The Act - myladynoire - Miraculous Ladybug [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: The Girl

Chapter Text

2001

La Casa di Santa Chiara—or, as the children simply called it, La Casa—was an institution in a small Italian town, housing twenty-five boys and girls, most of whom had been either removed from dysfunctional families or abandoned. The shelter was an old stone building with peeling white wooden shutters; on the roof was a statue of St. Vincent protecting a child in the folds of his gown.

The Girl had been there for as far as her memory could recall. La Casa was all she had ever known—its stone walls kept the scorching heat out in the summer but made it freezing in the winter. She had only ever been surrounded by other children; those who had outgrown the shelter; the wide-eyed newcomers, quiet and wary until they found their footing; and the sisters who ran the place.

The Girl was nine, soon to be ten, that year. She had spindly limbs, unassuming hazel eyes, chestnut hair always kept in a single neat braid, and she dressed in secondhand clothes donated from catholic charities. She could have come from anywhere; a plain, unremarkable disposition with no defining features. A blank canvas, which would later prove to be her greatest asset.

In the summer months, the children had little to keep busy. They trudged around the charred grounds of the yard, playing with nearly dilapidated toys; deflated footballs, plastic jump ropes, and crumbling bits of chalk used to draw approximate outlines for hopscotch. There was also a tall metal slide, and a little swing set.

The Girl grew up playing outside with the other children, excelling at every game to the point of frustrating them, and mastering newly invented ones at lightning speed. What she loved most, though, was inventing fabulous stories about herself, her family, and her life before landing at La Casa. She once claimed her parents were famous explorers who traveled the world, leaving her in the orphanage for her safety while they discovered ancient treasures and fought off wild animals.

At first, the children listened to her tales with mouths agape, bombarding her with incredulous questions, which she gladly entertained. She reveled in the attention and began to embellish her stories more and more. But as the years passed, her contradictions unraveled the truth, and through whispers and shared suspicions, the way all normal societies behaved, they united against the pariah. With no one left to believe her stories, The Girl retreated into herself.

Now she liked it better inside, in the little chapel, where they kept the TV-VCR combo and a mountain of old tapes from the 50s. Outside worship hours, the space doubled as a makeshift home cinema, offering her a small portal to the outside world, beyond the stifling fences of La Casa. Everything she knew about life, she knew from watching movies.

Young Suora (Sister) Lucia had taken a liking to her as soon as she began to work there.

To most people, The Girl was like a shadow—barely there, a faint presence that slipped past unnoticed, even when she stood right before you. She lingered on the edges of perception, an unsettling blur in the corner of the eye, as if her very existence was a trick of the light. But Suora Lucia noticed her immediately. There was something about the way the air seemed to still around her, a disquieting calm that clung to the child like a second skin.

One day, she caught The Girl alone in the chapel, watching Hitchco*ck’s To Catch a Thief in English. The room was dark and she was sitting cross-legged on the bare linoleum floor, looking up, the flickering glow of the black-and-white screen dousing her like a holy beam.

Suora Lucia, cloaked in a black habit that rustled like dry leaves, blonde ringlets escaping her veil, approached until she was standing beside the child.

She called her name, but she did not reply.

“Why don’t you ever play with the other children?” she then asked.

The Girl’s paused the VCR. She turned her head and stared at the sister with eyes that were too wide, too bright—a calculated mask of innocence that felt wrong, almost grotesque.

“They call me a liar.”

“Why do they say that?”

She hesitated for a second. “I only told them stories they liked to hear. They kept coming to me for more, so I gave them more. Now I guess they grew bored of my stories.”

“That is called lying, amore, not telling stories.”

“Do you know my story, Suora Lucia?”

“I do.”

She co*cked her head. “How? You’re new.”

“Your file.” Her voice lowered to a near whisper. “You must not lie about your life to impress others. You know that the Good Lord does not like liars.”

For a moment, The Girl’s face went blank, unaffected by the admonition. She stared at the sister until the silence grew thick and suffocating.

“You have read my file and you still think the Good Lord likes me?”

“Well…”

“May I please continue watching my tape?”

La Madre Superiora oversaw the daily operations of La Casa. She was an aging, large woman with a heavy wooden cross always attached to her modest robe and a black rosary that seemed to be permanently glued to her massive hands. As far as dispositions went, hers wasn’t really enviable, though everything she did was with the children’s wellbeing in mind.

One evening, during dinner, she announced that a couple would soon visit the shelter with hopes of adopting a child. The room buzzed with hushed whispers that quickly turned into eager conversations, which she swiftly hushed. Adoptions were rare. The Girl had never witnessed any.

With renewed hope, she gulped down her bowl of thick minestrone soup and her small chunk of rye bread, and hurried to wash up before bed.

In the girls’ dormitory, once everybody was asleep, The Girl knelt at the side of her bed, holding her olive wood rosary between her clasped hands under the moonlight, and spent nearly half the night in prayer until her bony knees hurt from the unforgiving wooden floors.

The next morning, at breakfast, a sixteen-year-old girl named Anna sat beside her. Anna’s chronic ear infections from childhood had resulted in several surgeries, a pink river of skin painted across her face, and a tendency to twitch due to the surgeon having messed up her nerves.

“I saw you praying last night,” said Anna. “You shouldn’t get your hopes up, they always pick the younger ones. No one ever wants us… We are too old.”

The Girl just stared at her half empty bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with too much cinnamon.

“When I get out of here in a few years,” Anna continued, “I will be left to fend for myself, and so will you.”

It was simply not true. It could not be. Perhaps worthless children like Anna would be a burden on a family, but not The Girl, no. She was different. She was special. She was better than all of them, and she deserved nothing but the very best that this life had to offer. She would not—could not—settle for less.

The morning of the couple's scheduled arrival, The Girl dressed to the nines. She selected her best clothes: her white Easter dress with double-ruffled sleeves which she ironed herself, and she styled her hair into two braids, finishing the look with a white headband and her rarely worn shiny church shoes. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, satisfied. She looked like an angel! Who would say no to this face?

After lunch, the couple arrived. The woman, young and kind-looking with soft red hair, accompanied by a similarly pleasant man, engaged warmly with the children, showing genuine interest in their lives under the approving smiles of the sisters.

They seemed positively charmed when they met The Girl. The sisters had praised her as wise beyond her years, a devout little child with impeccable manners and a vivid imagination. Eloquent, intelligent and calm; she never caused any trouble, and she had an ear for languages. The Girl proudly displayed her excellent grades, and upon learning that the man hailed from America, flaunted her knowledge of English and confided that her greatest dream was to go on a trip around the world.

They spent more time with The Girl than they did with any of the other children and for a moment her heart swelled with hope—before it shattered almost instantly. The culprit was five-year-old Sofia: bright doe eyes and blonde Shirley Temple curls. She had the face of a porcelain angel, a perfect little living doll.

No matter how perfect The Girl appeared, someone younger would always win in the end.

Over the following weeks, while the couple settled paperwork and paid weekly visits to the children, The Girl prayed, even as her hopes dwindled. Their growing connection with little Sofia made their decision painfully clear.

A brief thought kept her up at night. Would it be easy to make Sofia disappear? Could she push her into traffic or poison her food? No. None of that was necessary—and it would only come back to haunt her.

She had other ideas.

A scream of pain erupted from the yard, hours before the couple’s scheduled visit. The sisters, along with a few other children, rushed to the bottom of the slide by the ladder, where The Girl lay in the mud, in tears and holding her wrist. Little Sofia was standing at the top of the ladder, looking scared and confused.

“She pushed me!” cried The Girl as Suora Lucia examined her possibly broken wrist. “Sofia pushed me.”

Later in the nurse’s office, her wrist temporarily held in place with a splint, The Girl sniffled, reveling in the attention. Even those who typically doubted her now showed sympathy. They gathered around, offering comforting words and keeping her company. One boy rolled up his sleeve to reveal an ugly scar, recounting the time he was bitten by a dog. Another lifted his pant leg to show a jagged mark from a bicycle accident. A girl pointed to a small, circular scar on their arm, explaining how her mother had purposely burned her out of anger.

Meanwhile, in the girls’ dormitory, Suora Lucia sat down with the teary-eyed culprit.

“That is a very bad thing you did, Sofia,” she scolded.

“But I didn’t push her,” the child maintained. “She jumped, I swear.”

“Do not swear,” she gasped. “Why would she jump and injure herself? I do not want to hear lies from you.”

“I am not lying! She’s the liar, you don’t know her like we do.”

“You will be punished for this. I want you to apologize to her.”

“No!” she cried. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!”

As soon as the couple arrived, The Girl ran up to them, cradling her injured wrist.

“Look at my wrist,” she pouted. “Sofia did this to me today! She pushed me off the slide because she wanted to go first. She has a terrible temper, you do not want to adopt her!”

Despite her meticulously crafted plan, the couple did not waver in their decision. Their choice was made, the paperwork signed, and a room for little Sofia had already been lovingly prepared in their home as well as in their hearts. The following week, they returned to collect their newly adopted daughter. With Sofia in tow, they bid farewell to the children and never returned again.

The Girl erupted in a fit of rage. She waited until she was alone in the privacy of the bathroom before unleashing her fury. Screaming and shouting, she kicked at anything in her path like a girl possessed. She broke her olive wood rosary, sending the beads scattering in every direction, and continued to kick at the walls, her anger fueling her until it alerted Suroa Lucia who came rushing in, scooping the child into her arms to soothe her.

She stroked her hair and whispered hushed words into her ears until she simmered down, her breath steadier, only interrupted by the occasional sniffle. Her chest heaved with the remnants of her outburst, and her wrist hurt even more; she was positive she’d shattered something this time. Bone fragments jutted out at odd angles.

“Can you adopt me?” The Girl’s voice was barely more than a whisper, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Suora Lucia pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on The Girl’s small shoulders.

“I can’t, amore,” she whispered with sorrowful eyes. “I’m not allowed to.”

The tears that had welled up in her eyes dried up as quickly as they had formed, leaving a hollow, empty stare behind. Suora Lucia could almost see it—the last flicker of hope fading from The Girl's expression, like a candle snuffed out by an unseen hand.

The change was so sudden, so chilling, that it made her blood run cold. She looked into The Girl’s eyes and loosened her grip on her shoulders, pulling away as if she had touched something unholy.

The Girl didn't move, didn't say another word. She simply stared ahead, as if Suora Lucia no longer existed, the world around her crumbling into dust.

Some days after Sofia’s departure, The Girl was sitting on the floor of the chapel watching live television, peacefully eating corn flakes out of a bowl with no milk, her left wrist now encased in a blue cast. She had switched from a mildly interesting cooking show to a gripping news segment about a missing child in the UK.

Millicent “Millie” Scott was four years old when she vanished from a playground in London, never to be seen again. In the absence of leads in the five years since her disappearance, the case had gone cold, and the attorney general had closed it. It would make her about nine or ten today if she were still alive—which few believed. A child missing for over a year was, more often than not, presumed dead.

The accompanying photo behind the news anchor was of an adorable little brown-haired girl with hazel eyes and a dimpled smile, beaming at the camera.

Later that evening, while she and the other children were washing up in the sinks, The Girl looked at her reflection in the mirror after she’d finished brushing her teeth, and smiled until her cheeks hurt and she could make out the faint outline of little dimples. It would have to do. The future was too bleak not to risk it.

That very night, while everybody was asleep, she took a matchbox she’d pilfered from church and snuck into La Madre Superiora’s office, which she luckily left unlocked most of the time.

In a file cabinet she found her own folder; birth certificate, case details, immunization records, health insurance—everything mandated by the state. Her eyes lingered on her name and image. There were little clippings of local news, photographic evidence of abuse; close-up photos of a toddler’s bruised arms and legs.

She lit the folder's corner with a match and watched it burn until her identity was ash. She left not one trace of her; not a picture, not a written word. Soon, all that remained of her would be memories, their reliability questionable, destined to fade with time and distort through subjective lenses.

She waited until the early hours of the morning when the sisters were in the chapel for their pre-dawn prayers, the perfect time to slip away unnoticed.

She crept out of bed, careful not to wake the girl sleeping beside her, grabbed her wool scarf and some loose change she’d saved up, and slipped out into the hallway. The building was quiet, save for the soft murmurs of prayer from the chapel below. She moved like a wraith, sticking close to the walls, avoiding the creaky floorboards she had memorized over the years.

Next was the hardest part: leaving La Casa without triggering any alarms. She had overheard the sisters discussing the new locks on the front gate, but there was a side entrance used only for deliveries. It was usually locked, but she knew the key was kept on a hook behind the storage room door.

In the dark, she fumbled for the key, found it, and made her way to the side entrance. With a quiet turn of the lock, she slipped outside into the cool night air. The town lay still and silent, shrouded in the calm before dawn. She moved through its empty streets until she reached the bus stop where workers were lining up, headed for the big city.

The bus pulled in after half an hour and The Girl found a seat near the back, tightening her scarf around her face. The vehicle surged on, and she watched through the window as the town disappeared from view.

The Girl planned her next steps carefully, knowing that her strategy hinged on her ability to convincingly become Millicent Scott.

Once the bus arrived in the big city, she stepped off, feeling small and lost in the crowd of people. Seeking refuge in a public restroom, she tousled her hair to appear disheveled and vulnerable, got rid of her cast, then shedded her scarf and rubbed her clothes on the grimy floor to stain them.

She rehearsed her story in her mind: she was Millicent Scott, the missing child from London, kidnapped and subjected to horrific abuse. Her abductors had dragged her and other children all throughout Europe; her escape was a miracle, and now she needed help.

Satisfied with her roughened appearance, she walked—or rather, limped—outside until she located the nearest police station. She approached the front desk and the officer on duty looked down at her.

“Ciao tesoro," he greeted gently. “Are you lost?”

She responded in tentative English instead, a mix of an Italian and a Transatlantic accent she’d retained after watching so many old Hollywood films. “My name is Millicent. Can you help me?”

The officer blinked, clearly taken aback. “Millicent?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I escaped. They... they hurt me. They might find me. Can you help me, please?”

The officer immediately called for his superior. Within moments, The Girl was led to a quiet room in the back, where a female detective greeted her. She wore a strict pantsuit and sensible heels, her dark hair tied up in a high ponytail. Despite her no-nonsense demeanor, she lowered to The Girl’s height with a soft, reassuring look. The Girl could tell that she was a mother.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, in English. “My name is Gia. What is yours?”

“Millicent.”

“Millicent, what a pretty name. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

The Girl hesitated, teary eyes riveted on the floor.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“The men, they took me,” she whispered. “A long time ago. I was with my mum in the park, in London. They... they hurt me and made me do bad things. I escaped. I ran and ran.”

Gia’s eyes filled with sympathy. “You're safe now, Millicent. We're going to help you. But we need to know everything you can tell us, okay?”

The Girl’s voice shook as she recounted the harrowing tale. She described being snatched from a playground, whisked away to an unknown location, and ensnared in what could only be described as a child prostitution ring. She spoke of beatings, starvation, and being chained up. Her wrist, she claimed, was injured during her first attempt to break free from her restraints.

“I don’t know where I am,” she continued, tears streaming down her face. “I just ran until I couldn’t anymore.”

Gia leaned in, her voice gentle. “You're very brave, Millie. We're going to take care of you. Can you tell me what they looked like? The people who took you?”

The Girl shook her head. “I want to go home. I want my mother.”

“I understand. You've been through a lot. Can you wait here a moment while I check something? It will only take a few seconds. Can you do that?”

The Girl nodded silently, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve as she settled into a plastic chair. Gia sat down at a bulky computer, fingers navigating through databases and cross-referencing information.

“Can you tell me how old you are, sweetheart?”

“... Nine.”

She observed from a distance as Gia continued typing, and occasionally sniffled to maintain the façade of fragility. Holding her breath, The Girl watched as Gia navigated to the UK Missing Children’s Unit website. Finally, Millicent Scott’s picture appeared on the screen.

Over the next few hours, The Girl was examined by doctors and questioned by more officers. They noted her fragile condition and injured wrist, which they confirmed was consistent with a recent fracture. She flinched at every touch, refused to let anyone help her wash up, her body language screaming of severe trauma. It was in the timorous hunch of her shoulders, the arms hugged close to her thin body, and the eyes—enormous in her pale face and dilated with fear.

When the officers asked for more details about her ordeal, she provided enough to be convincing but remained sufficiently vague as to avoid inconsistencies. She described the cramped, dirty rooms where she had been kept, the cruel faces of her captors, and the pain she endured. She mentioned how she and all the other children were forbidden to speak English while her speech was still developing, hence the accent and the questionable grammar sometimes.

The next day, The Girl was moved to a secure location, where she awaited the arrival of her "family."

As she sat in the living room of a tiny brick house, clutching a stuffed animal Gia had given her, The Girl allowed herself a faint, triumphant smile.

Her mother, Katie, had landed in Italy just hours earlier and was en route to the city.

Before reuniting with her long-lost daughter, an officer took the time to warn her.

“Be prepared for changes,” he said gently. “Six years is a long time in the development of a child. She may not be the same little girl you remember.”

“I just need to see her. Let me see her.”

“She’s in that room.”

The Girl—now Millie—stood up. Footsteps approached, and the door opened to reveal a curly-haired, middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes, hopeful but frightened. She wore a suit and cat-eye glasses, and was accompanied by a British detective and an Italian official.

The Girl’s mind raced. What if she called her out for the imposter she was? What if she claimed she wasn’t her daughter?...

“Millie?” The woman’s voice trembled, making its way in as if slipping through the crowd of worried thoughts.

Millie looked up, eyes wide. “Mummy?”

The woman rushed forward, dropping to her knees in front of her. “Oh my God, Millie! My baby!” She wrapped her arms around her daughter, who flinched slightly but then relaxed into the embrace, her own arms tentatively wrapping around the woman.

“Mummy, I missed you.”

The woman pulled back slightly, cupping Millie’s face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I missed you too, my love. I’m so sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. I never gave up hope. I knew you’d come back to me, baby. I need you to know that I never gave up on you. God I’m so happy you’re okay.”

They held each other for a long time, the room filled with the sound of quiet sobbing. People stood back, giving them space. Neither British nor Italian officials raised any questions once Katie had vouched for her.

“I’m sorry, Mummy,” Millie said. “I tried to come back sooner, but I could not.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” her mother replied firmly. “You’re safe now, baby. It’s all that matters.”

Millie buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, a triumphant grin sketching itself on her teary face as she basked in the warmth of a mother’s love for the first time ever.

Chapter 2: Millicent Scott

Chapter Text

The first few days in the Scott household were a whirlwind. Her—real—tenth birthday passed quietly.

Nestled in a splendid Georgian townhouse in southeast London, the big rooms and winding hallways initially left her disoriented, but she knew she had to quickly gain her bearings to avoid raising suspicion.

The Scotts were a well-off, influential family who enjoyed a lifestyle well beyond mere comfort. Katie, her mother, was a renowned gallerist who also oversaw the exhibitions at Tate Modern, while her father Vincent worked as a real estate agent. Luckily, she had no siblings, which meant fewer people to fool. Millicent had been the Scotts' long-awaited miracle baby, arriving after nearly a decade of trying every conceivable option. Only four years into their idyllic life, their happiness was abruptly shattered.

“We haven't touched a thing, I couldn’t bring myself to,” Katie told Millie on her first day back at home, leading her into a fully pink bedroom with a four-poster bed, an enormous Barbie Dream House, and shelves overflowing with books. “I understand if this isn't quite your style anymore... You've grown up.”

In the corner, by her bed, was a goodie bag from the last birthday party she went to. Her little shoes were aligned neatly on a rack, including a pair of leather oxfords she never got to wear. Star stickers were stuck to the wall, at a child’s level. The last book that her mother had read to her was still open on the page they’d stopped on.

Millie turned to her with a little smile.

Katie smiled back. “We can change anything you’d like. Just say the word.”

While Katie lavished attention on Millie, accepting her unquestioningly as her own daughter and showering her with every delight a nine-year-old could imagine, Vincent was pointedly more guarded and distrustful. He had believed his wife, of course, and had hugged the child as soon as they reunited at the airport… But soon the scrutiny began. In the car ride home he stared at her through the rearview mirror, followed her as she timidly explored the layout of their house and as she settled back into their lives.

Sensing his mistrust, Millie knew she had to do something.

At night, she crept downstairs into the living room and snooped through drawers and shelves. She found various picture frames; but those were useless if no names were attached. She discovered a family album underneath the coffee table and began flipping through it under the dim light of a table lamp. Each page was a treasure trove of information, with dated photographs and captions to match.

Uncle Wayne, French Riviera - February 1987

Baby Millie and Granny Jane - December 16th, 1991

Millie’s 4th birthday at Disneyland, Paris - December 16th 1995

Millie & her cousin Harper - Christmas 1994

While rummaging around, she found a goldmine: the family’s camcorder. She watched every single home video on the lowest possible volume, devouring each frame of their recorded lives, absorbing, studying, and committing it all to memory—from young Millie's mannerisms and voice to the details of family vacations and gatherings.

