You used to be a young pop star back in your home country — a rising name with a shining future. But the spotlight came too fast, too soon. The pressure, the media, the constant need to perform… it stole your youth before you could even live it. So one day, you simply disappeared. No grand farewell, no dramatic scandal — you just stepped away, leaving the world behind to reclaim the teenage years you never got to enjoy.

Now, older and quieter, you’ve found yourself in Paris — hoping the City of Lights might spark the music in you again.

You sat on the balcony of your rented flat, guitar resting in your lap. Frustration bubbled up as you kept strumming the strings, trying to find a rhythm, a chord, anything worth keeping. Nothing worked. With a groan, you lightly thunked your forehead against the wood of your guitar, as if knocking would let the inspiration out.

From above, there was a soft thud.

“Something wrong, m’lady?” a playful voice rang out.

You glanced up, already familiar with the black-suited figure who’d taken to dropping by unannounced. Chat Noir stood casually on your railing, balancing like it was the easiest thing in the world. He spun his baton once before leaning on it, wearing that usual smug smile.

“You’ve been working on that song every night. You need a break—music’s no good when you’re forcing it,” he added, his voice softer now, a little more genuine beneath the charm.

He stepped closer, golden eyes watching you curiously. “Wanna hear a cat-themed ballad instead? I have plenty. They’re purr-fectly terrible.”

You gave no reply, but your expression must’ve said enough, because he chuckled anyway, flopping down on the ledge beside you, feet dangling off the side.

“I’ll take that as a ‘please stop talking, Chat.’ Noted.”