Butterflies.

Delicate, gentle creatures he often finds fluttering around in his family's garden.

He remembers being carried in his mother's arms, his arms outstretched, trying to catch a butterfly with his tiny hands. It was a butterfly of pure white, an object of fascination in his curious eyes. When it escaped his hands and landed on his nose instead, he heard his mother giggle away by his ear and his father chuckle beside them.

He remembers going all cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the tiny creature before attempting to catch it again but the little mischievous thing escaped between his fingers and he ended up hitting himself in the face.

He cried soon after.

"Little Adrien sure loves butterflies."

"He sure does!" His mother laughed, thumbing the tears away from his cheeks. As his cries dissolved into quiet sniffles, she tenderly pecked him on his slightly bruised nose.

"Mommy, Daddy," He pouted and pointed at the direction where the butterfly went. "They hate me, that's why they keep running away from me!"

His parents exchanged a thoughtful look with each other before they broke into smiles. His father rested a large, comforting hand on his head, smoothing his hair and patting it affectionately.

"No, Adrien. It's simply not your time yet."

"You see, sweetie, butterflies symbolize life." His mother added in with a small smile on her face.

"The butterflies?"

"Yes. When someone dies, they come to take their soul away."

Butterflies.

A beautiful, harmless critter.

And yet, he was terrified of it.

When his mother disappears from the house one day, there was not a single butterfly in sight in the garden.

Not one.

His father was not the same ever since.

He fears for those who got akumatized.

The ebony wings of corrupted butterflies are full of malevolence.

They were given powers that weren't supposed to exist.

Surely, if there is a butterfly kwami, it is not meant to cause calamity nor chaos.

He tastes iron in his mouth.

Cuts and scratches decorate his skin.

His head hurts.

His throat burns.

His lady has her arms wrapped tightly around him, his head on her chest, her entire form trembling.

She is crying.

He is too.

He cradles his father's head on his lap, his hands furiously brushing away the ivory butterflies that can't seem to keep away from his father's wisteria shirt and torn ebony vest.

Butterflies.

They enchant.

They captivate.

When will they call for him?