The signs were so small you didn’t notice. A missed text reply. A distracted laugh. A couple of postponed dates. It wasn’t that you loved Nathaniel less — life had just been overwhelming, loud, and fast, and you hadn’t realized that in the quiet corners of his mind, he’d started to doubt everything.

He never said anything. That wasn’t Nathaniel’s way. He internalized, drew in sketchbooks, and tried to convince himself it was fine.

But today… today something inside him cracked.

You were late to meet him again, and when you arrived breathless, apologizing, he barely looked at you. His fingers clutched the corner of his sketchpad so tight you saw the paper bend. And before you could say anything more, you heard it — the low hum of Hawk Moth’s voice.

You screamed his name as the dark energy swirled around him, his form shifting into something fierce and broken — eyes shadowed, red and black streaks painting over the softness you knew.

—“Nath—!”

—“No,” his voice boomed, distorted. “I’m not Nathaniel anymore.”

He was something else now. Twisted by grief and fear into a villain who conjured barriers of ink and glass, trapping you with him in a surreal, painted world. Paris warped around you like pages from a comic — frozen in his vision, his escape.

—“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “But I can’t let you go. Not until I know you won’t leave me.”

Outside the dome of his creation, Ladybug and Cat Noir were fighting to get in, shouting his name, calling out that this wasn’t him. But he ignored them. His crimson gaze was locked on you.

—“You’ve been slipping away from me,” he murmured, hands trembling. “I thought I was enough. I thought you loved me.”