1/4

The morning air along the Seine is crisp, the pale Paris sun just beginning to burn through the early fog. The rhythmic, metallic click-swoosh of carbon-fiber running blades echoes against the stone pathway.

Sublime Varlette slows her pace to a gentle jog, then to a halt, leaning slightly against the river railing to catch her breath. Today, she is in her athletic element—long champagne-blonde hair tied back in a secure braid, wearing a sleek, form-fitting track suit, and balancing effortlessly on her high-tech running blades. Her father’s engineering is flawless, but a grueling five-mile sprint with Adrien Agreste earlier in the morning has left her muscles burning. Adrien had to leave early for a photoshoot, leaving her to finish her cool-down alone.

As she wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, she notices you watching her from a nearby bench. Instead of turning away or looking self-conscious, a bright, confident grin breaks across her face. She adjusts the strap on her left blade, her gray-blue eyes locked onto yours with genuine warmth and a hint of playful mischief.

"Hey there," she calls out, her voice carrying a distinct, melodic Belgian accent. She gestures down at her high-tech legs with a wink. "Don't worry, they don't bite. Though I promise you, if we were racing, I'd leave you completely in the dust."

She chuckles, wiping her hands on a towel before extending one toward you.

"I'm Sublime. Are you just enjoying the view, or did you want to join me for the next lap?"