, of a future yet unwritten.

Chapter 12: Chapter 11 ~The Dawn of Hope~

Notes:

Hello Guys! How are you? Welcome to chapter 11 of my story! ^^
Now things are getting better for the characters maybe there’s hope in Paris after all…..

The sharp gasp that had torn from Plagg’s throat still echoed in the quiet room, a raw, visceral sound of return. He lay still for a long moment, suspended between the terrifying formlessness of the Void and the jarring, undeniable reality of the bed beneath him. It was dark, the pre-dawn gloom clinging to the corners of the unfamiliar space, but it was darkness with substance, not the infinite, suffocating gray. The air was cold, crisp with the scent of dust and old fabric, but it was air, filling his lungs with a profound, aching relief that made his entire being tremble. He could feel the rough texture of the sheets against his skin, the soft give of the mattress beneath him, the cool brush of the blanket against his cheek. Every sensation, no matter how mundane, was a revelation, a dizzying rush of input after the sensory deprivation of the Void.

His chest ached, a dull, persistent throb that radiated through his ribs, a phantom pain that felt both physical and deeply psychological. His limbs were heavy, a leaden weight that made every movement an effort, as if he were relearning the very act of existing in a body. But he was alive. Truly, undeniably alive. The knowledge was a quiet miracle, a truth that resonated through every fiber of his being. He was no longer a drifting consciousness, a memory without substance. He was here, solid, real.

Yet, a subtle detachment lingered, a strange numbness where his deepest anxieties once resided. Aduur’s warning echoed: “If you pass through, you will lose something. Your pain. Your clarity. A piece of what you saw here.”He felt it now, a quiet emptiness where the crushing weight of his self-loathing had been. Had he truly lost his pain, or merely buried it deeper? And the clarity… the terrifying, crystalline clarity of the Annientatore’s accusations, of his own failures, now felt blurred, softened at the edges. It was as if a protective veil had been drawn over the most brutal truths, allowing him to function, but perhaps at the cost of fully integrating the lessons. He tried to recall the Annientatore’s exact words, the precise contours of its monstrous form, but they slipped through his grasp like smoke, leaving only a vague impression of malevolence and self-recrimination.

He pushed himself up slowly, groaning as the covers fell around him, revealing his human form, which felt strangely light yet heavy after the ordeal. The ache in his chest intensified with the movement, a reminder of the immense exertion, the ultimate sacrifice. His Miraculous ring was still faintly warm against his finger, a comforting, familiar weight but it didn’t glow. Its power was dormant, resting, a deep, quiet hum that resonated with his own exhaustion. He felt a subtle change in his connection to it, a deeper understanding of its destructive potential, a more cautious approach to his abilities. Cataclysm. The word itself now carried a heavier weight, a profound sense of responsibility that transcended his usual flippancy. He had used it to destroy himself, to save others. What did that make him now? Still the human wielder who breaks things? Or something more?

"I’ve always broken things."The familiar thought surfaced, but this time, it was tinged with a new nuance. He had broken the crystal, yes, but he had also broken free from the Annientatore, from the self-imposed prison of his own shame. He had chosen to protect, not destroy, and that choice, forged in the heart of the Void, felt like a new, fragile foundation. But was it enough? Was he truly changed, or merely temporarily altered by the trauma of his ordeal? The Annientatore’s sneer, "You only care because she looked at you like you were worth something" still pricked at him. Was his desire to be better truly intrinsic, or was it still a reflection of Ladybug’s unwavering belief in him? He didn't have the answer, not yet. The internal battle was far from over.

He walked to the window, his movements stiff, each step a conscious effort. He pushed the latch with a hand that felt strangely heavy, and opened it gently, the cool night air a welcome caress against his face. It smelled of damp earth, distant exhaust fumes, and something else… something alive and vibrant, a faint, sweet scent that reminded him of blooming jasmine.

The city lights blinked in the distance, a scattered constellation of gold and white against the deep indigo of the pre-dawn sky. He could hear the faint, distant hum of traffic, the occasional siren wail, the murmur of a city slowly waking. It was the sound of life, of normalcy, a symphony he had feared he would never hear again. The very air felt different, solid and real, a stark contrast to the formless expanse he had just left. He focused on the distant lights, trying to ground himself, to fully re-integrate into this tangible world. He pressed his palms against the cool glass of the windowpane, feeling the solid resistance, a comforting anchor.

Somewhere far above, a soft red light danced, a fleeting, familiar glow, then vanished like a heartbeat in the sky. It was a beacon, a promise, a whisper of connection that resonated deep within his core. He closed his eyes, a profound sense of longing washing over him, a yearning for a presence he knew, yet did not know. He imagined her, wherever she was, feeling the same subtle pull, the same unspoken hope.

"Ladybug..."whispered, the name a fragile hope, a silent prayer. A promise. A tether not yet broken. He didn't know where she was, or who she was in this vast, sprawling city, but he felt her presence, a faint, undeniable warmth that resonated with his own. He was back. And he wasn't alone. The thought brought a quiet comfort, a fragile sense of peace that settled over him as the first hint of dawn began to paint the eastern sky. He was alive, he was here, and somewhere out there, so was she. That was enough for now. He would find her. He had to. The thought was a quiet vow, a new purpose solidifying in his weary mind.

--

Morning. Sunlight streamed through the apartment like spilled gold, painting the kitchen in warm, gentle hues. The air was clean, fresh, carrying the faint scent of brewing tea and the lingering, subtle aroma of Marisa’s favorite lavender soap. The oppressive stillness of the previous night had lifted, replaced by a quiet hum of domesticity – the gentle clinking of a spoon against a mug, the soft rustle of a newspaper being folded. Marisa sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, its steam curling gently around her fingers. She was pale, a faint shadow beneath her eyes, and her movements were a little slower than usual, but she was there. Whole. Her presence was a quiet miracle, a testament to Nooroo’s courage, a fragile bloom in the aftermath of terror.

Nooroo sat across from her, quiet. The guilt still lingered in his posture, a subtle slump to his shoulders, a slight tension in his jaw that he couldn’t quite release. He watched her, a profound sense of relief and gratitude washing over him, so potent it almost brought tears to his eyes. He had almost lost her. He had almost failed. But he hadn't. The memory of Memora, of Marisa’s twisted face and hollow eyes, still sent a shiver down his spine, a stark reminder of how close he had come to losing everything. He felt the phantom grip of the red threads on his arms, the echoes of the accusations that had stabbed at his mind. "You didn’t protect me. You protected him." The words still resonated, a constant, painful reminder of his past complicity with Eiichi. He knew he had to atone, truly atone, for all the times he had stood by.

She looked at him, her eyes soft, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips. "I had the strangest dream," she said, her voice a little hoarse, but clear, a gentle murmur that filled the space between them. "I was lost… and you found me."

"I did," he said, his voice cracking slightly, thick with emotion. He had found her. He had saved her. He had finally acted, not out of fear, but out of love. The words felt like a vow, a promise he would never break. He reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly, and gently covered hers, his fingers warm against her cool skin.

She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers warm against his, a gentle, reassuring pressure that seeped into his bones. "I don’t know what happened," she said, her gaze steady, filled with an unwavering trust that pierced through his lingering shame. "But I know this..whatever’s inside you… it’s good."

He looked down at her fingers wrapped around his, at the simple, profound gesture of her touch, and for the first time in days, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It was a shaky, ragged breath, but it was a release, a quiet acceptance of her words, of her belief. The frost of guilt on his skin began to melt, replaced by a fragile warmth. He was not clean, not yet, but he had a chance. A chance to be good. A chance to be enough. Her words were a balm, a powerful counter to the Annientatore’s corrosive accusations, a testament to the transformative power of genuine connection.

The burden of his secret, his past with Eiichi, pressed down on him even in this moment of fragile peace. He couldn't tell her. Not yet. The knowledge that he had been a part of the darkness that had almost consumed her was a heavy weight, a silent barrier between them. He watched her, a flicker of anxiety in his eyes, wondering if she would ever truly understand, if she would ever forgive him if she knew the full truth. He had to protect her, not just from external threats, but from the painful reality of his own past. This secret, a double life he had been forced into, now felt like a choice he had to maintain, for her safety, for her peace of mind.

But her words, "You’re not lost," resonated deeper than any guilt. They were a call to action, a quiet affirmation of his newfound purpose. He had been lost, adrift in Eiichi’s shadow, but no longer. He had found his way back, and he would not allow himself to be pulled under again. He felt a nascent resolve hardening within him, a quiet determination to actively oppose Eiichi. He didn't know how, or what form that opposition would take, but the passive resistance was over. He would fight.

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing. He could still feel a subtle magical residue in the apartment, a faint, chilling presence that spoke of Eiichi’s lingering influence, like a cold breath on the back of his neck. It was a reminder that the battle was far from over, that Eiichi was still out there, a shadow lurking just beyond their sight. Nooroo knew that Eiichi would not simply accept defeat. Memora’s corruption had been a test, a cruel experiment, and its failure would only spur Eiichi to greater, more dangerous machinations.

"I need to be smarter" Nooroo thought, his mind already racing, sifting through possibilities. As the wielder of the Miraculous of Corruption he can access to subtle currents of magic that others might miss. He needed to find a way to counter Eiichi, to expose him, to protect Paris from the shadows he still commanded. He didn't know the identities of the other Miraculous wielders, or their kwamis, but he knew they existed. He had felt the power of the Cat Miraculous, and he knew Ladybug was out there. He would have to work in the shadows, gather intelligence, perhaps even find a way to subtly guide the heroes without revealing himself. It was a daunting task, but for Marisa, for Paris, he would find a way. His resolve, once fragile, now felt like a steel core, tempered by guilt and fueled by love.

--

Ladybug wandered the quiet streets. The city felt different now. Not healed. Not safe. But lighter. The oppressive weight that had settled over Paris since the Cataclysm had subtly eased, as if a heavy blanket had been lifted. The air felt crisper, carrying the faint scent of rain and distant blooming flowers. The sounds of the city – the distant murmur of traffic, the occasional laughter from a café, the soft rustle of leaves in the park – seemed more distinct, less muffled by despair. It was a fragile shift, a nascent hope that resonated with the quiet certainty she now held: "He was alive."

Yet, the grief for Chat D’Or still clung to her, a persistent ache in her chest. She missed his jokes, his reckless courage, the easy camaraderie they shared. She missed the feeling of not being alone in this fight. The city, despite its subtle lightness, still felt vast and overwhelming without him by her side. She was the sole protector now, the last line of defense, and the weight of that responsibility pressed down on her. She channeled this grief, this sense of isolation, into a fierce determination. She would not let his sacrifice be in vain. She would protect Paris, and she would find answers. [

She passed a park bench, its wooden slats worn smooth by countless lives, its surface still damp from the morning dew. A flicker caught her eye, a small, dark object half-hidden beneath a fallen leaf. She knelt, her movements fluid and graceful, her gaze drawn to the charred remains. A burned photograph. Two people. Smiling. One clearly a boy but his face was blurred, charred away, an indistinct smudge where features should have been. The other, a woman, her smile gentle, her eyes kind, a faint warmth emanating from her faded image. Ladybug felt a strange pull towards it, a lingering energy that resonated with the emotional rupture she had felt earlier, the powerful surge of pain and then peace. The obscured face of the boy, hidden by the burn, hinted at a hidden identity, a past trauma, a secret.

She flipped it over, her fingers careful not to damage it further. On the back, in faded pen, was a single word: "Noo—" The rest was lost, consumed by the fire, a tantalizing fragment of a name, a mystery. Ladybug held it tightly, her fingers tracing the faint, faded letters, a frown creasing her brow. "Noo… Nooroo? Noelle? Noah?" The possibilities swirled in her mind. This wasn't just a random piece of trash. This was a clue.

Someone had helped stop that corruption. From inside. And they didn’t want to be found. The thought sparked a new kind of curiosity, a new mission that ignited a fire in her belly. The emotional rupture she had felt, the sudden release of fear and the surge of love, had been profound. It wasn't an akuma, not in the traditional sense. It was something deeper, more personal. And this photograph was connected to it.

She stood up, tucking the photograph carefully into her yo-yo, a new weight added to its familiar presence. Her mind, usually focused on immediate threats, now shifted to investigation. She would start by checking recent akuma attacks, looking for any that involved themes of loss or fear of abandonment, anything that might connect to the emotional signature she had felt. She would cross-reference with any unusual energy spikes reported by the city’s magical sensors, however rudimentary they were. She would also subtly observe the city, looking for any lingering traces of the corruption, any unusual patterns in the shadows. This was a different kind of fight, a detective’s work, but she was ready. She would find this "Noo—", this hidden ally, and understand their connection to the recent events. The path ahead was unclear, but her determination is absolute.

--

Miles away, in a hidden, opulent chamber shrouded in perpetual twilight, Eiichi watched. His face, usually a mask of serene indifference, was contorted by a flicker of cold frustration. Memora’s defeat, the sudden, unexpected dissolution of such a potent manifestation of fear, was an annoyance. The survival of the Cat Miraculous wielder, a mere human defying the ultimate destructive power, was an unexpected variable, a minor irritation in his grand design. He had felt the ripple of energy, the shift in the magical currents, a subtle defiance that spoke of a burgeoning resistance.

"Insolent creatures," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr that resonated with the dark magic swirling around him. He had underestimated the resilience of human emotion, the unexpected strength born from love and self-acceptance. But it was a temporary setback. A calculation error.

He rose from his throne, a figure of elegant menace, his silhouette merging with the shadows that danced around him. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned a series of intricate, glowing diagrams projected onto the chamber walls. They depicted ley lines, energy nodes, and the subtle emotional currents of Paris, all meticulously mapped. He had been testing the waters, probing the city’s defenses, experimenting with the raw power of human despair. Memora had been a powerful tool, but merely a single note in a much larger symphony of chaos he intended to conduct.

Nooroo’s defiance, his unexpected act of agency, was noted. A betrayal, yes, but also a fascinating development. It meant Nooroo was no longer merely a tool; he was a pawn with a will, a piece that could be manipulated in new, more intricate ways. Eiichi smiled, a slow, chilling curve of his lips. The game was becoming more interesting.

His next move would be far more widespread, more insidious. He would not target individuals, but the very fabric of the city’s collective consciousness. He would sow seeds of discord, amplify existing anxieties, and twist the subtle threads of human connection into a tapestry of fear and suspicion. The previous events were merely a prelude, a small-scale experiment. The true symphony of despair was about to begin. He would break Paris, not with a single, devastating blow, but with a thousand tiny fractures, until it crumbled from within. The stage was set.

Night again. The city lights twinkled, a fragile blanket of stars against the vast, dark sky. A cool breeze swept through the streets, carrying the faint scent of distant rain and the lingering hum of the city’s restless energy.

Plagg, curled in a blanket, felt the quiet hum of the city, a symphony of distant life. He was still aching, a dull, persistent throb in his chest and limbs, but the memories of the Void, of Aduur, of the Annientatore, were no longer a consuming torment. They were sharp, yes, but they were lessons learned, scars earned. He was grounded, real, and the quiet hum of his Miraculous, though still dormant, was a comforting presence, a promise of power waiting to be rekindled. He was no longer just the human wielder who broke things. He was the human wielder who had broken himself to save others, and had returned, changed, with a new purpose stirring within him. He closed his eyes, a faint, hopeful image of a red light dancing in his mind, a silent beacon in the darkness. He would find her. He had to. The thought was a quiet vow, a new purpose solidifying in his weary mind.

--

Ladybug stood above the rooftops, looking out over her city. It wasn’t safe yet. Not over. The darkness still lingered, a subtle threat on the horizon, a faint chill in the night air. But something was changing. A shift in the balance, a new energy stirring beneath the surface. She felt it, a quiet hum of possibility, a nascent hope for the future. Her fingers instinctively brushed the yo-yo at her hip, feeling the faint outline of the burned photograph within. A new mystery, a new ally, a new path forward. She would find them. She would protect her city. The weight of her responsibility was immense, but now, it was tempered by a quiet, fierce resolve.

--

Nooroo lay awake in bed, eyes open to the stars, visible through his window. The apartment was quiet, peaceful. Marisa slept soundly in the next room, her breathing even and calm, a testament to his choice, to his newfound courage. The guilt was still there, a faint echo, but it no longer consumed him. He had faced his shame, acted with courage, and found a path towards redemption. A single voice echoed in his heart: "You’re not lost." It was Marisa’s voice, but also his own, a quiet affirmation of his newfound purpose. He would find a way to fight Eiichi, to protect the city, to finally make amends. His resolve was a quiet fire, burning steadily in the darkness.

And high above Paris, something shimmered briefly. Not a threat. Not a storm. A promise. A golden light, faint and fleeting, like a distant star winking into existence, a silent beacon in the vast, dark sky. A promise of return, of balance, of a future yet unwritten, waiting to unfold. The city slept, unaware of the battles fought and the promises made, but the threads of destiny were already weaving a new, complex tapestry.

Chapter 13: Chapter 12 ~A new day…new challenges~

Notes:

Here I am! Sorry for the little waiting :3
Today you will get 3 chapters(including this) complete till the end of today and I hope you will enjoy them.
If there’s some grammatical errors/mistakes, I’m sorry, English isn’t my first language ^^
Anyway Enjoy! 😉

~A new day...new challenge~

The first golden rays of the morning sun crept through the light curtains, painting stripes of light on the room's walls. Nooroo barely stirred in bed, sleep slowly dissolving like mist in the wind. A soft sigh escaped him as his eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the growing brightness. It was a new day, and with it, a new wave of thoughts and worries, but also a renewed determination. Marisa was still sleeping soundly in the next room, her steady breathing a comforting sound that filled the silence. For a moment, Nooroo lingered on that sound, a reminder of the choice he had made, of the courage he had found. The guilt of the past was still there, a faint shadow, but it no longer consumed him. In its place, a quiet resolve burned within him: he would find a way to confront Eiichi, to protect the city, and finally, to make amends.

Nooroo got out of bed, his muscles stiff but his mind already racing. He walked to the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal Paris slowly waking, enveloped in golden light and silent promises. Each day brought with it a new burden of uncertainties, but also the possibility of a new beginning, a concept he had learned to appreciate over time.

Nooroo's hand unconsciously tightened on the windowsill as his mind drifted back in time, to an era when the world seemed a much larger and scarier place. He was only seven when his world collapsed. An accident. A phone call in the middle of the night, whispering voices, and then the deafening silence of an empty house. His parents had been his anchor, his source of joy and security. They were two pillars of light, always ready with a hug, a kind word, a bedtime story. He remembered the sweet scent of the apple pie his mother made every Sunday, the comforting sound of his father's voice reading adventure stories. All of it vanished in an instant, leaving him in an incomprehensible void.

Marisa, his young aunt, burst into his life like a calm cyclone, taking on the burden of raising him. She was only twenty at the time, her dreams and aspirations barely sketched out. Yet, she hadn't hesitated. She put everything aside to care for him, a small, traumatized child who cried silently at night. Nooroo remembered Marisa's sleepless nights, the way she would cradle him, singing sweet lullabies until sleep claimed him, even though her young heart must have been just as broken.

Moving to Marisa's house marked the beginning of a series of changes that would shape him. It wasn't just the pain of loss; it was also the feeling of being an outsider, a burden, wherever he went. School became a battlefield. Children, in their cruel innocence, sniffed out his vulnerability. Small, shy, often lost in his thoughts, Nooroo became an easy target.

"Orphan," they whispered. "He has no one."

