#Brit invincible | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bunji-enthusiast · 23 days ago

Text

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

Chat Noir!Reader

Summary || teenage supers weren’t uncommon to see, but you were a particularly interesting one.

A/N: ideas, ideas, ideas…. AUGH. You get ur ass invertedly adopted by the GDA, in a way. Next part is coming soon! (Reader is a teenager here.)

“Cataclysm!”

Lately there's been more and more sightings of akumas, the blackened butterflies with purple idents. On one's own, they're easy to resist. But not when the victim completely overcome with emotions, which causes a lot of problems.

mainly for one reason only: Akumatizations.

Meaning you've had to spread out your already wide area that was Paris, but as of late—you've been spotted around in Chicago as well, which rose some suspicions amongst the G.D.A, and even the civilians themselves. You were as strange one, capable of mass and pure destruction. Yet upon sighting you, you were as brave, calm and gentle as one could be for a superhero. A teenaged one at that.

Civilians had made assumptions about you, the director of the G.D.A was curious about you at most, but all in all—You didn't seem to pose a major threat, you only took care of the problem, then left as quick as you came.

You sighed as you rubbed the temple of your forehead, arching a brow as you took in the silent win. a silent smile gracing your lips. Another akuma bit the dust, and you saved the victim.

Without your partner, you weren't sure how you could've purified the akuma. Initially you had asked Plagg for help, but as usual, he was his mysterious, riddle-ridden self. That made you groan, so you had to figure out a way, study the scrolls; ask Master Fu for help and so on. It was strange to say the least, but this new extension of your hero life was nice—to an extent.

Despite it, you were a smart cat. you figured out how to purify the akuma on your own, without the ladybug yo-yo that your partner always carried around. though it took some extraneous effort, the result was worth it.

"oh my gosh." the vicim gaps, wincing as he held his head. he was confused, which was normal. stuff like this always happens after the experience, it was as if one's mind goes blank, just letting your innermost thoughts translates to your actions. fortunately you were there to help them snap out of it.

"ça va?" you ask, and the victim snaps his head back up at you in confusion. and you arch a brow, stewing in the confusion. suddenly you facepalmed your head, now immediately understanding why he was confused.

You weren't in Paris anymore, not right now. "Sorry! what I meant to say was," You began, holding out your hand to help the victim up. "Are you alright?"

"uh yeah," he mutters, shaking his head to ward off the adrenaline he was still feeling. "thanks."

You affirm the sentiment with a small nod, winking at him. "of course, it's the job of the great, charming cat noir after all." You still kept a gentle hold on him, making sure he was stable enough otherwise to stand on his own without support. the victim casts a long glance at you, and you understand why. you just wished that you didn't get so many questioning looks about your being here.

Teenage superheroes weren't abnormal, so why the hell did you keep getting weird looks towards you? all it just did is make you wish you were back in Paris, where you did your usual thing with Ladybug; then go home.

"hey uh..."

'oh here we go', you think to yourself. here comes the questions, you didn't want to stick around, seriously. but you always helped the victims, and left your partner to be answering the questions. you were used to that, but she wasn't around. so it was just you, and the victims. luckily there was no stupendous scrawling of reporters and cameras to cover this incident, not here in Chicago. it was just another day--but, were the citizens okay? they must be severely desensitized to the point that it became their normal to be watching such crimes happen.

you were concerned for the people of America.

he grimaces, and you watch as he readjusted himself on his own. your cross your arms, eyes watching him like a genuine black cat. "are you okay? you look kinda young to be doing this." he asks, and that surprises you.

you stand on the balls of your feet, tapping around the stone pavement. "I'm fine," you mutter, holding back the temptation of rolling your eyes. "you should be going back home, akumatizations can take a toll and make you feel sore." you inform, jabbing a thumb vaguely.

he eyes you wearily, but he caves. better to listen to the hero, and you were all the more glad for it.

your cat-like eyes watch him as he walks off, making sure that he was completely out of the danger zone before you finally relaxed. "good grief." you mutter, rubbing the back of your neck before you turned around, holding out your staff and extending it.

out of habit, you wait for a moment.

nobody? good.

you jump away, feeling the breeze crawl through your hair. you sighed contentedly, you held up your ring for a brief moment, watching for how many paw pads you had left.

