Chapter Text
Chapter 1: When the Rose Met the Thorns 🌹
“The Fire,” thought Rose. All around her, the colors of autumn were ablaze—the golden-orange of the sugar maples, the scarlet of the sassafras, the crimson jumble of the sumacs. It was as if the entire world were on fire, set aflame by the caress of the mid-October sunset.
“And me, trapped in the middle.” Her stomach tightened with each step, and she could already imagine Juleka’s softly disapproving glance. Yet she was determined to come here, to do something. Rose Lavillant was not the type to sit quietly and smile while the world went wrong; she hadn’t been raised that way.
With her heavy backpack stuffed with clothes and cakes she had baked herself, she made her way toward the St-Anne orphanage in the northern 20th arrondissement of Paris. It was far from home, far from her neighborhood and all the streets she and her friends knew. Here, the world didn’t feel pretty—Paris no longer seemed wonderful, and it tightened her chest and throat.
Oh, God! Luka, Juleka’s brother, who played guitar for the children at the Saint-Exupéry refuge in this very district, had described the area—but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Foolish, really. Yet… Rose had always liked to think the grass was greener elsewhere, that sometimes all it took was opening one’s heart and extending a hand to make the world as good as the songs promised.
But faced with the scene before her, it was hard to keep a smile on her face, let alone in her soul: the streets were not beautiful—they were filthy. Children in torn clothes played with stones while a woman in a bra, coat, and short skirt stared at passersby, smoking a cigarette. Coming as the sun sank seemed an even stupider idea than simply coming here, she realized, spotting a group of boys sitting around a radio blaring rap lyrics so crude that Rose blushed.
Rose passed by them, trying not to be noticed—but of course, she was noticed. She stood there in her clean clothes, her rose perfume lingering, her pink dress, and her blonde hair shining even brighter after a visit to Josephine, the best hairdresser in her upper-middle-class neighborhood.
She felt their eyes on her and decided to be polite: she offered a small smile and a wave before hurrying down the nearby alley. She assumed this was the right way.
Never had Rose thought she could feel ashamed for never having known hunger, but seeing a child lift his head from the trash he was rummaging through when he spotted her made her want to… scream. To hit. To… anything.
The boy ran off.
“Wait! I don’t mean any harm! Come back!” she shouted, but he never glanced her way. He was already far ahead, and Rose felt like crying.
She wished she could be like the prince from Achu, helping children all over the world. But she was only Rose Lavillant—the daughter of a seamstress and a perfumer who made fragrances for local minor celebrities like Nadja Chamack or Alec, the insufferable presenter she didn’t much care for. Still, whenever she saw him, she smiled wholeheartedly, hoping her smile could warm his heart and make him kinder to others.
It hadn’t worked—yet. But maybe one day.
“Hey, you!”
Rose froze at the deep voice. She turned slowly, carefully, fragilely… and nearly screamed when she saw them—one, two, three… five boys advancing toward her, their smiles menacing.
Rose wasn’t stupid. No matter what Chloé thought of her, just because she tried to do good, to make the world better, to be kind to everyone, didn’t mean she didn’t know what could happen to a lone girl confronted by ill-intentioned boys.
She plunged her hand into her bag, her fingers closing around the canister of pepper spray her mother had bought her. It was pink, powdery, so shiny and cute… but painfully strong.
Yet she waited a moment, stepping back as they drew closer.
“What do you want?” she asked, and for the first time, she felt truly proud that her voice didn’t tremble.
The tallest boy stepped forward and suddenly pulled a knife. Rose blushed as the others erupted in laughter at the squeak of fear that escaped her.
“Calm down, little pinky. Just give us your bag, and everything will be fine,” one of them sneered.
Rose tightened her grip on the pepper spray but tried to reason with them.
“These are donations,” she explained, a little more confidently, even as she saw them circle her. She stepped back and felt her spine hit a wall—no place left to run.
“For… for the St-Anne orphanage. I… can you tell me where it is?”
The boys smirked.
“The orphanage of the old pervert Dubois?” asked the youngest, who looked about sixteen, the same age as Rose.
It wasn’t his apparent youth that shocked her—it was what he said.
“Yeah, people keep donating stuff to that orphanage without knowing why it’s falling apart,” muttered another, dark-skinned, with tortured eyes, hands in his pockets.
Rose couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing. Father Dubois? A pervert? He was a longtime friend of her father, an honorable man active in the community… No, she refused to believe such slander.
“That’s lies!” she shouted—but immediately realized her mistake.
Their smiles vanished, and Rose felt the taste of fear cover her tongue like a shroud. Her lungs tightened, and oh Lord! She couldn’t breathe… Yet she gripped her pepper spray even harder as they closed in.
She pulled it out and sprayed from left to right. She heard them scream, but she could see nothing. She pushed past two boys and shouted, “Sorry!” as she bolted away. Her bag felt like a weight dragging her down, and she was barely out of the alley when she realized she couldn’t go on.
“Help!” she cried to the people jostling on their bikes—young like her, surely they would help her… but no. At first, they saw a girl in pink running toward them, then the group of knife- and fist-wielding boys following her. They climbed onto their bikes and abandoned her.
“Please!” Rose screamed, but they were deaf to her despair. Her throat burned, her heart pounded, and her breath faltered. She watched the sky grow darker and darker, unsure exactly where she was.
Turning right, she ended up in a completely deserted part of the neighborhood, where only cats and rats bore witness. For a brief second, she wished she had told someone where she was going—Juleka, her mother, her father… anyone.
