(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
POV Sarah Fortune
The elevator made its usual hollow ding as it reached the penthouse floor. Cool, sterile air hit me the second the doors opened, like the building was trying to wash the city off me. I stepped out slowly, still tasting the cotton candy sweetness of the night market on the back of my tongue.
The halls of the base were too quiet.
Ezreal was the first one I saw.
He was perched on the edge of the couch in the common area, jittery as always. He looked up when he heard the door and gave a short nod, as if we were strangers in an elevator instead of teammates for the last few years.
Soraka sat on the window ledge, arms crossed, eyes on the stars. Her expression was calm—but not relaxed. The kind of calm that came before a storm, not after.
And Ahri...
Ahri was pacing near the coffee table, her arms folded tightly against her chest. She looked like someone had replaced her patience with caffeine and static.
"Okay," I said, slipping my coat off and hanging it by the door, "judging by the mood in here, I'm either late to the funeral or early to the interrogation. What'd I miss?"
Ahri stopped pacing and turned toward me.
Yeah. That expression said it all—eyebrows furrowed, mouth a line so sharp it could cut through ego. She looked done.
"She made it sound urgent," Ahri muttered.
"What?" I asked.
Ezreal looked up from his shoes. "Lux."
Ahri exhaled sharply, like even saying the name irritated her.
"She said something about needing to regroup. Urgently. She sent the same thing to Lulu, Janna, and Poppy."
"She pinged all of us at once," Soraka added, eyes still on the sky.
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
Ahri picked up her phone from the table and held it up like it was a crime scene exhibit. "A message. Just one line: 'It's time. We need to talk. Everyone needs to be here tonight.'"
I let the silence hang for a second. Then I groaned.
"Please tell me she didn't drag all of us out here for—"
"A sleepover," Ahri deadpanned. "She dragged us out here for a sleepover."
My hand met my forehead before I could stop it. "You're kidding."
"I wish," Soraka said calmly, finally turning away from the window. "She called it a 'cosmic bonding session.'"
Ezreal looked personally betrayed. "I canceled a raid for this."
Ahri rolled her eyes. "I left two half-finished reports on Corruption Spikes. I thought someone was hurt."
"And instead," I muttered, "she wants pillow talk and facemasks."
"To bond," Ahri added. "She emphasized that word like it was life or death."
I leaned back against the wall and let out a dry laugh. "Classic Lux. I mean—sure, she's been more serious lately, but every now and then... boom. Full glitterbrain."
"She's always been like that," Ezreal mumbled. "Too much sparkle, not enough sense."
"Still," Soraka said, arms now resting loosely by her side, "her heart's usually in the right place."
"Sure," I muttered, "but her communication style's been stuck in middle school."
That's when the door slid open again—and Syndra walked in.
No greeting. No glance.
Just the soft click of her heels as she crossed the room with her usual disinterest, eyes half-lidded like the world bored her.
Ahri gave her a quick summary. "Lux wants a sleepover."
Syndra paused mid-step. Her face twisted in silent judgment.
"I don't do sleepovers."
"Shocker," I muttered under my breath.
She ignored me and sat in the corner like a particularly glamorous statue. "Call me if reality starts collapsing. Otherwise, count me out."
Ezreal looked over. "Come on, Syndra. Might be fun."
She tilted her head slowly, like he was a bug she had to identify. "You and I have very different definitions of 'fun.'"
I snorted.
Ahri sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I didn't come all the way here to argue. We're already here. Let's just vote. Who's staying for Lux's... cosmic bonding?"
Soraka raised her hand, gently. Ezreal hesitated, then followed.
I shrugged. "If I say no, she'll find a way to guilt-trip me anyway. I'm in."
Ahri looked like she'd rather drown in her own tails, but after a second, she nodded. "Fine."
All eyes turned to Syndra. She didn't move.
"Hard pass," she said coolly. "But I will observe. From a distance."
Ahri groaned. "You're impossible."
"And yet, here I am."
The tension in the room faded slightly. Not gone—but softened. Until Ahri picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over her message app.
"I need to contact someone," she said. "Don't wait up."
That drew everyone's attention.
Ezreal blinked. "Who?"
"Just... something I need to follow up on."
Soraka raised an eyebrow. "Ahri—"
"It's nothing," she cut in quickly. "I'll explain later."
And just like that, her guard was back up. Tight. Controlled.
Too tight.
I watched her walk toward the hallway like she hadn't just thrown a mystery at our feet.
Of course she was hiding something. That was Ahri's whole thing.
I didn't push it.
Not yet.
But the air in the room had shifted again.
Something was coming.
And Lux's glitter-infused sleepover might just be the last normal thing we had for a while.
The living room hadn't fully settled since Ahri walked off.
Syndra had returned to her usual perch in the corner, arms folded, gaze somewhere far past the walls. Soraka resumed her window post, quietly watching Valoran City's nightscape below like it might whisper her a warning. Ezreal fidgeted on the couch, tapping his foot on the carpet, over and over and over. He wasn't subtle.
I walked back over to the counter, popped the lid off a can of soda, and leaned one hip against the marble edge.
"Well," I said, stretching the word, "I wonder if Lux's star attraction will be there."
Ezreal's tapping stopped.
Soraka's head turned, ever so slightly.
Syndra's eyes shifted—just barely.
I sipped. Let the silence fall like a pin through glass.
"Peter," I added, casual. "I mean... let's be real. If she's planning this whole glittery bonding party, there's no universe where he's not being dragged into it."
The room tensed.
Ezreal was the first to speak. Sort of.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Yeah... yeah, he probably will. I mean, if Lux is planning it." He didn't look at me. "She doesn't really take no for an answer these days. Especially not with him."
Soraka finally turned from the window, her expression neutral but her posture tighter than before. Her arms folded, one hand gripping the other.
Ahri had just stepped into the hallway, likely texting whoever she didn't want us knowing about, but I could see the way her ears twitched at the name.
Everyone heard it.
Everyone felt it.
Peter.
The black hole in the room. Pulling thoughts and fears into himself without ever even being present.
Ezreal gave a short laugh—nervous, brittle. "You think he'll actually show up? Like, hang out? Do small talk and s'mores?"
"Why wouldn't he?" I asked.
Ezreal hesitated. Then mumbled, "Because he barely talks to anyone."
I blinked. "What?"
He looked up at me now, eyes uncertain but honest. "He was cool during the camping trip. That one week, remember? He joked around. Trained with us. Gave me tips on aerial dashes. But after that? It's like I stopped existing. Now he just nods at me like I'm some NPC he passes in a hallway."
"You're not the only one," Soraka added quietly.
I raised an eyebrow. "You too?"