'putain!' you curse inwardly, hopping on one foot, hand or the other. almost zoning out from your surroundings.

two pads. which meant you needed to get back to your house, and quickly. there is also the less safer possibility of having to find somewhere to hide and recharge Plagg to continue going on forward with the day, of course with the usual kicking the bad guy's ass.

you groan inwardly to yourself as you hop onto a rooftop, your ears perking each and every way as you contemplate your circumstances. on one hand, you've been fending off the akumas sent by your sworn enemy, and on the other: you had to juggle your life as a student, and a model.

frankly you were more surprised that your own forsaken and sworn enemy even manifested the energy to come after you as well, even if you were in a completely different country. you honestly gave up a mental applause for the guy, he certainly had a lot more tenacity then you thought.

and also completely deranged.

You sighed to yourself, hopping off the building rooftop with a meow. Flippantly hopping off one surface and the other as you went straight to your desired destination.

An Açaí food front, their shit was good as hell. There were very few places back in Paris that had such a thing and you wouldn’t miss out on it right now. It was too good to pass up.

This is not how you wanted the rest of your day to go. You just wanted your Açaí food bowl, but no—

"Fear me!"

you could barely make out what the perperator is saying as you take down each of them one by one.

you immediately lament every single choice in your life so far that had gotten you to this point, and quite literally, you make the thought that being six feet under the ground would be way better then what you were doing right now. your body was sore to the living heavens, and you could definitely hear Plagg screaming at you from within the ring right now.

currently, you got yourself wrapped up in a fight with a villain. well, more like a couple of them. they were dressed in scaly costumes and bore an odd white crescent shaped insignia on their chests. one was at the forefront, leading the rest of them into the fight.

you were trying your best to find them off, as you had relatively steady combat experience; and all in due part to your flexibility and agility. but they sure were relentless.

you dug your feet into the asphalt as you ground yourself, then propelled forward with a thrust. taking each and every step with a calculated precision as you knocked out the minions with a quick strike of your extended staff, controlling the length of it with ease. as you do so, you try to recall who these people are.

"you guys are the lizard league right?" you chuckle, crawling forward as you jump around the last few standing minions. and avoiding those who were running away. the leader chokes at your ignidation, his forehead bulging with an evident pulse. "thought the guardians kicked your asses a couple months ago." you grin, flashing a shiny canine as you swipe at the leader.

of course you know about the guardians of the globe, who wouldn't? most famous team of heroes in America, in all of earth actually. you heard about their lacking in effort as of late, but it seemed they truly made a comeback.

"of course we're the lizard league, but we're better then we were back then!" he spat out, throwing a punch at you, but you narrowly dodge it—sidestepping as you crouched, balling your clawed black hand into a fist, and immediately retaliate.

“That so?” You laugh, throat-punching him. He gasps as he steps back, the loss of oxygen making him panic. You throw another one directly to the gut, right in the diaphragm. He keels over to his knees.

“You really gotta pay attention man,” you grin, flashing your signature smile. “Give up yet?”

You stood over the last conscious member of the ragged Lizard League, panting, claws slick with grime and blood, the ringing of your bell drowned out by the chaos that had just died down.

Your staff trembled slightly in your grip as the leader groaned beneath your boot. His tail twitched. His tongue lolled. He wasn’t getting back up.

You crouched, ready to tie him up—or knock him out again if he tried anything stupid—when the sky split open with a sonic boom.

A blue blur shot down and slammed into the ground like a meteor.

You barely had time to react. Your ears twitched. You leapt back just in time to avoid being crushed under the sudden arrival of him.

The Immortal.

He landed like judgment itself—shoulders broad, fists clenched, piercing blue eyes scanning the scene. His presence was enough to make the air itself feel heavier.

“What the hell is going on here?” His voice boomed like thunder as his gaze swept across the destruction. His eyes locked onto you.

You straightened up, claws retracting halfway, though your tail flicked uneasily. “I had it handled,” you said flatly, nodding toward the half-conscious pile of scaly losers around you. “Was just cleaning up the trash.”

His gaze narrowed. His jaw clenched as he took a step closer. You tensed without meaning to.

“Who are you?” he asked, his tone shifting. Still rough, but there was something else behind it now. Not anger. Not suspicion.

Concern.

He stepped closer, looming over you with that towering frame. You were tall for fifteen, but next to him, you barely came up to his chest.

“Wait…” His eyes widened a little. “You’re a kid.”

Your tail curled tighter around your leg as your claws instinctively extended again. “I’m not just a kid,” you snapped. “I’m Cat Noir.”

You didn’t mean to sound defensive. But damn it, how many times were you gonna have to prove yourself?

