Rows of familiar faces were turned toward the glow. Alya Césaire in the front row was already leaning forward, her phone forgotten in her lap, her mouth slightly agape. Nino Lahiffe beside her had his cap pulled low, but the red tips of his ears were visible in the projector's light.

And there, a few seats over, was Adrien Agreste. He sat perfectly still, one elbow propped on the desk, his chin resting in his hand. His expression was one of mild, polite curiosity, the kind he wore for most school functions. But his green eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the screen.

The film began. An office, all sterile whites and grays. The camera panned over cluttered desks before settling on one.

There, slouched in a swivel chair, was Veronica. Or rather, Marinette. But it wasn't her. The hair was up in a severe, messy knot. Thick-framed glasses sat low on her nose. A blue tie was loosened at the collar of a rumpled shirt. Her fingers, adorned with several silver rings, tapped a slow, impatient rhythm on the desk.

A soft, almost inaudible gasp rippled through the room. The girl they knew for her stammers, her kindness, her pink everything, was gone. In her place was someone… captivating.