Screams echoed across the alley.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they wouldn't arrive in time.
"N-No, no—please!"
"HELP!"
They begged.
But Ladybug didn't stop.
Bodies fell. Not heroic. Not clean. Messy. Brutal. Unforgiving.
One by one, the so-called "trash" of the city the thugs, the abusers, the ones who hid behind shadows were cut down by something they never saw coming.
Tiny black dots living, writhing insects crawled out from beneath her sleeves, swarming with a will that wasn't their own.
No they were hers.
And her voice?
A whisper, almost too soft to hear yet colder than steel.
"Trash."
She stood in the rain. Thin arms. Tattered hoodie. Her face bruised, half-covered by a cracked red mask shaped like a beetle shell. Her boots were worn down to the threads, soaked in streetwater and blood.
But her eyes?
Empty.
Alive.
Dangerous.
Ladybug.
