The following morning — Midtown High School, New York.
"What? Z skipped class again?! What was the excuse this time?"
In the classroom, Peter Parker asked with an expression that said, "Some people are just unlucky to even meet."
It wasn't unusual for Damian to skip class—what intrigued Peter was the excuse he'd dreamed up this time.
He vaguely remembered the reason the guy had given for his last absence:
"My parents had a fight. I tried to persuade them for hours, but they just wouldn't stop. I'm devastated, so I need two days off to recover."
The time before that:
"My dog's on leave, so I have to guard the house by myself. Naturally, I'll need two days off."
And before that… well, suffice it to say, every one of Damian's justifications was grounds for St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital to dispatch a pickup van.
Upon hearing this, Gwen Stacy pursed her lips and gave him the same look an old man on the subway might give a teenager blasting music through his phone. She said dryly:
"It's rumored his smile was too bright today—so blinding, in fact, it stirred jealousy among both classmates and teachers."
She continued in a mock-official tone:
"This undermines the implementation of Central City High School's advanced educational philosophy: to cultivate qualified national citizens endowed with robust survival and developmental capabilities, outstanding individuality, specialized talents, and a synthesis of MAGA spirit and global perspective. Therefore, temporary isolation and emotional recalibration are deemed necessary."
Peter Parker's lips twitched violently. He sighed, half in exasperation, half in resignation:
"Why don't we wait until he gets back and just take him to St. Elizabeth's for a checkup? Early detection, early treatment—you know how it goes."
———————
Meanwhile, in New Mexico…
Damian, looking thoroughly constipated, clutched a crumpled map and kept glancing between it and the endless, desolate desert surrounding him. He muttered under his breath:
"I've gone more than 30 kilometers off course? Impossible! North is up, south is down, west is left, east is right… That's basic!"
Damn it! This map must be wrong. There's no way I, Damian, could be directionally challenged!
After a few more curses, he pulled out his phone—only to be greeted by the glaring words: "No Signal." He groaned.
"Boom…"
Suddenly, the roar of an engine echoed in the distance.
A convoy of black SUVs and white campervans appeared at the far end of the road, kicking up long trails of dust.
Spotting them, Damian dashed toward the roadside like a stranded soldier spotting General Kim Jong-un's rescue chopper. He jumped up and down, waving his arms frantically.
"Zzz—"
Amid the screech of tires, the convoy skidded to a halt about twenty meters ahead.
The door of the lead SUV burst open, and a middle-aged man leapt out, gripping a double-barreled shotgun.
He wore a faded denim shirt, sweat glistening on his graying temples, and the muzzle of his weapon was leveled steadily at Damian's forehead.
"Stay right where you are!" the man barked, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Hands up, kid! Who are you, and why the hell are you stopping my convoy?"
Damian immediately raised his hands in a comically stiff, quasi-military salute—his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard—and explained:
"Don't worry, sir! I'm unarmed! Just a lost tourist with no cell signal, trying to hitch a ride to the nearest town. I'll even pay for the fare!"
As he spoke, he slowly turned around to show his empty waistband—proving, beyond doubt, that he carried no weapons.
At that moment, a blonde girl—about fifteen or sixteen years old—poked her head out of the back window of the SUV. She had a sweet, delicate appearance, but her impatient expression made her seem unapproachable.
Yet the moment she saw Damian, her expression softened considerably, and she said sweetly to the older man holding the gun:
"Dad, I don't think he looks like a bad person…"
"Shut up, Brenda!" the man snapped, though the barrel of his gun remained steady.
His voice was loud enough to draw attention from inside the RV. The door swung open, and several people stepped out:
an elderly woman with a gentle demeanor, a middle-aged man in a white shirt who looked uncertain, and a middle-aged woman cradling a child.
The man with the shotgun narrowed his eyes, sweeping his gaze over Damian. Sweat had soaked through Damian's T-shirt, clinging to his thin frame. After a tense pause, the man slowly lowered his hunting rifle.
"Sorry, kid. These days, the streets aren't safe—you've got to be careful around strangers."
He jerked his chin toward the RV. "Get in. We're heading to Holloman. You can get off there."
Damian let out a quiet sigh of relief, lowered his hands, and bowed quickly in gratitude.
"Thank you so much—kind sir!"
"My name's Bob Carter. Just call me Bob. No need to be so formal."
With that, he gestured for Damian to follow him into the RV.
Once inside, Bob introduced his family:
his wife, Ethel Carter; their eldest daughter, Lynn Bukowski; Lynn's husband, Doug Bukowski; their second daughter, Brenda Carter; and their youngest son, Bobby Carter—along with two dogs.
Ethel pointed to the back sofa and said with a pained expression,
"Oh, poor child—you must be exhausted. Sit here. I'll get you a glass of water!"
"No, no! Please, don't go to any trouble!" Damian protested.
But the old woman paid him no mind.
Brenda suddenly leaned closer, studying him with frank curiosity.
"Hey, why'd you come to this godforsaken place all by yourself? It's sweltering, there's no cell service—it's totally boring!"
Damian knew that if he told the truth, they'd probably assume he was an escaped patient from St. Elizabeth's. After a brief pause, he answered with solemn conviction:
"Because… the world is so big. I wanted to see it."
Brenda gave him a look that said, I don't get it, but I'm weirdly impressed, then asked:
"You look Asian—are you Japanese?"
Damian's eyes widened in disbelief.
He simply couldn't fathom how such a pretty girl could be so clueless!
...
Meanwhile, on a barren hilltop about two kilometers from the highway, a hunched, twisted figure crouched behind a weathered boulder.
His misshapen head bristled with wart-like growths, and his cloudy yellow eyes pressed against the eyepiece of a telescope. His cracked lips parted to reveal rows of crooked, yellowed teeth.
"Hehehe… They're here! They're here!" he rasped, drool spilling from his chin onto the scorching rock—where it instantly sizzled into white vapor.
Not far behind him, another, even more grotesque creature dragged a bundle of homemade caltrops.
The spikes were crude assemblies of rusted iron sheets, welded haphazardly together and glinting ominously in the blazing sun.
His right leg was noticeably shorter than his left, forcing him to limp—but he moved with unsettling speed.
"Giggle…"
The crippled monster chuckled softly as he placed the spikes at a hidden bend in the road. He carefully buried them beneath sand and gravel, leaving only the sharpest points exposed.
Once satisfied, he dragged his warped body into a roadside ditch, his bloodshot eyes locked on the direction from which the convoy would soon appear.
High above, the lookout on the hilltop licked his cracked lips, his telescope tracking the slow crawl
of the RV.
His other gnarled hand reached for the homemade machete at his waist—its blade still smeared with dark, dried grime.
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