Months passed, the days blurring together in a haze of monotony. Adrien went through the motions of his life on autopilot, drifting aimlessly from one moment to the next. It was as if the world around him had become a muted, colorless place—voices dulled, sounds softened, everything fading into a distant hum that barely registered in his mind. He felt like a ghost, drifting through a life that wasn't his own.

Nothing seemed to have changed, not really. He still woke up every day, still ate when he was told, still went to therapy sessions where he sat silently, staring at the clock as the minutes ticked by. The doctors and nurses spoke to him in gentle tones, asking questions, trying to coax some response out of him, but Adrien rarely bothered to answer. He didn't see the point. There was nothing left to say.

He heard rumors—whispers from the staff, snippets of conversations caught in passing—about Shadowmoth's attacks becoming infrequent, erratic. But he didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His only desire now was to be left alone, to curl up in his small, sterile room and let the world pass him by.

Social interactions felt pointless, exhausting. He kept to himself, isolating from everyone around him, preferring the solitude of his own thoughts. He found himself staring at the walls for hours on end, watching shadows shift and change as the sun moved across the sky. Time seemed to lose all meaning. Sometimes he would close his eyes and daydream about the past, about better days—except even those memories felt distant, warped, like they weren't real.

Maybe they weren't. Maybe he'd made them up, fabricated a past where he was happy, where he was loved and cared for. He couldn't tell the difference anymore and he didn't really care to. He let the fake memories blend with the real ones, twisting into something unrecognizable. A life that never existed. A happiness he never had.

The only comfort he found now was in the quiet voices that echoed in his mind—soft whispers that filled the silence when he was alone. Sometimes they sounded like his mother's gentle lullaby, or the soothing tone of Plagg's voice from when the kwami had still been with him. He knew they weren't real, knew he was talking to phantoms, but it didn't matter. They were better company than anyone else.

In an effort to get him to engage, the doctors had given Adrien a sketchbook and a set of pencils. He'd ignored it at first, but one day on a whim he picked up a pencil and began to draw. His hand moved almost of its own accord, lines and shapes forming on the page. There was something soothing about the act of creation, about seeing something tangible appear where there had once been nothing.

He drew for hours, losing himself in the intricate patterns and details. Sometimes he sketched familiar things—his old room, the Eiffel Tower, Ladybug's face—but more often, his drawings were abstract, a chaotic swirl of emotions and shapes that made sense only to him.

The doctors seemed pleased. They encouraged him, praised his work, urged him to continue. Even his therapists tried to use his drawings as a way to get him to open up, but Adrien remained silent, letting the art speak for him. He filled sketchbook after sketchbook, the pages a testament to the turmoil inside him.

And as the drawings piled up, the world outside moved on without him. Shadowmoth's attacks, though rare, still left scars on the city. Ladybug continued to fight, continued to protect Paris, but there was an unspoken absence—something missing, a void that no one dared to acknowledge.

But Adrien didn't know any of this. He didn't know and he didn't care. He stayed in his small, quiet world, drawing away as the chaos outside swirled on without him, oblivious to the pain and fear and destruction that had once been his reality.

He was numb to it all. Numb to the passing days, the changing seasons, the desperate pleas of the people who tried to reach him. He had his drawings, and he had his solitude, and that was enough. The world could burn and he wouldn't notice. Not anymore.

...

Adrien's sixteenth birthday came and went without much notice from him. He spent it like any other day: lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, drifting in and out of a dreamlike state where time felt irrelevant. He knew it was his birthday only because the nurse on duty had awkwardly mentioned it in passing, her voice filled with forced cheer.

"Happy birthday, Adrien. Sixteen, huh? You're getting so grown up."

Grown up. The words rang hollow in his ears. What did it matter? It was just another year, another reminder that he was still alive when he shouldn't be. A part of him wondered if things would have been different if he'd succeeded that day—if he would have found some semblance of peace. The thought lingered like a dark cloud in the back of his mind, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he offered a small, vacant smile and nodded, his response as perfunctory as it was detached.

The doctors, in their relentless attempts to 'connect' with him, allowed Nathalie and his father to visit that day. The two entered his room cautiously, their faces tight with poorly masked anxiety. They exchanged glances before Gabriel cleared his throat and tried to break the silence.

"Adrien... Happy birthday, son."

Adrien blinked slowly, his eyes devoid of recognition. He didn't speak—he hadn't spoken in months. Instead, he reached for the whiteboard on his bedside table, scrawling a single word with a dry-erase marker: Thanks.

Nathalie and Gabriel exchanged looks again, but neither pushed him. They settled into chairs on either side of his bed, trying to engage him in small talk. The words flowed around Adrien like a river, never really registering. He responded only with short phrases or one-word answers, scribbled hastily on the whiteboard before turning back to stare at the floor.

