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roma★
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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h
d e v o n
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Misplaced Lens Cap
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Keni
The Stonewall Inn
izzy's playlists!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Interview Vampire Daily
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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bliss lane
untitled
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from South Africa
seen from Italy
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Algeria
@illumins
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≡note: I'll be posting on ao3 as well! Please go support there if you'd like and don't forget to reblog my fanfics as it helps me as a writer! And if you want to help even more, there's a tipjar to my kofi where you can show more love, it's greatly appreciated!
⸙͎groups: nct|bts|the.boyz|ateez|stray.kidz|txt|enhypen|cravity| +
⋆ ࣪. ʳᵉᵈᵇᵘᵇᵇˡᵉ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ᵗⁱᵖʲᵃʳ ˖ ࣪ ٬ ᵃᵒ³ ุ๋ ⸱ʷⁱᵖˢ.
≡this is where longer series will be sorted.
sᴄᴀʀs & sᴍᴏᴋᴇ: lee.jeno—fantasy au!
sᴘᴀʀʀᴏᴡs sᴏɴɢ: na.jaemin—vampire au!
ᴍʏʀɪᴀᴅ ᴏғ ᴏᴜʀ sᴇᴀs: lee.haechan—pirate au!
ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ: lee.haechan—vampire au!
sᴘɪᴅᴇʀ-ᴍᴀɴ: ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅᴀᴡɴ: yang.jungwon—spiderman au!
ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟɪsᴛs: ateez—fallen gods au!
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅʟɪɴɢ & ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏx: txt—fae au!
≡this is where oneshots or shorter works will be sorted. Imagines can be found by using the hashtag[ #illumins imagines ].
ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴛ: k.taehyung—dark castor au!
ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴏʀɴs: k.taehyung—book edit
• ⚠︎ •It is strictly prohibited to copy or steal my creations, as this constitutes a legal offense. Any translations must be requested and approved by me beforehand. Sharing my work without proper credit is also a form of theft. Failure to respect these guidelines will compel me to take necessary actions to protect my intellectual property rights.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣: 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬
By Thursday morning, the rain has finally stopped.
The sky outside my window is still pale and undecided, but there is no water sliding down the glass, no steady tapping against the roof, no gray curtain turning the street into something soft and miserable. Just air. Cool enough that I have to pull on a sweater before going downstairs, the sleeves swallowing half my hands.
It feels like September in a way it hasn’t yet.
The kind of morning where the floor is cold under my socks, where the trees outside look thinner than they did last week, where the neighborhood smells faintly of damp leaves and someone’s overworked heater. Not autumn exactly. More like it’s just starting.
Dad is already awake when I reach the kitchen.
He stands at the counter in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand around a coffee mug he hasn’t touched. His tie is draped over the back of a chair. The Sentinel sits facedown on the table like he put it there and immediately regretted owning eyes.
For once, his phone is not ringing.
The quiet should be comforting.
“Morning,” I say.
Dad turns like he already knew I was there but needed a second to arrange his face. “Morning.”
I stop beside the table, looking at the newspaper. “Bad?”
He follows my gaze. “Haven’t read it.”
“That’s new.”
“I’m trying something called restraint.”
“How’s that going?”
“Poorly.”
I almost smile. It happens before I can stop it, small and quick, but Dad catches it anyway. His shoulders loosen a little, not all the way, but enough.
There is toast on a plate near the stove. Not burnt this time. Beside it, a folded paper towel with apple slices arranged too neatly, like he had time to worry over the shape of them.
I pick one up. “You cut fruit.”
“I own a knife.”
“That’s not the shocking part.”
He gives me a look, but it does not have much weight behind it. “Eat something.”
“I am.”
“One apple slice does not count as breakfast.”
“It counts as produce.”
“Liya.”
I take a bite before he can turn it into a full lecture. The apple is cold and too crisp, the kind that makes a loud sound no matter how politely you try to chew. Dad seems satisfied enough to look away.
The kitchen feels calmer than yesterday, but not fixed. Nothing is fixed. The city did not wake up and decide to forget my face had been in videos. Victor Kane did not develop a conscience overnight. Dad did not suddenly become the kind of parent who could send me into the world without mentally checking for exits.