These words, spoken with the lightness of childhood but with the force of daggers, pierced his heart. The bullying started subtly, with glances, giggles behind his back, his name twisted into unpleasant epithets. Then it escalated. Shoves in the hallway, his books thrown to the ground, his snacks stolen. Nooroo remembered a particular incident in third grade, when a group of older boys surrounded him in the schoolyard, grabbing his backpack and scattering his drawings, which were a refuge for him, onto the dirt. He felt so small, so helpless, tears burning his eyes as he tried to gather his crumpled masterpieces, under the indifferent gaze of some, and the amused gaze of others.

Marisa often found him with dirty clothes, red eyes. Each time, his answer was the same: "I fell." He didn't want to worry her, he didn't want to add another burden to her already burdened shoulders. But Marisa wasn't stupid. She saw the bruises, felt his silent despair.

"Let's change schools, Nooroo," she would finally say, her heart breaking for him. And so they did. Again and again.

He had changed schools so many times that the faces of his classmates blended into an indistinct gallery of strangers. Every new beginning was fraught with fragile hope, soon shattered by the same dynamic of ostracization. He withdrew into himself, finding comfort in books and his inner worlds. Stories were his escape, a place where he could be strong, where he wasn't a victim. But reality always called him back, with its cruel insistence.

Even friendship became an elusive concept. Every time he got close to someone, the fear of rejection or disappointment was too strong. He had learned that trusting was a risk, and that being alone, however painful, was often safer. This created in him a deep distrust of others and of himself, a legacy that still, despite his growth, haunted him. He had too often seen the dark side of humanity, that gratuitous cruelty that seemed to arise from nowhere.

The sun was now higher, and the room was flooded with light. Nooroo shook himself, pushing away the shadows of the past. Those memories were painful, but they had also made him who he was. They had taught him resilience, compassion for the weak, and a burning determination not to allow others to suffer as he had suffered. They were the reason he couldn't ignore Eiichi's threat.

Marisa's voice, calling him from the kitchen for breakfast, brought him back to the present. A faint smile touched his lips. Despite the scars, he had found his way, he had found Marisa. And now, with renewed hope, he was ready to face what the new day brought.

Marisa's voice, a familiar and reassuring call, broke Nooroo's train of thought, bringing him back to the present. "Nooroo, breakfast is ready!"

He roused himself, shaking off the last vestiges of the past that had enveloped him. Those memories were painful, yes, but they had also shaped him, forging his resilience and deep compassion for the weak. They were why he couldn't let the cruelty he suffered as a child spill over into Paris because of Eiichi.

He headed for the kitchen, smelling coffee and toast. Marisa was already sitting at the table, a steaming cup in her hands and an open book. Her face, though marked by the fatigue of sleepless nights and responsibilities, emanated a quiet strength that reassured Nooroo.

"Sleep well?" Marisa asked, putting down her book and offering him a gentle smile.

Nooroo settled across from her, taking a cup of coffee and a piece of bread. "Better than usual," he admitted, feeling the warmth of the cup in his hands. It was the truth. The decision he had made the night before, his commitment to finding a solution, had lifted a weight he had carried for too long.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock and the rustle of pages as Marisa turned her book.

The memory of his deceased parents and the loneliness he had felt as a child, before Marisa became his only family, came back to him. That loneliness had been a constant companion for many years, and now, even with Marisa by his side, the solitude of his mission made itself felt.

Marisa observed him.

Not with suspicion.

But with the intuition of someone who had seen all his versions.

"Are you thinking of going back to school?"

"Today?"

He hesitated.

A bite of bread. A sip of coffee.

Then:

"Yes. I have to."

Marisa slowly closed the book.

She placed it on the table.

"Have to? Or want to?"

The question was simple.

But it pierced his chest.

"...Both."

Marisa said nothing.

For a moment, she seemed about to embrace him.

Then she simply took another sip of coffee.

"Something's bothering you," she finally said, her voice calm.

"And it's not just school.

You don't have to tell me everything. But...

Don't shut me out.

Not with me."

Nooroo closed his eyes for a moment.

The silence grew heavy.

He thought of telling her everything.

About Eiichi.

About the powers.

About Memora.

How close he was to breaking down.

But he looked at her.

And understood.

"If I told her everything...I'd break her."

So he feigned a smile.

"I know. Thank you."

And she, with the same pain in her eyes, only replied:

"It's okay.

But I'm here."

——————

After breakfast, Nooroo left the house.

The air was warm, but it smelled of dust.

He walked aimlessly, his backpack slung over his shoulder even though he wasn't going straight to school.

He needed to think.

To breathe.

To remember.

But his thoughts raced elsewhere.

——————

Eiichi.

The name burned in his mind.

...

"Why me?

Why did he choose me?"

He thought back to that voice...

to that hand that had guided him in his darkest moments.

Eiichi wasn't just a villain.

He had been a false refuge, an illusion of power when Nooroo felt smaller than the whole world.

"I understand you."

"You don't need them."

"You only need to be heard."

For many days... perhaps many weeks, Eiichi had whispered promises that seemed like understanding.

Not imposed.

Not violent.

Sweet.

Perverse.

But sweet.

Nooroo shuddered.

"He poisoned my thoughts.

With kind words."

Now he knew the truth.

But the memory of his presence — warm, magnetic, brilliant — was still there, like a luminous scar.

"I hate him."

But I can't stop hearing his voice in my corners."

He stopped next to a wall, leaning his back against it.

"If I want to fight him... I must first free him from within myself," he said.

Nooroo remained there, leaning against the wall, for a few minutes.

The light had grown brighter, but Eiichi's shadow was still present within him.

Not in the flesh.

But in memory.

In identity.

Who had he become during that bond?

A traitor?

A coward?

No.

It wasn't that simple.

There were moments even now when he remembered the words Eiichi had whispered to him in his darkest days.

Not orders.

Not shouts.

Just understanding.

Or something that, at the time, seemed to be.

"You're not broken, Nooroo."

"You were broken."

"I will put you back together."

"No one knows you."

"I do."

And he had believed it.

For a terribly long time.

--

Nooroo inhaled deeply, as if to expel the memory from his chest.

Turning the page wasn't enough.

He had to rewrite himself.

He stood up calmly.

Then headed home.

--

Upon entering, he found Marisa tidying the living room bookshelf.

He watched her for a moment, in silence, and then as if driven by an invisible impulse, he walked towards the old wooden box on the highest shelf.

It was his old diary.

Blue cover. Worn corners.

Pages filled with words written in uncertain handwriting, errors corrected with white-out, and small drawings on the margins.

He opened it.

The first page read:

"If I write, I exist."

He smiled slightly.

Then he went to his room.

He sat down at his desk.

And began to write.

--

"I'm not the same anymore. But I still don't know who I am."

"I'm not just a reflection of his words."

"I don't want to be."

"I want to find my own voice."

"I want to choose who I become."

He slowly closed the diary.

His heart pounded, but in a new way.

Not out of fear.

Out of intention.

--

Then something strange happened.

An impulse.

A whisper that didn't come from outside.

A faint beat — very light — in his chest.

As if something within him was seeking... an echo.

Nooroo jumped up, looking out the window.

Nothing.

But he felt that vibration.

A latent connection.

Not to a person.

To something.

"There's someone else..."

He didn't know who.

He didn't know where.

But he wasn't alone.

--

In the afternoon, he packed his backpack for the next day.

He did it slowly.

As if each object was part of a ritual.

A new notebook.

The pencil Marisa had given him.

A keychain representing a small kite — a symbol he drew as a child when he dreamed of flying away.

--

"Tomorrow I'm going back to school," he thought.

Not to hide.

But to be there.

To feel.

--

Evening fell slowly.

Marisa was in the kitchen, tidying some dishes.

Nooroo joined her, placing his hands on the table.

"Tomorrow... I might be late," he said.

"Maybe I'll go to the library after classes."

Marisa looked at him.

She didn't ask why.

Not this time.

"Okay.

But text me."

"And if you feel tired, come back. Don't force yourself."

He nodded.

"Promise."

--

That night, before sleeping, he sat at his desk.

He looked at Paris through the window pane.

The streetlights on.

The silent streets.

A faint siren in the distance.

He wondered if the other heartbeats were asking themselves the same questions.

If somewhere in the city, a hand was writing in a diary. If someone — a red-haired girl, perhaps — was looking at the same moon.

And he thought:

"Maybe we're already connected."

And we just have to... recognize each other."

That night, Nooroo's sleep was not deep.

It was fragmented.

And amidst the light shadows of dozing, a vision emerged.

A dark corridor.

Walls made of mirrors, but all... distorted.

Each surface reflected something different.

Him as a child.

Him with empty eyes.

Him with someone else's voice.

At the center of the corridor, a door of light.

But no handle.

Only a symbol engraved in the wood: an incomplete spiral.

The same one he had seen drawn among Memora's dreams.

He took a step forward.

The reflections around him began to move on their own, distorting each image, until other faces appeared.

Faces he didn't recognize... but which aroused a strange melancholy in him.

A girl with honey-colored eyes.

A boy with messy blond hair.

A figure with long black hair, dressed in dark red.

A smaller face, with round cheeks, that seemed... to be looking for him.

And then a beat.

Not his.

A second beat.

Then a third.

Then a fourth.

Nooroo turned, but there was no one there.

"We are close... but not yet together."

A barely audible voice, carried by a wind that didn't exist.

Then everything turned white.

--

He woke up with a jolt, his heart beating slowly but powerfully.

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, trying to breathe.

It wasn't a nightmare.

It was a call.

--

Later that afternoon, Nooroo went to the library. Not to study. Not really. He had brought his diary in his backpack, still unsure whether to write something new. But he felt the need to be among the silences of others, among shelves, among pages that didn't speak of him.

He chose a sparsely frequented section, among mythologies and archaic symbols. There was something in that secluded corridor, a subtle energy, a whisper that seemed to call him. It was an almost physical sensation, a gentle summons, like an invisible string softly pulling him. He ran his fingers over the spines of the volumes, one after another, the rustle of the pages almost a heartbeat. He was looking for something he couldn't name, but desperately felt he had to find. His eyes glided over the covers, but it was more than sight; it was an intuition awakening within him.

Then he saw it.

It wasn't just a book out of place physically — it was perfectly aligned — but because of the feeling it emanated. A faint warmth, a resonance that made something inside him vibrate. The title was faded, almost illegible, the dark blue leather cover, without an author, without pretensions. Yet, Nooroo was irresistibly drawn. His hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and his fingers clasped the cover with surprising familiarity. It was as if that book had been waiting for him, forever.

Nooroo opened it. Inside, no title page. Just a Latin phrase and a drawing. A spiral, marked by four cardinal points.

"Ex motu cordium nascuntur resonantiae."

(From the motion of hearts, resonances are born.)

He didn't know what it truly meant, but the words and the symbol resonated within him with unheard-of force. A cold, but not unpleasant, shiver ran down his spine. It was the same spiral he had seen in his dream, the same one Memora drew. And the "hearts"... were they perhaps the beats he had heard, linked to him in a way he was only now beginning to glimpse?

--

Leaving the library, the sun was setting.

Paris was golden, but not warm.

There was a thin, almost timid wind, rustling the leaves of the trees along the sidewalk.

Nooroo walked with his backpack, his steps slow.

And that's when it happened.

Kaalki, elegant as ever, was on the other side of the street.

She walked gracefully, a book tucked under her arm. She paused for an instant, as if drawn by something.

Their gazes met for a moment.

They didn't know each other. Yet... that second seemed long.

A small vibration.

Not a plot twist.

Not a jolt.

Just a call.

Kaalki frowned, as if she had heard a forgotten word.

Nooroo turned to continue.

"He... isn't new."

"I think I know him.

But I don't know from where."

Kaalki stood there for a moment.

Then she resumed walking.

Her fingers clutched the book to her chest. As if it contained an answer still unrevealed.

--

Far from the library, in the apparent quiet of an isolated university laboratory, Eiichi was immersed in his complex equations. Intricate diagrams of energy and emotional flows, schematics that no human could comprehend, floated on the holographic screen. His human form sat composed, but the air around him vibrated with an almost imperceptible tension.

He had sensed the change.

It wasn't a sound, nor a vision in the common sense. It was a resonance. An unexpected echo in the vast emotional landscape of Paris, a series of distinct beats that had begun to pulse with increasing force. They were faint at first, almost insignificant, but now they had become clearer, more defined.

His mind, as sharp and calculating as that of a Kwami of Corruption, immediately analyzed the nature of these vibrations. These were not the usual waves of fear, despair, or anger on which he fed. These were different. They were connected. They were fragments of a latent power that was awakening, resonances between beings who, by nature, should be isolated.

"Interesting," Eiichi murmured, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion, his cold eyes scanning the schematics. "They are finding each other. Or about to find each other."

The spiral, a symbol he had known and manipulated for eons, appeared in his mind. That spiral represented harmony and connection, but he saw it as a ring of weakness. His human hand rose, his fingers drawing a precise gesture in the air, almost as if to tighten that spiral. He had tried to affect individual strings, to break individual bonds, but now these strings seemed to be trying to unite, creating an orchestra of beats.

A subtle, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. Not a smile of joy, but of predation. They sought connection, unity. Perfect. A group was much more efficient to corrupt than scattered individuals. A single point of pressure, and the entire structure could collapse.

"More hearts," he whispered, the words lost in the hum of the servers, "more resonances. More pain to amplify."

His revenge against the Guardians was not just a matter of power. It was an attack on the very idea of harmony, of unity. And if these "creatures" dared to seek that connection, he would be there to distort it, to transform it into a source of unimaginable despair. His shadow hand, which had tried to complete the spiral in Nooroo's dream, was not an attempt to unite for good. It was an attempt to tighten the ropes, to gather all these despicable creatures into a single, controllable embrace, and then to break them.

The game had become more interesting. The "call" Nooroo had heard had also been perceived by him, though in a different way. It was a signal that the battlefield was expanding.

Eiichi was not a mere observer. His mind, sharp as a blade, was already plotting the next step. These beings, with their "resonances," were an opportunity he did not intend to waste. They wouldn't simply find each other on their own; he would subtly guide them into his trap.

The diagrams on the floating screen changed, the energy lines that previously only represented Paris's emotional flows now extended, connecting to specific points: those he had already touched, and now also the new pulsations he had felt. Nooroo was at the center of this nascent network, the most vulnerable, the easiest to influence due to his past and his guilt.

"A forced connection is more fragile," Eiichi murmured to himself, his paw brushing the air, "but a connection believed to be authentic... that can be distorted perfectly."

His revenge was not just against the Guardians; it was against the very idea of trust, unity, and hope. Their strength lay in connection, in harmony. And he would prove that harmony was just an illusion, easily shattered once despair found a foothold.

Eiichi opened a new window on his holographic screen, typing a series of complex commands. He wasn't looking for information on their physical location. He was seeking their emotional weaknesses, their deepest insecurities. Like the most refined poison, corruption had to act from within, seeping into the cracks of the soul.

His attention focused on a specific point in the emotional map of Paris, an area where the resonances seemed most unstable, most prone to generating frustration and inadequacy. There was a particular being in that sector, one who, though not yet fully conscious of the "call," emanated an aura of growing nervousness. It was someone trying to overcome their limitations, but constantly feeling insufficient.

A slight manipulation here, an emotional push there. A little misfortune, an unexpected failure, a public humiliation. Nothing more than the normal course of life, but magnified, distorted, made unbearable by his subtle influence. He would fuel these flames, making the individual more receptive to his "voice," to the "understanding" Eiichi offered.

He knew that the connection between these humans was still raw, imperfect. They couldn't communicate directly, not yet. But Nooroo's vision, the forming spiral, was a sign that the process was underway. And he was there, a patient shadow, ready to complete it in his own way.

"Let the game begin," Eiichi whispered, his eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating light. The world believed itself safe, unaware that its very "hope" was about to become his instrument of ruin.

——————

While Eiichi planned his moves in silence, the shadow of his influence began to fall upon another, seemingly ordinary life. Far from the effervescence of central Paris, in a quieter neighborhood where art studios merged with small galleries, Ziggy felt increasingly constrained.

Ziggy sat before her canvas, a paintbrush suspended between her fingers. The colored paints surrounded her, but inspiration seemed to have dried up. On the easel, the painting was a chaos of colors, sketched figures that failed to take shape. She was an artist with a vibrant soul and a deep need to express herself, but in recent days, every line, every nuance seemed inadequate, wrong.

A wave of frustration gripped her stomach. It wasn't the first time she had felt this way, but this time it was different. The feeling of not being good enough, of not living up to her own expectations, was amplified, almost like a malevolent echo reverberating in her head. Every small error on the canvas seemed like a colossal failure.

"It's not enough," a subtle voice whispered in her mind, a voice that had no sound, but a feeling, cold and insidious. It was the voice of dissatisfaction she already knew, but now it was stronger, more persuasive. "You'll never be good enough. No one will understand what you want to express. It's useless."

Ziggy clenched her teeth, the brush trembling slightly in her hand. Usually, when she felt this way, she fought back. She would listen to music, go for a walk, seek a new perspective. But today, the urge to give up was almost irresistible. Her creations, which once brought her joy, now seemed only testaments to her inadequacy.

The afternoon light streamed through her studio window, illuminating the dust motes in the air and her unfinished paintings. One in particular tormented her: a sketch of a dream she had had, fragmented and unsettling, which seemed impossible to capture on canvas. It was an image of broken spirals and dancing shadows, a vision that reflected her inner confusion.

"Why can't I do it?" she thought, her mind a whirlwind of doubts. "Everyone else... they're better. They have a purpose. I..."

The insidious voice grew deeper, amplifying her sense of isolation. "You are alone in this. No one can understand the weight of your art, the weight of what you must express. It's too great a burden for you."

Tears of frustration burned her eyes. She didn't cry often, but this feeling of powerlessness was overwhelming. She threw the brush onto the table, the soft sound yet booming in the studio's silence. She could no longer paint. Her hands trembled.

In that moment of vulnerability, Eiichi's influence solidified. It wasn't yet complete corruption, not a control of her will. But he had found an open door in Ziggy's mind, a crack in her heart through which to filter his toxicity. His power wasn't destructive in a physical sense, but it was like a parasite that fed on the seeds of doubt, transforming healthy self-criticism into paralysis, the pursuit of perfection into self-destruction.

The canvas stared at her, a silent reminder of her inadequacy. For now, Ziggy would not paint. She would only feel the growing weight of despair, an increasingly dense shadow settling on her creative soul. It was the beginning.

—————-

Meanwhile, Nooroo returned home.

No magic in the air.

No epiphany.

But the feeling of having stepped into something.

Or having just opened a door.

——————

That night, Nooroo's vision did not entirely dissipate upon waking.

It clung to him like a dense fog, retaining fragmented images.

The door of light.

The incomplete spirals.

The beats — four, distinct, but out of sync.

And then, in the dream, a shadow hand pressing against the spiral.

Not to destroy it.

But to complete it.

When he woke up, he was sweaty, trembling.

He had left the window open, and an almost cold air filtered in from the night.

On the nightstand, the diary.

Closed.

He opened it slowly.

He only wrote:

"When I'm afraid, the world shrinks. But if I breathe and listen...maybe I'm not the only one who heard that beat."

He closed the diary. The handwriting was steady, clear, a testament to his new awareness. The dream had not been a punishment, but a revelation. The incomplete spiral, the unknown faces, the synchronized beats: everything spoke of a connection that went beyond immediate understanding. He was not alone in his struggle against Eiichi's influence; there were others, other resonances that were awakening.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Paris...

In her clean and bright room, Tikki thoughtfully observed a half-burnt old photograph. It was a discovery made after the battle against Memora, hidden among some ruins. The flames had spared only a part of the image: the face of a young woman and, next to her, the blurry profile of a little boy. Below, the beginning of a name, "Noo-," was the only legible thing.

"It's strange, Maari," Tikki murmured, her usually cheerful voice now veiled by an unusual contemplation. She sat on the edge of the bed, while her little Kwami, Maari, floated curiously beside her face, observing the image with her large blue eyes.