If this was to become a performance, she was determined to make it her finest yet.

“I need them to leave,” Katie muttered, drawing the curtains abruptly as dozens of journalists and media reps gathered in front of the house. “This is harassment. They’re after their headline, and we’re not going to give it to them.”

“It’ll die down,” said Vincent while making sure the front door was securely locked. “Only a matter of time.”

Millie sat quietly in the adjacent living room with a book, feigning interest in its pages while listening intently.

“Dr. Meyer called again,” he continued in a lower voice. “She insists on seeing Millie. Says she needs psychological support.”

“What Millie needs,” she replied sharply, “is peace. I’ve had quite enough of people poking and prodding at her. Not a day goes by without some kind of questioning. It's making her restless and irritable. They won’t leave her alone. And now they’re suggesting a DNA test, are these people out of their minds? What, I can’t recognize my own daughter?”

Millie’s limbs froze solid.

Vincent replied, lowering his voice. “I think a DNA test might not be a terrible idea.”

“How dare you,” she spat. “Get these people to leave our property. Tell them she’s unwell or something, I don’t care.”

“They’ll tire themselves out. I am not stepping outside.”

Katie retreated upstairs, and Millie curled into herself as her father entered the living room, his eyes almost predatory. She didn’t like it—or him for that matter. He needed to be dealt with.

“Am I going to school soon, Daddy?” she asked.

“... Maybe. I don’t know. We’re not thinking about that right now.” He sat next to her. “Do you remember your friends, Millie?”

Another round of questioning. When would the investigation end?

“Yes,” she nodded. “I remember… Riley… and um… and Jack. Will they be in my class this year?”

Vincent softened a tad. “They’re going to different schools now. Jack’s mum has called. He’s asked after you.”

“He did?”

“They’ve all been very worried.”

“I thought they would forget about me.”

“Of course not. Nobody forgot about you.”

“Even Granny Jane?”

His expression darkened. “She’s um… she’s passed away, Millie. Don’t you remember?”

“I…” she froze, mentally cursing herself. “Yes. I’m sorry. I got confused.”

“... It’s all right.”

It was not. She knew she had messed up, and she would be working overtime to fix it.

Over the next few weeks, the seeds of doubt planted in her father's mind began to grow, taking root and spreading. Although the media storm outside their home had diminished slightly, the scrutiny within the house remained intense.

Katie had yielded to Dr. Meyer’s suggestion.

Millie’s routine now included weekly sessions with a psychiatrist, where she was expected to speak in depth of her traumatic past. Occasionally, officers visited, determined to extract every last piece of information about the child trafficking ring that had supposedly held her captive. Friends and family also stopped by, eager to reconnect and offer support.

The relentless questioning was a constant strain. Whenever she was asked something she didn’t know—because she simply couldn’t know—Millie would resort to a calculated shutdown, tearing at her hair or clinking her fork rhythmically against the edge of her plate. Each act was designed to elicit sympathy and to deflect further probing.

But maintaining the lie required far more effort than she had anticipated, and soon she grew weary of it. What she truly craved was peace, caring parents, a secure home, and a semblance of normalcy—all of which felt painfully out of reach.

Katie did her best, shielding Millie from her father's increasingly skeptical demeanor, staunchly defended her against those who probed too deeply, and overcompensated for lost time by indulging her every whim. Anything Millie's eyes lingered on for a moment too long became hers—expensive, fashionable dresses, well-tailored coats with fur trims, and polished shoes; little Mary Janes and ballet flats to match every outfit. She transformed into a living, breathing Veruca Salt.

This. This was the life she deserved. She no longer had to accept the hand she was dealt, no longer had to grit her teeth in false gratitude to God for what little she had. She could have anything she desired; all it took was a lie, painstakingly maintained and taken to extreme lengths, and the entire world would be on her plate.

On a family outing that winter in Midtown London, Millie was taken to the toy floor at Harrods. She could not contain her excitement upon seeing rows of pretty dolls, sparkling trinkets, and costumes fit for princesses.

The Girl beneath the façade of Millie didn’t care much what her character actually liked. At that moment, she was focused solely on herself. She was drawn to pretty things—delicate music boxes that played enchanting melodies, fragrant flowers, bubbles, candied fruit, and cinnamon. Her days at La Casa hadn't afforded her such luxuries; she often made do with whatever charity provided—worn-out clothes, aged toys, and bland food. Now, a new world of possibilities unfolded before her. It wasn't mere joy she felt—it was hunger, an insatiable craving for everything she’d been denied, a taste of the life she was determined to claim as her own.

Always trailed by her parents, Millie wandered up and down the aisles and let her eyes feast on the rows of toys. They walked out of the store with heaps of green-and-gold Harrods bags and made their way to the food halls next.

Accustomed to the meagerest of meals—barely enough to meet her caloric needs, Millie was simply stunned. She held her mother’s gloved hand as they walked through the market, taking in the smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the salty tang of cured meats, the sweetness of pastries, golden-brown croissants, edible works of art, and shelves lined with beautifully packaged teas and coffees from around the world.

She marveled at the silver-scaled fish laying on beds of crushed ice, plump shrimp and glistening oysters, while her father discussed lamb cuts with a friendly butcher for an upcoming dinner party.

“Is there something you’d like, my love?” Katie asked, squeezing her daughter’s hand.

“What are those?” Millie pointed to a display of Ladurée macarons in pastel hues. “They’re pretty.”

“Those are called macarons, remember? You loved those. Shall we take a box home, then?”

“Yes.”

After selecting a box of twelve, Millie trotted up to her father in the wine section.

“Daddy, we bought a box of macarons,” she announced in an attempt to make conversation.

“Lovely,” he replied distractedly, eyeing the wooden shelves of wine that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. “For dessert…”

“Perhaps a Sauternes or a Port,” the sommelier suggested, selecting a bottle of Château d'Yquem. “This will pair wonderfully with cheeses or a sweet dessert.”

Millie stared at her father, puzzled by his sudden avoidance and coldness.

“Daddy?” she called as they left the register.

“Would you like a smoothie?”

What’s that? She meant to ask.

“Yes,” she replied instead.

“Come.” He took her hand and walked out of the store, leading her down Brompton Road.

“Is Mummy coming?” She glanced over her shoulder as they walked into a smoothie place.

“We’ll only be a minute. How about…” he hesitated, perusing the card behind the barista. “Grapefruit? Sounds good?”

Millie nodded, still a bit confused but grateful for his effort to connect.

“Don’t tell Mum,” he confessed hushedly. “She doesn’t want you snacking in between meals.”

She took a long sip of her smoothie, then smiled to show her appreciation. He stared at her for a moment before smiling back.

The drive home was silent. Snow had begun to fall, and Millie, nestled among their new purchases, watched the flakes drift down through the window until she fell asleep. Her father glanced at the child through the rearview mirror, and it was completely lost on her.

Millie’s masquerade crumbled that very night. Dressed in a pink pajama set, she tiptoed out of her room to eavesdrop on her parents through their bedroom door. The tension was rising, and there was a tremor to Katie’s voice.

“What—you did what? Are you mad!” she whisper-shouted.

“Whoever this is,” he said calmly, “isn’t Millie.”

“She could have died! You risked her life to prove a point?”

“But she did not die, is the point. Millie is deathly allergic to grapefruit. She drank the entire thing without so much as a rash. Katie, I implore you to see reason. My heart goes out to this delusional child, but she isn’t who she claims she is.”

“I’m not listening to you,” she cried, voice thick with tears. “I know my daughter. It is her. Those are her eyes, her hair, her sweet little voice—she’s our daughter, and if you can’t recognize her, then—”

“Get a DNA test.”

“No, we’re not doing—”

“I’ve contacted the clinic. We are getting a DNA test.”

They were informed it would be a few days before they received the test results. Any way she looked at it, Millie was doomed. There was no longer a future in the Scott household for her. She’d convinced a grieving mother that she was her long-lost daughter, and a grapefruit smoothie had been her downfall.

Before the results could seal her fate, she had one final move to play. She decided to take advantage of a scheduled appointment with her psychiatrist to exact her retribution. Vincent drove her there and waited outside the colorful room.

Inside, Millie sat upright in a comfy chair, her hands resting on her knees, fingers scratching at her white, lacy tights. She wore a pink overall dress with a matching headband, a ribbon tied at the end of her single braid. Dr. Meyer noticed the torn skin of her bottom lip, damaged cuticles, and dark circles under her tired eyes.

“Hello, Millie. How have you been since our last session?” she asked in a soothing voice.

Millie couldn’t bring herself to meet her eyes. Instead, she stared despondently at the blue floor tiles. It took her a moment to muster the courage to speak. When she did, her voice was small and strained.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about my Daddy…”

“I am listening.”

Millie glanced up once, and then lowered her eyes again.

“I don’t want him to get in trouble,” she said, her voice wavering as real tears surfaced. “He says I should keep it to myself and not tell my Mummy. But I want him to stop doing what he is doing to me… He is just like those men… I wish I had never come back.”

Dr. Meyer put down her notepad, slowly removed her glasses and leaned forward, offering Millie her undivided attention.

The session lasted well over an hour, and when Millie was let out with the assurance that something would be done, she felt vindicated. In the corridor, she was left alone with her father for a moment. She stood before him and looked up, all traces of vulnerability vanishing in a mask-shattering instant.

You screw me, I screw you.

The Girl vanished the morning of his arrest, just a few days before the test results would come out. Rising at five, she dressed quickly and stepped out into the fresh snow blanketing the sidewalks, cold water quickly seeping into her little boots. It was back to square one.

Chapter 3: Victoria Barbier

Chapter Text

The Girl sat alone on a cold bench at the Frankfurt central train station, her small frame swallowed by a white puffy oversized coat and a woolen hat.

A sign on the wall said: ‘Unbegleitete Minderjährige’, translated underneath in English: ‘Unaccompanied minors’. An arrow pointed to a closed off office.

She spent a few minutes silently mouthing the words to commit them to memory and get the pronunciation right, and then scanned the platform, spotting a group of people boarding a train bound for Zurich, Switzerland. She slipped into the crowd and entered the carriage. Once inside, she looked for a suitable target—a kind-looking older woman sitting alone by the window.

“Entschuldigung,” she said in German, and then pointed at the empty seat beside her. “Darf ich dort sitzen? I lost my ticket and I am trying to get to my aunt’s house in Zurich. I’m… unaccompanied.”

The woman’s face softened with concern. “Oh, you poor thing!” She patted the seat. “Come, sit down. What’s your name?”

“Julie,” The Girl lied, slipping into her Swiss persona. “Julie Kremer.”

“Well, Julie, don’t you worry. We’ll get you to Zurich safely. Do you have anyone you can call?”

The Girl shook her head, eyes cast down. “No. But my aunt will be waiting at the station.”

“How about some snacks?” She rummaged through her handbag and handed The Girl a chocolate bar. “Traveling can be exhausting.”

As the train chugged along, The Girl feigned exhaustion, her eyelids drooping. She leaned her head against the window, watching the scenery blur past.

The inspector eventually approached, checking tickets.

“Fahrkarten, bitte.”

The old woman spoke up before The Girl could. “She’s unaccompanied. Poor thing lost her ticket. I’ll vouch for her.”

He seemed hesitant at first. “You make sure she is taken care of.”

The Girl’s survival strategy was straightforward.

She traveled by sneaking onto buses and trains, and moved often, exploiting the cracks in a system fraught with chaos and underfunding.

Upon arriving in a new location, she would pretend to be abandoned or running away from an abusive situation. Given her young age and apparent vulnerability (an act she had perfected, from the frail disposition to the fake psychological breakdowns), authorities, more concerned with her immediate wellbeing than rigorous verification, placed her in child welfare facilities and foster families.

This was how she spent part of the year in Brussels, Frankfurt, and now Zurich, where she picked up French, German, and a smattering of Flemish. With each fabricated identity—Laura Peters in Belgium, Ella Becker in Germany, and Julie Kremer in Switzerland—came temporary documents, granting her access to education and healthcare while her cases languished in bureaucratic limbo. Nobody expects a seemingly vulnerable child to be lying, after all.

Public schools were a novelty for The Girl. Her Laura, Ella, and Julie personas struggled to integrate in an environment where she did not initially speak the language. But her mind was sharp, a sponge for new words, and she had a natural ear for language. Within months, she could converse, make friends during recess, and regale them with stories.

The universal truth was this: people everywhere adored stories. They became her social currency. When she spun a tale captivating enough, they clamored for more, living vicariously through her words, hanging onto every detail.

At twelve years old, The Girl arrived in France under the alias of Louise Chauvet and found lodging in a quaint town nestled near the Alps, where the air was pure and fresh, and where lush greenery and majestic mountains abounded.

“Louise?” The headmistress of the shelter gently placed a hand on her shoulder one morning. “Come see me in my office after this. We need to talk about your family.”

Her time here was ticking.

She finished her breakfast calmly, savoring spoonfuls of Miel Pops as milk trickled down her lips, unfazed by the commotion caused by other children flinging food and bickering over dish duty.

A notice for a missing child pinned to the corkboard piqued her interest. Victoria Barbier, a little girl with rosy cheeks and a toothy smile had vanished from her hometown of Toulon at five years old, making her about ten or eleven today.

A piece of toast cracked like slate between her teeth, and Louise wiped the milk droplets and crumbs from her chin with her thumb.

Later that evening, when dinner's hum gave way to the quiet clatter of dishes and bedtime preparations, Louise crept into the dark, empty office of the headmistress. She turned on the computer and looked up Victoria Barbier.

She was last seen leaving her home on a red English race bike which was later found about a mile from her house. The child had vanished without a trace, leaving behind her single mother and her two-year-old sister at the time.

The child had sandy blonde hair which could realistically deepen to a light brown with age. Louise’s eyes were the same shape as Victoria’s, though her lips and ears were not. But these were subtle, forgivable discrepancies.

Louise pored over articles, absorbing every detail of the case. She read about leads and interviews with the family and neighbors, and flicked through collections of photographs of the little girl. Age progression images painted a future that Victoria probably never lived, one that Louise might just embody.

The table overflowed with sugary delights—cupcakes crowned with swirls of pastel frosting, a towering chocolate cake dusted with gold flakes, and plates of cookies shaped like stars and hearts. At the head of this confectionary spread stood The Girl, now Victoria Barbier, her smile as radiant as the tiara perched on her head—a literal birthday princess.

Her mother lit the candles and everyone gathered closer. Her little sister, Lola, eyes wide with admiration, clung to her side while friends from school who had eagerly accepted the invitation to the grand celebration clustered around.

Victoria leaned forward, drew in a deep breath and blew out the candles in one confident puff.

Her mother immediately enveloped her in a tight, loving embrace.

“Joyeux anniversaire, ma chérie,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so happy we’re able to celebrate. I’m the luckiest mother in the world.”

The cake was sliced, each piece disappearing almost as quickly as it was served, and the presents were unwrapped with eager hands—a radio set, art supplies, a sparkling bracelet. For a moment, The Girl truly felt like the cherished daughter she had become, surrounded by the love she had skillfully conjured.

Later that night, after the guests had gone and the party died down, she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, the silver tiara slightly askew.

She straightened it.

“Happy Birthday, Victoria,” she whispered to herself.

The Girl had fooled the Barbier family in the exact same way she had fooled the Scotts. With only a few variations, she offered the same story, delivered the same performance, and was soon welcomed “back” to Toulon. There, much like a parasite, she adopted Victoria’s identity, basking in the affections of a loving mother and a little sister who was none the wiser.

It lasted close to a year, this time.

“Vicky?” Sarah’s voice rang through her bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

Victoria’s bedroom was a cramped space that mirrored the tightness of their finances. Sarah, a single mother and overworked nurse, could barely keep the household afloat. She was often exhausted, her figure permanently slumped over bills at the kitchen table, a cigarette always dangling from her lips. The smell of smoke stuck to everything.

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

Her mother entered the room and sat at the edge of her bed, reaching out to turn down the volume of the latest Britney Spears hit blaring from her radio. Posters of the young pop superstar covered her walls, and her records played 24/7, to the point where neighbors were starting to complain.

Sprawled on her small creaky bed, with an open fashion magazine, Victoria wore a bright pink cropped tank top with a glittery Princess slogan stretched across the front in bold, sparkly letters. A rhinestone butterfly, slightly peeling from repeated washes, perched just above her heart. Her low-rise, faded denim jeans clung to her hips, frayed at the hem and studded with tiny pink gems along the pockets. They were flared at the ankles, and her feet dangled off the bed, bare except for a smudge of glitter polish on her toenails.

Victoria had transformed drastically over the past year. Her hair, which she straightened every morning, now reached past the middle of her back. She wore padded bras and was just starting to experiment with makeup, if the clumpy mascara and unsteady eyeliner were any indication.

“I got a call today,” said her mother.

Victoria mentally braced herself for bad news. She set down her magazine, ready to devise another plan if necessary. She had been in Toulon for nearly a year and did not want to move again. She loved the pretty streets, the nearby beaches and her sun-kissed skin, and her school was all right—she had quickly become popular, moving effortlessly between rival cliques and enchanting whoever crossed her path with her stories. The students simply loved her; her charisma had an almost hypnotic effect on them. In no time, she had a group of friends (sycophants who competed for her attention), and a boyfriend (who she treated more like a fashion accessory than a genuine companion).

“It’s a TV network, M6. The crew of a true crime docu-series wants to make an episode about us—about our situation. Your disappearance made headlines back then. And I guess they want to know how we’re doing, how you’re holding up, and maybe help spread awareness—”

“Let me stop you right there.” Victoria sat up. “I’m not doing this.”

“Vicky,” she smiled. “It’s money. It’s good money coming our way.”

“I don’t care,” she maintained, eyes hardening. “There will be no cameras in this house, no journalist, no investigators, I have had enough of the questioning.”

How dare she even consider subjecting her daughter to another round of scrutiny, forcing her to relive those horrors? Had she forgotten the weeks of nervous breakdowns as she teetered on the edge of institutionalization? Did this woman not have a heart?

“They will keep staff to a minimum. This is a good thing, Vicky. They want to shed some light on this situation, and if it can help prevent another child from—”

“Do you listen when I speak?” she snapped. “Pick up the phone and tell them no. We’re not doing their show.”

“I think we should at least talk to them,” Sarah insisted. “We don’t have to commit to anything right now.”

Victoria's patience frayed like a taut string about to snap. She couldn’t risk exposure. Surely this called for tears, which, thankfully, she could summon at will.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone!” she objected with a tight throat and eyes swimming with tears. “I just want to live in peace and forget about this. They want to turn my life into a spectacle while I have nightmares every night about it…”

She hid her face in her hands, body-shaking sobs overtaking her.

“I know, my angel,” Sarah said, stroking her back and speaking in a soothing voice. “I understand, I know it’s not easy. But I’m doing this for you and your sister. That money will keep our heads above water for—”

“It’s not my fault we’re poor,” she admonished with a piercing glare, mascara running down her cheeks. “I don’t see why I have to go through this just so you can make a little money off of me. I swear—”

“Vicky—”

“—to God, if anyone shows up here and starts filming me, I am leaving. Do you understand? Don’t expect me to stick around if this is how you treat me.”

She reached out to crank up the sound of her stereo, Britney’s nasal, flirtatious voice drowning out everything else, making it clear that this conversation was over.

One evening, while their mother was at work, Victoria and her little sister were watching TV on the threadbare, floral-patterned living room sofa. Between them lay a nearly empty bag of crinkled potato chips, which they passed back and forth, savoring each salty crumb.

Their hair was messily gathered with tiny pink butterfly clips after they’d taken turns playing hairdressers. Stray strands framed their faces which were covered in smeared scented lip gloss and faint smudges of eyeshadow.

“It’s so stupid,” said her sister. “Clark Kent’s closest friends have met Superman face to face and yet they never figure out that it’s him? What, he just wears glasses and all of a sudden, he’s unrecognizable?”

Victoria replied mid-chew, “You know, Lola, it is not that hard to fool people. You only see things you're already looking for. Also, you should not underestimate the effect glasses have on your perception.”

“I’m kind of bored of superheroes. Can we watch something else?”

Victoria flipped through the channels, only to stop dead.

Lola gasped. “That’s maman on TV!”

Sure enough, there, on the screen, was her mother, sitting in their modest living room, speaking to a reporter. Her breath caught in her throat as she listened to Sarah’s voice, amplified and crisp through the television speakers, narrating their story, Victoria's story, to the world. Pictures! There were pictures of her on the screen, on national television, at dinner time!

All color drained from her face.

The media had already picked up on the Millie Scott case, which had led to public outcry, and increased efforts to locate Millie, a manhunt which had thankfully died down. She could not afford to be found.

“-vate investigator. I was working with the producers,” said a raspy voice coming from the front door, which was near Victoria’s bedroom. “And I just had a couple questions.”