But the morning is not ringing.
That is something.
I sit at the table and pull my phone from my pocket. No new messages from Jungwon. I tell myself that is fine because it is fine. People sleep. People wake up. People don’t have to keep texting just because the last conversation ended nicely.
Still, my thumb opens the thread before I can pretend I’m above it.
Jungwon: rest tonight
Me: you too
Nothing after that.
I lock the screen and set it facedown.
Dad notices, because of course he does.
“Jenna?” he asks.
“No.”
He waits.
I look at the toast.
He does not ask again, which is almost worse. Dad has learned that silence gets more out of me than questions. It is extremely unfair of him.
“School portal,” I lie.
His eyebrows rise slightly.
I sigh. “Not school portal.”
“Okay.”
“That was the whole interrogation?”
“I’m evolving.”
“You are not.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I’m tired.”
The honesty lands. I look up at him then. He does look tired. Not in a dramatic way, just worn. There are faint lines around his mouth that I don’t remember being there last month.
I hate that I probably put some of them there.
Dad reaches for his coffee, takes one sip, and makes a face.
“Still bad?” I ask.
“Worse, somehow.”
“You made it.”
“But it’s still bad.”
I take another apple slice. “You could buy coffee on the way.”
“I could also retire and live in a cabin where no one owns a phone.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It sounds quiet.”
The word sits between us longer than it should.
Quiet.
It used to be something normal. Now it is something we keep losing.
Dad clears his throat and moves to the sink, rinsing out the mug even though there is still coffee inside. “Same rules today.”
I lean back in my chair. “I know.”
“School. Phone on. You stay on campus during free period. I pick you up at dismissal.”
“I know.”
“No interviews.”
“I know.”
“No answering questions from people who act casual.”
“That’s very specific.”
“It’s usually the casual ones who are the worst.”
I pick at the edge of my toast. “What if someone from school asks?”
“Depends what they ask.”
“What if they ask if I’m okay?”
Dad pauses with the mug under the faucet.
For a second, the water is the only sound in the room.
“You can answer that,” he says.
“Generous.”
He turns off the sink and looks at me. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His expression softens a little, but only around the edges. “I don’t want you feeling like you can’t talk to anyone.”
“That’s kind of what the rules sound like.”
“I know.” He dries his hands on a towel. “I’m trying to keep the vultures away, not your friends.”
Friends.
The word still catches sometimes. Jenna fits inside it now, loud and bright and stubbornly present. Jungwon does too, maybe, though that one feels harder to hold. More fragile. Like if I say it too confidently, something will correct me.
Dad studies my face. “Is Jenna meeting you before class?”
“Probably.”
“Good.”
“You like her now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I said good.”
“That’s basically a blessing from you.”
He points the towel at me. “Do not get comfortable.”
“I’ll let her know she’s still on probation.”
He rolls his eyes in amusement and gives a slight smile.
I eat the corner of my toast so he can see me eating something. He pretends not to notice the performance. We both commit to our parts.
When we leave the house, the air outside is cool and clear. The sidewalk is still dark in places from yesterday’s rain, but the sun has started pushing through in thin pieces, catching on windshields and wet grass. A few leaves have collected near the curb, brown at the edges, stuck together in flat little piles.
Dad locks the door twice.
Once normally.
Once because he is Dad.
I don’t say anything.
The drive to Daylight Academy is quieter than usual, but not heavy in the same way. The radio stays low. A traffic report mumbles about a stalled truck near Fifth, then slips into a song Dad probably knows but does not sing along to. I watch the city pass by in pieces: a woman sweeping leaves from the front of her shop, a man tugging a scarf higher over his mouth even though it is not that cold, two little kids in matching backpacks jumping over puddles that barely exist anymore.
Graystone looks almost normal when it is not under threat.
That thought makes my stomach tighten, so I look away from the window and down at my hands.
Dad parks a little farther from the front gate than he used to. Not as far as yesterday. Progress, maybe. Or just traffic.
The news vans are gone.
I notice that first.
The curb near the entrance is still scraped pale where the streetlight fell. One of the stone pillars has a lighter patch where maintenance must have scrubbed away the last of the webbing. There are no reporters in beige coats, no camera lenses pointed toward the steps, no adults pretending not to watch teenagers walk into school.