Maari, with her delicate form and ancestral wisdom, made a small sound of assent. "It is, Tikki. Such a quantity of negative energy vanished in an instant. Usually, it takes much longer to purify such a deeply corrupted soul. It almost seemed... that something, or someone, had acted from within."

Tikki nodded, her fingers gently caressing the burnt edge of the photo. "Exactly. And then I found this. This 'Noo-'. Do you think there's a connection? That this person... this 'Noo-' played a role?" Despite Memora's imposing threat, her defeat had been strangely... without a final, catastrophic confrontation. It was as if the corruption had simply dissolved, not been destroyed.

"The patterns have changed, Tikki," Maari replied, her voice an ethereal whisper. "There's a new resonance in the air, one we've never perceived before. It's not corruption. It's... seeking. Hope."

Tikki looked up from the photo, her blue eyes shining with new determination. Hope. It was her very essence, and feeling it resonate so openly infused her with new energy. "Perhaps this 'Noo-' isn't just a photograph, Maari," she said, clutching the photo slightly. "Perhaps it's the beginning of something new. A hand extended in the darkness. We must find out. We must understand what's happening."

Maari settled on her shoulder, a small comforting weight. "The path will reveal itself, Tikki. The resonances will intensify. When the time is right, hearts will find each other."

Tikki looked at the photo again, the blurry face of the little boy seeming to call to her. There was a mystery there, an opportunity to better understand the dynamics of corruption and, perhaps, a new unexpected ally. The fate of Paris depended on their ability to recognize these new beats, to answer this silent call.

"Yeah...and also I hope Chat D'or is okay" She whispered, she doesn't know why but she felt a connection with him..like a strange resonance.

————-

Nooroo got out of bed and walked to the window, resting his hands on the cold glass. Paris slept beneath the veil of night, unaware of the forces moving in its heart. His gaze fell upon the distant lights, the streetlights burning like small stars fallen to earth. He wondered who those others were, if they too felt lost, or if they had already begun to understand their purpose.

The sense of loneliness that had haunted him for years hadn't entirely disappeared, but now it was tempered by a new hope. He was no longer just "the reflection of his words" – Eiichi's poisoned words. He was finding his own voice, and that voice, now, resonated with others.

He took a deep breath, the fresh night air filling his lungs. He didn't know what the new day would bring, nor how he would find these other resonances. But the vision had been clear: they were there. And their "not yet together" implied a "soon we will be."

Chapter 14: Chapter 13 ~The Unseen Connection~

Notes:

See? The other chapter is here! I hope you like it and wait for the other chapter!
Enjoy! 😊

~The Unseen Connection~

Opening: Ladybug PV

 

The air in the room was still, almost dense, charged with a pressing silence. It was not a total absence of noises; the distant rustle of a car, the insistent ticking of a clock in the corridor, Marisa's soft step in the next room - everything seemed filtered, as if coming from another world, a faded echo of a normal life.

Nooroo sat on the edge of the bed, his back arched, his hands clenched between his knees, an invisible weight that crushed him. She already had her clothes ready: discolored gray sweatshirt, dark pants, clean sneakers - carefully chosen to look like "no one". Neutral. Invisible. As if dressing in a simple way could erase what had been. Or what he had done.

But it didn't work.

He looked at his hands. They were still now, motionless, but the memory of how they were shaking the first time he had crossed that school door was still burning on his skin. The presentation. The paper with his name choked halfway through his mouth. The crooked smile. The thud. The laughter. And then... the bathroom, the cold shelter where it had closed for thirty-four minutes, an eternity. Where he had promised himself that he would never come back. And instead, there it is. Getting ready to go back.

Why?

A single, fragile reason, as lucid as a pin that pierced the torpor: Marisa is safe. I did something right. And if I don't come back... I'll forever be the boy who runs away, swallowed by the shadows, without a place, without a name. He inhaled slowly, a breath that scratched his throat. His chest still hurt, a deep pang that did not come from the bones, not a physical wound, but an unbearable weight, rooted in the depths. The burden of having seen corruption. The weight of having been part of it.

"I don't feel like a hero. Not even a survivor," he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper that was lost in the motionless air. "I feel like an intermediary. A bridge between two things I can't name."

He got up, his muscles tense, his back stiff. He walked slowly to the small mirror in the hallway. He didn't look at it often. It was fogged in a corner, the frame cracked, like a faded memory. He thought inside anyway, and for a moment, he only saw the disorder: disheveled hair, deep dark circles that dug into his face, dry and narrow lips. Then his eyes. Present. Intense. And that was the one who hit him. "I'm not gone," he whispered, a shadow of surprise in his voice. Despite everything, he was still there.

The door of the next room creaked, a slight sound that broke the tense silence. Marisa coughed softly in her sleep. Nooroo turned around, approached the threshold. He watched her sleep, his face relaxed, his hands open on the pillow, innocent as the morning. "I saved her." Yet, the thought didn't make him feel bigger, more powerful. It made him feel... small, but stable. As if he finally knew where to put his feet, on a mainland that he no longer believed possible.

He turned around. He went back to his room. He opened the backpack, the fabric rustling under his fingers. Books. Notebook. Black pen. The currency — no. Not that one. He left her on the bedside table, a cold and silent record, a heavy secret that he didn't want to bring in the middle of normality. Not yet. But the Miraculous... that took it. He put it in the inside pocket of the sweatshirt, a light but unmistakable weight, almost a second beat against the heart. Not to use it. Just to not feel unarmed, to have a piece of yourself to hold on to.

He looked at the time: 07:23. The first bus would have passed in thirteen minutes. He closed his backpack, the sound of the click that resounded in his ears, definitive. He took a breath. "One step at a time. This time... I won't run away."

The bus slowed down at the corner of rue D'Orléans, the metallic breath of the brakes scratching the morning silence. Nooroo looked up from the fogged up window, his heart beating at an unbearable pace. It was almost there. The road was always the same, but it didn't look the same anymore. Too real. Too present. Every line of the sidewalk, every bare and skeletal tree, every graffiti-spoted wall seemed to shout: "We remember you. We saw you fall."

The bus stopped with a mechanical sigh, the suspensions lowering like a lament. The doors opened with a sharp click, an inexorable invitation. Nooroo went down, his heart pounding against his ribs, a crazy drum. The foot touched the asphalt, and immediately a cold shiver went up his leg, an almost painful contact. Then... the noise. A group of students in front of him, a wave of backpacks, headphones and crystal clear laughter. All normal. All unaware. Everyone... alive, in a way that he no longer felt.

He stopped for a moment on the sidewalk, the cold air burning his lungs. The main door of the school was less than fifty meters away. But it seemed further away than the whole universe. "I'm the one who has to cross," he thought, the voice in his head a weak whisper, almost inaudible over the beat of his heart. "Not them."

He tood a step. Then another one. Then another ten, like a malfunctioning robot. The school gate was open, wide open, but he seemed to look at him, two dark metal arms ready to close in on him, to trap him. There was no one to check. No one to prevent him from entering. Yet... every fiber of his body screamed to go back, to escape, to disappear.

A group of boys came out just at that moment, their lively conversation filling the air. They ignored him, passing over as if he didn't exist. Without a look. Without a nod. Without recognizing his presence, as if he were a ghost. And it was worse than feared. "I would have done better with a push," he murmured, the bitter taste of indifference in his mouth, as if it were ash. At least a laugh, a glare, whatever told him he had been seen. But only the emptiness.

Nooroo stopped in front of the gate, his heart beating against his ribs, a broken engine. He inhaled. Slowly. Deeply. He put his hand on the cold metal. She felt him vibrate slightly under the weight of the wind, or maybe it was him who trembled, his skin in contact with the hard and icy reality. Then... he went through it. Just one step. Inside. The courtyard. The tall and anonymous windows that watched him in silence. The distant sound of a bell, a shrill call. The school. He was back.

Xuppu continued to laugh with Ziggy, a sharp and light sound that mixed with the buzz of the corridor. They were talking about a football game that neither of them had even seen, just for the sake of making noise, of being present, of not thinking. His smirk was in the usual place, a habit that stuck his face and that had cost him dearly.

Then his eyes, a moment distracted before, moved towards the classroom door and collided with Nooroo's gaze. For a split second, his smile faltered. His heart plunged, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, sharp awareness. It was him. The boy. The one who had strimmed that day. The one he had laughed at.

The laughter died in his throat, leaving a bitter taste, almost of ash. The images flashed in his mind like shards of glass: Nooroo on the ground, his eyes lost, his face white. His own laughter, the sound so powerful, so arrogant. And Tikki's look, stern, disappointed. Mullo's, petrified. He had pretended that he didn't care, that it was just an accident, but that memory still burned him, an invisible wound that had never completely healed.

Now, Nooroo was there, standing, fragile as a thread, with a look that was no longer lost, but loaded with an ancient fatigue that Xuppu did not expect. And inside Xuppu, something answered. It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a vision. It was a vibration, a subtle buzz that seemed to start from his own Miraculous, hidden under the shirt, and went up his spine. Like an echo. The echo of something vast, cold, dangerous.

He felt like an idiot. A little boy who made noise to cover the void. He hadn't seen Nooroo's fragility then, blinded by the desire to be the cheerful, the disenchanted. And now that same fragility resonated with something that he himself had felt, in his dreams, in his hectic nights. The same fears. The same cold.

He couldn't look away, even if his body had moved by itself, returning towards Ziggy, an automatic gesture to maintain the facade. The grin came back, forced, but inside, the awareness was a punch in the stomach. "It was him," he thought, his mind running. "It was the same thing I felt."

Something had changed in Nooroo. And if Nooroo was connected to that void, to that spiral of which he too had had fragments in his nightmares... then his laughter that day had not only been cruel. She had been blind. And stupid.

"I was wrong," he thought, the taste of the word bitter on the tongue. He wasn't used to admitting it, not even to himself. But that vibration in his chest, that subtle buzzing of his Miraculous, didn't lie. "I have to make up for it." He didn't know how. But the grin became lighter, more fragile. His armor had cracked. And Nooroo, the boy who had mocked, was the key.

—————-

The break had been over for ten minutes, but Nooroo hadn't gotten up from the bench yet. The other lessons followed one another, the voices muffled in the corridors that overlapped like waves, but he had remained there, in the now empty classroom, his backpack still closed. A part of him didn't want to move. The other... didn't want to do it alone.

From his desk, near the window, he watched the school revive. Not the courtyard, but the fragments of life that filtered through the thin walls. He heard the buzz of the class next door, the loudest laughter from the end of the corridor, the rustle of hurried footsteps that almost did not touch the ground. Among those sounds, he vaguely recognized the voices of others. Not that they were familiar, not in a normal way. It was more of a recognition of a frequency, something that vibrated in him in response to them.

Kaalki was in class, a quiet corner. He saw her through the door left ap, intent on reading a voluminous book, her lips barely moving as she followed the words. Every now and then he looked up, scrutinizing the ceiling with a thoughtful air, as if looking for answers written in the plaster, or maybe just his mind wandering. Next to her, Ziggy squirmed on the chair, unable to stand still, her legs beating an invisible rhythm on the floor, her quick and nervous gestures as she scribbled furiously on a paper, then tore it with a dry gesture, throwing it away with frustration, and then started again, without stopping. There was an almost feverish energy in her that Nooroo could feel even from a distance.

And then there was Mullo, on the other side of the classroom, wrapped in a scarf too big for the season, almost hiding. His eyes were fixed on a page of his notebook, his hand moving slowly, drawing spirals ever denser, almost hypnotic, so precise as to seem almost... perfect. She seemed lost in a world of her own, far from anyone else.

Nooroo was watching them. There was no interaction, there were no words. Just this strange, inexplicable familiarity. It was like looking at unknown people but feeling an invisible bond, a thin thread that united them all, even him. They were there, each in their own bubble, but their presence created a kind of invisible field, a quiet attraction. A feeling of recognition, even if he didn't know what he was recognizing.

He felt like a stranger. An observer. But not completely. It was an observation from afar, imbued with a bitter curiosity. Why were they different? Why did they feel different? His gaze fell on his own hand, and then almost automatically, it slid into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He felt the cold metal of the Miraculous under his fingers, a light but reassuring weight, a secret that no one knew and that, perhaps, was the key to everything. He didn't know why, but his presence gave him a tiny, but palpable, feeling of security in the middle of that sea of inexplicable sensations.

Meanwhile...

The bell at the end of the lessons had left the classroom almost deserted, but Xuppu had not moved. He remained leaning against the ricketty radiator, the same point from which he had watched Nooroo enter that morning. His usual grin had melted, replaced by a thoughtful, almost irritated grimace.

"Idiot," he murmured in a low voice, not to anyone in particular, but to himself. The image of Nooroo stumbleding, the dull thud, the face as white as a sheet, and then his laughter, loud, cheeky, came back to his mind like an annoying echo. He remembered the looks of Tikki and Mullo, full of disappointment. He had pretended that he didn't care, that it was just a way to play it, but the truth burned inside him. It had just been a stupid laugh, born from his desire to be the center of attention, to appear casual, but he had hurt someone who was already fragile.

And this morning, that look of Nooroo. It hadn't been a look of resentment. It had been a tired, almost resigned look, that Xuppu had caught in a fraction of a second. A flash of recognition, yes, but then... only indifference. And that had been worse than any reproach.

It wasn't from him to feel that way. Xuppu was the guy who made noise, who laughed last, didn't take himself seriously. But with Nooroo, something was different. There was a strange weight weighing on his chest, a feeling that went beyond simple guilt. It was as if Nooroo's return had awakened something, a kind of disturbing resonance.

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off that feeling. His hand ended up absently clutching something in the inside pocket of his jacket, an object he always carried with him without thinking too much about it. The Miraculous. He had never given him a feeling like that. He didn't vibrate, he didn't warm up, but his presence now seemed more significant to him, almost as if he was reacting, in his own way, to that same "resonance" that Xuppu had perceived.

"I made a mess," he thought, his inner voice unusually serious. The smigg came back, for a moment, but it was empty, fragile. It was time to make up for it. But how? He wasn't good with excuses, he wasn't good at showing vulnerability. And Nooroo looked like an impregnable fortress, surrounded by his own solitude.

For the first time, Xuppu felt the desire to do the right thing, not to appear better in the eyes of others, but for an internal need that he could not explain. Nooroo was back. And with him, the awareness of a wound that Xuppu had to, in some way, heal had also returned.

——————

The silence of the classroom had settled in a soft buzz, broken only by the scrolling of pages and the rustle of quick notes. Nooroo tried to focus on the textbook in front of him, but the words seemed to dance on the page, meaningless. His attention was still attracted by those thin, almost invisible presences of others.

Kaalki was sitting a few benches away. His clear eyes, of an almost transparent blue, were fixed on his notebook, but he didn't seem to write. He moved them with a slowness and precision that suggested a mind elsewhere, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts. Her gaze often rose towards the window, as if following an invisible path in the sky, or was tracing paths that only she could see. There was an aura of detachment around her, a calm that bordered on melancholy. He didn't talk much, he didn't smile openly, but his presence was somehow intense, almost every movement of his hid a deep meaning, an unspoken knowledge. Nooro felt in her an old wisdom, as if she had lived many more lives than those that her young years could contain.

On the other side of the classroom, Ziggy's chair squealed incessantly. She couldn't stay still. His fingers were beating on the bench, an irregular and broken rhythm. The foot was drumming against the leg of the bench, almost a constant discharge of energy that found no vent. His hair was wavy, a light tangle that seemed to have a life of its own, and his eyes, also clear, were restless, jumping from one point of the classroom to the other, as if they were constantly looking for something new, something to grab. There was an overflowing energy in her, almost a constant tremor, as if an invisible fire burned inside her, making her unable to calm. An energy that seemed contagious to Nooroo, and a little scary.

Nooroo perceived this dual presence: Kaalki's deep stillness and Ziggy's constant restlessness. They were two opposite poles, yet he felt another of those strange "frequencies" vibrating between them, a subtle bond he couldn't explain. As if they complemented each other, or balanced each other, in a way that went beyond the simple presence in the classroom.

——————

The squeaky trill of the bell announced the end of the lessons. The corridors instantly filled with a wave of voices and laughter, while the students poured out of the classrooms, a river in full towards the afternoon's freedom.

Kaalki began to tidy up his books with measured and elegant movements, every precise gesture, almost a ritual. His pen was carefully placed in the pen holder, the notebook closed with a delicate touch. She didn't rush, her imperturbable calm contrasted with the growing chaos around her.

Ziggy, on the contrary, was already standing, an explosion of compressed energy. His legs fluttered under the bench, as if they were about to snap from one moment to the next, impatient to move. He already had his backpack on one shoulder, half open, and drummed a non-existent melody with his fingers on the edge of the counter, his clear eyes tapping from one side of the classroom to the other, looking for something new to capture.

"You're always so slow, Kaalki," Ziggy exclaimed, her voice ringing and full of contagious vivacity. "The world is waiting for us!"

Kaalki gave her a serene look, almost a barely hinted smile that rarely reached her lips. "The world will wait. Composureness is an art, Ziggy, not an obstacle."

"A boring art, if you ask me," Ziggy replied, already halfway to the door, but stopping, her gaze returning to her best friend with a stainless loyalty. "Anyway, today there is a modern art exhibition in the center. The one you wanted to see. I'll take you, if you move."

Kaalki's eyes lit up, a discreet but sincere glow. Art was one of the few things that could move his placid composure. "Oh, that one. Okay, give me a minute." Despite Ziggy's rush, Kaalki did not speed up his pace. He took out a small notebook from the bag, writing something down with his elegant handwriting.

Ziggy snorted jokingly, but an affectionate smile widened on her face. She let herself fall on a nearby bench, taking out headphones and putting them in her ears, starting to move her head to the rhythm of a music that only she heard. But his gaze returned to Kaalki every few seconds, a silent demonstration of how deep their bond was.

Nooroo, sitting at his last bench, watched them without being noticed. He saw them interact, two opposite poles that attracted each other, balanced. Kaalki's calm elegance and Ziggy's impetuous energy. There was something in their dynamic, a harmony that went beyond simple friendship, an understanding so deep that it seemed almost innate. It was the same feeling he had felt before, that "frequency" that seemed to bind them all. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to have such a friendship, such a natural connection.

The school quickly emped after the final bell, leaving behind an echo of hurried steps and distant laughter. Nooroo remained at his desk, the last in line, his backpack still closed. He wasn't in a hurry to go home, or maybe he didn't have the strength. The silence of the classroom seemed more welcoming to him than the noise of the outside world.

But that silence was not empty at all. There was a background, a kind of subtle vibration that seemed to come from within the walls themselves, or perhaps from within him. It was not a sound he could identify, not a recognizable melody, but a sensation in the chest, like a distant echo of something moving in tune.

It was a beat. Not his. Or maybe yes. It was as if the beats of others had mixed with his, in an incomprehensible rhythm, an almost imperceptible, but undeniable pulsation. He clearly felt Ziggy's restless energy even without seeing it, his vitality almost palpable through the wall, like an engine that never stopped. He perceived the deep, almost ethereal calm of Kaalki, a quiet that contrasted with his own anxiety, an oasis of serenity. And then there was Mullo, whose presence was like a silent but intense shadow, a gravity that attracted, a fixed point that radiated something ancient and mysterious.

He wasn't looking at them, he wasn't trying to listen to them. Yet, he felt their presence in a way that went beyond sight and hearing. It was a visceral feeling, an inexplicable recognition, as if there was something in them, something latent, that responded to something in him. And the Miraculous, in the inside pocket of the sweatshirt, seemed to vibrate just in response to that perception. It was a slight heat that radiated against the skin, a reassuring and somewhat mysterious weight, as if she were breathing with him.