She nodded once, measured. "He's... distant. Present, but unreadable. The aura around him is always shifting. Like he's both here and somewhere else entirely."
I frowned, glancing between the two of them.
"He was fine today," I said. "Better than fine, actually."
Ezreal stared. "Wait—you saw him today?"
"Yeah." I took another sip. "Ran into him. We talked. Then hung out for a while."
The way Soraka's expression froze said everything. Her gentle demeanor sharpened into something almost maternal—cautious, protective.
"You were alone with him?" she asked.
I met her eyes. "Yeah. All day, pretty much."
Ezreal looked stunned. "Alone–like, alone-alone?"
"Would you rather I had an escort?"
"That's not what he means," Soraka said softly. "Peter isn't... ordinary, Sarah."
"I never said he was."
Ezreal leaned forward now, arms resting on his knees. "What was he like?"
I shrugged. "Quiet. Clever. Sharp. Kind of funny, in a dry, sarcastic way."
"No," Ezreal said, shaking his head. "That's not—He wasn't like that around us. Around me. I tried, I really did, but he just... I don't know. He feels cold. Like there's a wall you can't see."
Soraka looked pensive. "It's more than that. His aura—his presence—it moves around people. It adapts. Subtly, like it's tuned to what they want to feel."
My grip on the can tightened.
Syndra's voice came then, smooth as obsidian. "Or what they're afraid to feel."
We all turned.
She didn't look up. Just kept her eyes half-lidded, studying the floor like it held secrets.
"I felt it the first time I met him," she said. "There's something underneath that smile. Something old. And tired. And... wrong."
Ezreal shivered.
Soraka remained quiet.
I crossed my arms. "You all talk about him like he's some monster."
"Don't twist this, Sarah," Soraka said gently. "We're just—concerned."
"Concerned," I echoed, "or paranoid?"
Ahri stepped back into the room just then, phone in hand. "I heard my name?"
"Nope," I said. "Just talking about the team's favorite punching bag."
Her ears twitched again. "Peter."
"Bingo."
Ahri's expression shifted—softly, but it shifted. That quiet conflicted look she always wore when he came up. Like she was trying to measure the weight of her own instincts.
"You think he'll come to the sleepover?" I asked.
"No need to think," Ahri said. "If Lux planned it, he's already marked down as VIP."
"Of course he is," Ezreal mumbled.
I scoffed. "So everyone hates him but still invites him? Real healthy dynamic we've got here."
Soraka's voice was barely above a whisper. "We don't hate him."
"You act like you do."
Ahri sighed. "It's not that simple, Sarah."
"Isn't it?" I asked, standing up straight now. "Because to me it looks very simple. He's quiet, sure. A little broken, yeah. But dangerous? Manipulative? Some kind of ticking time bomb? No."
They didn't answer.
I could feel the judgment pressing in again. Not outright. Not cruel. But thick in the air, like a rumor nobody wanted to admit they believed in.
I stepped toward the center of the room.
"None of you saw what I saw today," I said, voice steady. "You didn't hear what he said. You didn't feel what I felt. That man's been through hell and crawled out with half his soul missing, and somehow he still had it in him to make me laugh."
They stared.
"And maybe that scares you," I added. "Maybe someone that broken shouldn't still function. But he does. And you know what? He's the first person in years to make me feel like someone actually listened."
Silence. Heavy. Dense.
Syndra, still unmoving, said nothing. But she was watching me now. With full attention.
Soraka looked down, uncertain.
Ezreal just stared like I'd said something in another language.
And Ahri...
She said nothing at all.
I shook my head.
"I'm going to bed," I muttered. "If Peter shows up tomorrow, try not to treat him like a stray animal."
No one stopped me as I walked out.
But I knew they were thinking.
That sensation he gives?
It didn't always come in waves.
Sometimes it walked in quietly.
And sometimes...
It wore black and white, spoke plainly, and left the room with the last word.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
My footsteps echoed against the tile, softer than my heartbeat, louder than the silence I left behind.
I wasn't going to say anything.
I wasn't.
But then I stopped. Right before my door. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.
I turned.
Walked right back into the living room like a storm changing course.
They were still there—Ahri near the hallway, Soraka by the window, Ezreal halfway sunk into the couch, and Syndra still perched in her little corner like a raven on a throne. No one had spoken since I left.
Good.
Now they were going to listen.
"Do you even hear yourselves?" I said.
Ezreal looked up, startled.
Soraka turned, brows knitting.
Ahri didn't flinch, but her tails stilled.
"You talk about Peter like he's this... this invader. This problem. Like he walked in and started corrupting your precious routine."
No one spoke.
"I spent one day with him," I continued. "One. That's all it took for me to realize he's not what you think. Not even close."
Ahri opened her mouth, but I cut her off.
"You didn't see him today. I did. I saw the way he waited for me to speak. The way he didn't interrupt, didn't correct, didn't judge. He listened. You know how rare that is?"
Still no answer. Just glances.
I kept going.
"We sat at that old Starbucks near Promenade Square. I was spiraling—about Xayah, Rakan, everything. I told him things I haven't told anyone in years, and you know what he did? He sat there. Quiet. Steady. Grounded. Not once did he make it about himself. Not once did he shift the spotlight. He just let me breathe."
Ezreal scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "But that doesn't mean—"
"Let me finish," I snapped.
He shut up.
"After that, we wandered the city. We got noodles from that stall with the broken neon sign. I made a mess and he didn't mock me. We hit the arcade and he let me destroy him at Dance Revolution without sulking. We even gave a plushie to some random kid at the market because it was the right thing to do."
My voice cracked there. Just a bit. I swallowed it down.
"He wasn't just nice," I said. "He made me feel human. And I haven't felt that in years."
Soraka's gaze softened, but I didn't want softness. I wanted acknowledgment.
"You all act like he's some looming threat just because he doesn't play by your rules. You think because he's quiet or cold or hard to read that he's dangerous. But maybe—just maybe—he's like that because the last time he opened up, someone shattered him."
Ahri finally spoke. Her voice was calm, but low. "He's unpredictable."
"So is pain," I shot back. "But we don't exile people for grieving."
"We didn't exile him," Soraka said gently.
"No," I said. "You just isolated him. Whispered about him. Warned people. Spread fear without asking why he is the way he is."
Ezreal spoke again, voice hesitant. "It's not that we hate him..."
"You're afraid of him," I said. "That's worse."
Syndra stirred. "Fear isn't weakness. Sometimes it's instinct."
"Then yours is broken," I snapped. "Because I've stared fear in the face, Syndra. Real fear. The kind that laughs as it tears your team apart. Peter isn't fear. He's just a man trying to exist."