The Immortal’s face twisted slightly—half confusion, half disbelief. He looked at the damage you’d done to the Lizard League, then back at you. Your mask didn’t hide the sharpness in your cat eyes, the way they gleamed with something more dangerous than teenage rebellion.

He stepped back, hands rising slightly. Not in surrender—but caution. Like he was handling something… fragile.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “Not like this. You’re fifteen, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You’d seen that look before—from police, from teachers, sometimes even from Ladybug when things got too real.

But then his expression shifted again. The steel in his eyes came back. “You’re strong. I’ll give you that.” He looked around. “I’ve seen grown men with ten years of experience lose to these freaks.”

You gave a dry smile, flicking your staff back onto your back. “Yeah, well… maybe they didn’t have claws.”

He almost chuckled. Almost.

Then his gaze sharpened again, and for the briefest moment, he looked haunted—like something behind his eyes was bleeding through the cracks.

“I’ve lost too many kids,” he said quietly.

You didn’t flinch, but your stomach twisted. Something in his voice… heavy. Raw.

“I won’t lose another.”

You opened your mouth to argue—of course you were going to argue—but before you could get a word out, the sky behind him rippled.

A memory flared in your mind.

A red blur.

A splatter of blood.

“Why… why!”

The Immortal’s voice—shattered and betrayed—echoed in your ears before you even realized what it was.

You blinked. The scene shifted for a second in your head. Omni-Man. The Guardians.

You shook it off.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not them. And I’m not backing down.”

He stared at you long and hard. For a second, you thought he might fly off. Or yell. Or try to stop you.

Instead, he just nodded once.

But his voice was still low, still tired. “Just… don’t make me bury another one.”

And with that, he turned, boots lifting off the ground.

You stayed where you were, the wind from his flight kicking up dust around your boots.

You didn’t say anything until he was gone.

Then, to no one in particular, you muttered:

“Guess I made an impression.”

The Lizard League didn’t give you much more trouble after The Immortal flew off.

What was left of them—half-conscious, tangled in their own weapons, bleeding into the cracked concrete—you wrapped up quickly. Your claws slid back into your gloves with a metallic click, and with a flick of your wrist, your baton extended.

A few well-placed taps to their necks, just enough pressure, and they were out cold. You zipped them up with reinforced GDA-standard flex-cuffs, pulled from the belt you’d scavenged off some of their black-market gear last week. Wouldn’t hold forever, but long enough for the clean-up crew you texted on a secure burner line. You didn’t stick around to be thanked.

The skies above the city were darkening, clouds tinged orange with the setting sun as you bounded across rooftops. Your bell jingled softly with each leap, but you barely noticed it anymore. The wind kissed your face, brushing through your tousled hair and cooling the sweat beneath your suit.

You landed with a catlike thud outside your favorite little food bar downtown—Bowl Haus. Neon sign flickering. The girl at the counter knew you by now.

"Same as always?" she called, smirking behind a plexiglass shield.

"Add extra strawberries. I fought a lizard gang today," you said, tapping the counter with a clawed finger.

Five minutes later you were perched on a nearby fire escape, savoring the açaí like it was the first thing you’d tasted in days. Sweet. Cold. Your tongue darted across the spoon with practiced finesse.

Your tail swayed contentedly.

But the feeling never lasted long.

Back at your place—a temporary residence stacked high in the quiet side of the city—you pulled the blackout curtains closed and finally let the transformation drop.

Claws in.

With a shimmer of green light and a soft hum, the magic unraveled. The suit peeled away into smoke, retreating back into the ring on your finger. You let out a breath, half-relief, half-weariness.

And then came the groan.

"Ughhh… finally," drawled a tiny, smug voice. "I thought you'd never stop leaping around like a sugar-addicted squirrel on caffeine."

You rolled your eyes and plucked a piece of Camembert from the small fridge under the kitchen island. "You’re welcome, by the way," you muttered, tossing it toward the floating black cat-thing that had emerged from your ring.

Plagg caught it midair and chomped. “Mmm. Now that’s what heroism tastes like.”

"You know, normal people nap after nearly getting vaporized by a super-lizard’s acid breath," you said, stretching your arms. "But nooo, I fight monsters, eat frozen fruit bowls, and live in a penthouse with a ghost-cat who eats $70 cheese."

Plagg smirked. “Correction: a god of destruction who eats $70 cheese.”