It was Sunday morning. Upon hearing the voice, Victoria sat up in bed, still dizzy with sleep, and tiptoed to the hallway to eavesdrop on the conversation between her mother and this supposed private investigator.

“No cameras, please,” Sarah said. “My daughter is here, and she does not want to be filmed.”

“She is in the house, right now?”

“Yes, she’s asleep. Please, no cameras.”

He agreed, and then they moved to the dining room, speaking in a hushed tone that made it difficult for Victoria to hear much from her hiding spot. Bits and pieces reached her.

“—this… renowned speech pathologist from Paris… and we had a talk… –one who's been held in captivity for that amount of time would quickly regain their native accent… heard Victoria speak…”

“Yes, but—”

“—not someone who’s been raised in a French-speaking family.”

Sarah’s voice went up. “But she was traumatized! Of course, she’s changed.”

“A lot of things don’t add up, Madame Barbier. It is not just the accent. It’s… inconsistencies upon inconsistencies. The photographs, when compared… Look, I am not saying she isn’t your daughter. I just think a DNA test should be conducted. If she isn’t who she claims she is, you could be sheltering a dangerous individual. No sane person would do this.”

Lunch that day was tense. Sarah looked at her daughter with dull, distant eyes, holding a half-consumed cigarette between her bony fingers. Meanwhile, Victoria ate her greek salad calmly, focused on a game show on TV.

“Vicky?”

“Mh?” she replied without looking away from the screen, feigning nonchalance.

“Do you remember your father?”

Vicky shrugged. “Oui. Pourquoi?”

“What do you remember?”

She recited in a monotonous tone what she had pieced together on her own, since Sarah never spoke of him. “His name was Emmanuel, he was in the military and rarely came home. When he did, he brought us gifts from wherever he was stationed. For your fifteenth anniversary, he brought you this bracelet,” she pointed to her mother’s wrist, “from French Guiana, and gave me the parrot plushie on my bed.”

Sarah nodded silently.

“Got any more questions?” Victoria snapped. “Is this going to be my trial? I can’t believe you let that man get into your head this morning.”

“You heard—”

“If I was not your daughter, you would’ve left me at that police station and you know it. You took one look at me and you knew. You gave birth to me, you raised me… you are the authority on the matter. Not some random P.I. who got bored and decided to look at us through a microscope. It’s insulting.”

Sarah looked uneasy. And perhaps a tad scared.

“I think we should get this DNA test. Just to appease them.”

“That’s—”

“I don’t think it needs to be a big deal. I have no doubts, but they’re insisting for the sake of the show—”

“The show,” she scoffed. “It’s not like I warned you or anything. Seriously, this is ridiculous. You got yourself into this mess. I was doing just fine and now you are stressing me out!”

Sarah just frowned. “But ma chérie, you have no reason to be stressed.”

“Fine,” she relented with a faint smile. “Let’s get this test done, if it’ll make you feel better. I understand, you just want to have a clear mind about it.”

“Thank you, my love.”

The very next day, Victoria ransacked the shelves of the local pharmacy, hoarding bottles of hair bleach and toner into her school bag, and escaped before she could be caught. She locked herself into the bathroom at home while her mother was at work, and proceeded to bleach her hair—and eyebrows too. It turned a shocking yellow, and she moved quickly to apply the toner, smoothing out the color into a more natural blonde. She packed a change of clothes, stole cash from her little sister’s piggy bank, and disappeared.

For the next few years, The Girl was back on her travels. She insinuated herself into youth shelters, orphanages, foster homes, and schools, assuming more and more identities.

Each persona came with a distinct backstory, speech, and appearance, as she began to experiment with hair dye and colored contacts. By the end, she had mastered half a dozen languages, and just as many dialects and accents.

She was Annika Eriksen in Sweden, whose trauma-induced mutism allowed her to avoid speaking until she had picked up enough Swedish to get by. In Spain, she became Camila Olivares, a grieving teen affected by the Madrid train bombings. Back in Italy, she assumed the role of Sienna Conti, then Imogen Thorne in England, Thalia Kouris in Greece, Isolde Hoffman in Germany, Džana Zahirović in Bosnia, Niamh O'Sullivan in Northern Ireland, and Rafaela Almeida in Portugal.

Each identity was thoughtfully crafted: Sienna, a wary runaway with shaggy-cut brown hair and self-inflicted scars; Imogen, a bright, booksmart girl whose wealthy parents had been imprisoned for tax fraud; Thalia, whose entire family had died in a tragic ferry accident; Isolde, neglected and unkempt, who had to learn how to live among society again; Džana, whose loved ones had all perished in the Bosnian war; Niamh, whose family had been torn apart by The Troubles, and Rafaela, who had escaped an abusive foster home.

While watching Matilda on DVD in her little room in Lisbon and listening to Miss Honey tell Matilda that she was born into a family that doesn’t always appreciate her but that one day, things were going to be different, The Girl began to think about America. For most of her life, she had managed to get around Europe without a passport; she did not need one after all. Intercontinental air travel would prove to be a challenge.

Could she pull off impersonating another missing child? They’d make her a passport and fly her to America, no questions asked, if she managed to convince another family. It was a daring plan, but at fifteen years old, she was more seasoned than ever —cautious, thorough, and fluent in English from endless hours absorbed in films and TV shows.

Surely, by now, the Center for Missing and Exploited Children would be wary of any girl pretending to be a missing child. People must’ve had wind of the Millie Scott and Victoria Barbier affairs.

Unless the missing child was not a girl.

Chapter 4: Arlo Cooper

Chapter Text

The Girl—Rafaela for now—had to scour the steep streets of Lisbon after school to find an internet cafe, since her foster family did not own a computer. She blended into the sweltering crowd in low-waisted jeans, a dark red football jersey emblazoned with Figo’s number 7, and long but fried, damaged brown hair from excessive bleaching and dyeing.

Arriving at the empty reception counter, she tapped the glass surface impatiently with a two-euro coin.

A handsome curly-haired young man emerged from a back room, greeting her with a quick, head-to-toe assessment. “Oi.”

“Posso usar um computador?” She nodded at the rows of computers.

He replied with a flirty grin, “You’re not from here. I can hear it… Are you on Myspace?”

Rafaela glared at him until he got the hint.

“Do you have an account with us?”

“No, I don’t. Can I pay with cash?”

“Sure. How much time?”

“Just an hour.”

“Two euros.”

Rafaela handed over the money, and the attendant gave her a receipt with a computer number and password.

She wasted no time settling at the farthest corner of the room where prying eyes couldn't reach her screen, and pulled up the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s website, using filters to set the search for boys aged 12-14, who had disappeared in the past five to seven years.

Her eyes scanned the profiles until one name stopped her: Arlo Cooper.

He had disappeared from Tucson, Arizona, at the age of seven, making him around twelve now. Arlo’s face filled the screen—slender, with tan skin, hazel eyes, thin eyebrows, and short, dark brown hair. No distinctive marks, nothing that stood out. He was still missing, the site confirmed. The details of his life unfolded before her: he’d lived with his father, Frank Cooper, and his older brother, Miles, who was deaf. On the day Arlo vanished, he’d been walking home from the corner store with a friend. They had a fight, went their separate ways, and Arlo had never been seen again.

It was winter in Warsaw. The Girl’s sixteenth birthday was coming up soon.

She found a telephone booth near the central train station, sheltered from the biting wind and snow, and called the police.

Using her best American accent, she spoke into the phone:

“Hello. My husband and I are here on vacation, and we’re right next to the central train station. There’s a boy here, a teenage boy, I think around twelve or thirteen, who looks very scared and roughed-up. I think he’s been sleeping on the street or something… He won’t talk, he backs away when we try to approach him. I just think you should come and check if he’s okay.”

A thick Polish accent replied, “We will send someone.”

“Thank you. We have to catch our train to Vilnius now, so we can’t stay. But he’s right outside.”

As soon as she hung up, she slipped into her new identity: Arlo Cooper.

Bundled in a filthy jacket, Arlo sat hunched on a bench like a Dickensian orphan. His short, spiky hair was matted and greasy, his face smeared with dirt. He was alarmingly thin, drowning in oversized clothes. He avoided the officers' eyes and flinched at their touch. Though he didn’t understand Polish, his ears pricked up when one officer spoke in English.

“Where are you from, boy?” the officer continued, crouching before him. “Can you tell us?”

Arlo mumbled far too quietly. “America.”

“Speak up,” he encouraged.

“America.”

“And what is your name?”

“... Arlo.”

The fluorescent lights at the police station pounded Arlo's head. He pretended to sleep on a creaky chair, legs drawn to his chest, after nearly an hour of relentless questioning by the Polish police. He’d served them a few details shy of the same old story.

“We have your father on the phone,” an officer said, jolting him from his feigned slumber. “You can talk to him.”

A handset was thrust into his hand, and his heart began to race. He deepened his voice slightly, adding a touch of emotional rasp.

“Hello?” he whispered.

A hesitant, guarded voice answered. “Arlo… is that you?”

“Dad?” tears instantly flooded his eyes. “Dad, you need to come get me. Please, get me out of here.”

He heard a stifled sob at the other end of the line.

“Arlo… I’m coming, alright? I’m coming to take you home, son. Are you safe? Are you okay? What happened to you?”

“... I just need you to take me home.”

“I’m on my way. Listen. I’m on my way, buddy. I’ll be on a flight to Warsaw tonight. When you wake up tomorrow I’ll be right there with you. They’re taking care of you over there? Tell me you’re safe.”

“Yeah… I’m safe now.”

“It’s okay. It’s over, do you hear me? I’m coming to take you home.”

The FBI and the State Department were briefed on the discovery of a missing American child found in Poland, fitting the profile of Arlo Cooper. Despite his father, Frank, swearing under oath that the boy was his son, a Polish prosecutor remained unconvinced, and she summoned the boy for questioning at the US embassy in Warsaw.

That morning, Arlo was granted a brief respite in the bathroom of the embassy. His father waited in the room outside, never letting Arlo out of his sight since their reunion. There had been tears, hugs, and more tears; it felt so good to be held. Arlo had never experienced a father's love before, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to give it up so easily.

He locked himself in and looked in the mirror. He didn’t miss his long hair at all; it had been more of a burden than anything else. What he did miss, though, was the ability to breathe. He had bound his chest to appear flat under his clothes, but his inexperienced hands had done a poor job. Not only did he have to convince the prosecutor that he was Arlo, but he also had to pass as a twelve-year-old boy—an American one, at that.

There was no way he was going to get through the prosecutor’s interrogation without a little help.

He shuffled back to the waiting room after a while and settled beside his father. Frank was a tall, strongly-built, handsome man. Clean-shaven and dark-haired. He cared immensely for the boy, and it was quite obvious that losing Arlo had shattered his life.

“You okay, buddy?” He wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“I just want to go home, Dad,” he confessed hushedly, burrowing his face in Frank’s corduroy jacket.

“I know. We’ll be home soon, they just gotta… just gotta make sure there’s no more loose ends.”

“But it’s been so long,” he said. “What if she says I’m not your son just because I can’t remember something?”

“Well… Look. What do you remember, mh?”

“I remember… Miles.”

“Miles, yes. Your brother. I’ve got a picture of him, right there.” He pulled out a photograph from his leather wallet. “There he is. That’s him on homecoming, junior year.”

Whatever homecoming, junior year was…

“He’s changed a lot,” Arlo managed a smile. “Do you think he missed me?”

“Of course,” he stroked his hair. “He missed you so much… I’ve got other pictures. If it’ll help you.”

The pictures saved him. Had Arlo not been told about various aspects of his life before his disappearance, he would’ve found himself blanking out and stuttering before the prosecutor. The subject of his mother was particularly treacherous. There were no pictures of Arlo with her.

The prosecutor, seeking to entrap him, asked about the last thing he had said to his mother.

“That is a very cruel question,” Arlo mumbled.

“And why is that?”

“She died giving birth to me,” he replied, quickly drawing on the fresh information his father had just shared with him. “So we never spoke.”

Once she gave the green light, a new US passport was issued for Arlo, and within days, he was on a chartered flight to Tucson, Arizona. He tried his best to appear unfazed by the novelty of it all. The Girl had only flown once before—from Rome to London as Millie—but Arlo was a seasoned traveler, often flying between Tucson and San Diego to visit his cousins.

A media hive awaited them outside the airport. Journalists and photographers and press officers swarmed the boy and his father as they hurried to their car. Arlo shielded his face with a pair of sunglasses and the hood of his jacket, huddling close to his father until they were in the safety of the family’s black Jeep.

Winter in Arizona was a shocking contrast to the cold season in Poland. The sun was beaming as they drove down Interstate 10. Arlo looked out the window, taking in the scenery.

The landscape was dotted with saguaro cacti, their tall, spiny arms reaching skyward as if in salute. The ground was an interesting mix of dusty reds and browns, interrupted by patches of scrubby vegetation. Mountains loomed in the distance, rugged peaks tinged with purple and orange in the afternoon light. The horizon seemed endless, a far cry from the cramped, snow-covered streets of depressing Warsaw. Road signs in bright green and white marked the miles to various destinations: Phoenix, El Paso, and local towns with names reminiscent of the Old West.

Arlo rolled down the window and got a whiff of dry air carrying the scent of sun-baked earth and creosote bushes.

Billboards advertised everything from local diners to Native American crafts, and Arlo found himself curiously reading each one, trying to piece together this new world he was now part of. He tried not to let it show too much so as not to raise suspicion. Then again, he could always chalk it up to being homesick.

“The Pima County Sheriff wants to see us tomorrow,” said Frank. “Interpol has launched an investigation into this ring you were trapped in.”

Arlo said nothing.

“You’ll see. They’ll bring these monsters to justice.”

The cityscape of Tucson began to emerge as they approached their exit. Modern buildings mixed with historic structures, palm trees lined some of the streets, and the occasional splash of vibrant bougainvillea added some life to the arid surroundings.

Finally, they pulled into the driveway of a modest, single-story house, warmly lit from within.

Miles, his sixteen-year-old brother, greeted them at the door. Slightly taller than Arlo, he looked almost exactly like him, only more rugged, and handsome. Miles' eyes lingered on his little brother, analyzing and scrutinizing, as if wary of a trap. Arlo didn't make the first move; instead, he hung back and waited.

Miles was deaf. Arlo had spent months in Europe learning American Sign Language, preparing for this very moment. It felt like the ultimate test.

Miles signed to him: “You have grown up.”

Arlo signed back: “So have you.”

Miles rushed forward, taking his brother into his arms and hugging him tightly.

The Arizona night sky was a canvas of stars.

The Coopers’ backyard was gorgeous; cacti and succulents dotted the yard, alongside a couple of mesquite trees. A stone fire pit sat in the center, surrounded by a circle of weathered wooden deck chairs, and the air was a little chilly.

Arlo and Miles sat by the fire pit, bundled up in crocheted blankets. The silence between them was filled with the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. On Miles’ lap was Sadie, their newly adopted puppy, peacefully slumbering.

Miles waved at his brother to get his attention, and then signed something: “After you disappeared, Dad changed.”

Arlo watched his brother's hands intently, deciphering the meaning of the phrase. “How?”

Miles looked down, taking a moment before continuing. “He became very depressed. He blamed himself for losing you.”

Arlo did not sign anything and waited for him to continue.

“He started drinking. A lot. It got worse over the years. Some nights, he wouldn’t come home until very late. Other nights, he’d just sit here, with a bottle in his hand.”

Arlo looked around the yard, imagining his father sitting in one of these chairs, lost in his grief. “Did he get help?”

Miles nodded. “Aunt Nicole tried to get him to see a therapist. He went for a while, but he didn’t stick with it. It’s been hard, Arlo.”

Arlo just readjusted the blanket.

Miles continued. “We’re glad you’re back. But… Dad’s still struggling. Seeing you again has helped, but he’s not the same.”

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling softly.

“I’m here to stay,” Arlo signed to Miles.

Miles smiled, a rare, genuine smile. “Welcome home, brother.”

Arlo hadn't accounted for the excruciating, inherent pain of being a girl, let alone a girl in disguise. During gym class, he hid in the empty boys' locker room, doubled over in agony, staving off a wave of nausea, blood staining his underwear. In the distance, he could hear the squeak of sneakers on vinyl flooring and the echoing screams and laughter of middle school boys and girls playing basketball in the gymnasium.

He sat on the floor and curled into himself, hugging his knees and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping the pain would pass with each deep breath he took. It didn’t.

Desperate, he slipped into the girls' locker room and rummaged through the lockers, searching each one until he found a couple of sanitary pads. He discreetly hid them in his gym bag, stocking up for later.

Until now, Arlo had been exceptionally convincing. He walked with the confident swagger of a teenage boy, mimicked the way they talked, adopting their slang and casual tone, even though his throat ached at the end of the day from the strain of lowering his voice.

Arlo had started school three weeks ago and blended in with astonishing ease. He joined the boys in roughhousing during recess, playing football and trading jokes in the locker room. They accepted him as one of their own, admiring his fearless attitude and quick wit. The girls, meanwhile, found his mysterious aura and tragic backstory irresistibly charming. They giggled and whispered when he passed by, some even daring to approach him with shy smiles and curious questions.

Everyone wanted to hear his story. Arlo repeated the same narrative he had told the Sheriff and the Polish police. The attention and sympathy he garnered were intoxicating, and he soaked it up, using it to cement his place in the social hierarchy.

Behind the convincing facade, though, Arlo had never been so on edge. The fear of being discovered gnawed at him, especially when he had to navigate the complexities of male friendships or fend off the advances of infatuated girls.

And now, this.

He decided he couldn’t face school today. He snuck out, intending to walk home, but was caught by his math teacher near the staff parking lot.

“Arlo?” Mr. Brown frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just… I’m…” he looked around nervously. “I don’t feel so good, Mr. Brown.”

“Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale, here.”

“I want to go home.”

“Well, we can’t let you go home by yourself. Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office? They’ll take care of you and call your dad to come pick you up.”

The drive home was quiet. Arlo was allowed to sit in the front seat, and he tried to ignore the relentless pain in his lower abdomen.

“You want to tell me what happened back there, buddy?” Frank asked, genuine concern in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Arlo mumbled. “I just got this feeling of… dread. Like something terrible was going to happen. I couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t keep playing with the rest of the class.”

“Yeah,” his father nodded. “Dr. Lee said it would be hard at times.”

Arlo’s fingers fiddled with the laces of his basketball shorts.

“Hey,” Frank glanced at him. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this, one day at a time.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re doing great. Want to get something to eat?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a Jack in the Box right around the corner. You loved Jack in the Box.”

The food made Arlo want to vomit; he simply had to pretend otherwise in front of his father. The food in America, in general, made him want to drop the act and run back to Europe. The only redeeming quality of that outing was getting to spend time with his father.

The Girl wished, with all her might, that the real Arlo would not turn up at the door one day. Please, she thought, while laughing at a joke Frank told over their meal, let him be dead in a ditch, his body never found. She hadn’t felt this happy and loved in a long time.

It was bittersweet. She knew her time with the Coopers was sadly limited as she wouldn’t be able to keep up the act for many years, and this time, it was beyond her control. She toyed with the idea of eventually telling Frank the truth, hoping that by then, he would have grown fond enough of her to want to keep her around rather than cast her out in anger.

In the late spring, they flew to San Diego to visit Frank’s side of the family. Their late mother’s side lived on the East Coast, and only saw the boys once a year on Thanksgiving.

The boys’ cousins lived in hilly Point Loma, in the coastal neighborhood of Ocean Beach.

The California sun blazed high in the sky as the Cooper brothers, along with their cousins, headed to the beach. The shore was alive with the sound of crashing waves, seagulls calling, and laughter from people enjoying the surf and sand.

Dressed in an oversized shirt and swimming trunks, Arlo walked alongside his brother. He could see the curious glances from his cousins, who seemed to be trying to connect with the boy they thought they knew.

They set up their spot on the beach, a large blanket sprawled out with a cooler of drinks and snacks. The cousins, fourteen-year-old twins Danny and Olivia, were already stripping down to their swimsuits, eager to hit the waves. Miles watched Arlo with a concerned expression, noticing how he hesitated.

“Hey, Arlo, you coming?” Danny called out.

“Maybe later,” Arlo said. “I’m just going to hang out here for a bit.”

Danny shrugged and raced off towards the water, Olivia following close behind.

Miles signed: “Are you okay, Arlo?”

He simply nodded. “Yes, just don’t feel like swimming right now.”

Miles didn't seem convinced but decided not to push. “Alright. We’ll be in the water.”

Arlo watched as his brother joined the others, effortlessly diving into the waves. He felt a pang of envy. The binding tape was uncomfortable, and he could feel the sweat building up underneath it. How he longed to take off his shirt, jump in the waves, and to be able to unload the burden of his secret for a few hours.

After a while, Olivia returned, her blonde hair dripping with seawater. She flopped down next to Arlo, giving him a curious look. “You know, you’re not like how I remember. We used to have so much fun together. You’re like… so quiet now.”