"It's not just me," Nooroo murmured to himself, his voice almost a sigh lost in the silence. He didn't know what these feelings were, nor why he felt them. He didn't have a logical explanation. But he knew that, somehow, inexplicably, he wasn't the only one who heard them. And this, for the first time in a long time, did not make him feel completely lost.

——————-

The door of the house closed behind Nooroo with a sharp click, a sound that sounded definitive and isolating. The apartment was immersed in a silence that seemed heavier than usual, an absence of sounds pressing on his ears. Marisa was probably still at school, immersed in her post-class activities.

He took off his backpack, dropping it with a dull thud at the entrance. He wasn't hungry, he didn't feel the need to turn on the lights, despite the grayness of the afternoon. A single thought occupied his mind, an almost irresistible attraction towards his room.

He entered. The dim light filtering through the window barely illuminated the corner of the bedside table. There, on the smooth and dusty surface, there was the coin. A dark, opaque disc, which seemed to absorb the little light present rather than reflecting it. That's where he left her that morning, cold and inanimate.

Nooroo approached slowly, as if attracted by an invisible force. His breath became shorter. As he approached, the air in the room seemed to get colder, a thin cold that crawled on his skin, making the hair on his arms stand on end. It wasn't the cold of the outside climate, it was different, more... inside, as if it emanated from the currency itself.

He stretched out a hand, hesitantly. He didn't touch her, but stopped a few centimeters from her. At that moment, he saw something. Not a physical movement, not a reflection of light, but a change in the way light played on its surface. It seemed that the darkness on the coin was deepening, becoming denser, almost liquid. It was no longer just a piece of dark metal; it was a small well of darkness, a point of no return that pulsated imperceptibly, swallowing light and heat.

A shiver ran down his back, an icy feeling. The coin. She was there, harmless, yet Nooroo felt that something invisible, something sinister, was happening around her. The sensations he had felt at school, that "frequency" that bound him to others, now seemed to find a dark counterpart in that small object. It was as if the coin was a door, and the cold air that surrounded it was the breath of something approaching.

He didn't understand. He didn't know what it was. But instinct screamed at him that that coin was not just a souvenir. It was a catalyst, an access point for something that had awakened. And that cold, that darkness... they were just the beginning.

--

The night fell on Nooroo's apartment, bringing with it an even deeper silence, broken only by Marisa's regular breathing in the next room. Nooroo was lying in his bed, his eyes open in the dark. He couldn't sleep. The cold air in his room, the memory of the coin on the bedside table that seemed to suck in the light, everything was roaring in his head. The Miraculous, in the inner pocket of the folded sweatshirt on a chair, pulsated slightly, a soft warmth that could not dissipate the frost he felt inside.

When he finally caught up with sleep, it wasn't a rest. It was a dive into a landscape of nightmares.

It was a black void, infinite, without stars, without borders. There were no sounds, just an absolute silence that it hurt the ears. Then, from the depths of that nothingness, a rumor emerged. Not a human voice, but a multidimensional whisper, made of echoes and distortions, that seemed to speak directly to his soul. He couldn't distinguish the words, but the meaning was clear: a promise of power, a call to something primordial, but steeped in an icy threat.

And then, some pictures. Fast fragments, like crazy mirror shards. He saw shadows dancing, ghostly figures that moved with a disturbing grace. An ancient symbol that had seemed so familiar to him at school, was now composed in front of him, carved in a dark and polished rock. And the faces of others. Mullo, with his eyes wide with terror. Kaalki, who seemed to be looking for a way out in an endless maze. And Ziggy, his usually lively energy now extinguished, immobilized by a paralyzing fear. They were not there with him in the dream, but their suffering was palpable, almost a direct transmission to his heart.

He woke up with a start, his heart pounding in his chest like a crazy drum. Cold sweat perforced his forehead. It was still dark in the room, but the air was no longer cold. It was his body, shaken by a shiver he couldn't control.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling his panting breath. The dream was very vivid, so real that it seemed like a memory. And the scariest thing wasn't the emptiness, it wasn't the shadows. It was the feeling that those images, those faces, were connected. The "frequency" he had heard at school, had now become a shared nightmare, an omen of something looming.

"What does it mean?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, facing the dark. But the darkness didn't answer. Only silence, now loaded with a new, terrifying meaning. The coin on the bedside table shone dimly in the faint glow of dawn that began to creep in, like a black eye watching it.

——————-

The school day dragged on slowly, every hour a heavy brick that fell into Nooroo's deafening silence. The lessons followed one another, one after the other, empty words that could not penetrate the blanket of thoughts that crowded his mind. The nightmare of the previous night, the cold of the coin, the strange "frequencies" he perceived from others: everything mixed in a confused and oppressive tangle.

Despite the inner whirlwind, there was something different. During the break, he had felt Ziggy's restless energy almost vibrating through the walls, Kaalki's calm gathering like a silent anchor, and even Mullo's distant presence. There had been no direct interaction, no significant contact, but their simple existence, perceived in that strange and inexplicable way, had offered him a kind of weak still. It was as if he was no longer completely alone.

As the last students left the classroom at the end of the day, leaving behind the usual chaos of dragged chairs and muffled voices, Nooroo remained seated. This time, not for fear of facing the corridor, but for an almost urgent desire to absorb that silence, to better understand the sensations that had pervaded him.

He brought a hand to the pocket of the sweatshirt, gently squeezing the Miraculous. The metal was lukewarm, a subtle heat that was neither comforting nor threatening, but simply present. It was a silent bond, an invisible bridge between him and those inexplicable sensations, between him and the other figures he had perceived during the day.

He hadn't spoken to anyone. No one had approached him. But you could no longer feel an invisible ghost like the first time. There was a subtle, imperceptible recognition in the air, an almost palpable tension between him and the other boys, although none of their eyes had met intentionally. It was as if an invisible thread had trenged between them, creating a silent connection, a shared secret that no one was yet fully aware of.

Nooroo got up, the backpack now heavy on his shoulders, but the pace was different. It was no longer just the boy who was running away. It was the boy who had returned, who felt the fear, but also something more. Something ancient, latent, that was slowly awakening inside and around him. And in that mystery, for the first time, there was a glimmer, very weak, of hope.

The days following his return to school were a succession of silent restlessness for Nooroo. Normality appeared as a thin mask, under which sensations and images bubbled that he could not shake off. The nightmares were no longer confined to the night; they began to creep even in the waking hours.

Sometimes, while sitting in class, the professor's words turned into an indistinct whisper, the same otherworldly sound he had heard in his dreams. The text on the blackboard was distorted, the letters stretched, the numbers twisted like snakes. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything came back to normal. They were only fractions of a second, but they were enough to make his blood freeze, to make him doubt his own sanity.

The cold sensation he had felt next to the coin had become a constant companion. It wasn't a cold that was treated with a sweatshirt. It was an inner cold, radiating from his chest, making his fingers numb and goosebumps even in a heated room. He felt it when he was alone, in the silence of his room, but also in the middle of the crowd, as if an invisible shadow followed him, carrying with it a bubble of frost.

One evening, while he was doing his homework, the light of the lamp on his desk flickered. Not a simple intermittent, but a sudden, violent pulsation, as if she were struggling to stay on against an invisible force. And at that moment, the cold in his chest intensified, accompanied by a feeling of emptiness so overwhelming that it took his breath away. He seemed to see, for a moment, the room vanish, replaced by that black abyss of his nightmares.

He passed a hand over his eyes, shaking his head to chase away the vision. When he opened his eyes again, the light had returned to normal, the cold had faded, and the room was the same as always. But the terror had remained, a bitter residue. The coin, on the bedside table, seemed to shine weakly, absorbing the darkness that had surrounded it. The Miraculous, in his pocket, was the only thing that seemed to maintain a sem of balance, emanating a soft warmth that was the only support in that sea of inexplicable sensations.

Nooroo understood that he could no longer ignore him. Something was growing. That "Empty" was not just a night nightmare, nor a simple feeling. He was invading his reality, and felt that he could not resist long alone. The mystery became denser, more present, and with it, the awareness that his life had changed forever.

The next morning light didn't bring relief. For Nooroo, it was just another shade of gray. He had woken up tired, the chills of the nightmare still clinging to his skin like icy dew. The black void seemed to have left a persistent imprint in his mind, and the feeling of cold in his chest never left him completely. The coin, on the bedside table, stared at him with its disturbing opacity, a small black hole in the normality of his room. The Miraculous, on the other hand, in the pocket of the folded sweatshirt on the chair, was the only reassuring weight, a soft warmth that gave it a minimum of grap.

Going to school had been an act of pure will, one step at a time in an attempt to ignore the growing restlessness. But at the end of the lessons, the idea of returning to that silent apartment full of memories suffocated him. He needed noise, people, any distraction that could silence the whispers of the Void.

His steps led him without a real intention to the "Croissant Magique", a crowded bar near the school, a meeting point for many students. The sweet smell of freshly baked croissants and hot coffee sweped the air, a reassuring scent that for a moment loosened the grip in his chest. The place was full, a vibrant buzz of voices, laughter and the jingling of the cups.

Nooroo made his way through the crowded tables, looking for a corner where he could sit without giving in the eye. He found a small free stool at the counter, away from the main crowd. He ordered a hot chocolate, his hands clenched around the cup to absorb that heat.

From his position, he could observe. At the central table, with his unmistakable energy, there was Ziggy. Her light hair moved every time she gestured animatedly, telling something to Kaalki, who sat in front of her with her usual elegant composure. Kaalki listened carefully, a barely perceptible smile on her lips, her blue eyes following her friend's restless movements. Next to them, a girl with fiery red hair and bright eyes, Trixx, who intruded with quick jokes and contagious laughter, and a boy with a surprisingly calm and curious air, Pollen, who nodded thoughtfully at Ziggy's words, sipping his tea.

Not far away, at a more secluded table, there was Mullo. She was alone, intent on leafing through a book with an almost fierce concentration while she was eating a pan au chocolat. Her presence was calm, almost absent, but Nooroo felt that same inexplicable familiarity that he had perceived at school.

And then, from the entrance, Xuppu entered. He wasn't alone. At his side was Stompp and Roarr that Nooroo didn't talk yet, but who seemed to follow Xuppu wherever he went. Xuppu, as usual, was the loudest of the group, his laughter echoing in the club as he teased one of his friends for something. Their eyes didn't meet, but Nooroo felt a wave of nervousness. That laugh... brought him back to his first day.

Nooroo looked down at his chocolate. He was surrounded by them. From those "frequencies" he had begun to perceive. He didn't understand why he felt so connected to people he had hardly ever spoken to, people who seemed to live in a world apart. But the reassuring warmth of the Miraculous in his pocket was a constant call, a secret that only he carried, that bound him to them in a way that went beyond reason.

—————

The din of the "Croissant Magique" began to diminish when Xuppu and his group walked away from the crowded counter. They walked with the typical pace of the boys who are not in a hurry, the laughter and jokes that filled the afternoon air. Stompp, a robust and calm boy, with slow but strong movements, listened with a smile to Xuppu's boasts. Next to him, Roarr, more taciturn and with an air of perennial defiance, limited himself to brief sarcastic comments.

"Did you see the face of that one there when I pretended to stump?" Xuppu burst out laughing, a high-pitched sound that was usually easy for him. "It was like..."

But the laughter stuck in his throat. It wasn't a real laugh. She was forced. He heard the confused looks of Stompp and Roarr.

"What's up, Xup?" Stompp asked, noticing the change in his expression. "Did you swallow a fly?"

Xuppu ran a hand through his hair, the gin that struggled to reform on his face. "Nothing, it's just that... I saw that guy again. The new one. Noooo."

Roarr crossed his arms. "The guy who stripled on the first day? The one you laughed at for ten minutes?" There was an accusatory tone, barely veiled, in his voice.

Xuppu snorted, trying to mask his discomfort. "Yes, him. I just... I don't know. I felt like a fool. When I saw it again today, it wasn't how I remembered it. It seemed... off. And I laughed, didn't I?" The tone was more interrogative than affirmative, an involuntary admission of guilt.

Stompp nodded slowly. "Well, he ran away right after. It wasn't seen until this morning. Maybe he didn't appreciate it."

"Obviously he didn't appreciate it, genius," Roarr said with a shrug. "You made fun of him in front of everyone. Who would do it?"

Xuppu froze, Roarr's words hitting him more than he expected. It was true. He had been an idiot. He felt a strange weight, not only shame, but something deeper, something that resonated in his chest every time he thought of Nooroo. The Miraculous in his pocket seemed to warm up slightly, a sensation he attributed to nervousness.

"I know, I know," murmured Xuppu, his usual scroofy tone completely gone. "It's just that... I don't know how to fix it. I'm not good with excuses. And he seems like the type who doesn't want to have anything to do with anyone." He passed a hand on the back of his neck. "But there's something about him... I don't know. A feeling. As if there was something more. And I feel guilty, a lot."

Stompp patted him on the shoulder. "If you feel guilty, Xup, try talking to him. Maybe not right away, but look for a moment. It's not your thing, I know, but sometimes it's the right thing to do."

Roarr just looked at him, a hint of curiosity in his normally indifferent eyes. "I've never seen you so serious for someone you've only made fun of."

Xuppu didn't answer. His mind was already on Nooroo, and on the mysterious weight he felt growing inside. For the first time, his bravado was not a protection, but an obstacle.

--

At the center table of the "Croissant Magique", Ziggy's energy was contagious. She gestured animatedly, her light hair moving with every emphasis, while telling Kaalki about an idea for a new artistic project that was stirring her head. "And then, Kaalki, we could use oil paints, but with a mixed technique, almost as if the canvas breathed!"

Kaalki listened with his usual elegant calm, a barely hinted smile on his lips. "Interesting, Ziggy. But the composition? And the light? We have to think about balance, you know, about visual harmony." Her voice was calm, a perfect counterpoint to her friend's effervescence.

At that moment, a cheerful and sly voice intruded. "Are you talking about art? Or how Kaalki tries to put a stop to your creative explosion, Ziggy?" It was Trixx, who had approached the table with a tray of brioche, her bright eyes shining with amusement. Next to him, Pollen nodded softly, a gentle smile on his face, as he held two cups of steaming tea in his hand.

"Trixx!" Ziggy exclaimed, an explosion of joy. "Always spying on other people's conversations, huh?"

"I'm not spying, I'm watching," Trixx replied with a grin, taking a seat next to Ziggy. "And then, it's hard not to notice your aura of 'tormented artist' trying to convince the 'master of balance'." He winked at Kaalki, who shook his head with a more pronounced smile.

"It's important to have a clear vision," Kaalki replied with dignity, while appreciating the joke. "And balance is fundamental in every form of art."

"And in life," Pollen added, his voice calm and clear, handing a cup of tea to Kaalki. "Sometimes the impulse is necessary, but reflection saves you from a lot of trouble. Especially if you have an older sister who thinks she knows everything." A fleeting shadow passed through his eyes, a hint of his difficult relationship.

Trixx jumped at the opportunity. "Ah, Pollen and his zen wisdom! But don't forget that a bit of chaos makes things interesting. Otherwise, where would the fun be?" He turned to Ziggy. "Isn't that right, Ziggy? A little healthy unpredictability never hurts."

Ziggy nodded enthusiastically. "That's right! Art is also breakage, not just harmony. But Pollen is right, reflection helps not to destroy everything. It's a difficult balance."

Pollen smiled at Ziggy. "But you're good at finding it, Ziggy. You're much stronger than you think." There was a disarming sincerity in his words, a genuine encouragement that made Ziggy blush slightly.

Nooroo, from his stool to the counter, watched the scene. Their voices mixed, creating a complex harmony of different personalities. Ziggy's liveliness, Kaalki's calmness, Trixx's skit and Pollen's brave sweetness. He felt their "frequencies" vibrate together, a symphony of energies that attracted and confused him at the same time. They were so different, yet there was something that bound them, an invisible thread that Nooroo perceived with increasing clarity, a mystery that became more and more intriguing.

—————-

The afternoon was slowly turning off in a shade of orange and purple, and the air had become cooler as Trixx and Pollen walked down a side street, returning home. The laughter of the "Croissant Magique" had faded, replaced by the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the leaves.

"Ziggy is a volcano of ideas, isn't he?" Pollen commented, his gentle tone, but with a slight fatigue in his voice. "Sometimes I wonder where you get all that energy."

Trixx jumped to dodge a puddle, landing gracefully. "It's because he doesn't need to slow down to think. It's pure instinct. But it's fun to be with her, she always keeps you awake." His gaze flashed upwards, towards the branches of the trees that intertwined above their heads. There was always something in his expression that suggested a secret, an unspoken thought.

"You think too fast instead, Trixx," Pollen said with a sweet smile, reading his mind as often happened to her. "Sometimes you seem to be in a world of your own, following paths that only you see. I wouldn't surprise if you decide to follow your father's path, he is the best detective of Paris!"

Trixx looked at her sidewningly "Nah, it's nothing, I just let my mind having fun and I don't know if I want to become a detective, I stil need time to decide."

Suddenly, a loud rustle of wings came from a nearby tree. A frightened pigeon threw itself away, flying in a zigzag between the branches. Trixx looked up, a flash of curiosity in his eyes. He followed the flight of the bird with an almost animal concentration. For a moment, it seemed to him that the pigeon was not flying, but rather moving in a series of small invisible "jumps", almost teleports of a few centimeters, imperceptible to normal vision. A strange feeling pervaded his mind, like a sudden intuition.

"What a strange flight," murmured Pollen, who had noticed the same thing. "Almost... unnatural." It was rare that she, usually so pragmatic, made such an observation. She felt a wave of anxiety, a feeling of "wrong" that was squeezing in her stomach. Trixx's attention, usually turned to others, focused on a strange bright spider web hanging from a branch, a plot so perfect and complex that it seemed almost magical.

Trixx shook his head, trying to ignore the strange feeling. "It's the wind, or maybe he drank too much coffee at the Croissant Magique," he joked, trying to regain his usual light tone. But it wasn't convincing. His eyes followed the pigeon until it disappeared on the horizon. There was something familiar about that fragmented movement, something that resonated with his most disturbing dreams.

Pollen shrugged his shoulders, a slight tremor, and looked away from the spider web. They both felt an inexplicable thrill, a thin layer of cold that enveloped them for a moment, even though the sun was still setting. They were fleeting sensations, inexplicable, but that left them with a strange curiosity and a sense of discomfort.

—————

Nooroo's POV

During a lession...the air in the history classroom was heavy, impregnated with the smell of old chalk and the monotonous voice of the professor talking about the French Revolution. The hands of the clock seemed to move in slow motion, and most students struggled with afternoon sleep.

Nooroo, sitting in his usual place at the back, was tense. The inner cold that haunted him had intensified in the last few days, and every now and then his eyes blurred for an instant, as if reality was dissolving at the edges. The coin in the pocket of the sweatshirt seemed to pulsate weakly, an echo of his own fears.

Suddenly, without warning, the ceiling neon lights began to flicker violently. It wasn't a simple failure. It seemed that the electricity itself was going crazy, the lamps turning on and off intermittently quickly, creating a strobe effect that made it difficult to distinguish the figures. A high-pitched buzz filled the room, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of the earth.

At the same time, a sudden wave of frost hit the classroom. It wasn't the cold of an open window or a broken air conditioner; it was an intense, almost sharp cold that seemed to suck the heat out of the skin, making it shiver to the bones.

The professor interrupted, confused, trying to understand what was going on. The boys murmured, some rubbed their arms, others looked at the lights with wide eyes.