You sank onto the couch, glancing around the empty, too-silent apartment. The place was sleek, modern, and about as cozy as a bank vault. Left to you after your father’s death—a man rich enough to own most of the city, powerful enough to keep it all hidden.

You didn’t like talking about him.

Didn’t like thinking about him.

And so you didn’t. You just exhaled, flicked on the TV with a wave of your hand, and slouched. You hadn’t planned on stopping for the night. Probably wouldn’t. You never really did.

Plagg, full and now curled into the crook of your shoulder, snored softly.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps. Confident. Deliberate.

You paused.

No one ever knocked here.

You stood, the air tensing around you as you approached the door. The peephole revealed a gaunt man in a black coat, hair white and shoulder-length, the left side of his face a twisted scar of flesh and synthetic mesh.

You opened the door just enough to speak. “If this is about property taxes, I pay my rent.”

“Cute,” Cecil Stedman said. His voice was gravel and tobacco. “But I’m not here for jokes.”

You leaned against the frame, eyeing him warily. “Then what are you here for? If you’re looking to lecture me about being a kid in tights, you’re the third person today.”

Cecil didn’t blink.

“I don’t care how old you are,” he said. “I care what you can do.”

That gave you pause.

“I saw the Lizard League mess. Your prints were all over it. Not bad work. Brutal, but clean. Efficient. If The Immortal hadn't gotten in the way, I might’ve been able to watch the full show.”

You crossed your arms, ring glinting under the hallway light. “You spying on me?”

“Everyone worth watching gets watched,” Cecil said. “And right now? You’re moving higher up the list.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Get to the point.”

He stepped closer, unbothered by your sharp tone. “I want to talk about the future. Your future. Earth’s, too.”

You hesitated. Not because of the offer. Because of the way he said it.

He wasn’t offering you a spotlight.

He was offering you a war.

And something in your gut told you… the real fight hadn’t even started yet.

You stared at Cecil for a beat longer, his face unreadable under the hallway light. His scar seemed to glow faintly, like a reminder that he’d been through hell and walked out with the devil’s phone number.

You stepped aside. “Come in. But wipe your shoes. This place is rented.”

He smirked slightly—just a twitch of the corner of his mouth—and entered. His boots thudded heavily against the floor. Plagg, who had been snoozing peacefully on the back of the couch, cracked open one glowing green eye.

“Company? Ugh, tell me he didn’t bring government cheese.”

You ignored Plagg and gestured toward the chair across from the couch. “Talk.”

Cecil sat down slowly, fingers laced together as he leaned forward. His gaze was heavy. Like it carried a thousand lives behind it.

“You’re sharp. Fast. A little reckless, but I’ve seen worse from people three times your age,” he began. “You’ve been cleaning up parts of the city even my own agents don’t step foot in anymore.”

You shrugged, arms crossed. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Cecil nodded. “You’re not wrong. That’s the problem.”

He reached into his coat and tossed a sleek black tablet onto the table. It lit up instantly. The screen showed grainy footage: you—Cat Noir—taking down three Lizard League goons with surgical precision. No hesitation. No backup.

Another swipe, and it was Omni-Man’s first strike on the Guardians. Blood. Ruin.

Then another clip—Invincible struggling to hold back a tentacled alien in Kansas. It almost killed him. It had killed civilians.

Cecil’s voice was low, sharp.

“I’ve seen the world fall apart more than once. And I’ve seen what happens when we rely on people who aren’t ready. You? You’re something different.”

You looked at the footage. Then at him.

“You want me on your roster.”

“I want you ready,” he corrected. “Because it’s not just Lizard freaks and superpowered gangsters anymore. There are bigger things coming. Viltrumites. Interdimensional invasions. AI uprisings. And those are just this month’s problems.”

You exhaled slowly. “So you want to weaponize a fifteen-year-old.”

He didn’t flinch. “I want to give a fifteen-year-old the chance to choose.”

Plagg floated over, hovering behind your shoulder. “He doesn’t like giving chances. He likes giving missions. And body bags.”

You didn’t wave him off this time.

Cecil’s eyes flicked to Plagg, then back to you. “I’m not here to sugarcoat. You’re dangerous. That suit, that power—it’s not built for parades. It’s for war.”

You turned away for a second, eyes flicking to the dark window. The reflection staring back at you wasn’t just a tired teen anymore. It hadn’t been in a long time.

“…What do you want me to do?” you asked.

Cecil stood slowly, his voice low but firm. “Train with us. Not full-time. Not yet. But we bring you in, teach you how to work with a team. How to survive. When the next world-ending threat comes, you won’t be flying solo.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “What if I say no?”

