The shadows stretched long over Paris as the akuma storm settled. Streets emptied fast.

You’d been looking for him—Marc. He hadn’t answered messages. And when you saw the dark shimmer across the skyline, something in your chest twisted.

It was him. You knew it.

You didn’t even get the chance to call his name before something—no, someone—swept you off your feet, arms firm but trembling. The world blurred and stilled again on a quiet rooftop, far from the chaos.

Marc stood in front of you, eyes glowing with violet energy, his hair swept messily by the wind. He looked different. Taller in presence, colder. But his voice… still his.

—“I asked nicely,” he said, almost whispering. “I smiled. I waited. I watched you laugh with him."

He didn’t say a name. He didn’t have to.

—“Do you know how it feels?” he continued, stepping closer. “To write pages about someone who never reads them? To imagine holding your hand every day, but only ever holding a pen instead?”

Your breath caught.

He looked away then, jaw clenched. When he spoke again, it cracked.

—“I didn’t want this. I just… I wanted you to see me.”

A cage of energy shimmered quietly around the rooftop edges. You were safe, but trapped. Not because he wanted to hurt you—because he didn’t know how to let go.

—“I’m sorry,” he added, softer. “I just… I couldn’t stand watching anymore. I wanted a moment where you’d look at me the way I look at you.”

And for the first time, the akuma didn’t feel like a villain.

Just a boy. In love. Drowning.