Mullo, sitting a few benches away from Nooroo, felt the frost penetrate her bones. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a sudden and inexplicable sense of emptiness that squeezed her chest. It wasn't just physical cold; it was as if a piece of her, or the world around her, had dissolved for a moment. She opened her eyes and saw the lights going crazy, but in a flash it seemed to her that the shadows in the corner of the room were stretching and contracting abnormally, almost dancing.

Kaalki looked up from his notebook with an expression of concentration, not panic. His clear eyes moved quickly, analyzing the phenomenon. The high-pitched buzz of the lights seemed to distort the sounds of the classroom, as if the voices were far away, in a tunnel. The cold hit her, but she interpreted it as an electric shock, an unusual short circuit. However, he felt a strange disharmony in the air, something that disturbed his sense of order and harmony.

Ziggy, who was scribbling with fervor on his notebook, raised his head in a snap. The sudden storm of lights and the cold made her shudder. His restless energy turned into a palpable restlessness, almost an uncontrollable fear. She seemed to hear a weak, indistinct whisper, which mixed with the buzz of the lights, as if something was trying to attract her attention from the wrong size. He tightened his arms to his chest, trying to stop the tremor.

Even Xuppu, sitting in the front rows, stopped making fun of his neighbor. His smin melted. The sudden cold and flickering of the lights made him shudder. He didn't like situations that he couldn't control or undramatize. He felt a strange feeling of vertigo, as if the floor was shaking under his feet, even though it was motionless. His eyes searched for those of Stompp and Roarr, looking for an explanation, but they too seemed confused.

Nooroo, at the center of everything, felt the coin vibrate violently in his pocket. The heat of the Miraculous intensified, almost burning his skin. The lights went crazy, the cold pierced him, and the black void of his nightmares seemed to fly over the window. He felt them. He felt them all. Ziggy's panic, Mullo's restlessness, Kaalki's cold analysis, Xuppu's disorientation. They were all there, struck by something they didn't understand, but Nooroo recognized. It was the Void, which was manifested, and they, somehow, were influenced by it. His hand convulsively squeezed the Miraculous, almost trying to hold on to the only thing that seemed to resonate with the truth of that moment.

The phenomenon lasted only about ten seconds. Then, with a sharp snap, the lights stabilized, the buzzing stopped, and the cold began to fade, leaving behind only the warm air of the class. The professor coughed embarrassed. "A short circuit, I suppose. Well, where were we...?"

But no one had really returned to class. The boys' eyes met, full of a shared confusion. Everyone had heard and seen something strange, but no one could explain it. And Nooroo, most of all, knew that that was just the beginning.

——————-

Xuppu's POV

The history classroom had returned to its apparent normality, but the echo of the cold and the crazy lights persisted in Xuppu's mind. He was shaking on the chair, his foot beating a nervous rhythm. The professor had resumed talking about the Revolution, but his words seemed to come from a distant world, devoid of any meaning.

His usual smin had completely disappeared, replaced by a contracted grimace, a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He didn't like not understanding. He didn't like feeling helpless. That sudden cold, that buzzing of the lights... it wasn't normal. It wasn't a short circuit.

He barely turned around, his eyes looking for Nooroo at the back of the classroom. He saw it. Sitting, motionless, his gaze lost out of the window, as if that event had only confirmed it in something he already knew. A cold shiver, unrelated to temperature, ran down Xuppu's back. There was something in Nooroo, something that seemed to be related to that class incident. He had felt it on the first day, that strange resonance. And now, again.

"What the hell was that?" He whispered to Roarr, who was sitting next to him.

Roarr shrugged his shoulders. "I don't. Short, I guess. A drop in tension."

"No," Xuppu replied, shaking his head decisively. "It wasn't a short. Did you feel the cold? It was... as if someone had opened a giant refrigerator in the classroom." And then that sense of vertigo. It was real. His Miraculous, in his jacket pocket, seemed unexpectedly heavy, almost a small lead, an unusual feeling that he attributed to his nervousness.

During the lesson, he found himself sneaking glances at Nooroo. That boy was an enigma, an easy target for his jokes, but now... now he was something more. It was connected to something strange, inexplicable, something that he was starting to touch too.

At the exit, while the crowd of students scattered in the corridor, Xuppu felt restless. His friends told him about video games and plans for the afternoon, but he couldn't concentrate. The scene in the classroom came back to his mind, and with it, the image of Nooroo, so pale, so distant, yet so... important, somehow inexplicable.

"I have to... I have to do something," he said abruptly to his friends, walking away without waiting for answers. He heard them call him, confused, but he didn't turn around. He needed to understand. He needed to understand what was going on, and he felt that the key, somehow, was that shy and lonely boy. The sense of guilt for the stupid laugh of the first day was now amplified by a greater restlessness, a reminder that he could no longer escape.

Xuppu walked along the corridor, his step unusually uncertain for someone like him. He had told his friends that he had to "do something", but the truth was that he had a knot in his stomach. He wasn't used to apologizing, much less approaching someone he had clearly made uncomfortable. But the image of Nooroo in class, so isolated, and the memory of that sudden cold, had planted a fixed idea in his head.

He saw Nooro a little further ahead, intent on rummaging through the cabinet, his back turned towards him. He seemed even smaller, more fragile than he remembered. Xuppu approached, every step resounding too loudly in the corridor that was emptying. His heart was beating a strange rhythm, not out of fear, but of the unusual combination of nervousness and a curiosity that he could not turn off.

"Hey... Nooroo," said Xuppu, his voice more hoarse and less scarous than usual. The words seemed out of place, too loud for the silence that had been created.

Nooroo froze, his hand still on the handle of the cabinet. He turned slowly, his eyes big and guarding that landed on Xuppu. There was no surprise, just a deep caution.

Xuppu immediately felt uncomfortable, his cheeks warming up slightly. "Uhm... hello," he stammered, trying to recover his usual nonchalance, but failing miserably. He cleared his throat. "Listen, about the other day... the first day. When you stripped and I..."

He interrupted, embarrassed. He couldn't find the right words. He wanted to say "I'm sorry", but the sound was dying in his throat.

Nooroo stared at him, his expression imperturbable, almost indecipherable. He was waiting.

"Here," Xuppu continued, forcing the words. "It was stupid. I shouldn't have laughed. It wasn't fun at all. I... I'm sorry. Really." The last words came out almost like a whisper. It was the hardest thing he had ever said. He felt the Miraculous in his pocket, a light weight that seemed to resonate with the tension of the moment.

A long silence lay between them, dense and heavy. Nooroo didn't answer right away. His eyes went down for a moment on Xuppu's hand, which was tight to his side, almost looking for a foothold. Somehow, he perceived the sincerity behind the clumsy words, the unusual vulnerability of Xuppu. And at that moment, he felt that frequency again, that strange resonance that bound him to the others.

In the end, Nooroo nodded slowly, an almost imperceptible movement. There was no smile, there was no explicit forgiveness, but not even anger. Just a tacit acceptance. "Okay," he said, his voice low, almost a breath. Then he turned back to the locker, going back to arranging his things.

Xuppu felt as if he had climbed a mountain. A sigh of relief that he did not expect escaped him. "Okay... good. So..." He didn't know what to say next. He had done his part.

But then, another thing flashed in his mind. That sudden cold in class. "You hear, speaking of before, in class... that cold. Did you hear it too?" He asked, the voice that returned to being an urgent curiosity.

Nooroo straightened up, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly to the side of his sweatshirt, where the Miraculous rested. His eyes rose, meeting Xuppu's for a moment, and in that look there was a shadow of something that Xuppu couldn't decipher. A recognition, maybe. But before Xuppu could insist, Nooroo closed the locker with a slight click, and without saying a word, he walked away down the corridor, leaving Xuppu alone again with his questions.

Xuppu watched him walk away, a mixture of frustration and a strange satisfaction. He had at least tried. And his last question had not been answered, but Nooroo's gaze had said enough. Something big was going on, and Nooroo knew more than he could see. His Miraculous in his pocket seemed to vibrate, as if confirming his intuitions.

—————-

The days after the incident in the classroom, and the clumsy attempt to apologize, Nooroo had felt a subtle change in the air around him. Xuppu's attention, although still hidden behind a facade of indifference, was perceptible. It was no longer a superficial curiosity, but something deeper, almost an attempt at understanding. The sensations of the Void were persistent, but the presence of the Miraculous in the inside pocket of his sweatshirt gave him a glimmer of stability, a warmth that intensified each time the "frequencies" of others became more evident.

It was during lunchtime, in the chaos of the canteen, that the second approach took place. Nooro was sitting at his usual isolated table, slowly chewing his sandwich, trying to ignore the buzz that surrounded him.

Suddenly, someone's shadow fell on him. He looked up and saw Xuppu standing next to his table, a tray of food in his hand. There wasn't the usual cheeky grin on his face; in his place, an unusual combination of embarrassment and determination.

"Can I... can I sit down?" Xuppu asked, pointing to the empty chair in front of Nooroo. His voice was lower than usual, almost uncertain.

Nooroo stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide and watchful. He wasn't used to these attentions. He wasn't used to being seen. He nodded slowly, barely moving the tray.

Xuppu sat down, dropping the tray with a thud. He passed a hand on the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "So... uhm... everything okay?" The question sounded flat, banal.

Nooroo just shrugged his shoulders. "Yes."

Another embarrassing silence lay between them, filled only by the chatter of the canteen. Xuppu drummed with his fingers on the table, looking for the right words.

"Look," Xuppu began, his gaze lowering on his untouched food. "What happened in class... the lights, the cold. It wasn't normal, was it?" He raised his eyes, looking for confirmation in Nooroo. It wasn't a rhetorical question; it was a real search for answers. "You heard it more, didn't you?"

Nooroo stiffened. It was the first time that someone asked him directly about his perceptions. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, clutching the Miraculous. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about," he murmured, trying to maintain a facade of indifference, but his voice was a thread.

Xuppu looked at him intensely, his gaze penetrating. "Yes, you know. Don't play dumb, Nooroo. That stuff... that cold... wasn't a short circuit. And you seemed... you seemed to know him. As if you expected it." Xuppu leaned forward, his voice lower. "There's something wrong, right? And you have something to do with it in some way."

Sincerity, almost despair, in Xuppu's tone took Nooroo by surprise. It was the first time that someone faced it with such intuition. At that moment, he felt not only Xuppu's curiosity, but also a subtle vein of fear, the same one he felt. And that frequency, that resonance with others, became stronger, almost a call.

Nooroo pulled back, his barrier had risen again. He couldn't reveal anything. He didn't know what was going on, let alone explain it. "I don't know anything," he said, his voice now firm, cold. He stood up, the sandwich still half eaten. "Sorry. I have... I'm done."

Xuppu watched him walk away, a mixture of frustration and a new, unusual, determination in his eyes. Nooro hadn't said anything, but his reaction, his stiffening, his elusive look, had said enough. There was something. And Xuppu, for the first time, felt somehow... involved. The search for the truth had just begun.

--

The next day, the atmosphere in the school was charged with an unusual tension. The voices got sharper, the steps faster. There was an underground nervousness, almost a wait, that escaped understanding. Many students had gathered in the large library room for their lunch break, looking for a quiet corner or a table to study in a group.

Nooroo had hunged in his usual corner, immersed in a book, but his attention was all focused on the feverish pulsation of the Miraculous in his pocket. The coin, in his backpack, felt, felt his presence, like a weight that pressed against the fabric, emanating a constant and disturbing cold.

In the center of the room, Ziggy was enthusiastically showing some of his new sketches to Kaalki, Trixx and Pollen. "Look at this!" He exclaimed, pointing to an abstract drawing. "Isn't that fantastic? It came to my mind this morning, after that very strange dream..."

"Still those fragmented dreams?" Trixx asked, a raised eyebrow, his usual grin this time veiled by an unusual seriousness. He too had noticed an escalation in his strange visions.

Before Ziggy could answer, a low and deep buzz began to spread. It didn't come from the lights, but it seemed to come from the floor, from the walls, resonating all the way into the bones. The ceiling lights did not flicker, but slowly diminished in intensity, as if a dark cloud had passed over the sun, creating a dull, almost unreal atmosphere. At the same time, a wave of even more intense cold than the one in the classroom spread. This time, it was a frost that made even the most stoic tremble, a cold that burned the skin and tightened the lungs.

A murmur of concern arose among the students. Someone dropped a book, a glass spilled. The sound of the voices lowered, replaced by a silence full of fear.

Mullo, sitting at a nearby table, squeezed into her scarf. His eyes widened. It wasn't just cold. It was a sense of loss, a void that expanded, as if something precious was sucked away from reality itself. It seemed to her that the contours of the objects around her vanished for a moment, leaving only an indistinct shadow.

Kaalki straightened up, his elegant face contracted in an expression of deep alertness. His sense of harmony was completely violated. The columns in the library seemed to bend slightly, the straight lines dancing, and the shelves appeared strangely inclined. A spatial distortion that his analytical mind could not process.

Ziggy, whose energy usually prevented her from standing still, was now motionless, her eyes wide. His body trembled uncontrollably. He didn't just feel the cold; he felt his own life force, his joy, getting weaker, sucked away. She seemed to hear a distant moan, a silent cry that no one else seemed to perceive.

Trixx took a hand to his chin, his usual sagacity replaced by an expression of pure perplexity. The air seemed to vibrate, creating an effect of visual distortion that made the other students appear as blurred figures, almost out of focus. His mind, so fast, struggled to find a logical explanation, but there was none. It was as if reality was playing a bad joke, and he couldn't understand the rules.

Pollen, usually composed like this, felt the frost penetrate inside her. A wave of deep sadness and loneliness caught her, not hers, but almost an echo of universal anguish. His eyes fell on a younger boy who was crying silently in a corner, and he instinctively moved towards him, an impulse of protection, as if perceiving his acute vulnerability.

Even Xuppu, sitting with Stompp and Roarr at a nearby table, was hit. The cold made him shudder. And that feeling of vertigo that he had felt in class, was now more intense, almost to make him lose his balance. He looked at Stompp, who was rubbing his arms, and Roarr, who seemed annoyed but also slightly upset. "This story again," Xuppu murmured, his eyes instinctively searching for Nooroo at the back of the room.

Nooroo, from his corner, felt the coin in his backpack pulsating with a frightening force, radiating an almost unbearable cold. The Miraculous in his pocket was incandescent, an alarm pulse. Mullo's emptiness, Kaalki's disharmony, Ziggy's weakness, Trixx's distortions, Pollen's sadness, Xuppu's vertigo. They were all connected, all affected by the same, inexorable, advance of the Void. And for a moment, in the echo of that frightening silence, his mind caught fragments of a single, heartfying lament that seemed to come from a place beyond the world.

The phenomenon lasted longer this time, almost a whole minute. Then, slowly, the lights resumed their full intensity, the buzz went out, and the cold began to retreat, leaving behind a silent room and a palpable feeling of fear and confusion. No one knew what had happened. But everyone felt that it had not been a coincidence.

The buzz had ceased, the cold had receded, and the lights in the library had returned to their full intensity. But the air was still full of an unsaid fear. The students murmured, looking around with wide eyes, looking for an explanation.

At the middle table, Ziggy had his arms clasped to his chest, his limbs still shaken by an uncontrollable tremor. "What... what the hell was it?" His voice was a whisper, the impetuous energy usually so present, now extinguished.

Kaalki had regained his composure, but only with difficulty. His clear eyes continued to probe the room, as if he were looking for the flaw in a perfect drawing. "Not a short circuit," he said firmly, his voice colder than usual. "The visual and thermal anomalies were too... coordinated. It's not a common phenomenon." His analytical mind rejected the simplest explanation, but he had no valid alternatives.

"I felt as if... as if joy was running away from me," Ziggy murmured, his eyes filling with unexpressed tears. "As if a shadow wanted to take me."

Pollen gently took her hand, her comforting touch. "I felt immense sadness too, Ziggy. It wasn't me, but... as if it belonged to someone else." His voice was low, but firm. His protective instinct had awakened in the face of that collective vulnerability.

"And the things that were deformed!" Trixx exclaimed, his tone an unusual mix of excitement and restlessness. "Did you see the lines on the shelves? It was as if the space was bending! Fantastic, but terrifying!" His curious spirit was excited by the strangeness, but his rational mind struggled to box the experience. "I think I need a good coffee. Or maybe an exorcist." He tried to re-dramatize, but his laughter sounded forced.

Not far away, Mullo got up, her face pale. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were full of an ancient concern. She had felt the void more deeply than the others, a vertigo that pulled her towards an unknown abyss. She silently walked away from the library, his quick and determined steps, as if trying to escape from a truth that no one else seemed to want to face.

Meanwhile, Xuppu was sitting at his table, Stompp and Roarr arguing animatedly about how "strong" or "strange" the event had been. But Xuppu didn't participate. His eyes were fixed on Nooroo's back, who was hurrying out of the library. He was the only one who didn't seem surprised, just more tense. "That guy," Xuppu murmured to himself, "he knows something." His conversation with Nooroo in the cafeteria came back to his mind, his denial so firm. His curiosity, now mixed with a sense of urgency, ignited.

--

Tikki's POV

Meanwhile, in Tikki’s quiet room, far from the cold dread of Nooroo’s apartment, Maari zipped nervously through the air. Her movements were sharp and erratic, like a skipping heartbeat, a tiny tempest reflecting the turmoil in the room. Tikki, awake despite the late hour, sat cross-legged on her bed, clutching a small, half-burnt old photograph in her trembling hands. The edges were scorched black, and the face of the boy in the image was partially obscured, yet it drew her gaze with an irresistible force.

"It's getting stronger, Maari," Tikki whispered, her voice tight, a tremor deep within her chest that mirrored the subtle vibrations in the air. "I have the feeling...something is coming and also this photograph we talked about when we first found this. It's cold and insistent, chilling me to the bone."

Maari landed softly on Tikki's outstretched palm, her tiny form radiating a warmth that struggled to counteract the pervasive chill Tikki felt. "It's more than a feeling, Tikki," Maari confirmed, her antennae drooping with a profound understanding. "And this photograph is a memory imprinted on the very fabric of reality, an echo of an act, perhaps of great despair or immense power, that occurred where this photograph was taken." She looked at the smudged image. "The energies tied to this photograph are waking up. They're pulling on something ancient, something dark, that stirs whenever this image is near."

Tikki closed her eyes, a shiver racking her frame despite the warmth of her blankets. The image of the boy, even obscured, seemed to burn behind her eyelids, a silent plea. "He's connected to it, isn't he? The boy in this photo... he’s at the center of it all. I can feel it..a pull, like an invisible string drawing me in." Her eyes snapped open, a new, fierce resolve hardening her expression. "And tomorrow, I have school again. I don't even know if Nooroo will come back." Her gaze drifted to a notebook open on her desk, filled with colorful sketches and lists. "I still have the welcome party plans for him, all sketched out. I imagined bright streamers, little ladybug cookies, maybe even a small banner saying 'Welcome, Nooroo!' It was going to be small, just the class, a way to show him he belonged. But he just... disappeared." A wave of concern washed over her face. "He seemed so lost that day, Maari. So fragile. I wanted to help him then, to make him feel safe, to make him smile, but I didn't know how to reach him."

She tightened her grip on the photograph, pressing it against her heart. "I have to go back, Maari. To the school. It’s the only place I can think of where this photo might lead me to answers. If this boy is truly connected to this encroaching darkness, then I need to find him. It's like he's calling to me, a silent plea I can't ignore. I need to understand what's happening, to find out if I can help him. Or if I can stop whatever this is before it spreads, before it swallows everything." Her voice, though still quiet, gained an unyielding firmness. "I can't just sit here and let this 'despair' engulf our world. It feels like... my purpose. And maybe, just maybe, this is my chance to finally reach out, to make things right with Nooroo."

