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"That was… a lot," Missy admitted, still rattled.
"It's over now," Sylas said with an easy smile. "We could still salvage the day grab a coffee? Keep the fun going?"
"I'm in," she nodded, then added, "but let's stop by a precinct first. Statements, paperwork. Gotta do this right."
Bold, steady Missy wasn't the type to curl up and call it quits. If anything, the adrenaline sharpened her edges.
"Fair," Sylas said. "Coffee after."
They reached the station; thanks to Missy's dad making a call, both were cleared quickly.
The rest of the afternoon passed without another crisis unless you counted Missy's two newly assigned bodyguards, courtesy of an overprotective parent.
Missy shot them a look that could've curdled milk.
"I had a whole plan for the day," she muttered to Sylas, "but… yeah."
The guards pretended to study the skyline.
"I get it," Sylas said with a shrug. "He's worried."
Missy exhaled, then turned half away. "Maybe we can call it for today? This vibe kinda kills the mood."
"Next time, then. Clean weekend, zero ambushes," Sylas said, waving her off with a grin.
"Deal, Rain check." She slid into the waiting car. The door shut; the window dropped just long enough for her to add, "Don't ditch me next time."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The sedan rolled away. Sylas stretched, the tension finally ebbing. Fun would've been nice but after everything, his mind wouldn't settle back into "date mode."
"Wonder where Peter swung off to," he muttered, flagging a cab.
---
Queens — Parker Residence
"You're home early?" Aunt May peeked around the kitchen door, surprised. "Thought you were out through dinner."
"Plans shifted," Sylas said. "We wrapped up sooner."
"Tea? Sandwich? Something to ground your day?"
"Thanks, May, I'm okay. Maybe a glass of juice?"
"Juice I can do." She stepped into the kitchen, still fussing. "And where's Peter? Missed lunch. Not a word. Sundays used to be family days remember those?"
Sylas softened. "When he and Uncle Ben get back, we should do something tomorrow park, picnic, the whole wholesome thing."
"Picnic?" May smiled, delighted. "Say no more."
The front door clicked.
"Hey! You're back early?" Ben called, lugging a shopping bag.
"What'd we get?" May asked, already reaching for it.
"Tools," Ben said, toeing off his shoes. "Old set's done for. Car's acting up again good thing I still remember which end of a wrench does what."
With the Parkers' budget, DIY wasn't a hobby it was survival. In a lot of Queens, that's just how people lived.
"I'll carry," Sylas said, taking the bag.
"Garage," Ben pointed, grinning. "If you hand me tools, I'll teach you the basics."
"And tomorrow," May added, "we take both boys to the park. Yes?"
Ben thought a beat, then smiled. "Sounds perfect."
"Alright," May said, wagging a playful finger at Sylas. "Don't distract him while he's under the hood."
"Scout's honor," Sylas said, tapping his chest.
They headed to the garage. Ben lay back on the creeper and slid under the car.
"Wrench," he said, palm up.
Sylas passed tools as asked, a socket, a light, and a pry bar, falling into the quiet rhythm of a family he cherished.
An hour later, Ben rolled out, face smudged black.
"Well, partner," he sighed, patting the fender, "she's toast."
Calling a mechanic would cost a small fortune. A secondhand car would still hurt but hurt less.
Ben rested a hand on the old hood, eyes soft. "We had a good run, pal."
Sylas watched, guilt pricking. He could replace the car tomorrow without blinking but how would he explain the money? Uncle Ben wasn't Peter; "I won the lottery" wouldn't cut it. Not without receipts, taxes, the whole paper trail.
"Think, dummy," Sylas told himself. "Find a reason that passes an audit."
---
Midtown — Stark Tower
"Run it again." Tony Stark swiped through floating panels. Two feeds hovered side by side one from a bar incident a few nights ago, one from today's bus siege.
A dark-clad figure in both. Same height. Same mask. Same unnerving way of moving like a shadow folding in on itself.
"Similarity at eighty-eight percent," JARVIS reported.
"Cute number. I need certainty," Tony said, flicking up a third window: grainy footage of Spider-Man webbing down armed robbers in a shop across from the bus.
"Sleepwear Kid," Tony mused. "Decent instincts. Track him. The shadow guy can wait."
"Tracking the masked adolescent," JARVIS replied. "As for the shadow operative outfits and silhouette alignment, but there is a one-centimeter discrepancy in measured height across footage."
Tony smirked. "What if Mister Shadow wore lifts today?"
"Accounting for potential footwear variance is possible. Nonetheless, the mismatch persists."
"Alright. Paint Queens with micro-cams," Tony decided. "Alley mouths, rooftops, the dark spots everyone forgets. We're not spying we're fishing. If the Arc Reactor Mark II designs are anywhere in play, I'm not letting them land in the wrong hands."
"Understood, sir. Deployment plan ready."
Tony glanced back at the freeze-frame: the black-masked figure blooming out of someone's shadow.
"Magic, tech, or… something else?" he wondered aloud.
Back in Queens, another shadow answered that question if only to itself.
Not magic. Not tech. Something older.
Shadow Khan energy pooled wherever the light gave way, responding to the Oni pull like a tide to a moon. And since the bus… it had been easier closer like New York itself had more corners than before.
---
Parker Garage — Later
Ben locked up for the night. "We'll talk options tomorrow," he said, clapping Sylas on the shoulder. "Might know a guy who knows a guy."
"Thanks, Uncle Ben."
Inside, May called from the kitchen, "Picnic menu is underway! Peter can't dodge this one!"
Sylas smiled, but his thoughts were elsewhere on the Shadow Ninja at his call and the way the darkness had begun to listen faster, deeper, like it was eager.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly.
"Tomorrow," he said, mostly to himself. "Tomorrow we keep it ordinary."
Somewhere across the river, a genius billionaire seeded the night with cameras.
Somewhere above the streetlights, a friendly neighborhood hero swung home, tired and satisfied.
And in the cracks between street and stoop, the shadow stretched, patient as a blade in its sheath.
Waiting.
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