Arlo looked away. “Yeah, well, a lot has changed.”

Olivia covered her eyes with her sunglasses and reached for a cold Capri-Sun in the cooler. “Really sucks what happened to you.”

He said nothing, watching Danny and Miles in the distance.

“Danny said you were dead. I couldn’t stop crying. Then Mom tried to make us feel better by saying that just because you disappeared didn’t mean you died. But like… I really, really missed you, Arlo.”

“... Me too. I’m happy to be here.”

“Wanna go to SeaWorld tomorrow?” she suggested. “I can ask my mom to take us.”

Arlo had no idea what SeaWorld was. “Sure.”

She smiled. “Remember when we got lost and you started crying ‘cause you got really scared of the shark?”

Arlo chuckled along with her. “Yeah. That was funny.”

“We gave him a name! Remember?”

“I… No. I don’t. Sorry, that was a long time ago. I’ve been through a lot. Some things are just… fuzzy.”

Just then, Miles approached, shaking water from his hair.

He signed: “Come on, Arlo. It’ll be fun. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Arlo felt cornered. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Miles asked gently.

Arlo replied out loud, and signed for Miles at the same time: “We were on a boat off the coast of Macedonia. I almost drowned trying to escape. Ever since then, water kind of freaks me out.”

Olivia’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Arlo. We didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Arlo replied, forcing a smile. “I’ll just watch you guys.”

Miles gave his shoulder a squeeze before heading back to the water with Olivia.

A little after midnight, when the entire household was fast asleep, Arlo snuck out of the guest bedroom that he shared with Miles, pattering down the hallway before slipping into Olivia’s room. He moved on his tiptoes on the way to her dresser and rummaged through a drawer filled with swimming suits, picked one at random and changed in the bathroom.

Arlo finally discarded the binding tape that had been constricting him all day. He winced as he examined the red, painful marks on his chest and back, running his fingers gently over them, feeling the raised welts and tender skin.

The Girl put on Olivia’s white swimsuit and made her way to the backyard. The cool night air greeted her as she stepped outside and the family’s massive pool sparkled under the moonlight; she slipped into it with barely a ripple, the cool water enveloping her body, providing instant relief from the heat of the day and the soreness of her skin.

She swam a few laps, reveling in the weightless sensation and the freedom to move without restriction. The water felt like a soothing balm, and she let herself float on her back, arms outstretched, staring up at the clear skies.

The full moon cast a silvery glow over everything, and it was her last moment of bliss inside Arlo Cooper’s skin.

As The Girl stepped out of the shower the next morning, Miles entered the bathroom. The door didn’t lock well, and he obviously could not hear the water running.

The Girl gasped in shock and instinctively wrapped her arms around her naked body. Miles stood in the doorway, equally stunned, his mouth slightly agape.

They stood in silence for a couple seconds, and time stopped.

When Miles finally snapped out of his stupor, he reached behind himself to shut the door. The Girl managed to calm down and unhooked a towel from the rack to cover herself, bracing for the confrontation. All fear had vanished from her expression, leaving only a cold, calculating stare.

Miles signed: “You’re not my brother.”

The Girl opted for a soft approach.

“Your father is happy, Miles. Don’t ruin that for him.”

He didn’t reply, just kept staring blankly, his mind racing with a million thoughts. His brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you want things to go back to how they were before?” she signed with a sorrowful expression. “He will be devastated.”

“Where is my brother?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you doing this?” He took a step closer. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Your father is happy,” she repeated.

There was another moment of silence as Miles took her in, his eyes scanning her from head to toe, the realization sinking in. His shoulders slumped, and he shook his head in disbelief. All he needed was for the veil to be lifted, and now he couldn’t unsee it.

“I’m going to tell Dad everything when we go back to Arizona,” Miles explained. “You’re not allowed to do this to us. You’re a monster. Whoever you are.”

When they returned to Tucson a few days later, The Girl stepped inside the house with a calm demeanor. Miles greeted little Sadie on the floor after dropping his bag, giving her affectionate scratches and kisses.

The Girl stood nearby, quietly observing the boy and his puppy.

Later, shortly before his father returned from work that same day, Miles went down to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. To his horror, he found Sadie convulsing and whimpering on the floor, white foam oozing from her mouth. He dropped to his knees in sheer panic, holding the little dog, desperately trying to figure out what had happened.

He looked up to find the Girl standing by the backdoor, arms crossed over her chest, visibly unaffected by the distressing scene.

Miles, cradling Sadie, forced the words out of his mouth: “What did you do?” Each word was carefully enunciated, the pitch slightly uneven. It was clear he rarely used his voice, and the effort it took was evident.

The Girl knelt before him with a patronizing look, and then signed: “I tried to make it easy for you. I like you and I like your dad. But you didn’t want to cooperate. So now, what happens next… is up to you.”

The trip home from the vet was absolutely quiet. The boys sat together in the back seat, holding little Sadie who’d thankfully survived after “accidentally” ingesting aspirin.

“You boys okay?” Frank asked, glancing at them through the rearview mirror. “That was scary, huh? We’re going to need to keep our meds out of her reach. I mean, how did she even get into the kitchen cabinet...”

Miles leaned in to whisper a single word into The Girl’s ear: “Fine.”

She smiled, rested her head on her big brother’s shoulder, and felt him stiffen in discomfort.

The Girl wore Arlo’s skin like a coat long enough for Miles to accept the situation.

It all ended abruptly when the police discovered the skeletal remains of a seven-year-old boy who matched Arlo’s DNA. The body was found in a ditch in the Coronado National Forest by a passing hiker.

Before the police could even reach her, The Girl escaped through a window and ran. She ran, and ran, and ran, until her legs could no longer carry her and her lungs burned with exhaustion. She reached Interstate 10 drenched in sweat, walking barefoot along the side with her thumb up until a car finally slowed down for her.

Chapter 5: Hannah Schulz

Chapter Text

2008

The Girl, now Margot Von Stein, shuffled tiredly into the kitchen at noon, dressed in a flimsy tank top and lace panties. Her hair, now grown out and dyed blonde with the roots showing, was cut into a short, chic bob that fell just below her chin. It framed her face symmetrically, smooth and slightly wavy.

She opened the fridge, only to find it dismally bare, and retrieved a nearly empty milk carton. A missing child notice was printed on the side of the box. Margot drained the last sip, discarded the carton in the trash, and began to pace the kitchen.

On the table, the Los Angeles Times lay open, its bold headline glaring at her: “Los Angeles Feels the Crunch: Recession Hits Local Businesses.” A few envelopes addressed to Randy Bancroft were scattered beside it. She picked one up, noticing the faint imprint of a large, red “PAST DUE” stamped across the top. Another envelope was from a utility company, its logo stark and authoritative. Margot could just make out the words “URGENT NOTICE” through the semi-transparent window. A third envelope was from a collection agency, its official seal and stern, black-inked message hinting at unpaid debts.

She raised an eyebrow and dropped the envelope back on the table with a slight disgust as Randy walked through the front door.

Margot cast a disinterested glance over her shoulder in his direction.

“Hey babe,” he greeted.

“There’s nothing to eat,” Margot said, with a very slight German inflection to her words. “The fridge is empty.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, grabbing a can of beer from said fridge. “Times are tough.”

“Have you found a job?” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the table.

“No. Spoke with execs at Paramount Pictures and CBS. Both networks are cutting back on new script purchases. They don’t wanna take risks with new projects. So…”

“So…” she shrugged. “You’re going to stop trying? Stop writing? Get us kicked out of the apartment?”

“You know what?” Randy said, cracking open a beer and plopping down at the kitchen table, barely glancing at the letters strewn about. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get out there and work, too. They need bartenders, waitresses…”

“Waitresses,” she repeated with a bitter, monosyllabic laugh. “Seriously.”

“I don’t know what’s so funny about this. You keep asking me for money I don’t have just to fund your ridiculously lavish lifestyle. All you do is go to parties and shop and hang out with all your high-life Beverly Hills friends.”

“So what?” she asked casually. “I come back home to you at the end of the day. What’s there to complain about? You said you’d support me.”

Randy gave her a blank stare. “We’re in a recession.”

“Excuses.”

“Do you know what a recession is, Margot? Do you want me to explain it to you in baby terms?”

Margot frowned. “f*ck you, stop treating me like I’m five.”

“Everyone in LA is struggling, not just me. Actors, agents, casting directors. Hollywood’s a mess.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “God, I hate this victim mentality. First the writers’ strike, now this. You go up to those network execs and show them why they should take a risk on you in the middle of a recession, otherwise you’re not worth zilch as a screenwriter. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. It really is that simple.”

Randy scoffed. “Don’t talk to me about simple. You come from money. Old money. Nobody in your family has known struggle in over a century.”

“I don’t—”

“You’ve never had to work for anything. Never had a job, never had any bills to pay. Just floating through life, leeching off of me until you turn twenty-one and you’re finally allowed to dip into that massive trust fund of yours.”

Margot fumed, even though this was the exact story she’d told Randy the day she met him at a party after she’d hitchhiked to Los Angeles from Arizona.

According to her fabricated story, her father was a renowned Swiss banker. The proceeds from his successful career had been invested wisely, creating a substantial trust fund for her future. She painted a picture of a life surrounded by luxury and privilege, with estates in Zurich and vacation homes around the world.

Randy had believed her every word. The trust fund story was perfect—it was not easily verifiable, and the promise of future wealth kept him invested in her.

She stomped closer. “Everything I ever wanted from this life, I worked for. Nothing was ever handed to me, how dare you assume anything about me. The odds were stacked against me and still I—”

“What odds?” He threw his arms up. “Literally what are you talking about? Your dad is a Swiss banker. If that's not winning life’s lottery then I don't know what is.”

“It’s nothing to do with luck,” Margot pressed, her German accent growing stronger with each word. “I came to LA to make something of myself, to prove to my family that I am capable! They haven’t helped me ever since I left home and you know that.”

Randy scorned at her words, nearly igniting her fury. She managed to calm down, reminding herself not to get too caught up in her role.

“In this world,” she continued, “there are two kinds of people. Pathetic victims like you, and people who are brave enough to take charge of their life. No one ever chose me, no one ever took care of me. So I’ll choose me, and I’ll take care of me, and I’ll make me happy, no matter what it takes. I’ll choose me. And me. And me. And me again. And then other people.”

She had let her heart spill too freely for Randy to make any sense of it.

“You’re insane. Like straight up, genuinely f*cking delusional. I have no idea what the f*ck you’re talking about. Do you have DID or something?”

Margot took a deep breath and closed her eyes, calming herself down. She walked down the hall to their bedroom, pulled out a suitcase and began to pack her things. Randy followed hesitantly, lingering by the door.

“I’m leaving,” said Margot while putting on a pair of jeans.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“When’d you decide that?”

“Now. I don’t want to be around you anymore.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I’ll figure it out. Like I always do.”

“I think you’re not being honest with me.”

Margot stopped halfway through folding a last season Versace dress.

“Why do you say that?”

Randy ventured in, pacing around the room. “I looked through your stuff. You don't have a passport. No ID. No license. No papers. No nothing. Every time something comes up, I gotta take the rap and figure it out, and you just get to lay back—”

“You looked through my stuff?” She cut him off with an incredulous look.

“I sure did.”

“What are you, the f*cking Gestapo? Am I not allowed any privacy?”

“Not when you're living under my roof and I feel like you're hiding something from me.”

“So you think I'm lying.”

“I do. I think you're lying about everything. I think you're lying about the trust fund. About your family. And about why you're really here in America.”

Margot laughed—a genuine laugh. She pulled out her Motorola flip phone covered in shimmering pink glitter and silver rhinestones and charms. It jangled when she flipped it open, thrusting it in his direction.

“Okay,” she said. “You want to call my father and ask him to vouch for the things I told you? Go ahead. Can’t wait ‘til he finds out you’re in your thirties screwing a girl half your age and he flies to LA to beat the sh*t out of you.”

Randy made to grab the phone but she clapped it shut and stuffed it in her bag.

“I don’t need you, Randy. I don’t need anyone. Good luck making a name for yourself out here with this work ethic of yours.”

She stuffed the rest of her belongings inside the suitcase, slammed it shut and walked out of the bedroom, but not without one last dig at him:

“You were just with me to f*ck me until I turn twenty-one and you get to live off of my money. The only leech here is you.”

Margot Von Stein abandoned Randy Bancroft—and her identity—on October 31st, and she began to devise a new plan as soon as she walked out the door of their apartment in Silver Lake. As she strolled past a Halloween store, a smooth, pink wig in the window display caught her eye, prompting a brief but deliberate pause.

The Girl had no worldly possessions. She had her wit, her resilience, her charm, and most importantly, her connections. Those could vouch for her, take her places, and open doors that would have otherwise never budged for the likes of her.

One of those connections granted her entry at a Halloween party on the Hills that night. It was a breathtaking old-glamor mansion with stunning views on the City of Angels below.

The Girl waltzed in at around midnight in a pink wig, a tassel-embellished bra top, a satin miniskirt, a black lace garter at her thigh. High heels and a pink drawstring bag completed the look. She had heavy pink eyeshadow, glossy lips, and had packed on enough blush to be visible from miles away.

The party was in full swing, the music already pulsing through the house as she navigated through the partygoers, eyes scanning the room for a potential mark. The guests were a mix of Hollywood elites and hopefuls, all trying to outshine each other in both costume and conversation. She spotted her target near the bar—a man in his late twenties, dressed in a velvet coat, a silk shirt with lace cuffs, and tailored trousers. He had a thick mane of blonde curls that reached down to his shoulders, icy blue eyes, translucent skin, and vampire teeth.

She sidled up to the bar, ordered a drink, and as she sipped her co*cktail, she caught the man’s eye and flashed him a coy smile. He took the bait, moving closer until he was standing next to her.

“Great costume,” he said, his eyes lingering on her bra. “Alice Ayres, right? Closer? You look just like Natalie Portman.”

She recalled a fitting line from the film. Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off. And oh, how true it was.

“Good guess,” The Girl replied, her voice smooth and inviting as she sized up his costume. “A vampire? Very original.”

“I’m Lestat de Lioncourt.”

“Who?”

“From Interview with a Vampire? The 1994 movie… With Tom Cruise?”

She stared with a frozen smile. “No clue what that is.”

“That’s okay.” He laughed, the ice broken. “I’m Jake, by the way.”

“Maddie, nice to meet you,” she introduced herself, offering her hand. As they shook hands, she leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto his. “So what is it that you do, Jake?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Anything I’ve seen?”

“Um…” he smiled. “Maybe. Birdseye? It was nominated for an Oscar last year. Didn't win, but…”

“Birdseye, yeah, I’ve seen Birdseye.” She had not seen Birdseye. “Wait, sorry, who were you?”

“Stefan. The older brother.”

“Right! No, right. I remember you.”

“Yeah. Also some episodes of Law & Order.”

“That’s pretty cool. Good for you.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?” she smiled. “Oh, not much. But my uncle is Ron Howard, so.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Ron Howard. Your uncle is Ron Howard?”

She chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Your uncle made Apollo 13?”

“Yup.”

“I love his work,” he confessed, resting a hand on her shoulder and gently guiding her to the seating area so they could discuss. “I mean… My dad used to watch him on The Andy Griffith Show when he was a kid. Always said he’d make it big. He’s such an inspiration. Want to sit down?”

Maddie nodded. They talked the night away, ignoring the guests and the loud electronic music. As the conversation progressed, so did The Girl’s new identity, fleshing itself out with every passing second and hoping it wouldn’t crash on its face. She was Madison “Maddie” Howard, nineteen-year-old daughter to Clint Howard and Melanie Sorich, and was currently enrolled in UCLA, hoping to make a name for herself as a film critic.

“And I guess… it would be kind of ironic to say that my favorite director isn’t my uncle, although he is one of the greats—”

“Phenomenal,” said Jake. “He’d be a dream to work with.”

Maddie just grinned. “Yeah. But like I said. They made me out to be the black sheep of the family because I happen to have opinions. I thought The Da Vinci Code book was stupid to begin with. I didn’t believe it deserved a film adaptation, but here we are.”

“The movie was great, what are you talking—”

“See!” She laughed, and he mirrored her smile. “No. Look. The story made no sense to me and it was borderline blasphemous. It is biblical fanfiction, and a headache. I hate thinking. I am a romantic. And I like… visually compelling things.”

“Which explains—”

“My love for Baz Luhrman! Romeo + Juliet was the first movie I ever watched. And everything he does,” she said, touching his knee to keep him engaged, “feels like it’s taking place in an alternate reality. He is, like, this force of nature. A wild hurricane dressed in drag, diagnosed with ADD, and put on film.”

“I had to study Strictly Ballroom in school, so that movie is burned into my brain now. But I like Moulin Rouge best.”

Maddie smiled. “You and I will get along great.”

“Is your…” Jake moved closer. “Is your uncle working on something right now?”

Maddie could hardly contain her excitement. He’d taken the bait, just as she expected. After all, this was LA—the land of opportunists—and there was no shame in that, especially if she could claim her share.

“As a matter of fact, he is,” she confirmed. “It’s in pre-prod. They’ve already got a big name attached but they’re still holding auditions right now. I could put in a good word for you.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Thank you,” he held her hand between his own. “I really appreciate it, Maddie.”

“Hey, um… Could I ask you for a favor?’

“Anything.”

She batted her lashes at him.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend. I really could use a place to stay tonight. It’s been a rough few days... We can talk some more about the project, if you want.”

The Girl rose naturally at dawn.

She slipped out of Jake’s bed quietly enough to avoid waking him up, picked up her discarded underwear and got dressed. He was sound asleep, sprawled on his stomach, face hidden against a fluffy pillow.

As she put on some clothes, she allowed herself a brief moment to study the room. It was a typical bachelor’s space, cluttered yet cozy. Her eyes lingered on Jake’s wallet and phone, peeking out from his trouser pockets, which lay draped over a chair.

She extracted both and hid inside the bathroom to snoop through his phone, combing through his contacts, notes, and finally, messages. She read every single conversation, without much conviction at first. She found one with his sister, and had to scroll all the way back to January to find something useful.

From: Lily

took ur card

To: Lily

Why?

From: Lily

got grounded, mom took visa. @ the mall. whats ur pin

The Girl smiled, taking a mental note of the precious 4-digit code. She kept his card, put the wallet and phone back into his pockets, and made her way to the nearest ATM to withdraw the maximum cash limit.

It allowed her to get by for a few more months. She stayed over at friends’ places, moving often and between various circles, changing her wardrobe and look at will to reflect her new, ever-changing identities.

She was Felicity, Elara, Zuri, Chiara, Marlowe, Eshe, Freya, Maeve, Marisol, Waverly, Odessa, Rania, Vesper, Mary, Quinn, Blake, Aurora, Eleanor, Rachel, Lux, Andromeda, born in Turkey, Ireland, New York, Greece, Texas, Russia, Missouri, Egypt, New Mexico, Spain, Canada, Alaska, Denmark, South Africa. She was a dancer, an actress, a singer, a bartender, an Olympic gymnast, a nurse, a photographer, a fashion designer, a pastry chef, a yoga instructor, an art curator, a socialite, a high school cheerleader, a tennis champion, a novelist, a motivational speaker, a flight attendant, a tech entrepreneur…

She was…

She was whoever she wanted to be at any given moment, and nothing and no one could stop her. She had no obligations, and no rules, other than the ones she found convenient to observe.

Eventually, her dwindling cash reserves forced her hand, leading her to come up with a new plan. She set sail for New York City, a destination that promised fresh opportunities. Air travel was out of the question; too many security measures, too many chances of being recognized. The Arlo Cooper story had put a massive target on her back. And if Interpol had been investigating her claims, then they must have connected the Millie Scott, Victoria Barbier and Arlo Cooper cases by now.

At seventeen, The Girl bid farewell to California.

She hitchhiked her way eastward, across state lines, wearing a disheveled blonde wig with a baseball cap, heart-shaped sunglasses and rugged cowboy boots, carrying nothing more than a duffel bag with a couple days’ worth of clothes, a small stash of food, enough cash to sustain her for a month, and an unloaded gun; a prop stolen from a movie set.

The arid, sun-scorched landscape of Route 66 unfurled before her as she sat on the passenger side of an old, rattling truck, her third ride of the day. The middle-aged driver, a grizzled man with a weathered face, occasionally glanced at her.

“So where are you from, huh?” he asked, trying to make conversation. “That accent of yours is a little odd.”

“Oh you know,” she said distractedly. “All over.”

He nodded, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. The truck smelled of cigarettes and stale sweat, the radio droning out a country ballad that had long since lost its charm.

The Girl kept her gaze fixed on the endless road ahead, her fingers drumming against the duffel bag on her lap. She felt his eyes linger, more often than they should, but she didn’t flinch. Not when he looked, not when he chuckled at his own joke about girls and their daddy issues, and not when his hand twitched in her direction.

