The studio smelled like money.
Adrien stood under the lights while hands adjusted him—his collar straightened, his sleeves smoothed, his posture corrected until he felt less like a person and more like a display. The heat pressed against his skin, the kind that made it hard to breathe without anyone noticing.
"Eyes sharper, Adrien."
He didn't ask what that meant. He already knew how to give them what they wanted.
The flash went off, white and blinding. For a moment, everything disappeared, and he almost welcomed it.
"Perfect," Gabriel said.
His father's eyes weren't on him, not really. They were on the screen beside the camera, on the image that had already been curated and approved. Adrien had learned long ago that this version of him mattered more than the one standing in the room.
He stepped back before anyone could stop him.
"I need some air."
Nathalie looked up from her tablet. Marinette, standing nearby with fabric samples draped over her arm, frowned immediately.
"Adrien—"
"I'll be right back," he said.
It wasn't true, but no one challenged him. They never did.
Outside, the night swallowed him whole.
Paris felt different when he wasn't being watched. He walked without direction, hands shoved into his pockets, phone vibrating nonstop against his thigh. He didn't check it. He had already spent enough of his life responding to other people's expectations.
That was when he heard the music.
It drifted through the street, low and aching, pulling at something in his chest he'd stopped naming years ago. Adrien followed the sound until he reached a narrow bar tucked between two buildings, its sign dim and half-broken.
Inside, the lights were low and the crowd thin. The air smelled like old wood and spilled drinks. On the small stage sat a man with a guitar, hood pulled low, his face hidden in shadow.
There was no introduction. No name.
Just music.
Adrien took a seat near the back. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until the first notes settled into him, slow and deliberate, like the guitarist was unspooling something private. The sound wasn't polished. It wasn't meant to impress.
It was honest.
The man played like he didn't expect anyone to listen. Adrien did anyway. He listened until his chest hurt, until the noise in his head quieted for the first time in weeks.
When the song ended, the silence stretched—fragile and sacred.
"That was… beautiful," Adrien said, his voice softer than he intended.
The guitarist looked up. Adrien still couldn't see his face, but something in his expression shifted, like surprise.
"Thanks," the stranger replied. "Not many people really hear it."
Adrien wanted to ask his name. The thought hovered on his tongue, heavy and terrifying. If he learned it, this moment would become real. And real things had a way of slipping through his fingers.
So he stood.
"Goodnight," he said instead.
The regret hit before he even reached the door.
The melody followed him home.
It lingered through fittings and rehearsals, through Nino's jokes and Marinette's worried glances. Adrien caught himself humming it during runway practice, the sound slipping out before he could stop it.
He searched for the song online. He searched for the guitarist.
There was nothing.
No videos. No credits. No name.
Just absence.
The charity gala was unavoidable.
Adrien wore black—tailored, elegant, untouchable. Cameras loved it. Marinette adjusted his cufflinks, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"I'm fine," he replied, automatically.
The lights dimmed.
"Please welcome tonight's performer," the announcer said. "A special guest."
The first note rang out.
Adrien froze.
He knew the sound instantly. The same guitar. The same ache. Onstage stood a man wrapped in shadow and light, his face hidden by careful lighting and smoke.
Faceless.
Untouchable.
Adrien recognized him anyway.
Their eyes met across the room.
The music didn't falter—but Adrien did.
And for the first time in years, with the world watching him so closely, he wished—desperately—that it wouldn't.