Students move in clusters, louder than yesterday. Not carefree, exactly, but closer. People are good at adjusting. A thing can scare them in the morning and become something they discuss in the cafeteria by lunch.
Dad puts the car in park but does not unlock the doors immediately.
I look over. “Dad.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The pre-goodbye safety briefing.”
His hand rests on the steering wheel. He exhales through his nose. “Phone charged?”
“Yes.”
“Volume on?”
“Yes.”
“Location on?”
“Dad.”
“I’m asking.”
“Yes.”
He nods, not satisfied, but finished. That is the most I can ask for.
I reach for the door handle, then stop. “I’ll text before free period.”
His eyes move to mine.
I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because I know he needs to hear it. Maybe because I am tired of making him drag reassurance out of me like a splinter.
His face changes, just a little.
“Thank you,” he says.
I shrug like it is nothing, because making it something would be unbearable. “Yeah.”
Outside, the air is colder than it looked. I pull my sleeves over my hands and shut the car door.
Dad waits until I reach the steps before pulling away.
He always does.
I don’t look back this time, but I raise my hand once, a small wave over my shoulder. I hear the car hesitate for half a second before the engine pulls into traffic.
Inside, Daylight Academy smells like floor polish, paper, and too many people trying to hide perfume under the same roof. The front hall is already crowded. Lockers slam. Someone laughs too loudly near the trophy case. A group of seniors stands under one of the blue-and-silver banners, arguing over whether guest forms will be approved this year.
Guest forms?
I slow without meaning to.
“Liya.”
Jenna appears on my left like she has been released from a trapdoor. Her curls are loose today, mostly, except for two clips holding back the pieces around her face. Her camera bag bumps against her hip, and she has a muffin in one hand with a bite already taken out of it.
“You look like you know something,” I say.
“I do.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
She falls into step beside me. “Did you check the senior bulletin?”
“No.”
“I knew it.” She takes another bite of the muffin, then speaks around it. “Homecoming.”
I blink. “What?”
“Homecoming,” she repeats, swallowing. “They posted a teaser last night, then deleted it, which obviously means it was real.”
“That is not how facts work.”
“It is how school facts work.”
I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I thought they might cancel it.”
“A lot of people did.” Jenna’s voice lowers a little as we pass two juniors standing too close to hear us. “But apparently they’re doing seniors only this year. Smaller event, more security, no underclassmen. Which sounds rude, but also kind of peaceful.”
“Seniors only?”
“Yeah.” She looks at me, eyes brightening despite herself. “We actually get something.”
There is something in the way she says it that makes me understand.
We actually get something.
Not a disaster. Not a headline. Not another assembly where adults speak slowly into a microphone and pretend everyone feels safer afterward.
A dance.
A normal thing.
A stupid, expensive, overly photographed normal thing.
The hallway speaker crackles above us.
A burst of feedback cuts through the noise, sharp enough that several people wince. The conversations around us thin out as everyone looks up, as if the ceiling has ever had answers.
“Good morning, Daylight Academy seniors,” the principal says.
The hallway reacts immediately.
Someone near the lockers gasps. Someone else says, “No way,” before the announcement even continues. Jenna grabs my sleeve with the hand not holding the muffin.
The principal clears his throat. “After discussion with faculty, administration, and student council, we are pleased to announce that this year’s Senior Homecoming will move forward as scheduled.”
The hallway erupts.
Not politely. Not in the controlled, school-approved way adults probably imagine when they say students are excited. People cheer. A few students clap. Someone knocks into a locker hard enough to set off a metallic bang that makes a teacher step out of his classroom with the expression of a man already tired of the day.
Jenna’s grip tightens on my sleeve.
“I told you,” she whispers.
The principal continues, voice slightly raised now, probably because he can hear us from the office. “Attendance will be limited to seniors only. Information regarding tickets, guest policies, and safety procedures will be released by the end of the week.”
That gets another wave of noise.
Guest policies. Safety procedures. The words land differently beside each other.
“Additionally,” he says, “students interested in assisting with planning, decorations, photography, music, or event setup may attend an interest meeting during seventh period today in Room 118. The committee will be led by student council chair Amy-Jane Li.”
