The morning sun spilled golden light over the rooftops of Paris, casting long shadows along the cobblestone streets. The city stirred to life, a gentle symphony of footsteps, distant church bells, and the soft murmur of conversations weaving through narrow alleys. Paris was a city of stories—ancient and new, whispered through every stone and street corner.
Thorne Vale moved with purpose through this vibrant tapestry. Though his clothes marked him as a newcomer—sleek yet casual—his eyes absorbed everything. Every sign, every passerby, every scent that floated in the cool air. This was no ordinary walk to school.
Two days ago, he was in New York, the son of two global business titans, caught between jet lag and a new life forced upon him. Now, here he was—thrust into a city that felt familiar and alien all at once.
He paused at the corner of Rue de Vaugirard, where a pastel pink awning stretched over a small, inviting storefront. The words "Dupain-Cheng Boulangerie" were painted in neat white letters, and the scent of fresh bread and vanilla wafted out, wrapping the street in warmth.
For a moment, Thorne just stared.
It wasn't just the bakery—the window filled with flaky croissants and colorful macarons—it was her.
A girl in her late teens stood inside, carefully arranging pastries on a tray. She moved with an earnest grace, her dark hair pulled back loosely but with strands that fell gently around her face. Her eyes held a fierce kindness, like she carried the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams.
Marinette Dupain-Cheng.
Thorne's breath hitched. A flood of memories—vivid, visceral—crashed through his mind like a tidal wave.
He remembered this exact moment from a thousand different angles: the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, how she nervously twisted her fingers when caught off guard, the fire she carried beneath her calm exterior.
This was the girl who would become Ladybug.
The city around him blurred. Sounds dimmed. The past and present collided.
He took a slow step forward, trying to steady the pounding in his chest.
The bell above the bakery door jingled softly as he entered.
Marinette looked up, startled, and for a split second, her eyes met his.
"Hi," Thorne said, forcing a casual smile. "You must be Marinette."
Her cheeks flushed pink, but she nodded shyly. "Yeah, that's me. And you are?"
"Thorne. I just moved here from New York."
She smiled, the warmth returning. "Welcome to Paris! It's... different from New York, huh?"
"Very." Thorne glanced around the bakery—the colorful posters for local festivals, the old-fashioned cash register, and the family photos pinned behind the counter. "This place feels like a heart in the city."
Marinette shrugged modestly. "It's our little corner of the world. My parents started this bakery. It's more than just bread—it's where people share their stories."
Thorne's eyes flicked toward a framed photograph of a woman and a man, smiling proudly beside a younger Marinette. "They must be proud."
"They are," she said softly. "We're a family. We stick together."
Outside, the sounds of Paris continued—footsteps quickening, a distant siren, the laughter of children.
But Thorne's mind was elsewhere.
He knew what was coming.
Two days from now, a shadow would fall over this city.
A shadow shaped like a broken heart and dark wings.
He swallowed hard.
He didn't have a Miraculous. No powers, no kwami, no secret guardian.
All he had was knowledge.
And a choice.
To watch history repeat itself, or to change the course of fate.
Thorne looked back at Marinette, her smile bright and unburdened, unaware of the storm on the horizon.
"Paris is waiting," he whispered to himself.
"And so am I."