The truck rolled to a stop at a red light. He reached over, his fingers brushing her naked thigh, just below the hem of her white dress, invasive, lecherous.

Without a word, The Girl reached for the gun in her duffel bag and pressed its muzzle against his crotch. His hand jerked back as if scorched.

“Drop me off at the next stop,” she ordered, co*cking the gun in warning.

It was unloaded but she held it steady, unfaltering, hoping he couldn’t sense just how terrified she was. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white, until he pulled over at the next gas station. She slipped out of the truck, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and glanced back at him one last time.

“Thanks for the ride.”

It was almost seven in the afternoon, and they had reached Santa Fe, New Mexico. The Girl found a motel nearby, paid for her room in cash, slapped a fake ID on the reception counter bearing the name “Bridget White”, and locked herself into the quiet bedroom.

After a quick shower and meager dinner composed of graham crackers and cheese sticks, she settled in bed to watch some mindless TV, lounging in just a big tee-shirt, her short hair still damp and dripping down her neck. She twirled the gun mindlessly between her fingers as if it were a toy, and weighed the merits of signing up for shooting lessons.

When she grew bored of watching home renovations, she switched to the news. Upon reading the headline, her eyes widened slightly, but not out of shock or sadness. Rather, it was a flicker of interest, akin to noticing an unexpected plot twist in a mediocre film.

“Good evening. We have a heartbreaking update tonight on a story that has gripped the nation. Frank Cooper, the father of missing child Arlo Cooper, whose remains were recently discovered in the Coronado National Forest in Arizona, has taken his own life. Authorities confirmed that the remains found by a hiker matched Arlo Cooper's DNA, conclusively proving that the young boy who had been missing for years had met a tragic end. This devastating discovery came just weeks after a Polish child, posing as Arlo, had deceived the family and authorities.”

The Girl tilted her head slightly, and a cold, analytical interest seemed to light her eyes.

“The Pima County Sheriff's Department received a distress call late last night from a family member who found Frank unresponsive in his home. Despite immediate efforts to revive him, he was pronounced dead at the scene. Preliminary reports indicate that Frank died by suicide.”

She turned off the TV, munching on the last of her food in dead silence, and waited.

Waited for something to stir within her; guilt, sadness, remorse, anything. She had loved Frank Cooper like a father, felt safe in his arms, and cherished their time together, even wishing she were his real child. Anyone else would be devastated. She knew she should be.

But the only thing she felt was the mild discomfort of graham cracker crumbs beneath her. She brushed them off the bed and reached for the massive phonebook on the bedside table, flipping through the pages until she stumbled across the number for the Social Security Administration.

She picked up the bedside phone, dialed the number and listened to the numerous options listed through the automated menu.

“....If you are calling to apply for benefits, press 3. If you need to speak with a Social Security representative, press 4.”

She pressed 4, and after a few minutes, a human voice reached her. “Hello, thank you for calling the Social Security Administration. This is Rachel. How may I assist you today?”

The Girl cleared her throat, and spoke.

“Hi. I need some help with obtaining a Social Security number for my daughter. She doesn’t have one.”

“Okay, I’m going to need more details. When was your daughter born and where?”

“She’s six months old. We had a home birth with a midwife. I know that normally, the hospital issues the Social Security numbers, but we never actually went to the hospital. She was born here in Santa Fe, and she’s currently out of state with her father’s family. He lives in California and we’re separated. I just need the number so I can claim her on my taxes.”

“Alright. I’m going to need your daughter’s full name.”

“Hannah Schulz. That’s S-C-H-U-L-Z.”

“... I can see there’s no record of her. I’ll need a few other things. Can you give me your full name, date of birth, and current address?”

The Girl flipped through the pages of the phonebook and settled on a random name.

“Sydney Glaser. Glaser with an S. May 16th 1986. The address is 510 Barcelona Road, 87505, Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

“... So since your daughter is under three years old and currently out of state, you can just come down to the office in Santa Fe alone, bring your daughter’s birth certificate and shot records, and we’ll be able to issue her a social security number.”

“I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

The Girl forged a near-perfect birth certificate for her fictitious daughter, painstakingly ensuring every detail was accurate. She had gone to great lengths: printing it on authentic-looking paper, ordering an official seal, and embossing it manually to give it a realistic texture. Her work was impeccable, but when she presented it at the office, they barely glanced at it before approving it along with the fabricated shot records. It irritated her slightly. She’d worked so hard on it!

The flimsiness of American bureaucracy amused her.

A week later, the Social Security Administration issued a number for a person who did not exist.

Armed with this, she hurried to the nearest bank to open an account. As she had suspected, the Credit Bureau didn’t have any pre-existing information about her; they relied solely on what she provided.

“Your credit record is only a few days old,” the Bank of America clerk remarked, looking up at her with a curious expression. “How come?”

She smiled. “I just got divorced. My old record was under my husband's name. I’d like to know if I could get approved for a credit card under my name—Hannah Schulz.”

The clerk still looked a little doubtful. “Yeah, we’re going to have to run this through our verification department. It could take a few days, and we may need a couple documents.”

“Such as?”

“Driver's license, proof of address, a copy of your divorce decree… Financial statements.”

“Oh, that’s no problem! That’s no problem at all.”

And it really wasn’t. In fact, she enjoyed her newly-found hobby of forging documents, and within less than two weeks, The Girl held her first credit card against her chest, feeling a rush of triumph. Standing in her modest motel room, she allowed herself a moment of joy, doing a little happy dance, before hurtling back on her journey to New York City.

Chapter 6: Chameleon

Chapter Text

2012

The Girl’s hotel suite at the Four Seasons in lower Manhattan looked like a train wreck.

She used it as a temporary base of operations, the nerve hub from which she orchestrated her schemes, and left the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging outside at all times.

Clothes were thrown everywhere: a Chanel tweed jacket draped over the back of a chair, a pair of Valentino stilettos kicked off near the entrance, panties hanging from lampshades and clothing tags on the floor: Roberto Cavalli, Marni, Ferragamo, Fendi. Shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bloomingdale's were piled in the corner, their contents spilling out.

A half-eaten sushi roll lay on a plate atop the nightstand. Takeout containers from Nobu and Serafina, along with empty plates and half-drunk glasses of wine, cluttered the desk and coffee table. Makeup items—MAC lipsticks, Dior foundations in various shades, and Urban Decay eyeshadows—mingled with wigs in various styles and colors, contact lenses, and dozens of credit cards; stolen, cloned, or belonging to non-existent people, used to buy high-end goods, which she then resold on the black market for cash.

The suite was also wired with technology. Multiple laptops—Apple MacBooks and high-performance Dell XPS models—were set up on the desk and bed, surrounded by a maze of charging cables and external hard drives. Several phones, from the latest iPhone to a burner Nokia, were charging in different spots around the room, each assigned to a different identity. A portable printer and scanner sat on a side table, crucial for producing high-quality forged documents and IDs.

Her main workstation on the dining table was a mess of screens displaying banking sites, fake social media profiles, and encrypted messaging platforms. A notebook filled with details about her aliases, bank accounts, and future targets was surrounded by highlighters, sticky notes, and pens.

The Girl stood before a large vanity mirror, expertly tracing the wings of her eyeliner, her short, natural hair tucked under a wig cap, makeup only half complete, and tonight’s dress draped neatly over the back of a chair.

The latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race blared from the TV, nearly drowning out the ding of one of her phones. Glancing at the screen, she caught a news alert about a terror attack at Fashion Week, followed by a text message.

From: Nate R.

On my way. Can’t wait

The Girl—Alessia Valenti—leaned back against the seat of the rooftop bar. She wore a black slip dress, paired with minimalist jewelry that twinkled at her ears and neck. Her dark hair was styled in a blunt fringe, short and straight, framing her face in a way that emphasized her striking light green eyes. A smokey eye completed the look, making it impossible for her date to look away.

The bar was on the roof of a chic hotel in midtown. The air was warm and the night sky clear, save from the occasional streak of light from a passing superhero. People barely glanced up anymore, so accustomed were they to these displays. Their presence in New York was as much a part of the city's fabric as any landmark. They were everywhere and their influence was felt in the way the city operated; special patrol schedules, emergency protocols, even dedicated task forces within the NYPD to liaise with them.

Alessia had met her date for the night, Wall Street broker Nate Raine, at a networking event the previous day, and she had effortlessly charmed her way into his good graces, introducing herself as an Italian model who’d recently moved to New York for work.

Their drinks arrived—an old fashioned for him and a French martini for her.

“So,” Nate began, “How was Day 1 of Fashion Week?”

“A little chaotic,” she replied, with an audible Italian accent in her soft voice. “We could not finish the show.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You didn’t hear?” she touched her collarbones with the tips of her acrylic nails. “There was an attack.”

“Yeah, those are pretty common around here. You get used to it. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

“I don’t mind it,” she admitted with a little smirk. “It can be entertaining. Back home, I watched your news all the time, it is like an action movie. My problem is with your so-called heroes. STEEL, I believe the local unit is called. What does it stand for?”

“Superhuman Tactical Enforcement and Emergency League.” Nate replied before bringing the glass to his lips.

“A full hour went by before STEEL finally dispatched some inexperienced, klutzy supergirl. She swooped in and took the attacker down, but the damage was done. The venue was a mess. Models were having panic attacks. Designers were furious. And the show was ruined. She fixed nothing, just left us to pick up the pieces and disappeared.”

“Aw. You must’ve been so scared…”

“I am just upset about the show. See, I care so much for the arts. I love fashion, it is my entire life. Everyone worked so hard—designers and models and all the little hands behind it all. Something like this would’ve never happened in Paris, or London, or Milan.”

“Well, yeah. That’s because those cities don’t have supervillains.”

“Your city,” said Alessia, “is a breeding ground for crime. You’ve got these superheroes, right? But everyone’s so dependent on them that the police don’t bother anymore. And when the heroes do show up, they cause more chaos than they fix. Criminals just get more creative, using the mess left behind to do whatever they want. And with all the tech and magic floating around, there’s a whole underground market thriving off it. It’s like you’ve got heroes fighting crime while the city itself is falling apart and turning into Gotham. Also… Who needs a traffic light superhero?”

Nate just laughed at that. “It’s our way of life. I think it’s part of New York’s charm.”

“Charm.” Alessia repeated. “You lost a couple of towers in 2001. Where were your heroes then?”

She picked the cherry from Nate’s drink and popped it into her mouth.

“That’s not—that’s different,” he stammered. “I’m just talking about daily occurrences that don’t alter the geopolitical state of the world.”

“Mhm.”

“Let me tell you something, sweetheart. If you don't have what it takes when you come to New York, you’ll take the fall. Typically, people who land here with all the wrong intentions and ideas end up running back to the sh*thole where they came from. This is it, baby.”

He gestured at the skyline.

“Top of the world right there. Doesn’t get better than this.”

Alessia brushed her hand against his. “You work on Wall Street, yes?”

“I do,” he nodded, straightening up on his seat, pride flashing on his face.

“... The bomb threat at the New York Stock Exchange last month.”

Nate waited for her to continue.

“It could have been foiled with regular Homeland Security intervention. But no, Mercury needed to flaunt his powers and make it a big thing. The fight itself caused so much collateral damage. Buildings were destroyed, businesses were wiped out, and people got hurt. The financial district was in chaos for weeks because all the data servers went down. Heroes are slapdash. They don’t care about ordinary people, about the average hard-working New Yorker who’s got a family to feed; they just want to show off and enjoy their untouchable, privileged status. It makes you wonder if having them around is even a good thing.”

She paused to finish her drink.

“Wow,” he said.

“What is it?”

“You’re actually kind of smart. I didn't peg you for, like, the socially aware kind, but wow. The things you say make sense.”

She noticed how his eyes had moved from her face to her open neckline.

“Enough about the heroes,” she flashed him a fake smile. “Tell me about your job. I love Wall Street, I think it’s the best.”

He shamelessly launched into a monologue about the stock market, mergers, and acquisitions. Alessia listened intently, nodding at the right moments, toying with her necklace as she took in every seemingly innocuous detail; from his mother’s maiden name in a story about a trip to Calabria to the brand of his first car—common bank security questions. A quick snoop through his belongings while he slept naked in his own bed that night provided the rest. A few hours later, his card was cloned and maxed out, and Alessia Valenti disappeared.

The Girl had decided to make New York her home. It was easy to vanish in the city's crowd. She moved effortlessly between social circles, mingling with influential figures. She strode through Goldman Sachs in a business suit, kitten heels and a briefcase one day; joined wealthy art patrons the next; and then fashion influencers; real estate moguls, venture capitalists; and Broadway producers. She spent her summers tanning in Montauk on a billionaire’s yacht, and her winters skiing in Aspen.

Somebody had to foot the bill for her fabulous lives—yes, lives—and the city was full of easy-to-defraud marks. She spent stolen money almost as fast as she acquired it.

And despite juggling at least a dozen identities at once, she was always a fixture on the New York social scene. She was familiar with all the cool spots, knew bartenders, waiters, and owners by name, understood which restaurants were worth the hype and which ones were totally washed, and tipped generously with hundred dollar bills, making her the service staff’s little sweetheart. She indulged in the city's finest, from exclusive rooftop bars and hidden speakeasies to private art showings and VIP fashion events, all while maintaining the illusion of effortless glamor.

In only a few years, The Girl had made the ever-elusive American dream her reality—or her version of it, at the very least.

It was Sunday.

The Girl strolled along Fifth Avenue with her friends, the crisp night air nipping at her exposed skin.

She wore a Prada mini skirt and a Saint-Laurent fur coat, sunglasses pushing back her long auburn hair. It had been a successful shopping trip, and heaps of bags hung from her elbows.

While her friends chattered excitedly about their plans to hit the club, The Girl wished for nothing more than to return to her hotel, order room service, and watch obscure conspiracy videos in the bathtub.

“I'm heading home,” she said with a wave and an air kiss, slipping away from the girls and hailing a yellow cab. “See you tomorrow.”

She settled into the backseat, drowning between her shopping bags, set down her Miu Miu handbag on her lap and pulled out her phone to scroll through various banking apps. Nearly all the accounts had been reported as stolen, and locked. She needed to find a new target soon. Ugh, this was so time consuming!

The cab rolled to a stop at a red light, and her attention was drawn to a commotion at the corner of the street. The area was cordoned off with security tape, blue and red lights flashing as police officers tried to control the scene. A small crowd had gathered, their faces twisted in shock and fear.

She leaned closer to the window and lowered her Bottega Veneta sunglasses.

The cab driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Heard about it on the radio. Superhero blunder. Guy called the cops on an aggressive homeless man... STEEL dispatched someone who was out for blood. Went horribly wrong.”

Her eyes widened as she saw a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance, the charred remnants of a human form barely visible under a blanket.

“Jesus,” she whispered, morbid fascination and disgust churning in her stomach before she settled back into her seat. “I’ve always said superheroes should be banned. They’re like cops who think that they’re above the law just because they have a badge.”

“Many people think the same thing. It's gotten out of hand,” the cab driver explained as they drove past the site.

She nodded wisely. “Superheroes with unchecked power are an entirely new form of police brutality. America is a sad, sad place.”

“Didn't use to be like this, you know,” he replied. “How old are you?”

She hesitated, then told him her real age. “Twenty.”

“You were too young in the nineties, but back then, New York was a shining beacon of magical law and order. Now, it’s this new generation of entitled heroes—regulations are too lax. Public support for them made it hard to crack down… Then politicians got cozy with powerful folks and turned a blind eye to sh*t like this.”

He gestured vaguely at the street corner.

“Those motherf*ckers over at Genetech are filling the pockets of lawmakers to protect their own interests. Can’t have all those regulations in place or that messes with their profits.”

“Genetech?” She co*cked her head, fingers already typing the name on Google.

“Biotechnology, AI, robotics stuff. They make all sorts of weapons, gadgets and gears for superheroes.”

With a single glance at her screen, The Girl got a brief overview of the company. Genetech Industries was on the Fortune 500 list and just had a quarterly revenue of $119.6 billion. They developed cutting-edge technology for superheroes; enhanced suits, AI-driven combat systems, regenerative medicine, and advanced surveillance tools. Within a few seconds, she had sent connection requests to top Genetech male employees using her fake Linkedin profiles.

“I see,” she offered diplomatically. “Something should be done about this. Mayor Bloomberg should try to implement some sort of meaningful reform.”

“Well… Some groups are pressuring Congress to either ban magic across all states or enforce stricter regulation. Republicans and democrats, by the way—only thing they ever agreed on.”

The Girl pondered this as they continued their journey, scrolling through articles and social media posts on the topic.

News organizations were abuzz with debates about the efficacy and morality of Powered Entity intervention. Political pundits argued fiercely on TV, and op-eds flooded the internet, each with their own take on how to handle the superhero problem.

It was a rare bipartisan issue: democrats wanted strict regulations to prevent harm to marginalized communities and ensure justice was served through democratic institutions rather than vigilante actions. Republicans meanwhile, were concerned about the erosion of traditional values and the potential for superheroes to undermine the role of the state.

Stories of collateral damage, mistakes, and abuse of power were common, leading to a growing feeling that change was necessary.

The room service cart was laden with half-empty plates of gourmet food and glasses of various drinks, some still fizzing. The Girl was neck deep in a rose-scented bubble bath, her short wet locks drenched in a hair mask, face slathered in La Mer skincare.

She savored each creamy spoonful of vanilla ice cream from a crystal bowl, the rich dessert melting slowly on her tongue. Her eyes were glued to the glowing screen of her tablet propped on the edge of the tub, engrossed in a YouTube video called The Strange Case of Millicent Scott.

“....And what’s crazier is that this girl managed to fool so many people. Do you know how many people you would need to convince—”

“Millicent’s own mother—”

“Her own mother! Isn’t that insane? Could you imagine losing your daughter, then some years later she turns up and now she has an Italian accent, doesn’t remember anything… and then you go, yup. That’s my kid. And I do not want a DNA test, thank you very much.”

“That’s just denial. It doesn’t make sense to us, ‘cause neither of us have been in that situation. But when you’re as desperate as this grieving mother, you can convince yourself of anything. You want your baby back. You want it to be true, you want it to be your kid so you’ll willingly ignore all the red flags. And… you know. Exploiting that is just, genuinely cruel. Like, monstrous, ghoulish behavior.”

“And mind you, that’s a kid we’re talking about. And it’s not like she saw a picture of Millicent on TV and genuinely believed she was the missing kid, like it happened recently with the Madeleine McCann case… No. She knew very well that she wasn’t Millie, went out of her way to fool the police and the family, and when the father finally figured it out, she flipped the script and got him arrested instead.”

“Do we know if the allegations were… founded?”

“No idea. Most likely not. I don’t want to speculate, but if she lied about everything else, she probably lied about this too. How are you this young and already this evil? It really makes you wonder if some people are just born bad.”

“She was Italian.”

“The way you say that as if it explains everything is hilarious… But also, hey, if you disappeared one day and came back speaking Italian, I’d be pretty terrified.”

“I’m saying. Italy’s the shadow realm. You’re never the same once you go there.”

“And ultimately, it was a grapefruit smoothie that brought her down. You can't make this stuff up.”

“So who was she? And why did she go to such great lengths to pretend to be Millie? As far as we know, the real Millicent Scott is still missing, and the girl who impersonated her has never been identified. We hope that wherever this impersonator is, she’s rethinking her life choices.”

The Girl let out a chuckle and typed a comment with a burner account:

LOL.

2015

The first day of Fashion Week brought about rain of near-biblical proportions.

The Girl navigated the chaos of Times Square, shielded by a massive black umbrella. The click-clack of her heels echoed against the pavement as her pace quickened to a light jog.

Above her, tall billboards flashed an animated magazine cover featuring Paris' newest superheroes: a young girl in a ladybug costume, a yo-yo elegantly twined around her finger, posed back-to-back with a blond catboy clad in black leather.

She paid it no mind and hailed a cab as soon as she caught sight of one.

At Skylight Clarkson Square, the primary venue, The Girl watched the sea of impeccably dressed fashionistas, journalists, and industry insiders flow through the security checkpoint. She cracked her knuckles as if loosening her fingers for an Ocean’s 11–size heist, and adjusted the strap of her camera bag.

Dressed in black skinny jeans, a crisp white blouse and a tailored blazer, she looked like a seasoned journalist. Her hair was styled in an artistically frazzled blonde braid, blue eyes framed by incongruously chunky black Céline glasses.

Clutched in her hand was her ticket to the inside: a professionally printed press badge bearing the logo of “ScandiStil”, a fictitious Swedish fashion magazine.

With a confident stride, she crossed the street and approached the entrance. The guards at the checkpoint barely glanced at her as she flashed her press badge.

“Excuse me, miss, may I see your credentials?” one of the security personnel asked once she got inside.

The Girl handed over the badge and spoke with a practiced Swedish accent. “Of course. Freja Lindberg. I’m covering the event for ScandiStil Sweden. Here’s my card,” she said, offering a business card.