She prayed to God that Ladybug or Cat Noir would save her in time, as they always did—but she knew it was a meaningless wish. No akuma, no Ladybug, no Cat Noir. Only the police could intervene, and her phone was in her bag. She couldn’t stop without getting caught.
Rose closed her eyes and sank against the wall that blocked the alley. She had ended up in a dead end. The world seemed to darken, and for the first time in her life, Rose Lavillant no longer saw life in pink. She saw the world as a dangerous place, where people were ready to hurt you even when you had done nothing to them.
The boys surrounded her in the grimy alley, reeking of urine and rust. Rose felt her heart hammering. She threw her bag at them.
“Take it… and leave me. My phone and money are in there, that’s all I have… and all my donations. Please… let me go.”
She was ashamed to cry, but fear held her frozen. She didn’t want to die here, not now, and certainly not like this.
The dark-skinned boy from earlier met her gaze and seemed to hesitate. He turned to their leader.
“It’s fine. Look at her crying. We got the bag, that’s all we need…”
“Shut up!” barked the tall boy, his eyes red and stinging from the pepper spray. He stared at Rose with bitter contempt, blinking over and over to relieve the pain. He raised his knife to point it at her, and Rose jumped, even though they were a meter away.
“For my eyes, bitch… you’re gonna pay!”
Rose closed her eyes, lowering her head, trembling.
Suddenly, a police siren blared, and the boys froze. Rose didn’t hesitate for a second. She pressed herself against the wall behind her and shouted, “Over here! Help!”
The boys fled, forgetting even the bag. Rose watched their stiff backs disappear, scattering in different directions, as if they were nothing more than weekly partners in crime, and not really friends.
The siren stopped, and a cardboard sheet covering the window of the building to her right shifted. She saw a face—a girl with short black hair, oversized glasses, and prominent teeth—throwing her a piercing look.
The girl nodded at her and pulled out a service ladder. Rose hesitated, but the girl showed her phone, pressed a button, and the police siren blared again.
Rose felt the world grow warmer, more welcoming. There were still people willing to help others. She grabbed her bag and climbed the ladder.
Rose didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. She stepped into a real house. The girl pulled the ladder inside and replaced the cardboard to block the view.
The room was immense, but sparsely furnished. A large mattress lay on the floor, covered in sheets and cushions that all looked handmade. Cardboard boxes stacked in one corner overflowed with clothes, and candles sat on a low wooden table—one leg made of plastic, a clear sign it was a patched-up second-hand find. The air smelled of lavender and jasmine. Electricity hummed weakly from a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, so faint that the candles seemed brighter.
A large, worn sofa and a shoe rack filled with books in every language completed the furnishings of this black-walled room. Glowing green stars dotted the white ceiling, stained with black marks as if a fire had once ravaged the place.
Rose turned to the girl to thank her—and froze. She was removing her teeth, glasses, and wig. The girl was transformed. Rose blushed under the vivid blue gaze of her savior. She no longer looked ordinary; her shiny red hair and proud posture made her strikingly beautiful.
“Wh-why the disguise?” Rose couldn’t help but ask.
The girl raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, sorry… I mean, you don’t have to tell me, I mean… thank you.”
The girl smiled faintly, though her gaze was dim.
“No need to thank me. And as for the disguise…” She glanced at the glasses, wig, and fake teeth, grimacing. “It’s mainly to avoid attracting attention. As you saw, this is a dangerous neighborhood—especially for women. Being pretty is sometimes a curse.”
Rose nodded, shivering. Oh, yes—she had seen it, she had even lived it. She bit her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by what could have happened. A sob tore through her chest, and she looked up at her savior.
“I-I’m Rose. And you?”
The girl looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“Sofya. Sofya Sinclair. Nice to meet you.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Listen, Rose… not to be mean, but you should call someone to come get you. I’ll be leaving soon to go to work, so I can take you out of the neighborhood now, but after that… you’ll have to manage on your own.”
Rose nodded frantically. “Y-yes, no—no idea of bothering you. Thank you… really.”
The girl softened slightly. “It’s nothing. And… sorry if I seem abrupt, but giving people comfort isn’t really my thing. I saved you; it’s your family’s job to console you.” She said it flatly, shrugging as if it were nothing, and Rose looked around her.
The girl seemed like a teenager.
“And you?” Rose asked. “You… don’t have a family?”
Sofya sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. “No,” she replied, her voice cold and yet soft, natural to her.
“Oh.” Rose blushed, feeling foolish for assuming… and yet, once again, the evidence was right in front of her.
Sofya pulled a red hoodie from one of the cartons and slipped it on before turning back to Rose.
“It’s going to get late soon, and that’s when the gangs start their raids,” she said, motioning for her to follow her down the narrow service stairs inside the building.
Rose swallowed hard at the thought.
“If it’s so dangerous at night… why do you even work at this hour?”
Sofya shrugged and answered, her voice calm and detached.
“Because a minor without a guardian has no choice but to work off the books.”
Rose shut her mouth and clutched her bag tighter. She dug her hand into her pocket and switched on her phone.
“I’ll call my mom,” she whispered.
“Hm,” was all Sofya replied, not bothering to look back.
The staircase creaked beneath their feet as they descended. The walls were cracked and stained with moisture, graffiti overlapping older graffiti, some of it already half-erased by time. Faint smells of rust, mold, and stale smoke clung to the air. Somewhere in the dark corners, Rose thought she saw the glint of red eyes—rats, watching them scurry past.
She couldn’t understand who this girl really was, or how her life had turned out this way, but one thing was certain: Rose wanted to thank her properly.
And as the two of them walked side by side into the shadows, neither could have guessed that this encounter would one day change the fate of all Paris.