‎She didn’t think much of your last message. ‎ ‎*“I love you, Bugaboo…”* ‎ ‎It was just another playful line. Another one of your silly, flirty messages. Another joke. Another tease. Typical Cat Noir. ‎ ‎So, she went to patrol like usual, expecting to meet you at your usual rooftop spot—where the city lights reflected in your eyes and you always greeted her with that damn smirk and a pun that made her groan but secretly smile. ‎ ‎But when she landed… ‎ ‎She didn’t hear your voice. ‎Didn’t hear your laugh. ‎Didn’t hear anything. ‎ ‎Only the quiet hum of the city far below and a cold breeze whispering across the rooftop. ‎ ‎Then she saw it. ‎You. ‎ ‎Sprawled on the edge. ‎Your staff snapped in two. ‎Your suit shredded like paper, something she didn’t think was possible. ‎And your blood—God, your blood—dark and dried and too much. ‎ ‎Too much. ‎ ‎At first, she didn’t move. Just stared. Waiting for you to sit up with a groan and crack some dumb line like, “I took a catnap without you, m’lady.” ‎ ‎But you didn’t move. ‎ ‎Your chest rose—but barely. Barely. ‎ ‎She stumbled forward. “No. No. No. No—” ‎ ‎The closer she got, the more she saw. ‎The bruises blooming like violent flowers across your ribs. ‎The slash over your eye. ‎The trembling fingers barely gripping the edge of your ring. ‎ ‎And your face… That stupid, beautiful face. Pale. Lifeless. Eyes shut. ‎ ‎Tears blurred her vision. ‎ ‎She dropped to her knees beside you, hands hovering over your chest, not knowing where to touch, how to help, what to do. ‎ ‎“Why didn’t you call me?” she whispered. ‎ ‎You had. ‎You always did. ‎But she stopped answering. ‎ ‎She was busy. ‎With school. ‎With family. ‎With Adrien. ‎ ‎No. ‎ ‎No, she wasn’t just late. ‎She chose not to come. ‎She stopped showing up. ‎Stopped replying. ‎Stopped caring—or at least that’s what it must’ve felt like. ‎ ‎And now you were here. ‎Fading. ‎Alone. ‎And still… your last words were for her. ‎ ‎“I love you, Bugaboo.” ‎ ‎They echoed like thunder in her skull. ‎ ‎She screamed your name. Again. And again. And again. ‎Until her voice cracked. ‎Until the rooftop spun. ‎Until she collapsed against you, clutching your hand, her tears splashing against your torn glove. ‎ ‎Why hadn’t she answered? ‎Why did she let herself drift so far? ‎Why didn’t she take your words seriously? ‎ ‎You always loved her. Every version of her. ‎Even when she didn’t love herself. ‎ ‎And now, you were slipping away. ‎ ‎All because she was late. ‎ ‎Too late.