Chapter Text
The morning smelled like rain on asphalt and the faint tang of bleach from the janitor’s mop buckets. Alya’s shoes squeaked against the wet tiles as she wove through the hall, backpack tight against her shoulders. She kept one eye on the lockers, half-expecting the blur of pink sleeves to appear.
(It wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal. And yet, there she was.)
She stopped mid-step by her locker, fumbling with the combination. Something felt…off. The lock clicked differently than usual. Not broken. Not jammed. Just…different. She frowned, turning the dial again.
(Why does it feel like someone’s been here?)
Inside, nothing had moved—or had it? Alya ran her fingers over the books, the notebooks. Everything in its place. And yet, a faint pressure lingered against her fingertips, a sensation of breath and warmth that shouldn’t be there.
(A shadow. A ghost. Or a memory I forgot I had.)
The bell rang. Alya stuffed her things inside and walked toward her classroom, eyes scanning, posture tense. Marinette sat at the same desk as yesterday, hands folded over her bag, eyes forward, unreadable. The calm was unnatural, too precise, like she’d memorized the room and the students and the way the sunlight hit the floor at 8:37.
(Always precise. Always measured. Too measured)
Alya’s pen scratched across the margins of her notebook: Locker. Different. Pressure. Pink. Eyes. Calm. Every word a pulse, a clue she couldn’t fully name.
Lunch came. Alya grabbed her tray, moving toward the cafeteria like a shadow among the bustling students. Marinette was already there, the same pale, small figure, pink pants catching the muted light of the windows. Her gaze flickered once, toward Alya, then away.
“You’re early,” Alya said. Voice low. Observant.
Marinette nodded. She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Her presence said enough.
(She knows I notice. She knows I’m watching)
The chatter around them blurred into white noise. Alya noticed small details: a napkin folded over twice in Marinette’s bag, faint scuff marks on her shoes, the way she tapped her knuckles lightly against the metal of the table—not in impatience, but calculation.
(A map of her mind. A map of what she knows. And what she hides)
“Something’s wrong,” Alya whispered to herself under the table. Her fork hovered over a salad she didn’t taste. “Something about her…isn’t right.”
Marinette tilted her head slightly. A flicker, almost imperceptible, of acknowledgment. Or amusement.
The cafeteria bell rang too soon. Alya felt the tug of her notebook, the weight of observations she hadn’t written yet. She followed Marinette into the hall. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and wet lockers. Something hummed beneath the floorboards. Or maybe it was just her imagination.
(It isn’t just imagination. It never is)
She lingered by her locker again. Something…had shifted. The combination lock wasn’t right. Alya’s hand hovered over it, heart skipping.
Then: a faint scraping sound.
Not from her locker. From the next one down. She froze. Silence. Then the faintest click.
(Someone’s here. Not a student. Not a teacher.)
Alya leaned closer. The locker door shifted slightly. Empty, except…a scrap of pink cloth, faintly dusted with dirt, peeking from between the metal doors. Her stomach twisted.
(Pink. Always pink. Always her.)
“Marinette?” she whispered, though the hallway was empty. Only her breath and the echo of her sneakers answered.
She opened the locker. Nothing inside. Just the faint scent of something…familiar. Like laundry detergent, sunlight, and rain mixed together. Her fingers brushed against the metal shelves. Cold. Solid. Real. And yet…there was something else.
(Not real. Not solid. Not human)
Her mind raced. Notebook, pen, every thought cataloged and fragmented: locker, pink, calm, precise, ghost, missing. She tried to focus on rational explanations. Maybe someone pranked her. Maybe she imagined it.
But her gut twisted, a coil tightening inside her chest. She could feel it, faint but insistent, tugging at her memory. Something was missing. Something always missing when Marinette was around.
Classes passed in a blur. History, math, French. Alya’s eyes drifted to Marinette again and again. Small details: the way her sleeve rode up, revealing a bracelet with painted wooden beads. The way her hair caught the light like black silk. The faint, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders.
(She’s carrying something. Something heavy. Something dangerous. Or something she fears. Or both.)
After school, Alya rushed home. Homework, dinner, the usual chatter with her sisters. She folded laundry while Ella narrated a fantastical story about a flying cat. Etta argued about math homework. Alya nodded, half-present, thoughts flicking back to Marinette.
(Pink. Calm. Always moving. Always just out of reach.)
By nightfall, Alya changed into her Rena Rouge outfit, the mask snug against her face, cape fluttering as she leapt onto the rooftops. Patrol route: park, east bridges, old theater. The city shimmered below her. Streetlights reflected off puddles from earlier rain.
She moved silently, each step calculated, her eyes scanning alleys, rooftops, corners. Then, a flicker of pink. A shadow moving along the eastern bridge. She froze. Breath caught.
There. There she is.
Alya followed, careful not to alert the girl—or herself. She moved like a shadow, heart hammering, mind circling. The figure stopped suddenly, crouching beside a dumpster, unseen. Pink sleeves caught the moonlight.
(Always precise. Always…prepared. What is she hiding? What has she done before?)
Before Alya could get closer, a cat darted across the bridge. Pink figure bolted. Faster than she expected. She chased. Rooftops, alleyways, the hum of Paris beneath her. Then, a sudden flicker, and the girl disappeared.
Vanished.
Again. Always gone. Always ahead. Why can’t I catch her?
Alya perched atop a building, knees dangling. Wind tugged at her cape. She watched the empty street. Nothing. And yet, the sense of presence lingered, almost tangible.
(She’s real. She’s here. She exists. And yet, she shouldn’t.)
Returning home, sneakers scuffing lightly against the tiles, Alya removed her mask. Etta and Ella slept. Desk waiting. Notebook waiting. Pen waiting.
She sat. She wrote. Notes jumbled with sketches: rooftops, bridge rails, locker doors, pink sleeves.
And at the top of the page, in bold, deliberate letters:
“Who is Marinette Wang?”
Her hand hovered over the pen, breath catching. The question carried a weight she couldn’t shake, heavier than any akuma, more pressing than any patrol.
Alya leaned back in her chair, pacing slowly with her mind, even as her body remained seated. The quiet hum of the city outside her window pressed in, a low, steady heartbeat she could follow. She scribbled, erased, circled, drew lines, arrows, connections.
(Something’s missing. Always missing. And it’s staring me in the face. She’s hiding it. She’s waiting. And I have to notice. I have to)
Her pen paused. Midnight deepened. Shadows of the room stretched long across the floor. Her mind, restless, refused to rest.
(She’s here. And I’m not done watching)