No one replied.
So I kept going. Let the words spill because if I stopped now, they'd turn to ash in my throat.
"He gave me advice today. Not surface-level platitudes. Real things. About guilt. About survival. About how pain changes you and you can't go back to who you were before it. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear it until it came from him."
Ahri watched me carefully now. Something unreadable flickered behind her eyes.
"He's been through hell. And he still reached out anyway. He didn't have to. He didn't expect anything in return. And you know what that tells me?"
I stepped into the center of the room now.
"It tells me he's more decent than most people I've known."
Ezreal lowered his head, eyes unfocused.
Soraka's hands were folded tightly now, like she was praying without realizing it.
Syndra didn't speak. But she was watching me with surgical interest—like every word I said was a puzzle piece to whatever shadow lived in Peter's soul.
"Look," I said, quieter now. "I'm not asking you to worship the guy. I'm not asking you to love him. But I am asking you to stop assuming he's the villain just because he doesn't smile the way you want him to."
Another beat of silence.
Then—finally—Ahri exhaled.
"I'm... not sure what to say."
"Good," I muttered. "That's a start."
And before they could say anything else—before the weight of my outburst turned into more excuses or deflections—I turned and walked back toward the hallway.
No one followed.
No one called out.
But I could feel it.
The shift.
This... feeling in my very being.
It started forming as I spent the day with him.
Ah~.
The seed of doubt in their hearts...
All I did was water them.
POV Soraka
The room didn't breathe for a long time after Sarah left.
She hadn't slammed the door. Hadn't shouted on her way out. She didn't need to. Her words still lingered in the walls, like smoke after fire.
I sat quietly on the edge of the armrest, fingers curled around the fabric of my robe, listening to the silence. The tension didn't fade—it just changed shape. No longer sharp. Just... heavy. Like a question no one wanted to ask.
Ezreal leaned forward on the couch, elbows resting on his knees. He kept looking at the floor like it owed him answers.
"She's wrong," he muttered.
No one responded.
"She doesn't know what he's like the way we do."
Still no answer.
"I've tried with him," he said, louder. "Back at camp. I was friendly. I offered help. He smiled like he meant it, then just... stopped. It's like I was a phase he outgrew."
I glanced at him. "You think he's pretending?"
"I think he's performing. Like, always. And I don't know which version of him is real. Maybe none of them."
Syndra exhaled through her nose, elegant and unimpressed. "Maybe the problem isn't the masks he wears. Maybe it's that you expected him to wear one you could recognize."
Ezreal turned to her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She didn't answer. Her arms were still crossed, and her gaze remained fixed on the center of the room like Sarah was still standing there, defiant and fierce.
Ahri stood by the hallway again, one hand resting lightly on the frame. She hadn't said a word since Sarah walked out. Her expression was unreadable—furrowed brows, parted lips, but her tail movements were slow. Fluid. Contained.
I could feel something in her. A tug between instinct and strategy. It wasn't the first time I'd seen her like this.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," I said softly.
That got their attention.
"I'm not defending him," I continued. "I still feel... unease. Whenever he's around. Like the air bends in strange ways. Like something ancient is standing in the corner of the room and none of us are allowed to notice."
Syndra smirked slightly. "Now that's closer to the truth."
"But," I added, "he's never lied. Not to me. Not that I've noticed. He never tells us the full story, no—but that's not the same as manipulation. And Sarah's not stupid. She's guarded. She's proud. But she's not easily played."
Ezreal huffed. "That's exactly why I'm worried. If even she fell for it—"
"She didn't fall," I cut in. "She trusted. There's a difference."
He went quiet.
Ahri finally spoke, and her voice—though calm—carried weight.
"He's not like the others," she said. "I remember the way the voidlings changed when he was around. How they hesitated to engage. How even the Darks that chased us turned their focus when he arrived. Especially how he fought that Herald..."
Ezreal's voice cracked. "That's what scares me."
"No," Ahri said. "That's what intrigues me."
Syndra's lips curled just slightly.
I watched them all. I could feel something in the room—an undercurrent. A shift in temperature that had nothing to do with the weather. A presence without shape or sound. It hadn't come from Sarah's voice.
It had started before that.
It had started when she said his name.
And I realized—quietly, privately—that I hadn't stopped thinking about him since.
Not in fear.
Not in fondness.
Just in fragments. Puzzles.
"What are we going to do?" I asked softly.
Ezreal looked up. "Avoid him? Vote him out of the galaxy? I don't know."
"No," Ahri said, and we all turned to her.
She looked tired now. Not physically, but internally—the kind of tired that came from carrying too many unanswered questions for too long.
"We'll go," she said. "To Lux's gathering."
Ezreal's eyes widened. "What? Why?!"
"Because," she said, calmly, "whether we like it or not... he's part of the equation now."
"You don't trust him," Ezreal snapped.
"No," Ahri agreed. "But I trust patterns. And every time Peter's been involved in something important, it's gone... differently."
Syndra chuckled under her breath. "That's one way to put it."
Ahri didn't react.
"I want to know what he's planning," she said. "If anything. I want to look him in the eyes and ask myself if I believe what I see. Because if Sarah's right—if we've all misjudged him—then that says more about us than it does about him."
There was a silence. A beat.
Then—
"I'll go," I said quietly.
Ezreal looked at me like I'd just betrayed him.
"You too?"
"I need to see," I replied. "I need to feel it for myself."
Syndra stood, smoothing the edge of her robe. "I'm attending."
Ezreal's jaw dropped. "You said it was ridiculous!"
"It is," she said calmly. "But watching people unravel is rarely boring."
That left Ezreal alone.
He looked between all of us. "This is a mistake. You're all being pulled in."
No one corrected him.
He stood, backing toward the hallway, frustration painted across his face.
"When he shows his real self—don't say I didn't warn you."
Then he left.
The room fell quiet again.
Not broken.
Just waiting.
And though none of us said it... we knew.
Tomorrow would be different.
Not because Lux planned a sleepover.
But because he'd be there.
And none of us—not even the brightest stars in the sky—could stop our orbits from shifting.
POV Ahri
The others had gone to their rooms. Even Syndra.
The door to the common area hissed shut behind them, leaving the apartment finally—blessedly—quiet. I stood by the window for a long while, arms crossed, watching the clouds drift past the skyline like slow-moving spirits.
Valoran City always looked so peaceful from above. Clean. Alive. But I'd lived too long and lost too many to ever trust the view.
Neeko used to say the stars were watching us. That they blinked in Morse code if you stared long enough.
I used to laugh at that.
Now I wondered if she was right.