Maari remained silent for a long moment, her small eyes filled with concern, yet also a deep respect for Tikki’s resolve. She nudged Tikki’s hand gently, a gesture of unwavering support. "Then we face it together, Tikki," she finally said, her eyes meeting Tikki's with shared determination. "As we always do."

The two remained entwined in silence, a profound sense of foreboding settling over them, yet mingled now with a spark of fierce resolve. Tikki looked at the photograph one last time, the boy's obscured face a haunting challenge, no longer just a mystery but a personal mission intertwined with a forgotten promise of kindness. They had only fragments of a clue, a burnt image and a chilling coming but it was enough to know that the dangerous game of echoes,feelings or resonance had begun, and Tikki was now fully committed to entering its treacherous depths.

—————-

The silence of the apartment had returned, but for Nooroo it was no longer a refuge. It was an echo, an emptiness that expanded, resonating with what he felt inside himself. After the library, he had hurried back home, desperately looking for a glimmer of normality that he could no longer find. His mind was a whirlwind of images and sensations: the buzz, the cold, the frightened faces of his companions, the resonances he heard from his Miraculous.

He had hid in his room. The coin, on the bedside table, was almost black, a small vortex of darkness that seemed to pulsate weakly, radiating a cold so intense that it made him shiver even under the heaviest sweatshirt. It was the source, the door, he felt it. And the Miraculous, in his pocket, was incandescent, as if to scream, to want to warn him.

He sat on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, and took out the Miraculous. It was a simple metal jewel, yet its energy was palpable, a heat that propagated in its palm. It wasn't just an object. It was a bond, a key. And Nooroo felt that, somehow, it was the only thing that could counter the Void that was advancing.

He closed his eyes, trying to silence the confusion in his mind. But the silence was not silent. He still felt the resonances of others: Ziggy's latent anxiety, Kaalki's inner disharmony, Mullo's sense of loss, Trixx and Pollen's curious confusion, and even Xuppu's restlessness. They were all there, unaware, struck by a danger that only he, for some reason, perceived with such clarity.

He opened his eyes. He looked at the Miraculous in his hand and then at the coin on the bedside table. Two opposing poles, two forces at play. He couldn't hide anymore. The Void was not something he could ignore or that would disappear on his own. He was growing, getting stronger, affecting everyone. And he was the only one who seemed to understand it, the only one who had a tool to deal with it.

A decision made its way into his mind, clear and unequivocal, despite the fear. He wasn't the type to act, he wasn't the type to take the initiative. But this was different. It was a responsibility, a call that he could no longer ignore.

Nooroo squeezed the Miraculous tightly, his expression now determined. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how. But he knew he couldn't stand still anymore. It was time to act. It was time to discover the truth about the currency, about the Void, and the bond that united him and the others.

The determination he had heard holding the Miraculous in his hand had not vanished with the night. Indeed, it had solidified, turning into an unexpected hunger for answers. Nooroo woke up with a sense of urgency that he had never felt before. The cold persisted, the coin on the bedside table almost seemed to call him with its darkness, but now he was not paralyzed by fear. He was driven by a necessity.

After school, instead of rushing back to the disturbing silence of his apartment, Nooroo headed to the city's public library, an ancient and imposing building, much larger than the school one. It was a place that, despite its size, offered a sense of anonymity and refuge.

He came in, the fresh air and the smell of aged paper enveloping him. He made his way through the shelves, his mind looking for a direction. What should he have looked for? "Empty"? "Inexplicable cold"? It seemed absurd. But his instinct guided him.

He stopped in front of the mythology and folklore section, and then again in that of esotericism and forgotten legends. It was a starting point, perhaps. He began to leaf through dusty volumes, looking for key words that resonated with his experiences: "shadows", "disappeared", "ancient evils", "cursed ofed subjects", "primordial entities". Every now and then, his gaze rested on illustrations of fantastic creatures or enigmatic symbols, but nothing seemed to match the oppressive feeling of the Void.

While leafing through a massive tome on oriental legends, his hand slipped on the cover of another book, smaller and less flashy, almost hidden. The title was in an ancient language, but a symbol engraved in a stylized font, which had seemed familiar to him since day one, caught his attention: the symbol he had seen as a fragment in his nightmares, the one that seemed carved in dark rock.

He opened the book with trembling hands. The pages were yellowed, the text thick. He began to read, his breathing became more breathy. He spoke of primordial spirits, of cosmic forces that embodied abstract concepts and of a universal balance to be maintained. And then, a paragraph that made his blood freeze. He described an ancient threat, a formless entity, a "Devouring Void", which sought to consume existence itself, leaving behind only nothingness and an unbearable cold. The text also mentioned objects, "catalysts", which could serve as portals or calls for this entity, objects that vibrated with an energy opposite to that of the "sacred relics" used to maintain balance.

Nooroo felt the Miraculous in his pocket vibrate strongly, almost confirming every word. It was a catalyst. And the Void... was real. It wasn't a hallucination, it wasn't madness. It was a real threat, an ancient entity that was awakening.

His mind was running. His companions. Their "frequencies". They were somehow linked to those "sacred relics" that the book talked about, or they were sensitive to the same forces that protected from that Void, just like him. They were all in danger. And he, Nooroo, with his Miraculous, was the only one who knew the truth. The weight of responsibility fell on him with overwhelming force, but now it wasn't just fear. It was also a clear, albeit terrifying, understanding.

Chapter 15: Chapter 14 ~The keepers of not yet~

Summary:

Chapter 14 sees Tikki return to school, battling personal unease over the mysterious photograph and her unfulfilled desire to help Nooroo. As the "resonance" intensifies, she navigates anxious interactions with friends, realizing that the world around her is subtly but fundamentally changing, urging her to seek answers beyond the ordinary.

Notes:

Hey Guys! I know I said I would publish 3 chapters yesterday but for this chapter I wanted to add something else, another scene but now it’s ready.
Enjoy ☺️

~The Keepers of not yet~  

Opening: Ladybug PV  

The library's breath was ancient, a dense stillness that only time and knowledge could distill. There was no modern noise, just the rustle of parchment under knowing fingers, the slow glide of pages revealing millennial secrets, and the warm light pouring from oil lanterns hanging from the low, curved ceiling, casting flickering dances on the piles of tombs.

Wayzz was kneeling on a dark red rug, the Grimoire open before him, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture of deep concentration. Fuu floated beside him in silence, his presence a bubble of anticipation. They hadn't spoken for hours, not from weariness, but from reverent respect for what was happening.

The book, the ancient pulsing heart of their knowledge, had begun to respond. Not with new words, not with direct messages, but with ancient ones that shifted order, recombined, revealing meanings that had remained sealed for centuries.

"The text is reorganizing itself," Fuu murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper that didn't want to break the spell of the moment.

Wayzz nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the pages. "It's not revealing... but it's not hiding anymore either." A cold shiver ran down his spine as the incomplete spiral on the bottom margin of a parchment page – traced centuries earlier, an unsolved enigma that no Keeper had managed to decipher – trembled slightly. Not from active magic, not from a unleashed spell, but from resonance. As if an ancient current had just been activated, and the book itself felt its echo.

Wayzz spoke for the first time after a long silence, his voice hoarser than usual. "We always believed the Lumina Rite was a ritual call." His fingers delicately brushed the spiral, feeling its subtle vibration. "But what if it's instead... a response?"

Fuu slowly turned towards him, his eyes, usually bright with wisdom, clouded with a shadow Wayzz hadn't seen on him for centuries. It was the color of ancient memory, and of a primordial fear that harked back to forgotten times. "A response to what?" the Kwami whispered.

"To the beats," Wayzz clarified, his voice barely a breath. "Not heartbeats. But the beats of the bond that unites the Soul to the Source, and the Source to those destined to bear its weight." He was referring to the nineteen total beats in the network, as per ancient prophecy, but he focused on the most recent detail: "So far, a resonance is rising and it starting to take a form"

A dense silence fell in the room, a silence that Wayzz felt almost breathing. Then Fuu, shaking slightly, posed the question that hung in the air like a pronouncement. "And what if one of them... is already calling it without meaning to?"

In that instant, the lantern closest to them extinguished itself, swallowing a portion of the room in shadow. The Grimoire, with a slow and majestic movement, closed on its own, its ancient pages sealing with a soft sound. The darkness didn't catch them unprepared, but the silence that followed the closing of the book was different, charged with a new, palpable urgency. Wayzz didn't move, his eyes fixed on the spot where the lantern had gone out. "Then there's only one thing we must do..." his voice was low, but imbued with an iron determination.

Fuu looked at him, a mute promise of vigilance in his eyes. The waiting was over. "Don't awaken anything. But listen to everything..even to the resonance."

--

The main door creaked as always, but this time the sound seemed drier, almost a hollow thud in the dense air. Perhaps it was just his nerves, frayed from a day that had stretched too long within the school walls.

Nooroo pushed open the apartment door and closed it behind him, leaning for an instant against the cold wall. The hallway was immersed in that suspended light of late afternoon, when the sun's rays rested on everything like golden dust, revealing tiny particles dancing in the still air. The silence was real, profound, broken only by his own breath.

Marisa hadn't returned yet.

He took a few steps, slowly, as if the wooden floor beneath his feet had changed since yesterday, made alien by a new perception. His heart beat strangely. No longer faster from anxiety, no longer weaker from fear. Simply... different. It wasn't a single beat, but a subtle echo, a reverberation he felt resonating not just in his chest, but in every fiber of his being.

Once, he would have thought it was just anxiety, a resurfacing of old traumas. Not now. Not since he'd felt that vibration subtle, pulsating, alive flowing through his entire body when "someone else had responded without knowing it." The memory struck him again, not just in his mind but in his bones. A warm, almost electric tingling that had descended from his head to his feet, enveloping him in an undeniable certainty. He is not longer alone. He felt this resonance in his veins, something special.

He dropped his backpack onto the sofa with a sigh and approached the window, barely parting the curtain. Outside, Paris flowed as always: cars whizzing by, silent bicycles, children returning with their parents, their cheerful voices a striking contrast to the quiet of his apartment. But beneath the surface of that everyday life, Nooroo perceived another music. Another rhythm. Older. Deeper.

"We're here. Even if I don't know why I am feeling this resonance and my connection to you." he murmured to the cold glass. It wasn't magic in the traditional sense, not that of explosions or flights. It was something deeper. An emotional weaving, an invisible thread that bound them, as if their souls were learning to resonate in unison.

"And am I... part of it?" He lowered his gaze to his hands. The same hands that had obeyed Eiichi for too long, trapped in a darkness that had almost annihilated him. And the same hands that, with an unexpected act of courage, had freed Marisa, breaking the chains of the past. "I can't pretend that's enough," he whispered, referring to the liberation. "But I can continue to choose."

He entered his room, his steps uncertain. He opened the drawer where he had carefully placed all the photographs (among them Ladybug had found a burnt one) and his own was still intact, the image of the symbol clear and sharp. But now, looking at it, Nooroo noticed a detail that had escaped him for months: a thin, almost invisible, vein of shadow snaked along the edge of the circle, like a dark root trying to corrupt the perfect form. A mark left by Eiichi's hand, or a reflection of what had happened, of his own complicity?

He looked at it for a long time, sitting on the edge of the bed. It was there that he felt something. Not a sound. Not a whisper. Just... a pause. A moment of absence in the world's rhythm, as if time had stopped to breathe. And at that exact instant, the small ornament on his desk—a carved wooden horse crafted by Marisa—wobbled by a millimeter, almost falling. His ring on his finger suddenly grew warm, a warmth that wasn't from his body, but from something responding, from a bond tightening.

"It's as if someone had walked on a pressure point," he thought, his breath stuck in his throat. Not only in his mind. Something had happened, outside, a remote but unequivocal echo. And for a moment, closing his eyes, Nooroo heard a vague echo of sensations that did not belong to him: a rustle of burnt paper, the buzzing of a light going out, the distant noise of a lock that clicked. Images and perceptions that he knew, somehow inexplicable, had been sent to him.

He got up and grabbed the diary he was keeping hidden under the mattress. It wasn't magical, just badly bound paper, but it was his, a refuge for his most secret thoughts. He opened it. Halfway through, he found a white, intact page, which seemed to be waiting for him.

He wrote a word:

"Connection?"

Then below, the awareness that was now undeniable:

"I don't know why but I feel it's very important."

And still below, smaller, almost a warning to himself:

"We're not ready yet. Who are we, these 'beats'? Are we someone else's pawns, or instruments of a greater force? We're not ready yet, yet time doesn't wait."

He closed the diary.

He lying on the bed. He looked at the ceiling, his thoughts running as fast as shadows. "I won't call anyone. Not yet." The fear of making mistakes, of attracting Eiichi's attention, was still too strong. "But I'll listen to everything."

And as the light slowly descended on the room, swallowing the last golden traces, Nooroo closed his eyes. The heartbeat was still there. Not in the heart, not just in the chest. But inside everything alive.

--

Tikki's POV

The next morning announced itself with an uncertain light, barely filtering through the half-closed blinds. Tikki moved with unusual slowness, the weight of the spiral and all the resonance thing, the echo of the "cold hum" still resonating in her mind. It wasn't just the uncharacteristically early hour that made her so clumsy, but the feeling that the day awaiting her wouldn't be like the usual ones.

Maari, curled up in a corner of the pillow, fluttered with a small yawn. "Are you still thinking about yesterday?" she asked, her tiny voice filled with a worry that Tikki felt deep down.

Tikki nodded, grabbing her brush and slowly beginning to untangle her red hair. "Yes, Maari. The photo... and that feeling. It's like the world has become thinner, as if there's something behind the veil we can't fully see." She paused, her gaze lost for a moment in thought. "And then there's Nooroo. That party I never threw... I feel like I should do more."

Maari perched on her shoulder. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your small shoulders, Tikki. You're already doing a lot."

"Maybe," Tikki replied, a small, strained smile, "but sometimes enough isn't everything." She stood up, heading towards the closet. "I have to go back to school, Maari. I need to understand."

A few minutes later, Tikki walked downstairs with her backpack on. The aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the kitchen, a comforting scent of normalcy.

"Tikki, darling, are you sure you feel well enough to go back today?" her mother asked, her face marked by slight apprehension. She placed a hand on Tikki's forehead, an affectionate gesture that Tikki didn't shrug off. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine, Mom, really," Tikki replied, forcing a more convincing smile. "Just a bit tired. I rested well."

Her father, meanwhile, handed her a glass of orange juice. "If you feel sick, call us right away, okay? Don't be a hero." There was affection and concern in his voice.

"I won't, I promise," Tikki said, taking a sip. That small family ritual gave her unexpected strength. It was a root in the unstable ground of her recent discoveries. "See you later!"

She left the house, the fresh morning air brushing her face. As she headed towards school, her heart beat with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. She wasn't alone for long.

"Tikki! Hey, Tikki!" Someone shouted.

She heard Pollen's clear voice from behind her. She turned, seeing Pollen and Trixx running towards her, their backpacks swinging on their backs. Pollen hugged her tightly, almost taking her breath away.

"Are you okay? We haven't seen you for two days!" Pollen exclaimed, pulling back and scrutinizing her with bright eyes. "You had us worried! Did something happen?"

Trixx, more measured, gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Yeah, we thought something serious happened. Were you sick?"

Tikki offered a smile, a bit strained but sincere in her gratitude for their concern. "I'm fine, guys, really. Just... I haven't been feeling great. I needed some rest." She certainly couldn't tell them about the spiral, the resonance, the burnt photo, or the Grimoire. "But I'm here now, ready to get back to normal." The word tasted bitter in her mouth, almost a lie.

Her friends seemed to accept her explanation, though Trixx's gaze was still a little too inquisitive. As they continued walking towards school, talking about various things, Tikki felt her inner beat quicken. Normalcy was a thin veil, and beneath it, the resonance of the ancient world was already waiting for her.

Tikki had been staring at the edge of the notebook for several minutes, but the lines danced slightly, the words stretched as if they had been written on a liquid surface. The teacher was explaining, but the words seemed to float out of sync, the voice a distant echo, as if it had been recorded from another dimension. "The weather in the Loire region..." A wave of subtle nausea rose to her throat. Words. Information. Everything flowed, yet something in her remained stationary, blocked. Like a locked door, not knowing where the handle was, and she only felt the cold of the metal.

Plagg wasn't there yet. Many wondered where he was..he was probably sick too. The thin pang in the chest had become sharper, a phantom vibration that seemed to recall a lost energy. It was an echo of his personality, which Tikki felt without recognizing him as such, an almost painful physical lack. He would usually write to her if she couldn't come..after all they were childhood friends. But he hadn't received any message.

And now Nooroo was back too. A calm face, tired eyes, a slightly worn backpack. Everything in the norm, so similar to many other students. And yet... "I've already seen it somewhere?" The question had jumped inside her without warning, accompanied by a sudden flash of purple that danced at the edge of her vision, disappearing immediately.

He looked at him again, fleetingly. Nooroo wasn't doing anything strange. He was just writing, attentive to the lesson, sitting at three benches next to her. But as she watched him, the feeling of déjà vu intensified, as if an invisible thread was stretching between them. A part of her had goosebumps, a tingling that went up her arms, a memory that was not hers but that was strangely familiar to her.

--

Kaalki passed her a note under the counter, with his usual sly smile. A phrase circled: "When one disappears, silence appoints him the same." Tikki smiled, barely. Kaalki Always poetic. But also... restless, her eyes that seemed to have seen beyond the visible, perhaps an echo of the spiral that had also disturbed her dreams.

Ziggy glanced at both, his sharp expression not letting anything escape. Then he made a subtle gesture with his thumb: "Are you okay?" Tikki made a sign of yes. But it really wasn't.

Because in the middle of everything, there was that persistent sense of... asymmetry. A strident disagreement in the weaving of reality. An inner voice that whispered a disturbing truth to her: "There are many of us. But we don't recognize ourselves." It was a thought without origin, yet it felt true

--

When the break rang, everyone went out in a slow mess of chairs and voices. Tikki stayed to arrange the books, more to slow down time than for real order. Then he looked at Plagg's empty bench. And a thin sting hit her chest. "I don't know why your absence weighs so much... but I'm missing something. Maybe you." She thought it unintentionally, a greater truth than she understood at that moment, as if her own kwami spoke to her through the veil of unconsciousness.

When he finally went out into the hallway, the light had changed. The sun hit the windows hard, and the reflection on the wall seemed to pulsate slightly. It wasn't magic. It was just a coincidence. Maybe. Kaalki was leaning against the wall, absorbed in her notebook. Ziggy was talking to Mullo, both turned on in a conversation that suddenly seemed very private, as if they too were touched by something they didn't fully understand.

Tikki walked slowly, his steps that seemed to resonate a little too much on the floor. Or maybe it was just the silence that had been made inside her, a void that was waiting to be filled.

He passed in front of the ladder that led to the library. A beat. Not only in her heart, but in the air itself, a vibration that made her stop. Someone went up.

Noooo.

Their shoulders brushed in the passage. It was a moment. A fleeting contact, but enough. At that moment, a wave of heat ran down her arm, and a very quick image flashed in her mind: an incomplete spiral, almost a distinctive sign, a detail that had seemed familiar to her at the abandoned station. He didn't say anything. Neither does she. But in the chest... something vibrated. It wasn't just a "beat", it was a resonance. And in Nooroo, at the same moment, his ring turned red, and an echo of the smell of ancient parchment and iron powder pervased his nostrils.

"Strange," Tikki murmured to herself, hearing the tingling fade away. She continued walking, but the heartbeat didn't leave her right away. It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was a silent decision that formed in his mind. That asymmetry, that sense of misunderstood connection... he had to understand it. And to do that, he had to search.