"Did you... want to do anything special for your birthday?" Nathalie asked softly.

No.

"Would you like me to bring your favorite dessert later?"

I don't care.

Gabriel attempted to steer the conversation toward safer topics, commenting on the weather, on the flowers Nathalie had brought, on the latest updates from his classmates. Adrien nodded or shrugged when appropriate, occasionally adding a thumbs-up to give the appearance of interest. The doctors, watching from the observation room, considered it a huge success.

But Adrien didn't feel successful. He didn't feel anything. He was just performing, playing the role they all wanted to see so they'd finally leave him alone.

...

A few days later, the doctors concluded that Adrien was no longer a risk to himself. His release from the ward came with an array of rules and conditions—appointments with outpatient therapists, regular check-ins, and constant monitoring by Nathalie and Gabriel. He accepted it all without protest, moving through the discharge process like a sleepwalker. He felt no relief, no joy, no sense of freedom. He just wanted to be home, away from the sterile walls and pitying looks.

Once back at the Agreste mansion, Gabriel took time off work to stay by his son's side determined to make up for all the lost years. For the first time in what felt like forever, the two of them sat down together for dinner. Gabriel watched his son carefully as they ate in the expansive dining room, the silence between them oppressive.

Adrien, dressed in an oversized gray sweater and loose jogging pants, poked at his food with little interest. His gaze was distant, his mind elsewhere. Every few minutes, he glanced down at the sketchpad he'd brought to the table, his pencil tracing lazy circles and lines across the page.

"Adrien, are you going to eat?" Gabriel's voice was soft, almost pleading.

Adrien didn't look up. He shrugged, then wrote in his sketchbook: Not hungry.

"Just a few bites?" Gabriel urged. "You've barely eaten anything since you got back."

Another shrug.

I'm fine.

His pencil continued to move across the paper, sketching the outline of a withered tree, its branches twisted and bare.

Gabriel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm... I'm glad you're home, son. I really am. I know I haven't been the best father, but I—"

Adrien's pencil stilled. He looked up, meeting Gabriel's gaze for the first time that evening, then nodded once before returning to his drawing. Gabriel swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion. He wanted to say more, to bridge the chasm between them, but the words wouldn't come. So he settled for a strained smile and watched his son draw, the only sound in the room the faint scratch of pencil on paper.

...

Lila Rossi arrived at the mansion unannounced a few days later, her presence as sharp and unwelcome as a blade through soft skin. She entered Gabriel's office with a practiced grace, her smile bright and polished. As she stepped inside, her gaze drifted to the corner of the room where Adrien sat, huddled in his oversized sweater, his sketchpad resting on his knees.

"Hi, Adrien!" she called cheerfully, waving.

Adrien didn't react. His pencil moved across the page in smooth, even strokes, his attention focused entirely on his art. Lila's smile faltered for a fraction of a second as she took in the empty look in his eyes—the same look she'd seen countless times before in the mirror, a hollow vacancy that seemed to swallow everything around it.

Pushing the thought aside, Lila turned her attention to Gabriel.

"I just wanted to talk about my modeling contract," Lila said, her voice taking on a more serious tone.

Gabriel nodded and gestured for her to sit. They discussed the details of her contract, but there was an unspoken tension beneath the conversation. When Lila finally broached the subject, Gabriel reached into his desk drawer and pulled out two small objects: the Peacock and Butterfly Miraculouses.

A thin smile spread across Lila's face as she took them from him, the weight of the jewelry settling into her palm. She glanced back at Adrien, who remained oblivious to their exchange, his pencil still moving steadily across the page. Without a word, she slipped the Miraculouses into her pocket and stood, nodding her thanks to Gabriel before leaving the office.

Later that day a new villain appeared on the streets of Paris, her presence sending waves of fear and panic through the city. The citizens cowered in their homes, whispering prayers and hopes that Ladybug could handle this new threat—a villain whose cruelty and precision made Shadowmoth's past attacks seem like child's play.

Inside the mansion, Gabriel Agreste stared at a family portrait, the image of his wife smiling serenely beside him, young Adrien beaming with unrestrained joy. But his son's face in the photograph felt like a lie now, a cruel reminder of everything he'd lost. There was no point in trying to bring Emilie back, no point in chasing that impossible dream when it meant putting Adrien through more pain, more suffering.

He couldn't lose Adrien. Not again.

With a heavy sigh, Gabriel closed his eyes, his resolve hardening. If it meant protecting his son—if it meant ensuring that Adrien would never be pushed to the brink again—he would abandon everything, even the hope of reuniting with his wife.