I hadn't slept much in the last two weeks. Too many dreams. Too many warning signs. First, the flare of corrupted energy in the southern sectors. Then whispers—reports of a fleeing Star Guardian. Glimpses of a familiar silhouette vanishing into the wild zones.
And the feeling—gut-deep, unshakable—that she was still alive.
Neeko.
I closed my eyes, let her name roll through me like a ripple in still water.
She was out there. I knew it. I felt it in the pull of the stars.
And if I was right, she was alone.
Running.
Being hunted.
By them.
I took a slow breath and turned from the window, letting my heels click softly across the polished floor as I walked to the secure terminal in my room.
I didn't turn on the light. The glow of the screen was enough.
I stood there a moment, fingers hovering over the keys.
Then I sat.
Sarah's voice echoed in my mind—sharp, impassioned, raw.
He made me feel human.
It had stunned me. Not because she said it, but because I believed her.
I didn't want to. I'd spent the last three years trying not to believe in Peter Parker. In the way he always seemed to show up right before things shifted. The way he stood in the background, still as death, while others argued, planned, fought.
And yet, somehow, he always walked away untouched.
Unquestioned.
Essential.
I'd seen him fight.
Once.
A Godly entity had descended through the clouds like a second sun, and we couldn't even move. If it wasn't for Peter, we would've been dead. He single handedly dealt with the enemy, we where just extras in his grand performance.
And then Peter stepped forward.
Not rushed. Not panicked.
Just walked.
I remember the way the corruption bent around him. Like it couldn't reach. Like it knew.
He didn't fight with light or magic.
He used nothing.
Just his hands. His precision. His understanding. His powers.
And in just minutes, the Herald was gone.
Whatever that thing was—it looked horrified.
Wrathful even.
But he vanished.
And Peter said nothing afterward. He didn't brag. Didn't even explain. He just stood there, suit mending itself, face blank, as if he hadn't just deleted a threat none of us could even name.
I'd never forgotten that moment.
But I never asked him about it, either.
Not until now.
Because now... I needed something only he could give me.
The team wouldn't agree. They'd call it a mistake. They'd question my motives.
Even I wasn't sure what those motives were anymore.
Was I acting out of desperation?
Or logic?
Was I trusting Peter?
Or using him?
I wasn't sure.
But either way... I had already made the decision.
I opened our conversation in WhatsApp, which hasn't received any new messages in almost a month.
I typed:
AHRI: "Need to speak. Confidential. Meet me at Skydeck 12 before dawn. It's important."
I hovered over the send icon.
Then pressed it.
And the message was sent.
I leaned back in my chair, hands folded.
The room felt heavier somehow.
Like I'd just shifted the weight of a planet by two degrees.
And maybe I had.
Because if Peter did meet me...
And if he did agree to help me...
This mission wouldn't be a rescue.
It would be a reckoning.
Small time skip
Skydeck 12 was quiet.
The kind of stillness that crept into your lungs, thin and cold, like you weren't supposed to be breathing this high up. The wind swept over the rooftop in gentle laps, brushing through my hair and tugging at my coat. Below, Valoran City still glittered in the early dark, unaware of the conversation about to happen far above its streets.
It was nearly dawn. The horizon hadn't cracked open yet, but you could see the pale blush of morning hiding beneath the skyline. Soft and distant. Waiting.
I was early.
But I wasn't alone.
He was already there.
Peter stood near the edge, facing away from me, framed against the backdrop of neon haze and distant stars. No movement. No greeting. He didn't need to turn for me to feel it—the weight of him being there. Like gravity. Inescapable, even in silence
Typical.
I hesitated. Just for a moment.
A month. It had been a month since our last message. And I hadn't replied. Not because I forgot. Not because I didn't want to.
But because every time I opened the chat, I'd hear Soraka's voice in the back of my mind, calm but pointed: He's not what he seems.
And Ezreal, less subtle: You really trust that guy? He gives me chills.
They didn't need to tell me twice.
So I waited.
Avoided.
Ignored.
But Peter had a way of showing up regardless.
I remembered a conversation in the marketplace two weeks ago—Poppy muttering something about how we hadn't seen Peter in days.
And five minutes later, he showed up.
Another time, Lulu brought him up during training—only for him to walk past the gym window like a ghost summoned by name.
Once, Syndra whispered that his energy was too still, too calculated.
He arrived in the hallway a breath later.
Unavoidable.
Like the story couldn't move forward without him.
And now—here he was. Again. Already in place. Like he had always been here, just waiting for me to catch up.
I took a slow step forward, heels clicking softly against the stone.
"You're early," I said.
He didn't move.
"I've been here," he replied. His voice was quiet, but flat. Like steel cooled just past the melting point.
I walked closer, trying to measure the mood from his posture. But Peter was always hard to read. Especially now. Especially after... everything.
The moonlight kissed the corner of his jaw as he finally turned his head slightly, just enough for me to see the side of his face.
"You look good," I offered, trying to keep it neutral. "Healthier than before."
A pause.
"Must be all that rejection," he said dryly. "It builds character."
I winced internally. So we were starting there.
"I didn't mean to ignore you," I said.
"But you did."
The silence that followed was dense. Not loud. Just present. A weight between us that neither of us wanted to acknowledge out loud.
I stepped up beside him and leaned on the railing, careful not to look directly at him just yet.
"My team..." I began. "It's complicated. They're still—"
"Scared?" he cut in. "Suspicious? Think I'm manipulating them with my demon eyes and corrupted soul?"
I blinked. "That's not what I was going to say."
"But it's what they think."
His voice wasn't angry. It was worse. Dismissive. Like it wasn't even worth his full attention anymore.
"Peter," I said, softer. "You know this isn't easy for any of us."
"You think it's been easy for me?" He finally turned toward me, full face now visible in the early light. There was no anger—just that same bitter patience. "Every time I walk in, the room dies. The air changes. Like I'm branded."
I held his gaze. "You're not branded."
He tilted his head. "Then what would you call it?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't have one.
Not one I'd be proud to say out loud.
"I wasn't trying to hurt you," I said finally.
"No," he said. "You were trying to not hurt your team. And to do that, you pushed me out."
Another silence.
"I don't blame you, Ahri," he said, quieter now. "I just didn't expect it to feel this familiar."
I furrowed my brow. "Familiar?"
He looked out again, toward the city. "Being the outsider. Being the one people rely on when things go bad... but never invite when they're good."
That hit harder than I wanted it to.
Because it was true.
The camping trip. The fights. The sudden appearances when we needed help. He was always there when the shadows pressed in.
But rarely when the stars came out.
"I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted," I whispered.
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. You brought me here, didn't you?"
I nodded slowly, shifting on my feet. "Yes. I did."
He waited.
I didn't say anything else for a beat.