Of course.
I do not mean to look around for Jungwon.
I do it anyway.
He is near the end of the hall by the Chemistry wing, standing with Sunoo and Jake. His hoodie is unzipped over his uniform shirt, backpack hanging from one shoulder. He looks better than he did yesterday. More awake. Less pulled thin. Still, there is a carefulness to him I can see now that I know to look for it.
At Amy-Jane’s name, Sunoo says something I can’t hear.
Jake nudges Jungwon with his elbow.
Jungwon looks down fast, and even from here, I can tell he is trying not to smile.
My stomach does something small and inconvenient.
Jenna follows my gaze because she has never once respected privacy as a concept. Her expression shifts, not teasing this time. Just aware.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
I pull my sleeve free from her hand. “I’m fine.”
She hums.
“I am.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You hummed.”
“I’m allowed to make sounds.”
The first bell rings before I can answer. The hallway breaks apart, everyone moving at once. Jenna points her muffin toward the science wing.
“Chemistry,” she says. “And then you’re coming to that meeting with me.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You didn’t disagree with enough conviction.”
“Looking forward to that.”
She grins, then seems to remember she is supposed to be subtle around me and dials it back into something softer. “Seriously. You don’t have to. But you might like it.”
I doubt that.
But I don’t say no.
Chemistry is warmer than the hall, mostly because Mrs. Henderson keeps the windows closed now that the weather has turned. The room smells like whiteboard markers and something faintly metallic from the lab sinks. On the board, she has written 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 in her narrow handwriting.
She stands at the front with both hands resting on her desk, waiting as everyone spills in buzzing with Homecoming noise.
“I know,” she says before anyone can ask. “You are excited. I am devastated for productivity.”
A few people laugh.
Mrs. Henderson smiles.
Jenna slides into the seat beside me and immediately opens her planner. The page for today is already crowded with homework reminders, yearbook notes, and little boxes she has drawn around things she thinks are important. She writes HOMECOMING?? in the margin and circles it twice.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
“I’m processing.”
“You’re making a battle plan.”
“That is how I process.”
Across the room, Sunoo drops into his chair sideways, still talking to Jungwon, who takes his seat slower. Jake sits on the desk behind them until Mrs. Henderson looks at him.
He gets down.
Jungwon glances over at me.
It is quick. Almost nothing.
But this time, he does not immediately look away.
He lifts his eyebrows slightly, like the whole school losing its mind is something we are both witnessing from a distance.
I look down before my face can do anything stupid.
Jenna makes another sound.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I breathed.”
“You breathed like you were trying to say something.”
“I literally just breathed.”
Mrs. Henderson claps once, sharp enough to end three conversations at once.
“Since the principal has already given you something to think about besides chemistry,” she says, “let me offer a reminder: excitement does not change due dates.”
A boy near the front groans.
She points a marker at him. “That noise specifically added homework.”
He closes his mouth.
Jenna leans toward me. “She scares me more than your dad.”
“Honestly? Fair.”
Class begins, or tries to. Mrs. Henderson talks about temperature, concentration, surface area, catalysts. I write the terms down. I even understand most of them. But every few minutes, someone whispers about Homecoming, and the energy of the room keeps shifting toward it no matter how hard Mrs. Henderson pulls us back.
A senior-only dance.
Amy-Jane leading the committee.
Seventh period.
Room 118.
My pencil slows.
Jungwon is quiet through most of class. Not absent quiet. Just listening quiet. When Sunoo leans over to say something, Jungwon gives a short answer and nudges him back toward his worksheet. It is almost funny, how serious he tries to be when everyone else is halfway out of their chairs with excitement.
Near the end of class, Mrs. Henderson passes back quizzes. Mine lands facedown on my desk with a red 88 at the top when I flip it over.
I stare at it.
Jenna leans over. “Oh, nice.”
“It’s an 88.”
“That’s good.”
“It doesn’t feel real.”
“Just take the win.”
I put the paper away before she can say more.
The bell rings, and the classroom immediately comes apart. Chairs scrape, bags zip, voices rise again. Jenna is still packing when I stand.
“I have to stop by Mr. Erikson’s room before AP English,” she says, shoving her planner into her bag. “He wants me to double-check the yearbook captions before they go to print. Apparently someone spelled ‘principal’ wrong three times.”
