He doesn't know her real name.

All he knows is what she allows people to know. He knows she calls herself Lady Wifi. He knows long legs coated in black tights and ending in well worn sneakers. He knows the loose purple tank top emblazoned with a wifi symbol that glows pink beneath the blacklights. He knows the black grease paint smeared over her dazzling hazel eyes.

It's really no different from what people know about him. He is DJ Bubbler. He wears mostly black with a vest coated in random smears and streaks of primary color. He wears blue paint across his face to hide his identity, like everyone else in Club Miraculous, the largest underground (*coughillegalcough*) dance club in Paris. Pseudonyms, costumes, alternate personas. Here, everyone can be someone else. Here, everyone can be free, free to dance to the beat Bubbler supplied.

And no one dances more beautifully than Lady Wifi.

The way her body seems made of putty, the way her joints respond and lock with mechanical precision. The way her hips sway, rhythmic, hypnotic. The way her feet glide across the floor. The way her face lights up when one of her songs come up. And her songs come up often.

He doesn't know her real name.

But he does know her music.

He...well, 'stalk' is such a strong word...follows her breakdancing blog, so he knows her favorite songs. She updates the list almost daily, and her tastes are so diverse, Bubbler can't help but be impressed. It seems she'll dance to almost anything, but she's taken a liking to J-pop lately. After weeks of adding some of her picks to his set, he knows how she reacts to each song. He knows what to play when she's in certain moods, what to play when she's dancing with her best friend, Ladybug, what to play when she's dancing alone.

What to play when she's sad or lonely.

Like tonight. Ladybug isn't here and Wifi sits at the bar, nursing a rum and cola, her drink of choice when trying to numb some kind of pain. Bubbler's heart hitches when she doesn't dance to the first song he plays for her. He bites his tongue when the second only makes her order another drink. He plays a few more, trying to coax her to the floor, but nothing.

Bubbler reaches into his vest and retrieves his phone. A few quick taps brings up her blog and he notices a new addition to the list, added earlier that evening. The phone returns to his vest and he turns to the laptop beside his tables. A few keystrokes brings him to the song he seeks. He downloads it, aware that he's more concerned with being caught in an illegal night club than being caught illegally downloading music, and sets it up next on his playlist.

The moment it starts, her head perks up. Bubbler quirks his brow. It was rare for her to favorite electronica. She pounds back the last of her drink and swings off of her stool. The entire club is shaken by the abrupt change-up in the music, but the surprise is quickly forgotten the moment Lady Wifi's sneakers hit the dance floor. Her dance is fluid, but her body jerks and pops with the percussion. Her arms twine around her like serpents, and when the tempo spikes, her legs become a blur. He doesn't know how often she's listened to this song, but she knows every beat, every tempo change, every syncopated rhythm, and it's the most captivating thing Bubbler has ever seen.

Lady Wifi raises a triumphant fist over her head once the song ends. The crowd cheers. Bubbler grins. There she is. There's his Lady.

She pushes her way through the crowd and saunters over to the DJ tables, something she's never done before. He tries to busy himself with putting on the next track, something more to the crowd's tastes, but he can't avoid her alluring gaze forever.

"Uh, c-come to make a request, W-Wifi?" he stammers, mentally slapping himself. There's a reason he lets the music talk for him.

"Sounds like I don't have to, Bubbles." She flashes him a teasing grin. "You think I don't know my own playlist?"

She caught him. He rubs a bashful hands across his bristly hair and confesses, "You just...seemed so down. I wanted to cheer you up, get you to dance."

Her face falls in shock, and, though it's hard to make out in the strobing lights, he could swear she's blushing. Then, she smiles. No swagger, no teasing, she just genuinely smiles at him. "Thanks, Bubbles." She leans against his tables and shrugs. "Boyfriend broke up with me today. Didn't really care for the Wifi side of my life, so the jackass dumped me."

"His loss."

The blush returns. She turns away from the tables for just a moment until she spots Illustrator walking past. Without him noticing, she plucks out one of the numerous pens stuck in his tomato-red bun and snatches Bubbler's hand. The DJ can't make out what she's scribbling, but when she finally releases him, he can see a set of numbers scrawled out on the back of his hand.

"Call me sometime." She strides back out to the floor, but not before shooting him a short wave over her shoulder and smirking at him. "Later, Bubbles."

Bubbler gazes out at the beautiful vision who has returned to dancing and curses whoever would dare to let someone with so much fire, heart, and soul go. A true fool, to be sure. He quickly copies the digits from his hand onto a napkin before the sweat of the night can smear them, and stuffs the treasure into his pocket with a smile.

He doesn't know her real name.

But he knows her number.