Because now came the hard part.
And the guilt I thought I buried started climbing back up my throat.
But I swallowed it down.
We weren't done yet.
The wind picked up again. Not enough to move me—but enough to make me feel small. A quiet whisper brushing between the silence Peter and I had carved out of the sky.
I shifted beside him, fingers curling slightly over the edge of the railing.
"I didn't ask you here just to... talk about us," I said, softly.
"Didn't think you would," he replied, no bite in his voice, just a cold observation.
I swallowed. "There's someone I need your help finding. Someone who's been missing for years. We think— I think—she's still alive. On the run. She's important to us. To me."
He turned slightly, eyes unreadable. "Neeko."
I blinked. "How do you—?"
"Sarah told me."
I didn't expect the punch in the gut that followed.
He didn't say her full name. Just Sarah. Like it was normal. Like they were close.
I looked down, suddenly not wanting to meet his eyes. "Of course she did..."
"She didn't mean to," he continued. "Not exactly. But she talks when she's hurting. She needed to get it out. You left her holding that guilt for decades, Ahri."
I clenched my jaw. "You don't understand what happened."
"I understand enough."
His voice dropped—low, sharp, deliberate.
"Three of your teammates were screaming for help. And you turned around."
I froze.
Peter stepped away from the ledge, toward me. Not aggressive. But not backing down either.
"Rakan was dying. Xayah wouldn't leave his side. And Neeko vanished trying to protect everyone. And you—you grabbed Sarah and ran."
"We didn't have a choice," I snapped, turning toward him fully. "We would've died too."
"Maybe," he said. "But at least you wouldn't have left them alone."
That hit deep. Too deep. I felt my nails dig into my palm.
"You think I wanted to leave them?" I growled. "You think I didn't scream the second I made it back to headquarters? That I didn't cry until my voice was gone? You think I don't live with it every time I close my eyes?"
Peter didn't flinch.
"That's not what I said."
"Then what are you saying?" I demanded, stepping toward him now. "That I'm a coward? That I'm not fit to lead?"
"I'm saying you let fear choose for you."
The words landed like a slap.
"You were supposed to be their leader, Ahri. The one who holds the line when everyone else breaks. But you broke first."
"That's not fair."
"No," he said. "It's not."
I hated how calm he was. How every word came like a scalpel—precise, quiet, cutting through everything I'd tried to keep buried.
"You weren't there," I said, voice quieter now. "You didn't hear the way Xayah screamed. You didn't see the look in Sarah's eyes when we ran. I didn't want to run—"
"But you did."
Silence.
"Neeko's still alive," he said. "You know that, don't you? That guilt in your chest—that ache? It's not just loss. It's because you know deep down she's still out there, and she thinks you left her to die."
My throat tightened.
"You don't know that."
"No," he said. "But you believe it."
That was the cruelest thing of all.
Because he was right.
Somewhere deep inside me, I did believe that. That Neeko looked back one last time and saw me vanish into the trees, running away from the only people who ever trusted me.
Peter didn't say anything more for a moment. He just let the weight of it sit between us.
"I didn't bring you here to be punished," I said finally, voice raw. "I brought you because you can do what we can't. You've always been faster. Stronger. Smarter."
His gaze softened, but only a fraction.
"You brought me here to fix something you broke."
I looked down again, trying to gather what little pride I had left.
"You're not wrong," I whispered.
Another long pause.
The guilt twisted in my chest like a knife. And for once, I didn't try to pull it out.
Peter stepped closer, stopping just within arm's reach.
"I don't hate you, Ahri," he said. "But I hate what that moment made you into."
I looked up slowly.
"I know what it's like to survive and wish you hadn't. To ask yourself if the person who walked away was still worth saving."
His voice had softened now—not to comfort, but to reveal. Like he was telling me something that hurt to say.
"And the worst part?" he continued. "The moment you do save someone again... you start wondering if you're only doing it to make the last one hurt less."
I didn't respond.
Because what could I say?
He was speaking every truth I'd buried for years. And doing it with a calmness that made it all the more unbearable.
He turned away, walking back toward the edge.
"I'll find her," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Neeko. I'll bring her back."
I stared. "But I didn't even— I didn't ask you to."
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. "You were about to."
And just like that, the conversation shifted again—cut clean and left to bleed.
He always did that.
Always changed the subject right when things got too honest.
And yet... he was still standing here. Still willing to do the very thing none of us could.
I didn't know what shocked me more—his offer, or the fact that he did it without being asked.
But part of me wondered—
Why?
And another part already knew:
Because guilt wasn't the only thing we shared.
We both wanted to be better than the choices that haunted us.
Even if neither of us was sure we could be.
I was still reeling from the last blow when Peter turned away and gave me something far worse than accusations.
Agreement.
"I'll find her," he said again, casually. Almost like it wasn't a task—it was a certainty.
I blinked. "You're... serious?"
He didn't look back. "I'm not the joking type. Not anymore."
The wind brushed past us again, softer now, as if the city below had gone quiet to listen in.
"But you don't even know the full story," I said.
Peter exhaled, just once. "You were about to tell me anyway."
His voice had shifted—less sharp, less emotionally charged. It carried the calm weight of someone already thinking ten steps ahead.
"You don't even want to ask how I know where she is?" I asked carefully.
"I already do," he said. "Not the coordinates. But the feeling. I follow them like cracks in a mirror. I've done it before."
My brow furrowed. "That's not... a normal answer."
He finally turned back to me.
And something in his eyes—no longer angry, no longer cold—made my breath catch for a second.
It wasn't menace.
It was conviction.
Unshakable. Unnatural.
And somehow, true.
I stepped closer, letting myself study him in the half-light. "Why are you agreeing so quickly?"
Peter tilted his head, like the question itself was strange to him. "Because you were going to ask. Because you need it done. Because she deserves to come home."
I narrowed my eyes slightly. "That's not the only reason."
"No," he admitted. "It's not."
He walked a few paces away, hands sliding into his coat pockets.
"I don't see people the way I used to," he said. "Their faces... blur. Their names float just out of reach. The ones I loved, the ones I lost—when I try to remember them, it feels like trying to breathe underwater."
I didn't speak. I let him talk. He rarely did.
"I wake up in a room I don't recognize. In a universe that doesn't remember me. And the only thing that keeps me upright... is motion. Action. Purpose."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon.
"That's what's left of me. Not memories. Not love. Not even pain. Just... purpose."
The words hit harder than anything else he'd said tonight.
Because I believed him.
Because I understood.
"I'm not trying to be a hero," he said. "I gave up on that word a long time ago. Heroes try to save everyone. I just try to make sure the people who still breathe aren't broken into something worse."