The guard scanned the badge and then the QR code, which led to a magazine website filled with articles and high-resolution images. After a brief moment, he nodded and waved her through. “Enjoy the show.”

Inside, the venue was a whirlwind of activity. Models hurried to and from dressing rooms, designers shouted last-minute instructions, and journalists like herself—real and otherwise—mingled, capturing the chaos in words and pictures. The Girl—Freja—slipped into the crowd, pulling out her high-end camera and snapping photos to blend in.

She spotted a group of journalists and bloggers gathered around a PR representative near the runway and sauntered over.

“Hi there,” she said to the group. “Mind if I join?”

“Of course not,” the PR representative replied. “We were just discussing the lineup for the show.”

Freja listened intently, jotting down notes, occasionally glancing around to take in the scene.

As the discussion wrapped up, Freja caught sight of a famous Norwegian fashion journalist she had interacted with online, and approached the woman with a warm smile.

“Hi, Elsa? I believe we talked on Twitter. I’m Freja from ScandiStil Sweden.”

“Oh, yes!” the journalist exclaimed. “Freja. I remember. I loved your article about Alexander Wang’s collection. It’s great to finally meet in person. How are you finding the event?”

“It’s incredible,” Freja replied. “The energy here is just unmatched. I’m really excited to cover the shows. I’ve heard this is supposed to be Gabriel Agreste’s big return. His last two seasons were… lacking. To put it mildly.”

Elsa’s smile dimmed down. “Well… a collection will be presented tonight, but he won’t show up for it. He canceled at the last minute. Ever since, you know… he’s been picky with his outings.”

“His wife, yes,” she nodded. “What a bummer. By the way, have you heard anything about the afterparties?”

“I think there’s one at the Soho Grand later. You should come.”

Valentino, a young celebrity stylist with perfect skin and his chest visible through his mesh shirt sauntered up to them.

“Are we talking about Gabriel Agreste?” He asked. “Anyone watched his son’s runway debut last year in Paris? Future major hottie, by the way.”

Elsa laughed uncomfortably. “The fourteen-year-old?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, pulling up a picture on his iPhone 6 Plus.

It was Adrien Agreste’s first runway show; the young model was the spitting image of his late mother.

“He’s adorable, but someone really needs to show him the ropes. He cannot walk to save his life.”

“That’s a baby,” Freja commented with a little pout. “Why is a literal child walking the runway?”

“Kaia Gerber’s sixteen, walking for Calvin Klein,” Valentino said. “There’s worse places to be in life, at that age… You guys were saying something about the afterparty?”

A drunken Freja staggered out of the Soho Grand Hotel at two a.m., clutching her Manolo Blahnik heels in her hand as the bass of the music receded into the night. Her other hand was draped over Valentino’s shoulder, both of them laughing as they leaned on each other for support. Valentino, equally wasted, guided her through the haze of cigarette smoke and chatter.

“Girl, you’re too messy,” he chuckled, steadying her as she stumbled against him. His words were playful, but his grip was firm, anchoring her to the ground. “You can never go back there.”

“And then,” Freja said between fits of laughter. “I was like; I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you owned him, he wasn’t wearing a collar!”

“Jesus Christ.”

“How is it my fault her man was practically eye-f*cking me? I can’t help that I look so good and she’s a washed up hag! Did you hear what she said about my purse?”

“Oh, I did. If I was in Zara off-the-rack from head to toe like she was, I’d probably keep my mouth shut.”

Their laughter echoed down the street, and Valentino reached into his pocket to pull out a silver case, offering her a cigarette.

Freja simply shook her head no, watching as he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, the tip glowing bright against the dark.

She leaned against the hood of a parked car and asked, “Is Valentino your real name? Or is it, like, a stage name.”

“Is Freja your real name?” he countered, raising an eyebrow as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Why would you ask that?” she shot back, genuinely vexed.

“You asked first.”

“Your name is too good to be true,” Freja said. “You carry the name of one of the best fashion houses out there, and you’re… what… dripped out in everything but Valentino. You had one job.”

“It’s an Italian name like any other,” he shrugged, flicking ash onto the pavement.

“Oh, I’m Ita…!” Freja stopped, her words catching in her throat. “I love Italy.”

“Well, will you cover the next shows in Milan?”

“No… I’m going back to Finland soon. You should come, you’d love the—”

“I thought you said you were Swedish,” Valentino remarked, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion.

“What?” Freja blinked, momentarily confused.

“ScandiStil Sweden?”

“Oh. Oh! Yes,” she waved him off dismissively. “Sweden, Finland, Norway—they’re all the same, aren’t they.”

Valentino frowned, too drunk to make sense of it.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” Freja suggested, hoping to distract him. “I’m really enjoying this. You’re so much fun.”

“I’m styling Malaika Firth for The Row, early in the morning. I need a good night’s sleep. You’ll be okay to go back to your hotel?”

“I guess…” Freja murmured, her voice trailing off as she pulled him into a tight hug.

“You have my number. We can catch up once this nightmare of a week is over. Drinks on me.”

“God, I wish you weren’t gay,” she whispered, the words more to herself than to him.

“Spoken just like my bitch mother.”

“Stop, I didn’t mean it like that!”

Valentino chuckled. “You make sure to write about me and my work in your article, yes?”

“Of course!”

Freja’s hand lingered near his back pocket, her fingers brushing against the leather of his cardholder. Just as she was about to slip it out, a faint click reached her ears.

She froze, her blood turning cold as she whipped her head around.

“I heard something,” she whispered, the alcohol-fueled bravado draining from her face.

“What?”

“A noise,” Freja insisted.

“What noise?”

“A camera. Like a camera shutter.”

“A camera? At an afterparty chock-full of celebrities? No sh*t,” Valentino teased, oblivious to the tension in her voice.

“I should go,” Freja said, stepping back and hailing a cab. “See you around.”

Back in her hotel room, she collapsed onto her crumb-filled bed, still in her little Alaïa halterneck dress and heavy Lanvin fur coat, ignoring the relentless buzz of messages and alerts from all her devices until, at last, exhaustion claimed her.

A sharp knock on the door jolted her awake in the early morning. She groaned, struggling to sit up. She hadn’t changed or taken her makeup off the previous night, and the room was a disaster.

Another knock, more insistent this time, followed by a muffled voice. “Miss Guerrera, are you there? We need to speak with you.”

“Who?” she mumbled to herself.

The Girl glanced at the clock—it was only seven in the morning. She padded unsteadily to the door and peeked through the peephole.

It was the hotel manager.

The sight sobered her up instantly. Glancing in the mirror, she attempted to wipe away the smudged mascara and glittery eyeshadow, only smearing the mess further. She slipped into the comfy hotel bathrobe, ran her fingers through the blonde locks of her wig and took a steadying breath.

She was New Jerseyan Vivian Guerrera, the raunchy, fiercely independent 22-year-old heiress to a global shipping empire, her family’s wealth built on the backs of freighters that ruled the seas. And most importantly, she was a guest in the opulent henhouse of the Carlyle Hotel in the Upper East Side.

She flung the door open, looking very irritated.

“Listen jerkwad, it’s seven in the—”

“Miss Guerrera, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s been an issue with your card. We’ve been trying to reach you all day yesterday.”

Vivian feigned confusion and brushed a strand of disheveled hair from her face before replying in a heavy, Tony-Soprano-esque accent: “What do you mean? It’s a Platinum Amex. It was workin’ last night.”

The manager handed her a tablet, displaying a notification from the hotel’s payment system. “It appears there’s been an error processing the payment. Your card was declined multiple times. We need to resolve this immediately.”

If the hotel had flagged her account and was now actively investigating, she was at risk of exposure. Still, she remained unflinchingly composed.

“Look, man, I’m way too hungover for this,” she said. “Give me an hour to figure it out, alright? And by the way, waking up your guests at the ass crack of dawn to beg for money is broke bitch behavior. Is this the Carlyle or a f*cking Super 8? You tell all the staff they’ll never get a penny of tip from me again.”

Dressed like a sleep-deprived university student, wearing an NYU crewneck, The Girl settled down by the bay window of a coffee shop in midtown with a tall Americano, empty notebooks and her open laptop.

The Met Gala was the pinnacle of exclusivity, the ultimate event for the elite, and she was determined to find her way inside for the next year.

She dug into the history of past attendees, scrutinizing guest lists, noting the patterns of who was invited and why. She looked for connections between attendees and the powerful gatekeepers of the fashion world—designers, celebrities, and influential sponsors. Every name that appeared more than once was jotted down, every pattern studied. She combed through social media profiles, gossip columns, and fashion forums, tracing the invisible threads that tied people to the event.

Editor-in-chief of Style Queen magazine Audrey Bourgeois seemed to come up often. She made a note to look into her family.

Next, she turned to the upcoming 2016 theme and the designers who were likely to have a major presence that year. She identified potential avenues for inserting herself into their circles—parties, charity events, or even chance encounters. Fashion Week was her playground, and she could easily manipulate a meeting or two.

She also considered the sponsors, digging into their corporate structures, key players, and potential weak spots.

Before she could even get to Step 1 of her plan, someone—a woman—sitting back to back with her called her name in a low voice.

Her real, government name.

The Girl froze, fingers halting on her keyboard. Her real name was rare enough to safely assume that she was the only one in this relatively empty coffee shop in midtown on a Thursday morning.

“Yes,” the hushed voice continued with a slightly amused tone. “I’m talking to you. But don’t turn around. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

The Girl couldn’t move if she tried. Her eyes were riveted on her laptop screen, where multiple Linkedin tabs were still open.

“See that black car on the corner of Lexington and 50th?... Hasn’t moved since you sat down. Want to guess on whose radar you’ve been recently? Starts with F, ends with BI.”

Without moving her head, The Girl glanced out the window and, sure enough, a black car was parked on the corner. Her eyes then glided to the barista, who didn’t seem to have heard anything.

The voice picked up. “I know about Millicent. And Victoria. And Arlo. And the people and the banks that you stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from. And so do they.”

“Who are you?”

“Did you know that you’re the youngest person on their list? You made your way up to the ten most wanted. They’re calling you the Chameleon.”

“What do you want?”

“All those credit card companies have been collaborating with the FBI and Interpol, given your history in Europe. They're closing in on you. It’s over.”

For the first time ever, The Girl did not know what to do.

“But it doesn't have to be,” the voice continued. “We can help you.”

“I have no idea who you are or what you want. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“We will be parked behind the café. Choice is yours. You can either go through the back door and see what we have to offer, or you can keep running, knowing they’ll inevitably catch you, handcuff you and throw you in Rikers Island, Home of New York City’s Boldest. Between you and me… Orange is not your color. I don’t want to see you behind bars, you’re way too smart for this… We can help each other out.”

Chapter 7: 404

Chapter Text

Ultimately, The Girl elected to go through the back door, out of pure curiosity—and mild resignation. If there was even the faintest possibility of evading arrest, she was willing to seize it.

She climbed into the backseat of the designated SUV, tinted windows obscuring her view of the outside world as the vehicle eased into traffic.

The woman from the café, who had introduced herself as Agent Harlow, was now seated beside her on the bench. She was in her mid-thirties and wore a nondescript suit; a sharp-edged figure with chunky frame glasses and an American flag pin on her breast. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, exposing a widow's peak and high cheekbones.

As they drove, Harlow maintained a pointed silence, occasionally checking her phone.

After what felt like an eternity, the car exited the highway and began winding its way through a wooded area. The road narrowed, flanked by towering trees that swallowed the remaining light. No signs, no landmarks—just an endless stretch of asphalt leading to God knows where.

The vehicle made a final turn onto an unmarked road, and ahead, a pair of imposing iron gates loomed. Without slowing down, the driver pressed a button on the dashboard. The gates creaked open and they drove in silence up the path, the tires crunching over gravel.

At first glance, it appeared to be a massive office building, hidden deep within the woods. Its stone façade was imposing. Surveillance cameras were embedded in the stone walls, and a series of antennas and satellite dishes peeked out from behind the roofline.

The car came to a stop at the entrance. The front doors swung open, revealing two stern-looking guards who immediately approached the vehicle. The driver lowered the window, exchanging a few words with them before they nodded and stepped aside, allowing the car to pull forward into an underground garage where rows of black SUVs and military-grade vehicles were parked..

The SUV finally came to a halt.

The Girl was led through a series of security checkpoints before they finally reached an elevator. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Harlow gestured for The Girl to step inside. The ride was short, and when the doors opened, they revealed a vast corridor lined with polished metal and glass. People moved with purpose, ignoring them, their faces unreadable, as if they were part of a well-oiled machine.

“This way,” Harlow said, guiding her down the hall, sensible heels clacking rhythmically as she moved.

There were digital maps on the walls, constantly updating global intelligence feeds, doors labeled with cryptic codes and names she didn’t recognize lined the corridor.

The CIA logo almost made her stop in her tracks before she was urged to keep moving.

They reached a set of double doors, flanked by two agents in black suits. Without a word, the guards stepped aside, letting Harlow and The Girl enter alone. Despite her out-of-place appearance—boyishly cut hair, baggy jeans, a tattered school bag, and the plain look of a university student—no one seemed to notice or care.

It was a conference room of sorts. The acronym OSIRIS was written in bold black letters on the wall. Occult Surveillance and Intelligence Retrieval for International Security. The logo was the astrological symbol for Osiris; a stylized eye, similar to the Eye of Horus, representing the all-seeing nature of the Egyptian god.

“Here we are,” Harlow said with a sudden cheery tone as she led The Girl to the table. “Welcome to OSIRIS. Please, have a seat.”

The Girl took the time to look around. “You’re the CIA?”

“Sort of,” Harlow’s wide smile unsettled her. She gestured at a chair. “Please.”

The Girl obeyed reluctantly, dropping her school bag on the carpeted floor and settling down in a revolving chair. Harlow, meanwhile, took to the coffee machine.

“We’ve been watching you for a while. Big fans of your work. I hear your Lorelei Briggs persona is quite active in the political sphere. We spotted you at the last Democratic National Convention in DC. Impressive.”

“I don’t understand what this is.”

“We’re sponsored by the CIA,” Harlow explained while the coffee was brewing. “Our focus is on magical threats—things like cursed artifacts, rogue spellcasters… Supernatural beings that could mess with global security. After World War II, the government realized there were things out there that regular intel couldn't deal with—stuff that could wipe out countries if they fell into the wrong hands. OSIRIS was set up to handle that. We’re basically the CIA’s answer to the magical world. The head of OSIRIS reports to the CIA Director but he also has a direct line to the NSC and, in rare cases, the President.”

The Girl listened attentively, watching as she poured the steaming hot liquid into a mug.

“We run everything in the shadows,” Harlow continued. “And our track record is perfect so far. Every threat detected since 1945 has been neutralized; the West Berlin Hallucination Crisis in 1983, the Tokyo Shapeshifters in 2004, the Time-Warp device in Johannesburg last year…”

She pointed at an interactive digital map on the wall with luminous twinkling white dots in almost every region of the world, indicating zones of interest.

“We keep an eye on magical activities worldwide, and we only recruit from the best—elite military, top operatives, people with specialized skills,” she gave The Girl a pointed look before pouring a dash of milk into her coffee. “Some of us even have latent magical abilities that get trained up for field use.”

“Okay. And all of this concerns me how...?”

“We’re getting to it,” she laughed good-naturedly while pulling out a clipboard and a pen from a drawer. “But first: we’d like to know a little more about you. Tell us who you are, in your own words.”

The Girl glanced at Harlow’s pen, poised to write, then back up at her.

“I’m an actress. I act.”

“We, at OSIRIS, are actors too. And we would love to have you join our ranks.”

“You want me to work for you?”

“We think you’d be uniquely qualified for one particular assignment, yes.”

“You’re gonna pay me or is this going to be, like, an indentured servitude, deal-with-the-devil type of thing? ‘Cause I’m supposed to be in jail right now.”

“We’ll discuss compensation later. In the meantime, we have a couple questions and we’re going to need you to drop the act completely. Can you do that for me, honey? I need you to be fully transparent with your answers, your life depends on it. Literally.”

“... Sure.”

“Let’s start simple. Any history of mental illness? Ongoing medical conditions we should know about?”

The Girl shrugged.

She checked some boxes. “We’ll run a psych eval later, and a physical, since you have no medical record in the US. Or anywhere, really. On paper, you do not even exist.”

“Okay.”

“Any long-term relationships or close ties that might compromise your discretion?”

“I have no use for such things. So that’s not going to be a problem.”

“No?” she co*cked her head. “And what about… screenwriter Randy Bancroft? Your only serious relationship, to our knowledge. And a wildly inappropriate one too. What was it?… A 17-year age gap? While you were still underage?”

The Girl paused. They truly did know everything about her. How long have they been watching her?

“Randy,” she explained calmly, “was nothing more than a wallet and a dick. I needed him in order to survive back then, and left him as soon as I realized he was broke. I don’t need to do that anymore, I can take care of myself.”

Harlow looked up once before returning to her clipboard. “It must be a very lonely life you’re leading. No mother, no father. No one who loves you, no one to love.”

“... You have no idea how happy I can make myself. Don’t pity me.”

“What languages are you fluent in?”

“Italian, English, French, Spanish, German, Greek, Portuguese, Swedish, Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian. Some regional dialects, and American Sign Language.”

“Can you handle firearms, or would you need training?”

“I can handle firearms.”

“What kind?”

“Shotguns, revolvers, .22 caliber pistols.”

“Where did you learn to shoot?”

“A shooting range in Texas.”

“Have you ever killed or seriously injured someone?”

“No.”

“Would you consider yourself more of a strategist or an improviser?”

“Improviser.”

“Where would you draw the line when it comes to completing a mission?”

“There are no lines for me.”

“Are there any tasks or assignments you would refuse to carry out, regardless of the stakes?”

“No.”

“Would you kill if you had to?”

“Yes.”

“How many identities have you used so far, and how many are still viable?”

The Girl took a moment to think. “If we also count the ones where I’ve had to fake my own death, that would be 749. About half of those are still viable.”

“And how do you keep track of them?”

“I have an excellent memory.”

“Do you know how to erase your digital footprint?”

“Yes.”

“How do you deal with the possibility of failure?”

“If I fail, I know I can drop everything and start anew with another identity. It doesn’t scare me. I have a question.”

“We need to wrap up—”

“I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“How much do you know about me?”

“We’ve compiled a fairly comprehensive timeline,” Harlow replied. “Some chapters of your life are a bit murky, but overall, we have a good grasp of your activities over the years.”

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

There was a brief, tense silence. Harlow’s sly grin faltered, replaced by a more guarded expression.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she replied. “What matters is how good you are at what you do. Moving on: ever since you left the shelter, you’ve been on the run, slipping through the fingers of law enforcement across continents. Why?”

The Girl shrugged. “Survival. I enjoy the chase, what can I say?”

There was a brief moment of silence; Harlow expected more. She took a sip from her coffee, giving her the floor.

“What you need to understand,” said The Girl, “is that despite what you may think of me, I have never hurt anyone directly. Ever. Never laid a finger on anybody. You can dig up my past as much as you want, you will not find anything.”

“What you did to those people… The Scott, Barbier, and Cooper families… Some would argue it is worse than murder.”

“If this is my trial, I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

“This isn’t your trial. We’re only asking questions because we want to understand you.”

“I did not kidnap or kill Millicent, Victoria, and Arlo.” The Girl placed a hand on her heart in feigned condolence. “Those are tragic, sad cases, and I empathize with the families. In fact, I empathize so much that I gave them what they needed: hope, relief, someone to love. I was willing to play the long game.”

“Remember at the beginning of this conversation when I asked you to drop the act?”

“But I’m not acting. I’m telling the truth.”

“You genuinely believe you did nothing wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that? What did you get out of it?”

“I was a child. Children need love. They need to feel like they belong. It isn’t fair that I was deprived of this.”

Harlow and The Girl stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Do you know what my biological mother did to me when I was a child?”

Harlow looked away for a second, and then back at her.

“I do. We spoke to the staff at the shelter.”

“Who did you speak to and what did they say?”

“Sister Lucia seemed to remember a great deal about you.”

“Then you must know that I was doomed from day one.”

“Your mother had issues. That doesn’t mean you’re—”

“She made money off of me. She almost killed me. She was a monster, barely even human.”

“I know.”

“Do you think it’s fair? That I didn’t have a childhood at all?”

“It isn’t fair. But lots of people were born in monstrous conditions, raised by monstrous parents. That doesn’t excu—”

“But I’m not like those other people.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t deserve what happened to me.”

“And the other children at the shelter did? Little Enzo who watched his father beat his mom to death? Gemma, whose mother tried to drown her in a tub? The twins who were never bathed or fed?”

“I don’t care about them. I care about me. You don’t know what it feels like to finally understand that no one is coming to save you. I am all I have in this world.”

“Interesting.” She scribbled something, remaining frustratingly stoic. How could she not be moved to tears by her sob-worthy plight?!