Cecil didn’t blink.

“Then I hope I never have to send someone to collect what’s left of you.”

He started for the door, then paused. “Think it over. We’re not in a rush. But the end of the world?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“It is.”

The door shut behind him like a judge’s gavel.

Plagg floated beside you silently. For once, he didn’t joke.

You looked down at the tablet he left behind—glowing in the dark like a warning.

So. The question wasn’t whether you’d fight.

It was who you’d be fighting with.

The next morning came too fast.

You hadn't slept.

Too many questions. Too many possible futures pulling at the edges of your thoughts like claws against glass. But in the end, you tapped the tablet, typed ‘I’m in’.

two minutes later, your apartment was pinged with coordinates and a time.

Now, standing in the middle of a steel-reinforced training facility buried beneath a mountain, you were wondering if you should’ve at least eaten something beforehand.

Cecil stood on a raised control platform above the main training floor, arms folded, flanked by two silent GDA operatives in black armor.

His voice came through a hidden speaker, sharp and impersonal.

“Welcome to Day One. This is where we find out if you’re just fast and lucky, or if you’re the real deal.”

You adjusted your gloves, claws flexing out once—click-click—before retracting.

Across from you on the training mat stood three other figures. You recognized them immediately:

Brit – The old-school tank of a man with super strength and invulnerability. Moved like a freight train.

Bulletproof – Speedster with density shifting. A living missile when he wanted to be.

And Monster Girl – in her teen form, she looked like your age, but you knew better. Sweet voice. Demon fists.

Great. They’re throwing me in with the ‘no mercy’ crew.

A buzzer blared.

“Show us what you’ve got, kid,” Cecil said. “And don’t hold back. They won’t.”

The floor vibrated as Brit charged first.

He came in swinging—a full-arm punch that could crack a van in half. You ducked under the punch with catlike reflexes, your tail flipping up behind you as you vaulted backward and over his head.

"Too slow, grandpa!" you called mid-flip.

He snorted. “Fast mouth. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Bulletproof came in next—

A blur of black and gold slamming into your side like a sledgehammer. You flew across the mat, hit the wall, and bounced off it—but twisted in the air just enough to land on all fours.

“Okay. Ow,” you muttered, half a grin forming.

You cracked your staff out—

The baton extended with a satisfying SNAP, and you jabbed it into the ground to launch yourself at Monster Girl just as she transformed mid-air into a snarling demon-beast. Her claw met yours—black on green—and the shockwave of the impact knocked the air out of the room.

You twisted mid-swipe, your staff wrapping behind her leg. A yank. A sweep. She hit the mat hard.

For about two seconds.

Then she growled and punched you halfway across the mat into a stack of reinforced sandbags.

“Okay,” you coughed. “Note to self. Don’t piss off the demon toddler.”

The rest of the fight blurred.

Your suit was scuffed, the bell at your throat dented, your claws cracked. But you’d left marks of your own. Bulletproof’s visor was scratched. Brit’s jaw was bruised. Monster Girl was panting.

The buzzer blared again.

“Enough,” Cecil said.

You stood, panting, adrenaline still thrumming through your limbs.

He came down from the platform, boots echoing.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, giving you a look. “I thought you’d fold in under a minute. You lasted ten.”

You wiped a trickle of blood from your lip and grinned through the ache. “Is that a record?”

“No,” Brit muttered. “But it ain’t nothing.”

Monster Girl, back in human form, offered you a half-nod. “You hit harder than you look, Cat Boy.”

“Cat Noir,” you corrected, groaning as you stretched your back.

Cecil stopped in front of you. “You’re raw. Undisciplined. But you’ve got instincts. And you don’t let fear slow you down.”

He handed you a sealed black file folder.

“Consider this your unofficial acceptance. Keep showing up like this, and maybe we’ll make it official.”

You took the folder, heartbeat steady now. Still sore. Still tired. But standing.

“Good,” you said. “Because I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

Cecil gave you one last long look. “Let’s just hope you live long enough for us to be glad you didn’t.”

Then he turned and walked off into the shadows of the facility.

You looked down at the file in your hands.

Your name wasn’t printed on the cover.

Just one word: “Asset.”

You waited until the others had cleared the training floor.

Plagg had already slipped into your hood, grumbling something about bruised ribs and lactose-based compensation. The lights dimmed around you, the mechanical hum of the facility fading into the background.