I took a slow breath. "Is that what you think you're doing to Lux and Jinx?"
He didn't react. "I'm giving them structure. Direction. They were floundering when I met them. Conflicted. Uncertain. Now they're focused. Stronger."
"Stronger doesn't mean better," I said, folding my arms. "You didn't see them before."
"Did you?" he asked quietly.
That made me flinch.
Of course I did.
Didn't I?
"They laugh less now," I murmured. "They're more efficient, yes. More composed. But they don't glow like they used to."
Peter turned slightly. "Maybe that glow was just the illusion of peace. And now they see the world for what it really is."
"No," I said. "They see you."
We stared at each other in the growing dawn light.
Peter's expression was unreadable again—but not cold.
Just tired.
"I didn't force anything," he said. "They followed because they chose to."
"Or because they didn't realize they were being led."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he stepped closer to me again. Not threatening—just deliberate.
"You're afraid I'm doing something to them," he said, "instead of for them."
"Because I've seen it before," I replied. "The way corruption creeps. Quiet. Subtle. You don't notice the change until the mirror cracks."
"And what if I'm not the crack?" he asked. "What if I'm the glue?"
That stopped me.
Because if he believed that...
If he truly thought he was repairing something—
Then maybe the danger wasn't in his power.
Maybe it was in his intent.
"You think this is for the greater good," I said slowly.
"I know it is," he replied. "Even if it's not your version."
Another silence.
This one hung longer.
Not because we didn't have anything to say, but because neither of us knew if saying it would help.
Finally, I said, "You'll do this... for me?"
He tilted his head. "You mean without asking for something in return?"
I hesitated.
"Yes."
He nodded once. "Then yes."
My brows knit together. "Why?"
Peter turned away again, stepping toward the ledge.
"I'm not here to collect favors," he said. "I'm here to earn trust."
I blinked. "From me?"
"From all of you."
I studied him carefully.
There was no sarcasm. No arrogance. Just cold, raw intent.
He wasn't trying to be accepted.
He was trying to be believed in.
So he could pull the strings he thought were necessary to save us all.
Even if he was already unraveling from the inside out.
"You really think what you did to Lux and Jinx was the right thing?" I asked one last time.
He didn't look back.
"I think it was necessary."
The city was beginning to stir.
Below us, the first traffic lights blinked to life. Hovercars buzzed in low, sleepy patterns. The neon that ruled the night dimmed beneath the slow burn of the coming sun. I hated how peaceful it looked—like the world hadn't just shifted again, and no one noticed but me.
Peter stood at the edge of the skydeck now, the breeze tugging gently at the black threads of his coat. His posture was calm. Too calm.
I was still struggling to catch up.
"You don't need to come with me," he said, almost like an afterthought.
My ears twitched slightly. "What?"
He turned just enough for me to see the side of his face again—still unreadable, still frustratingly composed.
"The sleepover," he said. "Go."
I stared. "You're... telling me to go to a pillow fight while you hunt down a missing Star Guardian who's probably being tracked by the Dark Stars?"
"Not a pillow fight," he corrected. "Team bonding. Emotional reset. The illusion of peace before the collapse."
I blinked. "That's... not better."
Peter gave a faint smile. "Doesn't need to be. It just needs to buy us time."
I hesitated. "You really think you'll be able to find Neeko on your own?"
He nodded once. "Yes."
Just like that. No hesitation. No doubt.
That confidence made my stomach twist. Not because I didn't believe he was capable—but because I did. And I hated how much that scared me.
"I just don't get it." I said, cautiously. "You don't know where she is, yet you know?"
"Like I said, I don't need a map," he said, eyes scanning the horizon like it might whisper directions. "I follow the pressure in the air. The tension in reality. When something breaks, I feel the pull."
"Everything you do is not normal," I muttered.
"Good thing I'm not normal."
I opened my mouth to argue—then closed it. What was the point?
"So," I said instead, folding my arms, "you'll just... do this. Alone. For nothing."
"Yup."
My eyes narrowed. "I still find that hard to believe that you'll just do it out of the goodness of your heart?"
He turned around now, fully facing me, and for once... he didn't look like a ghost.
He looked real. Present. Focused.
"I don't want repayment," he said. "I don't want favors. I don't want leverage."
"So... just our trust?"
"Just trust."
The word landed harder than I expected.
He stepped forward, voice lower now.
"I want the same chance you gave the others. A seat at the table. No sideways glances. No whispered warnings. Just a clean slate."
I didn't answer right away.
He continued.
"I know what you all say when I'm not around. I've seen the way Ezreal flinches. The way Soraka tightens her aura when I speak. The way Syndra watches me like she's waiting for me to unravel."
He paused.
"And I've let it happen. Because I thought maybe... just maybe... I deserved it."
My throat tightened.
"But not anymore."
He looked me in the eyes.
"I'm not the villain. I'm not the savior. I'm the constant. I'm the one who doesn't break when the world does. And if that scares people, fine. Let it."
I stood still, frozen by the weight of his words.
"I'm not doing this to prove a point," he said. "I'm doing it because it needs to be done. Because if I can bring Neeko home—if I can show you that I'm not just shadows and suspicions—maybe the rest of you will finally stop treating me like a loaded gun."
Silence again.
And then...
"...Thank you," I said.
It surprised even me, how softly it came out.
He blinked once. Tilted his head.
Then gave the smallest shrug. "Don't make it weird."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
He turned again, walking toward the ledge.
I watched him, a knot forming in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Something more complex.
Something close to dread... mixed with reluctant hope.
He stopped at the edge and looked back one last time.
"Tell Lux I'll be late," he said. "But not too late."
And without another word, he stepped off the edge and disappeared.
No dramatic leap. No flare of magic or theatrics.
Just gone.
Like he'd never been there to begin with.
The wind filled the silence he left behind.
And I stood alone.
For the first time in years, I felt something I couldn't define—something heavy and warm and terrifying.
Gratitude.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
POV Peter Parker
The city hummed beneath me, neon pulses flickering against the wet rooftops like it was trying too hard to stay alive.
Valorant City always looked like this before dawn. Painted in synthetic twilight, glass towers yawning upward like they were choking on their own pride. Everything down below moved on rails—hovercars, drones, late-night wanderers with more tech than sleep. It was too clean. Too perfect.
But from up here, gliding between rooftops, I didn't have to think about how fake it all felt. I could just move.
Web. Swing. Web. Swing.
The wind peeled past my ears like a whisper I didn't want to hear. I didn't need it reminding me what just happened.
"You're... serious?"
The words looped in my head again. Her voice, sharp but guarded. Controlled, like she thought if she said it soft enough, it wouldn't sting. But it did.