“When you age out of the system,” The Girl explained, “you don’t get a send-off party. You get a pat on the back and a door slammed in your face. And you are utterly alone. Most kids who outgrew La Casa ended up homeless, sleeping under bridges, drug addicts, and criminals. All I had was the will to survive in a world that didn’t want me. So I did what I had to do. I saved myself. I survived. I found the cracks in the system and slipped through them because that’s all there was for me. And I became very, very good at it.”

“Thank you.” Harlow moved on, flipping a page. “Now… You’ve targeted people, institutions—banks, corporations. Forged checks to the name of… companies that didn’t exist and cashed them? Committed wire fraud, credit card fraud, identity theft—multiple times. Was it just about the money? Or was there something else?”

“Money opens doors.” The Girl responded with a hint of disdain, her tone carrying an unspoken 'duh.' “You’d be surprised what people will do for you when they think you have enough of it. When you look the part, all due diligence goes out the window.”

“You seemed to target men more than women. Why?”

“Men are dumb as f*ck. They only want one thing and it makes them act like absolute idiots until they get it.”

“I see. You could’ve stopped after the first few successful scams, but you didn’t. You kept pushing, escalating. Why? What is your endgame?”

“Look. I’ve crossed paths with hundreds of people from all walks of life. I’ve seen lazy, good-for-nothing sloths sitting on millions, while the hardest-working people can barely feed their families. The working class never stood a chance under corporate greed. It’s never been about effort or fairness; it’s about power and perception. The world isn’t fair, and it doesn’t care. This game is rigged, can’t you see? Why should I struggle like the rest when I don’t have to? People judge me for what I do, but they’re just upset they didn’t think of it first. They follow the rules, hoping for a payoff that never comes, while I create my own opportunities. I love myself so f*cking much, and I won’t accept a life I don’t deserve.”

Harlow seemed intrigued. “So, no master plan? No grand vision?”

“I don’t need a grand vision, I’m adaptable. I’m whoever I need to be at any given moment. Right now, for example, I need to stay free… And lady, if working for the deep state means I can stop looking over my shoulder every second… Then sign me up. I’m your girl.”

Harlow’s smile widened. “Fantastic. I’m pleased to know we’re on the same page and that you’re open to working with us. Because the alternative involves us quite literally handing you over to the feds.”

She stood, and The Girl followed her with her eyes. The lights dimmed slightly, and she directed her attention to the large screen at the front of the room with the interactive world map. It zoomed in on a cluster of luminous dots in Western Europe.

Harlow used a tiny remote to project a picture of a city in ruins.

“Know where this is?”

The Girl looked at the collapsed buildings and demolished streets for a few seconds. “That would be Paris, France.”

“That’s right. Paris has become a hotspot for unusual activity, recently. New superheroes have emerged—Ladybug and Chat Noir. They’ve been keeping the city safe, but their presence has raised some serious concerns for us. The resident supervillain, Hawkmoth, creates champions—‘akumatizes’ them, actually—by exploiting people’s negative emotions. With just a few words, he transforms ordinary citizens into super-powered beings bent on chaos.”

The screen shifted to images of past akumatized victims, wreaking havoc across Paris. The Girl studied them, her expression unreadable.

“What’s your take?”

“On superheroes?”

“Let’s start with that, yes.”

“People idolize them,” said The Girl, “but they’re usually just pawns in someone else’s game. Hawkmoth has them running in circles, and they don’t even realize it. They swoop in, deal with the crisis of the day, and vanish—never addressing the real problem.”

“Keep up with the French news?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, checking her nails. “When I’m bored and feel like watching some real comedy.”

Agent Harlow continued. “The Miraculous—those little trinkets that Ladybug and Chat Noir hold—are at the center of it all. Whoever controls them possesses immense power. Too much power for a couple of vigilantes to hold. They’re very young. Worryingly so. They don’t get dispatched. They just pop in and out whenever they want.”

“Let me guess, you want to get your hands on them?”

“Nothing gets past you,” she nodded. “Yes, we need those Miraculous. The Black Cat is particularly dangerous. It has the power of destruction, and frankly, it’s not something we’re,” she placed a hand on her chest, over the American flag pin, “comfortable with being in the hands of a young boy. One temper tantrum on his part and humanity is kaput. Now that’s no good. And Hawkmoth obviously must not get his hands on it either. Ideally he should be taken down as well.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with the Miraculous once you have them? If this is about WMDs… You already have nukes.”

“Nuclear warheads are yesterday’s deterrent,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The Miraculous are something different—more precise, more controlled. They can reshape reality, bend it to our will. And in the right hands—our hands—it could serve as the ultimate deterrent.”

The Girl’s attention lingered on the polka-dotted heroine on the screen.

“And her?” she nodded at the picture. “What about her Miraculous?”

“This one is even more critical to our plans,” Harlow explained. “The Ladybug Miraculous holds the power of creation, healing, and restoration. It’s not just about countering the destruction caused by the Black Cat. Whoever controls the Ladybug Miraculous can manipulate the outcome of any battle, reset any damage, and, in essence, control the fate of the world.”

“So you’re after—”

“Both of them, yes. Their identities are kept secret, but their Miraculous must be brought under our control. Ladybug is the leader, the brains behind the team. Without her, the rest will fall apart. We need her out of the picture.”

“Right. This is just about military dominance, then. Another dick-measuring contest with Russia and China but this time with magical technology?”

“Not just military. This would fundamentally change global power dynamics. Think of the political leverage. If the United States controls the Miraculous, we control the narrative. We could prevent wars… or start them. Influence allies and keep adversaries in check. No need for nuclear threats when you can manipulate reality itself. The NSA, Department of Defense, and STRATCOM certainly see those jewels as game changers to safeguard American interests… And that’s why we need someone like you—someone who understands how to play the game, and keep it all under the radar. Someone with eyes, ears and hands, absolutely everywhere at once. Someone who’s… innocent-looking enough to avoid raising suspicion.”

Agent Harlow circled the table and walked up to The Girl, leaning forward slightly.

“You’ve got a chronic case of babyface.” She lifted her chin with two fingers. “You could easily pass for a middle schooler. Which is good. How’s your French, by the way? It’s been a while since you left that country.”

The Girl pulled back slightly. “It’s alright. Could be better.”

“That’s good enough for us. As soon as we’re done with your evaluations and some basic training, you’re jetting off to Paris and you’ll get the full briefing on the plane.”

The private jet sliced through the night sky, leaving the twinkling lights of New York far behind. The cabin was furnished in shiny leather and polished wood, and seated by the window, The Girl looked out at the view below, her reflection staring back at her from the glass. Beside her on the small table lay an open manila folder. The cabin crew had left her alone after serving a light meal.

Across from her sat a man in his late forties, a seasoned but phlegmatic operative whose name eluded The Girl. He wore a simple black suit and dark glasses, a tiny American flag pin affixed to his suit jacket. She looked painfully out of place in an oversized grey hoodie with the hood pulled over her head, sweatpants and comfy running shoes.

The Girl took one look at the first document inside the folder.

“Agent 404,” she read out loud, vocalizing her new codename. “Oh, like error 404, not found. Is that what you guys are calling me? Clever. I could get used to it.”

The man remained stone-faced and The Girl smiled, positioning the open folder on her lap to flip through its pages in Courier-font, eyes skimming through the assignment overview.

Objective :

The primary goal of [REDACTED], hereinafter referred to as Agent 404 or simply 404, is to gather intelligence on Miraculous Holders Ladybug and Chat Noir, and identify the civilian identities of these individuals. Secondary objectives include establishing contact with known associates of the Parisian superheroes, monitoring their activities, and tracking any movement by the supervillain Hawkmoth to eventually uncover his identity and take him down. 404 is required to provide consistent and detailed updates, with immediate reporting of any critical findings. OSIRIS expects thorough documentation of all interactions, movements, and intelligence gathered.

Background

Paris has recently become a focal point of heightened meta-human activity. The appearance of young vigilantes, Ladybug and Chat Noir, has attracted global attention. These heroes possess powerful artifacts known as the Miraculous, which grant them abilities that, if controlled, could serve as a significant asset—or threat—on a geopolitical scale. OSIRIS has determined that acquiring these Miraculous is crucial for U.S. security interests.

Operational Details

Primary Alter Ego

Lila Rossi: The middle school student

• Age: 14 (D.O.B 04/15/2001)
• Background: Foster daughter of Italian Ambassador Francesca Maltoni, recently placed in the Maltoni household as part of a diplomatic foster care initiative (See Annex 1 for details). Francesca Maltoni’s hectic schedule offers Lila enough freedom to operate under other identities.
• Cover Story: Lila is a well-traveled, cultured teenager with an interest in art and charity work, traits that will naturally integrate her into Parisian high society. She attends Collège Françoise Dupont, a school known for its influential students and extremely frequent Akuma activity. Lila has been placed in this environment for a better chance at interacting with the superheroes. Lila’s charity work and associated diplomatic duties will provide cover for her prolonged absences.

Contingency Plans:

• Emergency Exfiltration: If Lila’s cover is compromised, OSIRIS has contingency plans in place to extract her quickly. This involves anything from a sudden transfer to another household under the guise of diplomatic necessity to staging a crisis that requires Lila’s immediate relocation (See Annex 1 for details on emergency backup primary alter ego Cerise Bianca).
• Damage Control: In case of any suspicion, OSIRIS has prepared narratives to explain any discrepancies, including a pre-arranged plan to dissolve Lila’s connection with the Maltoni family in a way that leaves no loose ends.

Secondary Alter Egos

These secondary alter egos are tailored to gather specific intel on the Miraculous, its holders, and Hawkmoth, targeting different layers of Parisian society. Each alter ego will be given comprehensive documentation, backstories, corresponding residences, relatives, and trusted contacts ( See Annexes 2 to 4 ).

1. Iris Verdi: The High Society Heiress

• Background: Iris Verdi is the 18-year-old daughter of wealthy Italian industrialist Antonio Verdi (Undercover Agent 4028), newly arrived in Paris to oversee a series of philanthropic initiatives. Her father’s fortune is tied to global real estate and luxury goods, giving her easy access to Paris’s elite. His unwitting spouse and Iris’ step-mother, Elena Verdi, has contacts in the entertainment industry.
• Target Social Circle: Iris frequents charity galas, art exhibitions, movie premieres, and exclusive parties, rubbing shoulders with celebrities, politicians, and influential business figures (See Annex 2 for list of contacts).
• Purpose: Through Iris, 404 can gain intel on individuals who might be connected to the Miraculous holders/Hawkmoth. The upper echelons of Parisian society hold secrets and connections that are not visible to the general public. Iris should also use her influence to sway public opinion or create a media narrative that benefits her mission.

2. Vera Salinas: The Underground Art Dealer

• Background: Vera Salinas is a 24-year-old art dealer who procures rare/illicit pieces. She operates out of hidden galleries and secretive auctions. (See Annex 3 for trusted contacts at 68 RIVOLI and the Paris Catacombs).
• Target Social Circle: Vera mingles with black-market dealers, street artists, and eccentric collectors. Her world overlaps with the darker side of Paris, where information and power are traded as much as art.
• Purpose: This alter ego allows 404 to tap into the criminal underworld, where rumors about Hawkmoth’s operations and his connections might circulate. Vera can also seek out those who might have ties to the dark side of magic or knowledge about the Miraculous that is not easily accessible.

3. Camille Rousseau: The Investigative Journalist/PSYOP

• Background: Camille Rousseau is a 26-year old up-and-coming journalist known for her investigative work, and whose articles expose corruption, scandals, and hidden stories in Paris’ underbelly. (See Annex 4 for trusted contacts at TF1, Le Parisien, CNews, BFM TV, and for pre-approved topics of research).
• Target Social Circle: Camille interacts with other journalists, whistleblowers, and sources within the police and political sphere. She is seen at press conferences, court trials, and investigative sites.
• Purpose: As Camille, 404 can dig into public records, police files, and eyewitness accounts, using her investigative skills to follow leads related to the Miraculous/Hawkmoth. She can also use this alter ego to manipulate the media narrative surrounding the superheroes, planting stories that serve OSIRIS’ goals.

The Girl flipped to the annexes. “This is going to be so much fun!”

Chapter 8: Lila Rossi

Chapter Text

Lila Rossi was a beauty, with striking chartreuse-green eyes and long, pin-straight auburn hair which reached down her back, catching the light in rich, reddish-brown waves—it was the kind of hair that begged to be noticed, always perfectly in place, yet never overdone.

Seated at her vanity before her large mirror, illuminated by the soft, warm glow of its small light bulbs, she carefully trimmed the edge of her blunt fringe, snipping away at the stray hairs to achieve a flawless straight line while Edith Piaf’s Heureuse played softly from her speakers, blending with her precise cuts.

Lila’s small bedroom in the Maltoni apartment had its own charm. She'd been given the freedom to decorate as she pleased, but true to her nature—and accustomed to Manhattan’s finest housekeeping— it quickly descended into chaos, a mess she had no intention of cleaning up.

At seven in the morning, on her first day of school, she stood admiring her reflection, blending liquid blush across her cheekbones with a thick brush. She looked like an old Hollywood starlet in her dressing room, touching up between takes.

Three knocks at the door broke her concentration. Francesca's cheerful voice came through, slightly muffled. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Her foster mother slipped in discreetly, already dressed in a fitted pantsuit, her hair swept up in a chic French twist. Eyes glued to her phone screen, she navigated the chaos of clothes strewn across the floor without so much as a glance.

“Good morning!” She looked down at Lila for a brief moment. “Ma che bella—you look beautiful. Are you excited?”

“Very.”

“I ordered those cannolis you love from Torta d’Oro for 4 pm. Do you mind picking them up after school? It’s just down the block. I’ll send you the address and order confirmation.”

“Sure.”

“Have a good day at school!” She waved as she left the room. “See you tonight.”

Lila picked up the order after 4 and was back home just five minutes later. She settled into the cozy kitchen, perched on a high stool by the square table. As she untied the decorative ribbon and lifted the lid of the box, the sight of half a dozen delectable cannolis brought a smile to her face.

Before she could even reach for one, her earpiece chimed with an incoming call from who could only be her handler.

“404,” came Harlow’s unmistakable voice. “Secure?”

“Confirmed secure line.”

“We got the pages. Excellent job.”

“Mhhh,” Lila moaned in pleasure after her first bite of the creamy pastry, her eyes fixed on the hefty hardcover book on the kitchen table. “You’re so welcome.”

“If there aren't any other copies of this book about the Miraculous—”

“There aren’t, I checked.”

“Good girl. That’s a lead. It officially puts a target on the Agrestes. I need you to keep a close watch on them. It would be ideal if you could find a way into their house.”

“I’m meeting with Adrien Agreste later today at the park, after his fencing lesson,” she said, licking ricotta off her fingers. “I plan to find out exactly how much he knows about superheroes.”

“... Are you eating right now?”

“It’s snack time, hello?” She frowned. “Francesca bought cannolis. God forbid a girl eats.”

“Establish first contact with the heroes today. Try to get akumatized and report back.”

“Got it,” she wiped her hands on a tea towel and picked up her phone. “Mind wiring me 700 euros?”

“… For what?”

“Gabriel Agreste has a Miraculous-inspired jewelry line,” she chuckled. “Way to raise suspicion. Need to get my hands on the Fox pendant. For research purposes, of course. Did I also mention the giant butterfly on his logo?”

The newsroom of TF1 was a flurry of activity as the evening broadcast approached. Reporters dashed between desks, editors barked last-minute changes, and camera crews scrambled to set up for live segments.

Among the chaos, investigative journalist Camille Rousseau sat at her cluttered desk, indistinguishable in a sharp blazer, messy bun, and a smattering of freckles.

Her laptop displayed a spreadsheet of dates, times, and locations of recent Akuma attacks, which she cross-referenced with police reports.

The broadcast room, just down the hall, was preparing for the highly anticipated interview with Paris’ beloved superheroes, Ladybug and Chat Noir. Camille could hear the hum of excitement, the reporters’ chatter, and the occasional mention of Nadja Chamack, the star anchor, who was set to lead the interview.

Later that evening, she picked up her phone as soon as it rang. Richard Monet, a disillusioned media executive who had spent years toeing the line, appeared on her Caller ID.

“Monsieur Monet,” Camille greeted with an audible smile, adjusting her red frame glasses.

“Rousseau,” he replied curtly. “What’s so urgent? I got your email.”

“See I’ve been tracking police response times during recent Akuma attacks,” she explained in a low voice. “There’s a pattern. The police are deliberately holding back, even when they’re closest to the scene. I need to know why.”

A brief silence followed. Camille glanced up at the giant TV screen, where Nadja Chamack was interviewing the heroes. The sound was muted, white captions scrolling over a black background. Ladybug had just stormed out inexplicably, dragging Chat Noir with her.

“What are you working on?”

“I think someone’s pulling the strings,” she simply said. “There’s a blackout on information about the heroes and these attacks. Someone doesn’t want the truth getting out. What do you know?”

He sighed. “There’s been pressure from above—orders to stand down during the attacks. They don’t want the police interfering with Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

“And the censorship? Why are certain topics off-limits? So many redacted lines, these reports look like barcodes… I thought we had a free press.” She pouted. “What’s our Constitution good for otherwise?”

“It’s about protecting their identities. If people start asking questions—about the heroes, about…”

"Who’s behind it? Who’s giving these orders?"

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the Ministry of the Interior is involved. They’re working with someone—or something—powerful enough to keep this under wraps. Whatever you’re investigating, you—”

“Give me a name.”

“What?”

“Someone in the Ministry. A low-level aide, an advisor, janitor—I don’t care. They’ll know more than you. Whoever it is has enough pull to sway an entire chain of command toward Powered Entity intervention. I know the police isn’t pleased about this; it undermines their authority and their funding is being cut in favor of outsourcing law enforcement to a couple of kids. Cops already have it so hard in Paris… what with all the riots and the setting-garbage-dumps-on-fire…”

“Rousseau, you’re digging where you shouldn’t be.”

“A name, sir.”

A heavy pause. “You want the truth?”

“No, Monsieur Monet, lie to me,” she deadpanned.

“They don’t want to admit the police can’t handle the Akuma attacks. It’s bad for morale, bad for their image. So they’re keeping it out of the news, letting the heroes take the spotlight. Paris isn’t used to having superheroes, this isn’t New York City. That’s all there is to it. It’s just embarrassing. You don’t need to look any further, and the public certainly doesn’t need to know this.”

“Who does it benefit?” Camille asked while twirling the curly wire of the phone around her finger.

“Sorry?”

“The fact that their identities must remain secret. Who exactly does it benefit?”

“You’re not seriously asking this question.”

“Secret identities are a double-edged sword. In a democracy, the public has a right to know who’s wielding power—especially when it’s unchecked. When you hide behind a mask, you’re not just concealing a name; you’re evading accountability. If Ladybug and Chat Noir were to misuse their power, who would hold them responsible? The media’s job is to shine a light on those in power, not to shield them in darkness.”

“You’re oversimplifying it. These aren’t politicians or CEOs we’re talking about—they’re teenage vigilantes. Exposing their identities would put targets on their backs, not just from Hawkmoth, but from every criminal and lunatic in Paris.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Camille pressed on. “You’ve seen it happen in other cities. When heroes operate in secrecy, they become untouchable. It erodes trust in public institutions, and people start to wonder—what else is being hidden? If these heroes are so essential to Paris, why aren’t we allowed to scrutinize them? Why should they be above the law, above the very society they’re supposed to protect?”

“Because,” his voice hardened, “they’re the only ones who can stop Hawkmoth. If we expose them, we’re handing him the keys to our own destruction. The public doesn’t need to know who they are to trust them. They just need to see them saving lives. It’s more complicated than you t—”

“It’s always complicated, Monsieur Monet. But when we start compromising on transparency, on truth, we’re the ones slipping down that slope. It’s our duty to expose the truth, not to decide what the public can or can’t handle.”

“You’re tenacious, you know that?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t be where I am if I wasn’t.”

“Sometimes, protecting the public means not telling them everything. It’s a balancing act, and in this case, keeping their identities secret is the lesser evil.”

“But for how long? How long before that balance tips and the truth becomes a weapon against us?”

Camille’s eyes drifted back up to the TV screen, now showing the ancor’s akumatized form.

“Nadja Chamack is looking a little different all of a sudden,” Camille said calmly. “Would be a shame if she started spilling all sorts of secrets on national television.”

“Goddammit.”

“Give me a name. If there are any like-minded individuals in the Ministry, I would like to find them. It only takes one person to start a revolution, after all!”

The Verdi household occupied a gorgeous Haussmanian apartment in the 16th arrondissem*nt, with high ceilings, tall windows, and parquet floors in herringbone pattern polished to a mirror-like shine.