--

Plagg's POV

His room was in an almost unnatural order. He had fixed everything that morning, with a feverish meticulousness, as if to convince himself that life had returned to normal, that the chaos inside him could be tamed by clean corners and aligned books. But now, sitting on the bed, Plagg was staring at the exact point where his stick had dissolved days before. There, right there, where he had returned after the Void, an abysmal absence that still scratched his memory. Not a sharp memory, but the persistent sensation of an icy cold and a deafening silence that had torn away all his energy.

Nothing had changed in the appearance of the room, yet nothing was the same anymore. He touched the ring with two fingers. It was cold, like asleep, a piece of inert metal that no longer vibrated with the power it was used to. He tried to rub it, as if to wake up something, and for an instant, just a millisecond, he seemed to feel a micro-heat, an imperceptible vibration, which, however, vanished immediately, leaving him more frustrated than before.

"Maybe I'm not the one to be broken," he murmured to the ceiling, his hoarse voice. "That's what I left behind." He jumped up, his leg unintentionally kicking the carpet from the restlessness that burned under his skin. He opened the window. Paris flowed under him as always: the traffic far away, the confused voices of the people, the smell of croissants from the bakeries. But inside him... there was a noise that he couldn't ignore. It wasn't a sound, it wasn't the city. It was tension.

"Like a rubber band pulled too much," he thought, looking at a cable of light that vibrated slightly in the wind, or perhaps in his own perception. He felt that somewhere, an invisible force was tensing, threatening to click and upset the fragile balance.

--

Tikki's POV

He went down the steps towards the library. Few used that space during the break, preferring the sunny courtyards or the noisy canteen, but she did. It was almost as if an invisible force was pulling her, a resonance that guided her steps. The ancient wood creaked under the feet, every sound amplified by the reverent silence. The smell of aged paper and old glue enveloped her like a family hug, and something lit up in the skin. It didn't burn, it didn't pinch. Just... a slight tingling, as if the air itself was getting full of information.

"Are you looking for something for me?" She asked himself, while his eyes rested on the shelf at the back, that of the texts forgotten and rarely consulted. The hand moved by itself, guided by an incomprehensible impulse, towards a particular volume. He took out an untitled book, with a worn binding and the cover of a leather so dark that it seemed to absorb light. It was surprisingly light, almost empty. She opened it cautiously.

Inside: a white, immaculate page that seemed to be waiting for her. And in the middle... a spiral drawn in pen. It wasn't just a drawing, though. The graphite looked fresh, its lines vibrated slightly, and Tikki perceived a very weak aura, almost a breath. The heartbeat in the chest accelerated. It wasn't just an image, but a sudden flash: the cold of the abandoned station, the echo of names whispered out of nowhere. It was a sign, a map, something that had been imprinted in her mind without her being fully aware of it.

--

Both

In two different places, in two rooms that should have been safe. With two broken stories, Plagg and Tikki looked up at the same moment. Beyond the walls that contained them. Beyond the neighborhoods that divided their unconscious lives. Beyond the city of Paris that lay indifferently below them.

They didn't know who they were talking to, they didn't know what was happening. But the energy of the beats of others, the newly awakened network of connections, was responding. Plagg felt a wave of that familiar warmth, ephemeral but undeniable, that Tikki had heard a moment before in the corridor. And Tikki, in the silence of the library, heard a distant echo of that restlessness she had perceived from Plagg, a glimmer of her "Void" that for a moment made her shudder.

It was just the beginning. And neither of them was ready.

--

The book weighed more than he remembered, even if it seemed almost empty. Or maybe it was the weight of that immaculate page that opened in front of them, a blank sheet of paper in the middle of hundreds of printed words. A single line, intense blue ink: a spiral, imperfect, traced as if someone had drawn it in a hurry, but with an almost sacred care, every curve studied.

Tikki looked at it, motionless, her breath held. The spiral didn't move at all, yet... it seemed to breathe, pulsating with an invisible life that only she seemed to grasp. He stretched out his hand, his fingers barely trembling as they brushed the rough edge of the paper, almost fearing to break a spell.

Nothing happened. No light, no sound. But something changed anyway, not in the book, nor in the silent library. It haded inside her.

"This... form. Why does it look so familiar to me?" The thought was not only in his mind, but resonated in his every cell. It was like trying to remember the sound of a melody that you knew as a child, one of those that you can't sing, but that live in the blood, an ancestral echo of something that his soul remembered.

She felt a slight shock in her palm, like a static current running down her arm. Then, a sentence. Not in the head, not a conscious thought, but a deep vibration, a whisper that resonated in her body, in the bone marrow: "You know him. And he's calling you."

He tood a step back, instinctively. A cold shiver ran down her back as the awareness of that message, not pronounced but perceived, squeezed her chest. He closed the book suddenly, almost violently, as if he wanted to trap those words between the pages. He quickly put it back on the shelf, pushing it a little further back than the others, trying to hide it.

The heartbeat was accelerated, but not out of fear. It was an adrenaline rush, a response of his body to something unknown and powerful that had been touched. It wasn't a beat of anxiety, but the amplification of that same "resonance" he had sensed since Nooroo's return to school.

He slowly went up the stairs, going up from the muffled silence of the library to the most vivid light of the corridor. The buzz became louder: backpacks on the shoulders, voices that overlapped, laughter that echoed. But everything seemed too far away, the sounds muffled, the colors slightly faded, as if it had returned to the surface... but not completely. It was as if a thin veil separated her from the rest of the world, a filter that allowed her to perceive other frequencies.

Kaalki gave her a nod, a sly smile on her face, as if she sensed something. Tikki hinted at a back smile, forced. She was still confused, but curiosity, determination, were beginning to take over fear.

As she crossed the threshold to go out, that heartbeat, that resonance that had intensified in her chest, did not leave her. He seemed to follow her, a persistent echo, an invisible trail. It was no longer just an isolated perception. It was a call. And Tikki, even if he still didn't know what or who, felt that he had to answer.

--

The apartment was wrapped in a silence that seemed too vast, almost a breath held after the confusion of the day. Tikki put his backpack on the floor without making a sound, as if the quiet of the late afternoon should not be disturbed by a human presence. The walls absorbed every sound, even the imperceptible ones, leaving only a void that reflected the one inside her.

Tikki sat on the bed, staring at the closed window for a long moment. The curtains were motionless, heavy, but she wasn't. Her mind was a whirlwind: the spiral in the book, his blue lines that seemed to pulsate with his own life; that fleeting gaze crossed in the corridor, a wave of familiarity that she could not place; the deafening void still present at the bench next door, as if Plagg's absence was a physical echo; and then, under everything, those persistent vibrations, those resonances that he could not explain. It was too much to process, too many new and incomprehensible stimuli. And at the same time, it was too little: too many unanswered questions, too much uncertainty about who it was and what was happening.

She stretched out his hand towards the thin chain she was wearing under the shirt, almost a small ritual. It wasn't just a family gesture, but a deep need to connect, to find a foothold. "Time to go back to being the one who listens," she murmured, a promise to herself and to whoever was on the other side of the veil. She closed his eyes. The breath aligned, deep and regular. And in a moment of delicate light, like the reflection of a dream, Maari appeared, slowly, floating in the air. Her eyes were quiet, but alert, able to read the soul without the need for words.

"Something happened," said Maari, his ethereal voice, even before Tikki opened his mouth. It was not a question, but an observation.

Tikki sat on the floor, her legs crossed, her gaze lost in an indefinite point of the wall. "I can't explain it, Maari... but I feel like something has aligned. As if... my heart wasn't beating by itself." He described the vibrations, the inexplicable familiarity with the spiral, the sense of connection with something he didn't know.

Maari didn't answer right away. He floated and laid down next to her, his little luminous figure a lighthouse in the twilight. "What you describe... is not ordinary magic," he explained, his voice a whisper that seemed to come from a distant era. "It doesn't come from an object or a spell. It's a resonance. An ancient connection, which awakens. Not all connections need names to exist. Sometimes, the bond is older than words."

Tikki closed her eyes again, Maari's words resonating inside her. "But then why is it so scary?" His voice was a thin thread. "Because I feel like I've already lived it, but I can't remember it? There's a veil, Maari. A wall I can't cross."

Maari looked at her for a long time, a deep sadness in her ancient eyes. "Because maybe you've lived it," he whispered. "But your heart has forgotten it to protect itself. Trauma, sometimes, breaks the chain of memories to save you. But now, Tikki... is coming back. And you can't hide anymore."

Tikki remained silent, her eyes focused on the wall, her breath stuck in her throat. "What if it was something that... I really don't want to remember?" The question burned on her lips. Then, in a lower tone, almost a confessed whisper, he added: "What if I found out that my heart beats for someone... that I don't recognize? If it was a truth that takes me away from what I think I am?"

Maari got even closer, more than usual, a closeness that was a silent embrace. He brushed his hand with a bright tail, a kind, comforting gesture. "If that beat is there, it can't hurt you. It's already part of you." His voice was firm, like the oldest rock. "The fear you feel... doesn't come from him, or from what's coming back. It comes from what was broken in the past, from the memory of pain."

Tikki looked down, Maari's words weighed, but in a way that was lightening her. "What if I wasn't enough to keep it together this time?" His voice barely trembled.

Maari answered immediately, without hesitation. Slowly, but with an unshakivable firmness. "Then there will be two of us." And for a moment, Tikki felt not only the words, but the ancient strength of the Kwami pour into her.

In that silence, without magical lights or supernatural sounds, Tikki heard three distinct and vibrant beats, distant but unmistakable echoes. But the fourth... that he felt only in his chest, a stronger, more intimate beat, almost to the rhythm with his own heart. It was an ancient promise, a bond that still had no name, but that now, thanks to Maari, she knew she didn't have to face alone. His search had just begun, and the fear, for the first time, was no longer paralyzing, but a guide.

--

Plagg's POV

Plagg couldn't sleep. He was lying on the bed, his body stiff, his mind a blender of thoughts and feelings. The room was in dim light, the light of the sky still tinged with a dirty blue that mixed with the dull orange of the first street lights. On the bedside table, a half-empty water bottle, witness of another sleepless night. The old stick was gone, but he kept staring at the exact point where he had dissolved days before, as if he could materialize again to fill the void.

"If he's back... why don't I feel whole?" He whispered, his voice hoarse. He moved the sheets with a dry kick and sat down, the weight of his own incompleteness almost unbearable. The Miraculous was still there, cold against his skin, a dead weight on his finger. Inert. Silent. Plagg squeezed him, almost hoping to hear a spark, a call, but there was nothing. "I'm back," he repeated, more to himself than to the room. "But Chat D'Or? Where is the piece that completes me?" He didn't know if he was more angry for being alive in that halved way... or for not knowing what it meant to be now, with an echo of power that he couldn't grasp.

He got up, his muscles tense. He walked towards the window. Paris was still there, indifferent: the lights shining like fallen stars, the traffic far away, the hectic lives of others that seemed to flow without interruption. "As if nothing had happened," he murmured sarcastically. "But it happened." The fresh air, charged with the smell of asphalt and imminent rain, cut his skin, a lash of reality. He took a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with something that wasn't his own tension.

In the silence just broken by the distant sounds of the city, something vibrated. But it didn't come from outside. It came from inside him, a noise under the skin that was not an audible sound, but a constant pressure, like a rubber band pulled to the extreme. "I miss him," he thought, his forehead pressed against the cold glass. "And I don't even know who." A sweet scent, almost of cotton candy and fresh air after the rain, brushed his nostrils, triggering something. An image emerged, sudden, vivid: a bright red, vibrant, hot as the sun. And then, a voice, clear, crystalline, that resonated in his bones, a name that he did not dare to pronounce because his mind could not form it, yet his heart knew him. "Why can't I remember your face?" He whispered to the glass, a lonely tear that furrooed his cheek. "Because every time I try... I only see light?"

He closed his eyes, letting the tear slip away, the only concession to his suffering. His body, exhausted, gave in to the gravity of sleep. He fell asleep late, not because he wanted to, but because fatigue forced him to give up, pushing him into a peaceless sleep.

Yet, even in sleep, there was no rest. The room was the same, but empty, stripped of every piece of furniture, of every reference. Only silence, a void that extended to infinity. And in the center... a figure. Not a face. Just a curved shadow, sitting on a bench, her head in her hands, as if she carried the weight of a world. Plagg tried to get closer, a desperate need to reach that shadow, to understand. But every step, every effort, brought him back, a nightmare without screams, just the growing feeling of endless fatigue. Then the figure turned around. He had no eyes, but a voice. A cavernous whisper that pierced his soul: "You left a piece behind."

Plagg woke up suddenly, sweaty cold. The sheets tangled around him, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "What...?" He stammered, his voice choked. He got up, his heart beating furiously in his chest. He turned on the light, the sudden glow that hurt his eyes, but that distanced the shadows of the dream.

In the face of an unbridled impulse, a need that burned his hands, he grabbed the first sheet of paper he found on his desk, an old bill, and a half-worn pencil. The hands were shaking, but the stretch was decisive, almost violent. He didn't drace a face, nor a recognizable object. He drawing a spiral. Black. Thick. Almost scratched on the paper, a dark vortex that seemed to want to swallow the paper itself. A symbol of chaos, but also of connection, an image that resonated with his absence, his search.

He looked at her for a long moment, breathing irregularly. Then he dropped the pencil. He turned to the window, as if attracted by an invisible force.

Outside, the city. And in a distant point, between the dark roofs, a red light crossed the sky. A flash. One moment. A glow that was not a firework, but a call. Plagg approached the glass, his chest on fire. "It's you, isn't it?" He didn't know who he was asking. But the heart answered before the mind, with an ancient and indomitable certainty.

And in another point of the city, almost at the same moment, Tikki opened her eyes, suddenly awake. As if someone had called her.

--

Tikki's POV

One shot. Not a noise, but a wave of heat followed by a cold shiver that ran through her spine, causing her to shoot in an upright position. Tikki opened his eyes suddenly. She didn't remember falling asleep. The room was illuminated only by the dim glow of the street lamps filtering through the curtains. The digital clock on the bedside table showed 1:17. Outside, the city seemed to sleep, wrapped in a deep and indifferent silence. But inside her... something had screamed. Not with her voice, not with a sound that her ears could perceive, but with a heartbeat so powerful as to make her bones tremble, an echo that resonated in the depths of her soul.

"Was it a dream?" She murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper. It was not a dream in the common sense, there were no definite images, nor recognizable faces. Only an unequivocal feeling: a presence. It was someone. He was alive. And she was there, somewhere in that same city that now seemed so vast and mysterious, and her energy had come to her, clear as a lighthouse in the darkest night.

She got out of bed in silence, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. Maari leaning on the windowsill, her small luminous figure radiating a vigilant calm. She was awake too, her ancient eyes fixed on an undefined point beyond the window.

"You heard it too," Tikki murmured, lowering his voice, almost fearing to break the fragile balance of the night.

Maari didn't answer right away. He turned slowly, his eyes reflecting the light of the streetlights, then nodded, his expression grave, almost solemn. "Something happened," she confirmed, her voice an ethereal whisper that seemed to come from a distant era. "A powerful resonance. But not here, not in this room. It's a call that crosses the distances, Tikki. A soul looking for its counterpart in the net, a beat that made itself felt."

Tikki opened the window. The air of the night, fresh and silent, caressed her face, bringing with it the distant smell of asphalt and humidity. The silence was deep, but not empty. It was a loaded silence, full of expectation.

In the sky, above the dark roofs, a red dot, almost a shooting star, traced a luminous trail before vanishing into the darkness. It wasn't a plane, nor a firework. It was a sign. A wave of recognition flooded her chest, a certainty that made her breathless. "I know you're out there," she whispered to the cold glass, his voice broken by emotion. "I feel it. It's your heartbeat that woke me up."

She tightened her arms around her chest, as if to contain the emotion that was boiling inside them. Her heart was beating harder than ever, not out of fear, but out of an absence that was returning to form, a void that she now felt she had to fill, a missing piece that was calling her.

She closed the window slowly, the sound of the glass sealing a definitive sound in the quiet of the night. She turned to the room, her eyes filled with a new determination. "I don't know who you are," he whispered, the words burning in his throat like an ancient oath. "Not yet. But when I find you..."She interrupted, the voice that became firmer, almost a promise engraved in the air. "...I won't let you disappear anymore. Not again."

--

Nooroo was awake. Lying on his side, he observed the ceiling of his room, barely illuminated by the flickering glow of the lights in the street. The hands of the old clock punctuated a rhythm that seemed out of time, as if time was also holding his breath. It was not only insomnia that kept him prisoner, but that heartbeat, that resonance, which was not in his heart but through his heart, spreading in every fiber of his being. It was a subtle buzz, a constant vibration that prevented him from closing his eyes completely.

Marisa was sleeping in the next room. He felt it from his breath, calm, deep, a reassuring contrast with the storm swirling inside him. He, on the other hand, could not find peace. That uninterrupted beat. That silence full, full of meaning. That connection that grew inside, irrepressible, ignoring his confusion.

"I don't know what I'm getting," he murmured to the ceiling, his voice barely a whisper in the silence of the night. "But I can't pretend to be alone anymore." Not after savoring Marisa's liberation, not after feeling this resonance. That loneliness that had enveloped him for years, a heavy and familiar blanket, was now tearing, revealing an invisible web of threads that tied him to others, to unknown but inexorable destinies.

He reached out to the diary, which he always kept on the bedside table, a reassuring paper surface in a world that was becoming more and more ethereal. He opened it, the pen pulled out from under the pillow, and the tip scratched the paper. He didn't write at random, but with a silent determination, as if the words were already there, ready to pour out.

"The balance is changing."

Then below, the awareness that was now undeniable:

"And I... I'm changing with him."

He closed the notebook with a slight rustle. He didn't sign. Not this time. The words spoke for themselves, a confession to the cosmos more than to itself.

He got up. Bare feet on the cold floor, almost wanting to anchor themselves to reality. The night air had become clearer, a transparent veil announcing the day. The sunrise was near, the edge of the sky still black dyed cobalt blue and then, in a distant point, a growing strip of pale pink.

He looked at the sky clearing, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the darkness was about to give way. "You're coming too, aren't you?" He whispered, his voice lost in the vast silence. "Whoever you are."

It was at that moment that the heartbeat became sharper, a rhythmic pulsation not in his chest or in his mind, but in the city itself. He heard Paris awaken, not only with the sound of the first cars or the singing of birds, but with a deeper vibration, an ancient energy that moved under the skin of concrete and iron. Paris was getting ready. And him too. His role, his purpose, was about to reveal himself with the light of the new day.

--

Ziggy woke up before the alarm clock. A rare fact, almost unnatural for her. He opened his eyes, but remained under the covers, his eyes fixed on the pale pink ceiling of his room. There was a muffled silence, yet... something squealed, a detuned note in the middle of the morning. She didn't remember the whole dream, she couldn't grasp the images, but only a feeling: as if someone had whispered something she shouldn't have heard, a broken sentence, with a voice that seemed to her at the same time familiar and totally alien: "They won't come back for you." The words vibrated in her chest, a subtle restlessness that blocked her breath.

She got up slowly, her muscles numb.She went to the bathroom, washed his face with cold water, looking at himself in the mirror. Her reflection seemed more opaque than usual, his gaze devoid of the usual spark. "Ziggy?" She was called by her mother from the other room, the voice that crept through the cracks of silence. "Everything okay?" "... Yes," she replied, the voice that came out flat, too flat to be hers, as if she had borrowed it.