Because she didn't ask it once. She asked it three times.
Not in those exact words—but the tone, the suspicion, the narrowing of her eyes—it was all the same. Doubt dressed in different costumes.
"Why are you agreeing so quickly?"
"Why?"
I offered her help. Freely. And all I got in return was paranoia wrapped in a polite smile. Like I was some kind of devil with a contract hidden behind my teeth.
I flipped off a rooftop ledge and spiraled into the open air, letting gravity pull me down before I fired a webline at a neon-lit billboard. The impact snapped my arm forward, but I didn't flinch.
The suit absorbed it.
Of course it did.
The black symbiote slithered tight across my frame, flexing over every muscle like it was breathing with me. Warm. Familiar. A second skin—stronger than the first. It didn't speak in words, not really. But I felt its emotion echoing mine.
Annoyance. Disappointment. The quiet heat of repressed aggression.
A voice, not mine, curling beneath my ribs:
"She doesn't trust you. So why help her?"
I exhaled slowly through my nose, forcing the heat to stay buried. I wasn't about to give in to that. Not now.
She's not the enemy. She's just scared.
They all are.
And maybe... they have a reason to be. After everything that's happened.
Still. It didn't stop the sting. Didn't stop the knot in my chest every time someone looked at me like a bomb waiting to go off. Like helping people without expecting praise or payback somehow made me suspicious.
I don't want their gratitude.
I want trust.
That's it.
Another webline snapped out. Another tower soared past. I barely registered where I was swinging anymore. It was muscle memory by now—instinct tuned sharper than any GPS.
It was like the city bent around my movement, reshaping itself to never be in my way.
And maybe... maybe that's part of the problem.
Because I always show up.
Always.
Too convenient. Too fast. Too there.
I could feel it—Ahri's unease in every glance she didn't think I saw. Soraka's polite detachment. Ezreal avoiding eye contact like I was radioactive. The whole team looked at me like I wasn't supposed to exist in their story.
And yet here I was. Swinging through it like I'd been written into the script anyway.
Maybe that's what scared them most.
I landed silently on a maintenance catwalk strung between two corporate towers. High winds tugged at my shoulders. The symbiote adjusted, rebalancing pressure. I crouched low, knuckles brushing the metal rail.
"They're waiting for you to snap."
The thought wasn't mine. But it came up anyway. Every time I tried to help.
Because yeah, maybe the suit made me stronger. Maybe it made me faster. But it didn't make me softer. And when you're not soft, people assume you're cruel.
I kept thinking about Ahri's face when I agreed to help her.
That hesitation. That look in her eyes like she couldn't believe I wasn't charging a price.
And for a second, I almost said it. Almost let the symbiote leak into my voice.
"The price is loyalty. I want you to need me."
But I didn't.
I swallowed it down.
Instead, I told her to go to the sleepover.
To have fun. With the others.
To pretend for one night that everything was still normal.
Even though we both knew it wasn't.
I stood, the skyline stretching out ahead of me like a promise I wasn't sure I believed in. My reflection shimmered faintly in the tower glass—black suit, white spider emblazoned across my chest like a war symbol.
My fingers flexed once, and the suit flexed with me.
This body, this power... wasn't mine anymore. It was shaped by grief. By memory gaps and reprogrammed instincts. I don't even know what I look like without the suit now.
Would I even recognize my face?
Does it matter?
Another swing.
I passed over the old market district. A few bakeries were starting to open. One smelled like Pantheon's place—cinnamon and burnt espresso. It punched me in the gut harder than it should have.
Memories weren't safe anymore. Not since him. Not since...
No.
I forced the thought away.
I had a job to do.
And I wasn't going to let their doubts derail me.
Not Ahri's. Not Soraka's. Not anyone's.
I told them I'd prove them wrong.
And I will.
Even if it kills me.
The door slid open with a hydraulic hiss as I landed silently on the balcony, the city lights dying behind me.
My studio wasn't much.
Not anymore.
It used to be a simple apartment above a ramen shop—cramped, cozy, covered in textbooks and circuit scraps. But that version of me died with the rest of my universe.
Now it looked more like a war room crammed into a tech lab and a half-finished museum.
One wall was lined with monitors—some displaying fragments of corrupted dimensions, others scanning Guardian frequency threads. On the far side, a holographic display flickered over a massive table shaped like a broken web, projecting pocket timelines and unstable story anchors. And in the center of the room, my makeshift armory: shelves of tools, drives, miniaturized cores, dimensional clamps—each one salvaged from some version of Earth or some dying narrative.
I didn't bother turning on the lights. The suit adjusted my vision.
I moved toward the central console, the web insignia glowing faintly beneath my steps. My hand hovered over the holotable, fingers twitching once.
"Inventory: open."
A glyph flared in midair—golden blue, like a living database. The Guardian Party system interface flickered to life, a remnant from the Guardian's link-up centuries ago. Shared with me after the Infinity War. We never actually spoke about it—he just gave me access.
Because he trusted me.
Because he still remembers what I used to be.
The inventory grid shimmered before me, loaded with a few universal constants: compressed medpacks, dimension-lock anchors, portable field generators, and a single emergency reset shard. The rest? Improvised.
I scrolled through the rows. Dragged a few items out of storage. My fingers phased through the air like I was grabbing at ghosts—but one by one, the items solidified as I pulled them into realspace.
The Kainesis Blade. A pulse dagger that rewrites causality for five seconds per use.
The Multiversal Dampener. Something I built from leftover Xandarian junk and a symbiote-touched motherboard. Jury's still out on whether it works.
I don't have the amount of powers/abilities that the Guardian has, so I had to improvise the past few years for a more efficient way to kill Darks besides mano a mano.
And finally—the Nexus Core.
Small. Round. Gloss-black with crimson veins of light. It pulsed like a heart in stasis. This wasn't tech that could be found in any fictional setting.
This was ours.
Mine and the Guardians.
I set the Core on the center pedestal, and the room dimmed in response. It always did that when it synced.
The symbiote twitched across my skin. Restless.
It knew what came next.
I stepped back.
Breathed in.
"Suit."
The black goop slithered from beneath my shirt like it had been waiting. Like it had known the moment I walked through the door. It spread slow, crawling up my chest, down my arms, slick and cold and alive. Each tendril moved with care—not aggression, not hunger.
Almost reverent.
The mask came last, crawling up my neck, framing my jaw before covering my eyes in a glossy sheen of onyx.
I stood still.
Let it breathe.
Then—click.
The Iron Spider nanotech followed.