When Elena Verdi, late-thirties, returned home this afternoon, she found a young woman lounging on the Minotti Hamilton gray sofa. The girl had a curtain of platinum blonde hair that reached down to the middle of her back, baby blue eyes glued to her phone screen where acrylic-tipped fingers typed away at breakneck speed. She wore a little white linen dress, contrasting sharply with her skin, overly bronzed from too much self-tanner. Self-tanner, on the finest Italian velvet there was in the market!!!

She chose not to make a scene.

The girl, as Elena recognized from the photographs her new husband had shown her, was Antonio’s daughter from a previous marriage—an actress, he had said. But Iris—a name as lovely as the girl herself—lived in LA year-round and seldom visited Paris due to her hectic filming schedule. Then again, perhaps Hollywood was too harsh an environment for a girl like her. Antonio had mentioned that Iris had called him one night in tears after people had pointed out that her parents’ names were highlighted in blue on Wikipedia, making her feel as if she hadn’t truly earned her career.

Elena approached and waved tentatively.

Iris looked up, and a pretty smile brightened up her face as she put her phone aside for a moment. She radiated the confidence of someone accustomed to being the center of attention.

She signed with her hands, “Hello, Elena. Dad has told me so much about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Elena signed back with a hesitant smile. “Likewise.”

There was a pause.

Elena signed again. “Do you know where your father is?”

“He should be back any second now.”

As if on cue, Antonio Verdi—an undercover OSIRIS agent stationed in Paris months before The Girl’s assignment—entered the room. Iris greeted him with a restrained smile, struggling to keep her composure. In a different scenario, she would have had no qualms about making more overt advances. He was handsome and impeccably stylish, precisely her type.

For now, however, he was meant to be her father.

With that thought in mind, Iris turned her attention back to her endless scrolling while the two discussed matters in the hallway.

“I didn’t know your daughter was coming over,” Elena signed discreetly.

Antonio had a slight, unreadable smile.

“She’s disillusioned with LA, and she misses her friends,” he explained. “She learned sign language so she could communicate with you.”

Elena’s expression softened. "I saw. How nice… That means a lot to me.”

“Dad!” Iris called out loud. “Can you come?”

They both joined her in the living room. Iris stood to show him a screenshot of a media publication. “There’s the Ladybug and Chat Noir movie premiere tonight. Do you think you can get me in?”

“You weren’t invited?” he asked, and turned to Elena to translate. “She’s a big fan.”

“No,” Iris shrugged with a slight pout. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“I can help,” Elena signed with a little smile. “I’ve got friends at Le Champo. It won’t be a problem.”

“Really? Thank you so much!” she exclaimed, beaming as she rushed to hug Elena. Elena returned the hug, though her smile faltered slightly, worried her black dress might now bear traces of fake tan.

The Miraculous movie premiere at Le Champo was spectacular.

A red carpet stretched down the steps, lined with photographers whose cameras flashed like strobe lights, capturing the glitz and glamor of the evening. Parisian socialites, celebrities, and international dignitaries paraded in, draped in haute couture, and a sea of admirers crowded the barricades holding signs and memorabilia, their cheers rising to a fever pitch as each star arrived.

Security was tight, black-suited guards stationed discreetly around the perimeter.

Iris slipped seamlessly into the elite gathering in a high-neck, form-fitting Balenciaga gown, pointed stiletto boots, andplatinum blonde hair tied up in a sleek bun. She looked like a real-life, breathing Mirage from The Incredibles.

Her eyes were watchful and missed nothing, shielded behind glossy black sunglasses—more of a statement than a necessity.

Inside the lobby, a string quartet played in the background as waiters glided through the crowd, offering hors d'oeuvres that were as much art as food.

This was no ordinary night out—this was reconnaissance. She afforded herself a single glance in Adrien Agreste’s direction, and made a point to avoid him for the rest of the night.

He was accompanied by world-champion fencer Kagami Tsurugi—thank you Wikipedia—whose mother sat at a table at the far end of the lobby, near a towering display of roses, with Nathalie Sancoeur, Gabriel Agreste’s trusted assistant.

Tomoe Tsurugi’s black hair was pulled back into an elegant bun, dark glasses covering her eyes.

Through a quick glance through Wikipedia, Iris learned that she was the CEO of Tsurugi Industries; a company at the forefront of advanced robotics, autonomous security systems and AI-driven law enforcement, known for its ambitious goal of rendering superheroes obsolete.

While companies like Genetech poured resources into enhancing superpowered capabilities, Tsurugi Industries took a different approach, aligning themselves with a vision of a world where human error, collateral damages, unpredictability, and the vigilante nature of superheroes are replaced by technology—drones and robotic enforcers capable of responding to crises faster and more efficiently than any human or superhero could.

Iris clicked her phone shut again and focused back on the two women.

In her hand, Nathalie clutched an iPad, which was currently connected to a video call—Gabriel Agreste’s stern face flickered on the screen, his expression as unreadable as ever. A voluminous contract was on the table.

This could be interesting.

Iris casually positioned herself near a lavish floral arrangement, the perfect spot to eavesdrop without drawing attention. She lifted a champagne flute to her lips, pretending to sip as she listened.

Gabriel’s voice was cold and clipped. “What we offer is control, Tsurugi-san. Real control. And that is what will win in the end.”

From her small, geometric clutch, held loosely in her hand as if it were an afterthought, Iris discreetly pulled out a tiny hidden camera and snapped a few pictures of the meeting—along with some frustratingly blurry shots of the contract.

She kept on listening until the meeting was over, deftly stepping aside to avoid stumbling on a girl crawling on the floor like a co*ckroach, chasing after a tumbling macaron. Iris then followed Nathalie as she moved along the throng of people, still receiving instructions from FaceTime-Gabriel, always making sure to keep a reasonable distance between them.

She noted, astutely, that the Akuma alert resounded promptly after Gabriel ended the call.

In the dim glow of a Parisian jazz club, The Girl sat alone at a small corner table. As far as everyone else was concerned, she was still Vera Salinas; long, curly black hair, emerald green eyes lined with kohl; and a black lace cami top.

It was midnight. The club hummed with the low, sultry notes of a saxophone, patrons huddled in quiet conversations. Vera’s glass of absinthe sat untouched on the table, a mere prop in her act—for now, though a couple of empty shooters littered the table.

Her laptop screen displayed an old post from the Ladyblog, detailing secret societies and a mysterious Order of Guardians who supposedly watched over all Miraculous holders. Another tab contained a deep dive on Sentimonsters in Paris, and yet another article covered the Louvre’s latest acquisition from the depths of the Tibetan mountains. Zooming in on the accompanying photograph, she spotted Nathalie Sancoeur in the corner, clutching her ever-present iPad, Gabriel Agreste’s face glowing on the screen.

Vera had just begun drafting an email to the Louvre’s research center when a text message from Francesca Maltoni, Lila Rossi’s foster mother, interrupted her work.

Hi, sweetie. I ordered dinner for two. When are you coming home?

Vera replied.

I told you I was sleeping over at my boyfriend’s tonight.

Boyfriend?

Adrien…

Right! Have a good night, then. Make good choices!

Vera cringed at that, and was about to dive back into her email when her earpiece buzzed softly, barely audible over the music and chatter.

Harlow’s voice cut through the noise without preamble. “404, secure?”

She glanced around. “Secure.”

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Vera frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I am talking about the girl you almost got expelled from school today. That petty rivalry with that fourteen-year-old? It ends now. You’re putting Lila in the spotlight, and we can't have that. Do you want to blow your cover? Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t get your act together. You're almost twenty-three—start acting like it, or we’re bringing you back to New York. Straight to Rikers.”

Vera scoffed, downing her glass of absinthe in one gulp before slamming her laptop shut and shoving it into her leather bag. She headed for the back of the club, where the music faded into a distant hum.

“First of all, how do you know about—”

“Do you think we’re not tracking your every move? How stupid do you think we are? You cannot sneeze without us knowing about it.”

She slipped into a dimly-lit service corridor, checking over her shoulder before unlocking a hidden door with a key.

“I’m warning you, 404. Drop it. Back off and let it go.”

“You’re not my mom!” she snapped like a bratty teenager, her voice echoing as she descended the dark spiraling staircase. “And that ‘fourteen-year-old’ isn’t just some random kid. She’s onto me—has been since day one! If anyone’s going to blow Lila’s cover, it’s her. She needs to be taken out. I can’t let her ruin this for me.”

“Taken out? What, you’re going to kill a middle-schooler? Give me a break. And all this over a boy? Jealous because she gets his attention and you don’t anymore?”

“I don’t give a f*ck about Adrien. I’m only doing what Gabriel Agreste asked me to do.”

“Uh-huh. And who exactly do you work for right now? Us, or him?”

“I work for whoever pays me. I don’t recall ever seeing a red cent from you. Meanwhile, Gabriel has just offered me an IMG modeling contract just for watching over his son.”

“He has offered Lila Rossi a modeling contract. Let’s be clear: Lila Rossi only exists as long as we allow her to.”

“Okay, but—”

“Gabriel Agreste is actively pimping out his teenage son, and by getting involved, you're no better than him. I really hope you’re not interested in the boy because that would be yet another reason to throw you behind bars.”

The Girl flicked on a small torch to light the way through the pitch-black staircase. The air grew heavy and damp, clinging to her skin like a cold sweat. As she descended deeper and deeper, the temperature dropped noticeably, and a chill settled deep in her bones. The walls, slick with moisture, seemed to close in around her.

“If you actually thought about it for a second before jumping to ridiculous conclusions,” said The Girl, “you’d understand that Adrien is just as crucial to this assignment. He’s the son of our prime suspect, a gate to the Agreste Manor, an excuse for Lila to stay close to Gabriel and to remain in his good graces. But after today? Screw him, too. I hope you or whoever was monitoring me caught every word of his self-righteous lecture on how I need to treat people better or else we can’t be friends. So patronizing—who the hell does he think he is?! Literally! How important do you think you are?”

“… Are you drunk?”

The Girl let out a rueful chuckle, pushing open a wooden door with a strong kick of her foot.

“He obviously doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. It is laughable to think you can cross me and get away with it. Watch, I’ll make his life a living hell. I’ll f*ck his dad and give him a child he actually loves. Then that little f*cker might finally have someone to call 'mom' again.”

“Can we cut the villain monologue, we need—”

“Threatening to throw me to the feds like I’m a disposable piece of meat... No one can do this job as well as I can and you know it! There is quite literally nobody else like me in the entire world. I am special and you need to treat me as such.”

“The—”

“But go ahead! Send me to prison, see who’s gonna do your dirty goddamn work for you then.”

“404, connection is choppy.”

“Well, too f*cking bad.”

“Are you… —tacombs? You need… back to…”

She hung up with a simple click.

Darkness engulfed her, save for the faint yellow beam of her torch guiding the way. The air reeked of mold and stagnant water, her heavy breathing echoing off the chalky walls. Earlier rain had left the passage flooded, the water now reached up to her knees.

Here, finally, she found peace—no eyes watching, no masks to wear. These hidden paths were off-limits to the public, and at this hour, she was utterly alone.

After what felt like hours of navigating through this claustrophobic nightmare, she finally reached her destination: La Plage. This hidden chamber, known only to a select few cataphiles she’d encountered during an illicit underground art auction, was now hers. Well, Vera’s, technically. A costly claim, but one she guarded fiercely.

The space opened up suddenly, a vast underground room with a sand-packed floor that crunched softly beneath her wet boots. There were painted murals on the walls—waves inspired by Hokusai, swirling in blue and white, surreal, dreamlike figures reminiscent of Max Ernst, and candles flickering in alcoves carved into the stone.

She walked past a seemingly-never ending carousel of outfits, curated for each alter ego, wigs lined up on mannequin heads, and a cluttered desk covered in makeup; expensive palettes and professional brushes.

The Girl tossed her earpiece onto the table with a metallic clatter, then peeled off her soaked boots, socks, and jeans, slipping into something more forgiving. She returned Vera’s wig to its stand, and with a sigh, ruffled her own short, tousled pixie cut.

Her eyes settled on the large map of Paris on the wall, dense with a web of pins, strings, photos and sticky notes. People, places, newspaper clippings, messily scribbled words in red pen.

In her tipsy haze, it appeared as a jumbled, indecipherable snarl of clues. Sometimes it felt like she was just one elusive discovery away from making sense of it all.

There was an understated simplicity to Cerise Bianca. Unpretentious; unadorned, and natural. She resembled The Girl the most.

One night, as she was lounging on the balcony of her apartment, quietly reading on a deckchair dressed in loose, comfortable clothing—a well-worn sweater and faded joggers bunched at her ankles, Chat Noir spotted her from afar, mid-patrol, and leapt down on the railing of her balcony.

Cerise looked up, startled, hazel eyes wide and glistening under the streetlamp’s glow. She pretended to tuck a short lock of hair behind her ear while silently activating her earpiece.

“Chat Noir? You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. “Cerise, right?”

“You remembered.”

She had briefly introduced herself to him earlier, expressing her utmost gratitude for his help. Chat Noir settled comfortably on the metal ledge, keeping a respectful distance. “I wanted to check in on you after your akumatization today. You’ve been through a lot.”

Cerise sighed, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Yeah, it’s… it’s been a weird day. I still don’t know how it all got so out of hand.”

“Akumas have a way of finding us when we’re at our most vulnerable. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Cerise hesitated, her fingers twisting a gold ring around her thumb. “It was about my father. He hasn’t been around much lately, always busy with work, and I felt like I was just invisible to him. Like I didn’t matter. Hawkmoth twisted that feeling into something ugly, something that wasn’t me.”

Chat Noir listened intently. “I’m sorry you went through that. It’s not easy feeling overlooked by the people you care about.”

Cerise glanced up at him. “It’s... strange. One minute I’m just angry, the next I’m—”

“A puppet of your own emotions,” Chat Noir finished for her. “There’s a government program, you know, for people who’ve been akumatized. They help with the... mental stuff.”

“Yeah, I know. They reached out. But it’s embarrassing.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It can happen to anyone, really.”

Cerise’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, studying his face as if searching for something more.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she said, her voice dipping into something sweeter, more conspiratorial. “You and Ladybug, you’re always there for us. But it must be hard, always cleaning up the messes other people make. Does she ever—” Cerise paused, choosing her words carefully. “—Does she ever listen to what you need?”

Chat Noir blinked, taken aback.

“Ladybug’s great,” he said, his voice reflexively defensive. “We’ve got each other’s backs. That’s how it’s always been.”

Cerise nodded, her smile tightening at the corners. “Of course. But I just wonder… you do so much for her, yet it feels like she doesn’t always see you, not really. When I was akumatized, all I could think about was how alone I felt in my anger. But then I realized, maybe we’re not that different. Maybe you’ve felt that way too, like you’re giving and giving, but—”

Chat Noir shifted, discomfort bubbling up. Her words were gentle but barbed, striking chords that were still raw from recent events.

“Where are you getting this from?” He asked.

“Oh, just… online. Gossip columns. I know we shouldn’t trust tabloids and blah blah blah, but… They’re always going on about this tension between you guys. And this cat hero who showed up to replace you the other day? Green hair, ponytail, weirdly formal? Who was he? And why was Ladybug okay with this?”

“That’s—you’re right. You shouldn’t listen to what’s being said online.”

Cerise tilted her head, her expression turning contemplative. “It must be hard, though, always having to share the spotlight. Always being second, even when you’re giving it your all.”

Chat Noir glanced at her, trying to gauge her intent. “We’re a team. It’s not about being first or second—it’s about working together.”

“I get that. But sometimes it feels like you’re just filling in the gaps, doesn’t it? Like no matter what you do, you’re still left on the sidelines. And all those new superheroes she brings in—when it’s you who’s been there since day one... Me, personally, I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Ladybug… just does what she thinks is best.”

Cerise leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “But what about what’s best for you? You deserve to be seen, to be heard, Chat Noir. You’re more than just a sidekick.”

He laughed softly, though it was devoid of humor. “I’m not a sidekick.”

“Of course not,” Cerise cooed, eyeing his ring. “But if she keeps pushing you away, maybe it’s time to think about what you really want. Your own path. You have so much power, so much heart—why let someone else decide how you use it?”

Chat Noir looked away, the rooftops blurring into a haze of thoughts. For a moment, he wondered if she was right—if the pedestal Ladybug stood on was one of his own making.

Before he could respond, a familiar voice cut through the night.

“Chat Noir!” Ladybug’s silhouette appeared on a nearby rooftop, her yo-yo retracting as she landed gracefully beside them. Her eyes flicked to Cerise, and then back to Chat Noir, her expression unreadable.

“We need to finish our patrol,” she said. “Cerise, I hope you’re doing better.”

Cerise’s smile faltered, but she masked it quickly. “Thank you, Ladybug. I’m getting there.”

Chat Noir glanced between the two, feeling the unspoken tension.

“Yeah,” he finally said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll see you around, Cerise. Take care.”

Cerise smiled. “Of course. Duty calls.”

He gave a curt nod, launching himself back onto the rooftops without another word, and Cerise watched them go, her smile still in place. She knew seeds like these didn’t sprout overnight. She leaned back, her sweet demeanor slipping just enough to reveal the predatory gleam beneath.

“Hey, mom.”

“404,” Harlow’s voice finally made itself heard through her earpiece. “Do not call me that.”

“Well if you’re going to act like you’re my mother, I might as well call you that. Did you hear everything?”

“I did.”

“They’re not a real team,” The Girl concluded, returning to her book. “One little nudge, and they’ll topple like dominos. She keeps secrets from him, treats him like a backup. It’s only a matter of time. Sooner or later, they’ll turn on each other.”

Adrien was acting strange on the train to London.

He sat across from Lila, offering polite smiles and oddly formal, upbeat responses to her thinly veiled jabs about his predicament. He was all charm and composure, despite being obviously upset by the prospect of leaving his friends and going on a world tour with Lila of all people. Hadn’t he just snapped at her this morning, telling her in no uncertain terms to shut her goddamn mouth?

Lila studied him. When their eyes met, she forced a smile, and he mirrored it—too quickly, too perfectly. It was almost convincing, but not quite. She noticed the subtle tremor at the corner of his lips, the micro-frown that flickered and disappeared, the stiffness in his posture, and the shallow breath he took before each sentence.

She saw the cracks in his armor, the tiny tells that betrayed him, but made nothing of it, simply dismissing it as nerves from Nathalie's presence and the formality of the situation.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” said Adrien before standing up and grabbing his bag to head to the bathroom.

Lila watched him until he disappeared behind the door. She kept watching in absolute distrust, staggering incredulity, as the events succeeded each other, the truth, at long last, unraveling like a bad film over the following couple of minutes.

She sent a single encrypted text message to Harlow.

The couture king hides wings. We’ve got him :)

“Perhaps,” The Girl mused, nudging the kickstand up with her foot and swinging over the saddle of her bike. She pedaled into the sunlit street, weaving through the frozen afternoon traffic. “We should discuss fair compensation.”

“It’s a complete disaster, 404,” Harlow's voice crackled sternly through the earpiece. “What is going on? The entire world is after Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculous. How could you let things spiral out of control like this? With everything you know, and the—”

“Trust,” The Girl cut her off with an audible smile, her fingers flicking the little bell on her handlebars to warn a pedestrian as she veered right. “Me. Haven’t I done a wonderful job so far? Aren’t I the best? I’ve given you so much, worked so hard, haven’t I?”

A long sigh buzzed through the line.

“What is your plan?”

“Trust me.”

Tomoe Tsurugi’s briefcase was snugly secured in the bike’s rear basket as The Girl zipped through the post-apocalyptic scene. Fallen streetlights and shards of glass glittered on the pavement, while overturned café tables sat abandoned in the chaos. Monuments lay in ruins, and cars and motorbikes were scattered haphazardly across the street. She swerved around them effortlessly, feeling lighter than air.

“I’m thinking,” she continued, her voice as breezy as the wind in her short black hair, “something in the seven figures. See? I’m being so reasonable. U.S. citizenship, but that’s a given. A weekly shopping budget. Maybe a townhouse in the West Village when I get back to New York. Oh, and also I want off the FBI’s most wanted list. Because you guys can grant me a federal pardon, for my loyal services to America, home of the brave, land of the free, right?” She chuckled, spotting the silhouette of the Agreste Manor looming in the distance. “You weren’t planning on using me for this mission and then tossing me aside, were you? Because that would make me very sad. Angry, even. Do you want to see me when I’m angry?”

Her words hung in the air, sweet and sharp, like a sugar-coated threat.

“Honey.”

“Yes.”

“You know I love you and I appreciate everything you do.”

“Aw. I know! You should say it more often, though. Don’t leave me wondering.”

“Don't count your chickens before they hatch. You’ve achieved strictly nothing yet.”

“Yet, is the key word here.”

Her bike tires screeched to a halt before the imposing gates of the war zone that was the Agreste Manor. The air thrummed with the distant booms of energy blasts and the clattering of debris; the manor itself was a fortress now, half-shrouded in the swirling dust of battle, walls fortified against the supernatural onslaught.

“I will talk to you later. I’ve got a job to do.”