You sat on a nearby bench, muscles still thrumming, and peeled the seal off the black folder with a slow, deliberate motion. The moment it opened, a faint hiss escaped—some kind of auto-unlock mechanism built into the paper itself. Fancy.

Inside?

Several sheets. No names. No titles. Just cold, clinical language.

—————————

[Subject Codename: CHAT NOIR]

Clearance Level: Tier-2 GDA Operative Candidate

Status: Provisionally active

Assigned Handler: Stedman, C.

Psychological Profile (Redacted)

Subject demonstrates high cognitive adaptability, advanced moral reasoning in contrast with destructive capacity. Recent trauma has amplified vigilante tendencies. Caution advised. Possible destabilization under stress.

Recommendation: Monitor closely. Potential asset. Potential liability.

—————————

[Suit Analysis – “Miraculous Armor”]

Composition: Unknown (non-terrestrial in origin). Appears to bond at a molecular level with the user via ring artifact.

Properties: Reactive defensive layering. Enhanced mobility. Energy dissipation field. Retractable claws possess nano-filament threading—can cut through reinforced titanium at close range.

Weaknesses: Recharge-dependent. Power source linked to non-human symbiotic entity (Code Name: PLAKK).

Notes: Attempts to isolate power source from the user have been... unsuccessful. (See: Incident Report #613.)

—————————

[Entity Profile – “PLAKK”]

Status: Unknown. Symbiotic. Possibly interdimensional. Sentient.

Risk Assessment: Extreme.

Recommendation: Do not engage directly. Containment protocols classified Level Omega.

Observation: Entity displays feline traits. High intelligence. Voracious cheese dependency. Attitude: Insufferable.

You glanced over your shoulder. “They nailed you.”

Plagg peeked out, unbothered. “Can’t argue with science.”

The final page was heavier. Thicker. It wasn’t typed—it was handwritten. Cecil’s penmanship was sharp, decisive.

‘I’ve read the reports. I’ve seen the footage.

You’re dangerous, kid. And if I’m being honest, I like that.

But make no mistake—this isn’t a team, it’s a war machine.

The GDA doesn’t build heroes. We build survivors.

And if you want to make it through what’s coming next? You better be both.’

– Cecil

You closed the folder.

The weight of it stayed in your hands, like it didn’t want to be put down.

You weren’t just playing superhero anymore.

You were on the board.

And every move from here on out? Had consequences.

Plagg floated up beside you, unusually quiet.

“…So,” he said. “Still wanna play with the big dogs?”

You stared ahead, eyes narrowing.

“No,” you said.

“I want to run the damn pack.”

Downtime hit like a silence you weren’t ready for.

After that first training session, Cecil didn’t call. No pings. No late-night encrypted texts. The file stayed locked in your desk drawer, sealed under biometric access, but it felt heavier than any mission briefing. It wasn’t rejection. It was worse.

They were watching to see what you’d do next.

The sun had dipped low, slicing gold across the city’s skyline. You sat on the edge of the rooftop outside your temporary apartment—barefoot, still in your civilian clothes, the wind tugging lightly at your hair.

Plagg was curled beside you, a cheese wheel bigger than his body slowly vanishing one smug bite at a time.

“You know,” he mumbled mid-chew, “you could’ve been a pastry chef. A magician. Even a fashion designer. You’ve got flair. But no. You pick world-saving. With these people.”

You leaned back on your hands, the ring on your finger catching the light. “Not like there’s much left for me to bake for.”

Plagg didn’t say anything to that. He never did when it came to your dad. Or what happened. Or the way you couldn’t stand the echo in your own apartment sometimes.

You looked out at the city below.

People moved like blood through veins. Fast. Purposeful. Living. You weren’t even sure what that meant for you anymore. You weren’t famous. You weren’t part of the Guardians. You were a black cat in a world full of wolves, Viltrumites, and gods.

But you were still here.

That had to count for something.

Your phone buzzed beside you. Just a text from the açaí place. A new flavor drop.

You smiled faintly.

“You ever think maybe the world doesn’t need another superweapon?” you asked.

Plagg yawned. “The world never needs one. It just keeps making them.”

“…What if I don’t want to be one?”

Plagg turned his glowing green eyes toward you. “Then don’t be.”

You looked down.

“Pretty sure it’s already too late.”

You didn’t transform. Not tonight. No patrol. No missions.

Just you, the skyline, and a black cat god chewing through Manchego like it was popcorn.