With a single thought, the nanobots burst from the containment ring on my wrist like a swarm. They wrapped over the symbiote like armor layering over muscle. Sleek black plates, glowing slits of deep red-blue, segmented limbs that folded over my back like sleeping claws. The white spider insignia lit up across my chest, reshaped by symbiote threads interwoven with metal.
A hybrid.
A paradox.
A Spider forged from grief and resurrection.
I looked at myself in the reflective glass of the monitor wall.
Not Peter Parker.
Not anymore.
I'd become something else.
Something necessary.
"This is what they see," I murmured.
And maybe they were right to be scared.
Because I didn't flinch anymore.
Not when I hurt.
Not when I failed.
Not even when I lost someone.
I just moved forward.
Because if I stopped...
I wouldn't start again.
I picked up the Core, fingers curling around the grooves that matched my handprint perfectly.
Adriel had insisted we encode it that way.
"So no one else can use it without you. Only you and I can use this," he'd said.
Smart move.
I locked it into the center of my chest plate.
A low hum vibrated through my bones as the Core integrated, syncing with the suit and the symbiote simultaneously. The room distorted slightly—like light bent inward, sucked toward the center of my armor.
Then—flash.
The HUD activated.
Guardian Mode: ONLINE.
Multiversal Locators: STABILIZED.
Speedforce Tether: CHARGING...
My breath slowed.
Focus sharpened.
I wasn't nervous. Not anymore.
Just... tired.
Tired of doing this alone.
Tired of always being the one who jumps first.
Tired of proving I'm not the villain they whisper about.
But I wouldn't stop.
Not until Neeko was back.
Not until they all knew the truth.
I stepped into the warp ring I had set into the center of my lair's floor—a modified version of Dr. Strange's original sling tech, fused with Guardian-level calibration.
"Speedforce Core—engage."
A pulse of energy surged through my suit as the world bent inward.
Time and space buckled, warped, and tore in silence. A crack formed beneath my feet—an hourglass made of lightning and static, folding across dimensions like a page turned too fast.
And then—
The city disappeared.
So did the stars.
So did everything.
I stepped into the void.
Ready for whatever monster had dared to write itself into Neeko's prison.
The world screamed as I jumped.
No sound. Just pressure—like reality was exhaling in reverse.
One second, I stood on the glowing sigil inside my war room. The next—
BOOM.
The Speed Force ignited. Not a burst. A bloom.
It unraveled through my body like a living circuit—heat, light, vibration—all surging outward, cascading across the nanotech and symbiote threads in a spiraling crescendo of color and static. The Core at my chest pulsed once—
—and the universe folded in.
Time didn't slow.
It fractured.
My eyes blurred as my vision tunneled through possibility. Buildings inverted. Streets bled into skies. Gravity inverted itself for a heartbeat, then tore sideways as I slipped into the realm between motion and thought. I could see every ripple I was leaving behind in the timestream—every loose strand, every quantum echo of myself.
There were a thousand versions of me flickering all at once.
Each swinging. Each leaping.
Each heading toward different broken worlds.
Fragments of dialogue from other timelines whirled past me like dust in a hurricane:
"Karen, activate enhanced—"
"Don't let Knull win!"
"Ahri, I'm sorry—"
I clenched my jaw.
Forced myself forward.
The Speed Force wasn't just about moving fast—it was directional instinct. It was purpose given motion. And mine was locked in: Neeko's signal, a memory trace buried in Guardian code, tethered to one of the deepest corrupted zones I'd ever seen.
VORRRMMM—
Space twisted again—this time vertically.
Like I'd run into the teeth of a black hole.
The world blinked out—
And then I landed.
The ground hit me like silence.
No crunch of boots.
No echo.
Just... absence.
I deactivated the Core, feeling the surge of power wind down as the suit dimmed, the vibrating static settling like dust. The red lines across my arms and chest flickered out. The back legs of the Iron Spider folded in, curled tight. My HUD recalibrated.
Guardian Presence: Alone.
Speed Force Sync: On Cooldown.
Symbiote Stability: 98%.
Dark Entity Detection: 76% Saturation.
Figures.
The mission hadn't even started, and the place was already bleeding corruption.
I looked around.
And wished I hadn't.
The landscape was a void stitched together by broken concepts.
The ground beneath my feet looked like polished obsidian—but every so often, it cracked and bled ink instead of lava. Towering spires loomed in the distance, bent sideways like gravity didn't care what "down" meant anymore. The sky above wasn't black or gray—it was absent. Like someone took the idea of "sky" and erased it with a dry brush.
And at the center of it all—
A castle.
Or what was left of one.
Twisted arches. Stone bricks frozen mid-collapse. Floating chains of shattered balconies suspended in the air by red-glowing veins of corrupted aether. The entire structure radiated decay—like it had once been full of magic, color, and life, but someone rewrote its code and replaced every joyful memory with a scream.
My stomach turned.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
I'd seen this kind of rot before.
Not just in stories—inside them.
I'd seen it infect heroes. I'd seen it consume gods. I'd stared down sentient libraries turned into dungeons and watched fairy tale kingdoms decay into glitchy horror shows. Fictional realities don't just die—they warp first. They forget how to be what they were.
And this?
This was worse.
Because something underneath the corruption... felt aware.
Like it wanted me here.
Like it had been watching.
Waiting.
"So you're playing that card now," I muttered, stepping off the summoning ring. The floor squelched underfoot like moss, but there was no moss. Just shadows pretending to be one.
A low vibration crawled across my back—spider-sense. Not full-on danger. No incoming missile. No sniper on the roof.
Just...
A warning.
A whisper.
"You're being watched."
I crouched and placed one hand on the ground. Let my senses expand.
There were traces of life here.
Faint. Warped.
One of them was definitely Neeko. Guardian imprint confirmed.
But the other...
The other was harder to define.
Not a creature. Not even a person.
More like... a feeling. A pressure that existed in the corners of perception. A glitch in narrative logic.
The Dark was here. Not just infection. Not just residue.
Presence.
Whatever had taken Neeko hadn't just corrupted her story—it nested in it.
I stood up slowly, silent, eyes never leaving the ruined skyline. The symbiote shifted across my shoulders like a living cloak, tense but ready.
This was going to be one of those missions.
No backup. No communication. No guarantee she was even still whole.
And still—I didn't hesitate.
Not because I was brave.
Because there was no one else who could do it.
Who would do it.
The others had spent three years treating me like a shadow creeping at the edge of their lives.
Fine.
Let them.
But the moment they needed a monster to walk into Hell and bring someone back?
I'm the one they call.
Always.
"Let's get this over with."
I adjusted my mask, activated silent mode, and disappeared into the darkness.
One step at a time.
Toward the castle.
Toward the Dark.
Toward Neeko.
And whatever was left of her.
To Be Continued...