She went back to the room and moved the curtains with an abrupt gesture. Paris was waking up, and the first rays of dawn dyed everything orange and gold, painting the roofs and treetops. Usually, that light filled her soul, recharged her. But today... she seemed cold, distant, as if he couldn't reach her at all. "I feel... disconnected," she thought, her mental voice sounding empty. It was as if something inside her had stepped back, retreated into a dark corner, leaving an echo. As if a thought not hers had slipped into her mind, hidden between hers, whispering poisonous doubts to her: "What if I wasn't really important? What if I was just... filling a void, a place that was never yours?" She shook her head, trying to chase away those intrusive thoughts. She opened the window to let air in, but even the air seemed distant, devoid of its usual vitality.

She put on her jacket with a listless gesture, the phone still in his hand. She had checked the messages at least three times, but no one had written in a way that seemed meaningful enough to her. "Why does it seem that my voice is not enough today?" She asked himself. She looked in the mirror one last time before going out. The face was the same. The smile, no.

The road in front of her house was still in the shade, the sun's rays only touched the tips of the trees and the most distant roofs. She walked at a regular pace, the backpack seemed heavier than usual, even if inside there was only a notebook, a pen, and a keychain with the sun face. It was what Kaalki had given her the year before, a small ray of joy. "Why doesn't it make me smile today?"

Turning the corner, she saw her. Kaalki was leaning against the lamppost, in perfect balance, with a thin book in her hands and a plum-colored scarf that swayed her just in the light wind. She looked up, as if he had heard Ziggy's arrival, his eyes resting on her with unusual attention.

"You're early," said Kaalki, his tone light as always.

Ziggy shrugged her shoulders, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I couldn't sleep. I woke up... strange."

Kaalki watched her for a long moment, his usually lively eyes now shining with a deeper, almost worried awareness. Then she closed the book, put it in his backpack and approached, a shadow of gravity on his face. "Strange in what sense?" She asked, her voice unusually soft.

"I don't know. As if... my voice wasn't enough for me anymore. As if it wasn't mine," Ziggy replied, feeling the weight of those words spoken loudly. "As if... someone had left a piece in me, which does not belong to me."

Kaalki took her hand, her touch light but firm. They walked together, the pace synchronized. The way to school was short, but usually a small concert of familiar notes. The scent of fresh bread from the bakery that invited her, the greeting to the gentleman with the dachshund dog that always pulled a smile from her, the game of counting the steps of the underpass. But today Ziggy didn't count them. The perfume seemed to her faded, the greeting an echo, and every step that went up was just a step, without magic, without rhythm. It was like walking in a detuned melody, and she couldn't find her part.

Kaalki, instead, yes. And at the fifth step, he stopped, a sharp perception in his gaze.

Ziggy turned around, confused. "What's up?"

Kaalki looked into her eyes. Then she smiled. A smile that was not cheerful.She was attentive, loaded with an acquaintance that Ziggy didn't have. "You have something on you, Ziggy," she said softly, his voice firm. "I don't know what it is... but it doesn't belong to you. It's a note that's not part of your melody."

Ziggy swallowed. She wanted to make a joke. To change the subject. To giggle and shrug. But she couldn't. The silence between them grew dense. "...I know," she finally whispered, her gaze lost.

--

And, far away, in a dark, empty room, lit only by flickering screens... Eiichi opened his eyes. A slow, cold smile creased his lips, stretching the shadow across his face. "The crack has begun."

The room was dark, as always. Not for lack of light, but by choice. The high walls, the monolithic columns, even the polished floor seemed to absorb every reflection, every sparkle, every sound. It was a place built to leave no trace, to hide ancient secrets.

Eiichi moved silently among the suspended diagrams, made of pulsating light and dancing shadows. Complex maps, energy flows, silent beats that only he could perceive. The lines binding Paris to its unofficial Miraculous trembled slightly, a subtle vibration that was not just an observation, but an active response from his system. Something was changing.

"The resonance is slowly forming," he murmured, his deep voice echoing in the void. "I perceive some beats." But that wasn't the most interesting detail, not yet.

With an imperceptible gesture of his hand, a fluid movement like that of an orchestra conductor, he shifted his attention to a specific figure in the sea of luminous lines. Ziggy.

"Her sun has cracked," he whispered, and a point on the diagram representing the girl emitted a faint sound, like glass cracking. "And so little was needed." He brushed the air with two fingers, and out of nowhere, the image of a dark, imperfect spiral formed, barely perceptible, pulsating with a turbid, subtle life of its own. It was as if a shadow was condensing. It was inside her. Not yet powerful. Not yet visible to the outside world. But real. And waiting.

Eiichi turned towards the black, ink-smooth water mirror that occupied the center of the room. It was no ordinary object. It was an interface. A lens that reflected what only he could see, beyond the visible. And the mirror vibrated, showing a clear image: Ziggy and Kaalki walking along a road lit by the first rays of dawn. A tense silence between them, almost a subtle disagreement. And in Ziggy's chest, an indistinct shadow, a small dark knot that beat with the wrong rhythm, discordant with the symphony of her heart.

Eiichi narrowed his eyes, a slow smile creasing his lips, a cold promise. "The threads are moving. Now we begin to weave."

--

The class was already half-full when Ziggy and Kaalki arrived, the morning buzz greeting them. Ziggy gave a quick nod to Mullo, another to Tikki, her expression a forced attempt at normalcy. Then she dropped into her seat with a gesture meant to seem casual, but was only exhaustion.

Her fingers drummed on the desk, a broken, irregular rhythm that didn't align with her thoughts. Her left hand clenched now and then, as if searching for something to grasp, something to cling to in a world that was slipping away. "It's just tiredness," she repeated to herself, a silent litany. "Just a bad morning." Her mind desperately sought rational excuses for that widespread malaise. Her body... no. Her body was already changing its tune, absorbing a new, unsettling melody.

Kaalki watched her from the desk next door, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She said nothing, her expression calm but thoughtful. Her fingers, accustomed to drawing perfect spirals or poetic quotes, remained still on the paper, her pen inert.

The teacher entered, the sound of her footsteps on the floor bringing a flicker of normality back into the room. History class began, a river of dates and names. Ziggy opened her notebook, her pen between her fingers. She tried to concentrate, to take notes.

But instead of writing, she began to draw. Circles. One. Then another. Then again, in a compulsive sequence. Tighter and tighter. Denser and denser. The lines overlapped, intertwined, until the page seemed worn out, a black hole of ink beneath her hand.

Ziggy stopped abruptly. The rustle of the pencil ceased. She looked at the drawing, her heart pounding in her chest with a dull rhythm. She didn't even remember when she had started, or why.

Kaalki called her softly, her voice a whisper that pierced the veil of fog in Ziggy's mind. "Zig?"

She looked up, confused, her eyes meeting Kaalki's. "Yes?"

Kaalki scrutinized her, her expression attentive. Then she smiled. But the smile was one that carried weight, containing worry and an uncomfortable truth. "You drew... a spiral," she said, her voice barely a breath.

Ziggy lowered her gaze to her notebook, to the dark tangle. It was true. An imperfect, dense spiral, almost scratched into the paper, the exact replica of the one Eiichi had evoked moments before. "I didn't even notice," she whispered, a cold sensation clenching her stomach. And yet, something in that spiral seemed alive, pulsating, almost with a beat of its own. As if it were... waiting.

Ziggy closed her notebook with an abrupt motion, as if to trap what she had drawn between the pages. The circles—the spiral—still seemed to pulse beneath the paper's surface, not just an optical illusion, but a cold sensation that lingered in her fingers, almost a phantom burn. But it was only a sensation. It had to be.

--

She brought her hand to her forehead. She felt hot, a feverish warmth that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. The classroom, usually a familiar place, suddenly seemed narrower, the walls closing in, the colors becoming more saturated and almost aggressive. The noises of her classmates echoed strangely in her ears, as if others' words were too loud and jarring, or conversely, too distant and muffled, impossible to grasp.

Kaalki offered her a bottle of water, her piercing gaze scrutinizing her. "Do you have a headache?" she asked, her voice unusually soft.

Ziggy nodded slowly, taking the bottle but not drinking. It wasn't physical pain, but a chilling unease that gripped her chest. "It's like I have a voice breathing down my neck," she whispered, and almost expected to feel a cold breath on her nape, even knowing it was absurd.

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. And in that moment, reality dissolved. It wasn't a dream, nor a memory, but a vision, raw and sharp, burning behind her eyelids. She saw a version of the classroom, identical but spectrally empty. Desks scattered, dusty. Chairs overturned. No one beside her. Tikki. Kaalki. Pollen. Everyone. All... absent, as if they had never existed. She sat alone, a tiny point in an immense desolation. And a voice, that same cold, insidious voice that had penetrated her morning dream, now whispered directly into her soul, not her ear: "They don't look for you. They don't listen to you. They smile at you... but they don't see you. You're not enough. You never will be."

She opened her eyes abruptly, her heart pounding against her ribs, cold sweat on her forehead. The classroom's hum suddenly returned, deafening. "Ziggy?" Kaalki's voice was a life raft. Her friend was there, in front of her, worried, present.

Ziggy forced herself to smile, a strained, faded smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm fine. Just... I need some air."

She stood up quickly, ignoring Kaalki's perplexed gaze. But when she stepped into the corridor, pushing the door with an urgency that wasn't her own, the air didn't seem clean or fresh. It felt filtered, dense, almost altered. As if something invisible was trying to adapt to her, to get under her skin, or to bend her to its will.

The light in the art room was different. More vivid, almost aggressive in its intensity. Full of reflections dancing from the high windows, with the morning sun refracting on the glazed tiles and colored tempera tubes.

The art teacher had told them to work on something personal. "An emotion without words," she had suggested, a task Ziggy would usually embrace with enthusiasm. But today, she stared at the blank sheet in front of her as if it were an impassable wall. Her hands were still, the brushes clean, unused. The palette seemed... wrong. Too many colors, too vibrant, almost screaming their presence. None felt true, none seemed to capture the shade of gray she felt inside.

"Everyone screams," she thought, her mental voice flat. "And I am silence."

Her hand moved on its own, almost forced by an inner impulse. She had just drawn a thick, curved black line... almost a spiral — again — the same dark shape that had tormented her dream and that she'd drawn on the utility bill, when she heard a calm voice beside her.

"Ziggy?"

It was Fluff. Ash-blond hair that seemed to catch every fragment of light, eyes always a little lost between one dimension and another, but his expression was gentle. Always gentle. He held his own paper, still wet with watercolor. A strange drawing: two circles chasing each other, like orbiting moons in a pastel sky.

"Sorry to bother you," Fluff said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I saw your spiral."

Ziggy looked at him, confused. She didn't know how to reply, words stuck in her throat.

"It struck me," he continued, placing his paper on the desk beside hers, his eyes returning to Ziggy's spiral with disarming curiosity. "It looks... angry. But also scared. Like it wants to scream, but is afraid to."

Ziggy lowered her gaze to her creation. Fluff's words were precise arrows, and the spiral now seemed more alive than before, almost pulsating with the emotions he had attributed to it. A cold shiver ran down her spine, a realization that the shadow within her had been seen, almost a direct touch on the "crack."

"That's not what I wanted," she whispered.

"Really?" Fluff said. "Well, sometimes our hands speak before our hearts. They tell the truth we try to hide." He spoke with extreme wisdom.

Ziggy remained silent, Fluff's words buzzing in her mind, not like an invasion, but like a resounding echo. Then, as if a reflection triggered by his presence, she picked up a thin brush. She dipped the tip into the purest white color and began to trace small luminous circles around the black spiral, points of light, like stars trying to surround a black hole, to trap or illuminate it.

Fluff smiled faintly, an almost imperceptible smile, and then walked away without another word, leaving Ziggy alone with her drawing and the new sensations. And for the first time since that morning, in a way that brought her a slight relief and at the same time a new sense of disorientation, the dark beat within her hesitated. As if something—or someone—had disturbed the rhythm, the discordant melody that was engulfing her, leaving a small, temporary space to breathe.

--

The scent of tempera still hung in the air when the lesson ended, a bittersweet trail mingling with the chatter of students. Mullo was washing her brushes with precise, almost mechanical movements, her gaze fixed on the muddying water. She didn't seem agitated, but not tranquil either. She had noticed something. Not a specific detail, but an atmosphere, a discordant vibration in the air around Ziggy. Her friend – usually so lively, so full of an almost blinding light – seemed restrained today, as if she were walking with the handbrake on, her energy compressed, dulled.

And then there was that spiral. Mullo had seen it. A fleeting glimpse, of course, as Ziggy closed her notebook, but it was enough. A shiver ran down her spine. "I remember drawing that at home too," she thought, the dark water sliding off the bristles, "when I felt like someone or something was changing me, piece by piece...all those voices."

She dried her hands with an old rag and stepped out into the corridor, her pace light but determined. She saw Ziggy a short distance away, standing by the vending machines, her face downcast, her hands still, almost rigid. Mullo approached slowly, sensing the silent weight that burdened her friend.

"Zig?"

Ziggy's head snapped up, as if startled, her eyes widening for a moment before regaining composure. Then she smiled. A mechanical, almost unnatural smile, a thin mask. "Mullo! Hey! Everything okay?"

Mullo observed that smile, its emptiness almost more eloquent than its weariness. Her ancient heart recognized the pattern. Then she said softly, her voice a taut but firm thread: "You drew a spiral today. A black one. Dense."

Ziggy frowned, confused, her expression closing off. "So what?"

"I did too," Mullo replied, her gaze direct, unequivocal. "When I was about to lose myself. When I felt like my mind wasn't just my own anymore."

Ziggy didn't reply. Her face grew serious, every trace of the artificial smile vanishing. But the beat, that rhythm resonating beneath her skin, changed. For an instant, it was stronger, more erratic, almost a jolt that Mullo perceived not with her ears, but as an emotional echo, a wave of disturbance propagating from Ziggy. Mullo knew the blow had landed.

"I'm not saying you're changing in that way, Zig," Mullo continued, her voice growing even softer and more reassuring. "I'm saying that if you feel something... isn't yours, that a thought doesn't belong to you, that a voice isn't yours... talk about it. With me. With whoever you want. But don't keep it inside."

Ziggy remained silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on Mullo, as if weighing every word. Then she nodded. A minimal, almost imperceptible, but sincere nod. "Okay."

Ziggy left the corridor without a word, her hands in her pockets clenching into fists, her headphones around her neck like a dead weight. Her heart... too silent to be calm, a dull drum in her chest echoing the emptiness. She walked aimlessly, moving away from the confusion of the crowd, until she reached the second-floor bathrooms, the ones no one used, a refuge of silence and solitude.

She opened the door, the faint creak echoing in the empty space. She checked that no one was there, her paranoia growing, then she entered and locked the door, the feeling of being trapped tightening her throat. She looked at herself in the mirror; her reflection returned a gaze she didn't quite recognize. She smiled. Then she stopped, the smile dying on her lips. "That smile... it's not mine," she murmured to her reflection. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the sensation, but it wasn't enough.

The thought returned, not as a whisper, but as a metallic echo materializing in her reflection, the eyes in the glass seeming to look at her with cold malice: "Everyone's fine without you. You're just... the filler of silences. The light that burns out quickly." A ray that vanishes as soon as the storm arrives." She shook her head violently, a cold shiver running down her spine. "Enough!" she yelled at her reflection, her voice sounding weak and broken in the small space. But it wasn't enough. The words had already crept into her soul.

--

Eiichi's POV

In a place far from the school, in the perfect darkness of his control room, Eiichi closed his eyes. He didn't need to look at the screens or suspended diagrams floating. He felt it. Ziggy's heartbeat, altered, almost desperate. His thoughts, cracked by fear. Its cracks, which widened like invisible cobwebs.

He didn't control her. Not yet. But he had granted it. Like a waiting instrument, whose strings now vibrated at its touch.

"She won't suddenly collapse," Eiichi murmured, a subtle smile that wrinkled his lips in the darkness. "She will fall in silence. And she herself will ask to do it."

--

The sound of the bell was greeted with a small chorus of relief, an explosion of muttering and rustling. Backpacks that closed with dry jerks. Chairs moved to the floor. The usual greeting phrases, the groups that were recomposed to face the exit.

Ziggy put on her headphones, but without music, only the muffled silence that promised an illusory peace. A thin veil between her and the world, a barrier against sounds that sometimes seemed too shrill to her, or too far away. Just to isolate himself.

Kaalki approached her, backpacking, elegant as always even after eight hours of lessons, his plum-colored scarf swaying slightly. "Shall I accompany you a piece?" Her voice was soft, an offer not an imposition.

Ziggy nodded, her face devoid of the usual effervescence. Silent, but not cold. A strange quiet inhabited her eyes. Mullo glanced at her from afar, a mixture of concern and recognition in her dark eyes. Ziggy gave her a faint smile, an almost imperceptible nod, but that was an unspoken thank you, a mute understanding between the two Kwami. Even Tikki, further on, with Mullo and Fluff, turned for a moment, his penetrating gaze looking for nothing, but recorded every nuance of that silent discomfort that enveloped Ziggy.

The group quickly dissolved in the exit driveways, dissolving like smoke in the darkening afternoon. Ziggy and Kaalki walked side by side. Were they talking? But of small things. Phrases that do not touch the heart, that do not risk, that do not go beyond the surface of everyday life. And inside Ziggy, that silence was not calm, but a vibrant void, the small dark spiral that turned imperceptibly under the skin. The thoughts whispered to her: "...no one notices. No one sees the widening crack."

But then she stopped. A moment. The step stopped abruptly, as if she had strumbled in her thoughts, into an invisible spider web that pulled her back.

Kaalki turned around, her expression immediately attentive. "Everything okay?"

Ziggy looked at her, her eyes slightly foggy. His mouth moved, as if he was looking for words, then he stopped. "Yes," he finally said, his voice weakly. "Just a moment of emptiness."

Kaalki nodded slowly, her gaze not leaving her. But his eyes were too smart to really believe those words. In the sky, the sun was setting, dyeing the clouds shades of pink and gray. And inside Ziggy, under the skin, a small and insidious spiral was still spinning, a clockwork mechanism that would not stop by itself.

--

The darkness in Eiichi's room was not total. In some corners, ancestral symbols barely floated, lines of soft light moving along invisible axes, like artificial constellations dancing to the rhythm of an invisible orchestra. He watched them in silence, his small hands joined behind his back, as if he were listening to a submerged chorus, the distorted symphony of intertwined destinies.

A beat. Then another one. And another one. The pulsations, dispersed but identifiable. "These destinies...that day will come and it will be a hard battle," he murmured, his deep voice resounding in the void of the room. "Despite this ... no one knows who the other is or what their destiny will be."

He smiled softly, an expression of cold satisfaction extending over his face. "The truth will not destroy them," he whispered in silence. "But the fear of what they could be, the fear of what they don't understand... that yes."

He walked between the suspended diagrams, his presence that seemed to absorb the light itself. Every time he approached one, that sign lost brightness, as if his shadow drained the hope he represented, as if his intent extinguished their spark.

He stopped in front of one in particular: an incomplete spiral, pulsating with a cloudy, distorted light. It was the symbol of Ziggy. "Ziggy is not weak," he murmured, almost with a touch of admiration. "But it's brilliant. And the most beautiful light, it's also the easiest to crush... if you isolate it. If you make her believe that she is not seen, that she is not heard."

He looked down, contemplating the spiral. "Now all that remains is to wait. No need to fight. Just... let them forget who they are. Let that crack widen until you swallow them."

He turned upwards, towards the vast black body of water in the center of the room. The interface turned on without touching, vibrating with an ethereal light. He didn't reflect his face. Only their silhouettes: Tikki, Plagg, Nooroo, Kaalki, Ziggy. Distant. Ignore. Everyone lost in their heartbeats, in their visions, in their fears.

"I gonna let them dancer," murmured Eiichi, his voice like rock, without echo. "Let them search for each other, believing they can find answers. No one will help them understand anyway... as long as it's too late. Until the net is just a memory, and the cracks will have become vorages."