“That feels like something he could email.”
“He tried. Half the doc got messed up.” She shrugs. “He said it’d be faster if I just looked at it in person.”
“Fair.”
She swings her camera bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at lunch. Do not let anyone talk you out of the meeting before I can talk you into it.”
“I make no promises.”
“That’s your brand.”
She disappears into the hall before I can respond.
I step into the traffic of students and turn toward the history wing. I make it maybe six feet before someone falls into step beside me.
Not Jenna.
Jungwon.
For a second, I think he is just passing by. The hallway is crowded. People end up near each other all the time. That is the entire problem with hallways.
Then he slows to match my pace.
“You have History, right?” he asks.
I look at him.
He looks back, casual enough that I almost believe he did not just remember my schedule.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I’m going that way.”
He is not, actually.
At least, I don’t think he is. I have never paid enough attention to his post-Chemistry route to be certain, and I am absolutely not about to start acting like someone who has a map of his movements filed away in my head.
Even if I kind of do.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
Great.
Very normal.
Jungwon adjusts the strap of his backpack. Up close, he looks even better than yesterday. There is color in his face again, and his hair is messy in a way that looks accidental rather than tragic. No visible bruises. No obvious pain. Nothing that says he had held a bus with his body and webbing two days ago.
Maybe that should make me feel relieved.
It does.
Mostly.
For a few steps, neither of us says anything. The noise of the hallway fills in around us. People talk about dresses and rides and whether the guest policy will let them bring someone from Graystone High. Someone complains that seniors only means the juniors are going to be unbearable about it. Someone else is already arguing that the theme should not be masquerade because “masks are overdone.”
Jungwon glances sideways at me. “You going to the meeting?”
I pull my sleeves over my hands. “Jenna thinks I am.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” I say, then think about it. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Strong answer.”
“I like to stay flexible.”
He nods like he is considering that seriously. “Jenna joining?”
“Obviously.”
“For photos?”
“For photos, for planning… and for knowing stuff she definitely wasn’t supposed to find.”
“That sounds right.”
I look at him then, because his voice has changed a little. Not much. Just easier. Like we have done this before. Like walking to class together is not something new enough to make my chest feel crowded.
“You know Jenna pretty well?” I ask.
“Not really.” He shifts his backpack again. “She talks to everyone.”
“That is true.”
“She also asked me last year if I would answer three questions for yearbook and then somehow asked twelve.”
“That is also true.”
“I didn’t mind.”
Most people probably don’t. Jenna has a way of making attention feel less like a spotlight and more like she saved you a seat near a window.
“I think she collects people,” I say.
Jungwon looks over. “Collects?”
“Not in a creepy way. She just notices them. Then suddenly she’s involved in their lives.”
His mouth curves slightly. “You speaking from experience?”
“Maybe.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“Perhaps.”
His smile stays for a second longer than I expect.
My stomach flips, and I hate it. Not because I don’t understand it. I do. I’ve known what this is for a while now.
That’s the problem.
It feels good in a way that makes me forget, for a second, that it doesn’t matter.
That whatever this is, whatever I feel, it’s not something he’s going to choose.
I keep my eyes forward and let it happen anyway.
We pass the main stairwell. A group of girls near the railing are talking fast about possible Homecoming dresses, one of them showing the others something on her phone. The image is too bright and sparkly from the corner of my eye.
Jungwon follows my glance. “You excited?”
“For Homecoming?”
“No, for reaction rates.”
I give him a look.
He lifts a hand slightly. “Sorry.”
It is not a one-liner. Not exactly. Just the kind of dry comment people make when they are comfortable enough to fill a silence.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t think about it before today.”
“Because of everything?”
“Yeah.” I adjust my grip on my bag. “It feels weird. Like the school is just… moving on.”
Jungwon’s expression settles.
Not dark. Not even sad. Just quieter.
“I don’t think people know what else to do,” he says.
The words are simple. They sound like something he has already told himself.
I nod. “Maybe.”
We walk a little farther.
Then he says, “You should go to the meeting.”
I look at him. “Why?”
“You’re good at that stuff.”
“What stuff?”
He gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. “Making things look like they mean something.”
The hallway noise seems to dip for half a second, though I know it doesn’t.
I look away first. “That’s kind of vague.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
“I know.”
And I do know. That is the problem.
Before I can figure out what to do with my face, a voice calls from behind us.
“Jungwon.”
He slows.
So do I, because apparently my body has decided we are doing things together now.
Heeseung catches up first, with Sunoo half a step behind him and Jake trailing close enough to look included but not rushed. Jay is a few feet back, eyes on his phone, walking like he trusts everyone else to move out of his way.
Sunoo looks from Jungwon to me, then back again. His eyebrows lift.
Not a lot.
Enough.
“Morning, Liya,” he says.
“Morning.”
Jake gives a small wave. “Hey.”
Jay looks up from his phone. “You’re in History next?”
It takes me a second to realize he is asking me.
“Yeah.”
He nods once. “Hawthorne’s in a mood.”
I blink. “How do you know?”
“She passed me earlier and told two freshmen their whispering lacked commitment.”
Sunoo exhales through his nose. “That’s not a mood. That’s her personality.”
“It was more intense than usual,” Jay says.
Jungwon has gone quieter beside me.
Not silent. Not uncomfortable in a way anyone else would notice. But the easy rhythm from a minute ago has tucked itself away. His shoulders settle differently under his hoodie. His face stays relaxed, but the relaxation looks chosen.
I notice.
I wish I didn’t.
Heeseung notices me noticing, which is worse.
His gaze flicks briefly from Jungwon to me, then away. He does not say anything. That feels deliberate.
Sunoo shifts his books against his chest. “So, Homecoming.”
Jake makes a sound. “Here we go.”
“What?” Sunoo says. “We’re seniors. We’re allowed to care about one school event.”
“You care about every school event.”
“I mean… yeah.”
Jay slips his phone into his pocket. “That’s not a defense.”
“It’s just true.”
“It means you have too much time.”
Sunoo ignores him and looks at me. “Are you joining the committee?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“You should. Amy-Jane’s running it, so at least it won’t be a disaster.”
Jungwon looks down.
Very fast.
Not fast enough.
Heeseung sees it and smiles a little, the kind that does not reach his whole face but knows exactly what it is doing.
“Speaking of Amy-Jane,” he says.
Jungwon’s head lifts. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything yet.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe I was going to say she’ll probably pick a good theme.”
Jungwon gives him a flat look.
Sunoo glances at Jake. “He’s already getting defensive.”
Jake snorts. “Yeah, bad sign”
“It’s not a sign,” Jungwon says.
Jay looks at him. “It’s kind of a sign.”
I keep walking.
My face stays normal. I know because I make it stay normal.
Heeseung steps around a slower group of students, still looking at Jungwon. “Are you asking her?”
There it is.
Simple. Casual. The kind of question friends ask when a dance gets announced and everyone starts pretending they are not thinking about who they want to go with.
Jungwon’s ears go pink first.
Then his cheeks.
He looks younger all of a sudden. Not childish. Just caught. A senior boy in a crowded hallway being teased by his friends because he likes someone and does not know how to be normal about it.
It’s just normal.
Maybe that’s why he relaxes a little.
“Can we not do this here?” he asks.
Sunoo’s eyes widen. “That is so not a no.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly.”
Jake looks amused but not cruel. “You’ve had time.”
“Not really.”
“You’ve had months,” Heeseung says.
Jungwon looks at him. “That is not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help. I’m asking.”
Jay glances toward the far end of the hallway. “If you wait too long, someone else will.”
Jungwon’s face changes at that. Not much, but enough. The embarrassment stays, but something more serious moves underneath it.
He does like her.
Of course he does.
I already knew that. I knew it yesterday. I knew it in Algebra. I knew it when Amy-Jane touched his sleeve in the cafeteria and he watched her leave like he had forgotten there were other directions to look.
Knowing something does not stop it from landing hard.
I adjust the strap of my bag and look ahead.
The feeling in my chest is not sharp enough to make me want to leave. It is not dramatic enough for that. It is just there, a small drop, then a smaller recovery.
Jungwon is still walking beside me.
That is also true.
Both things can be true. Apparently, that is my life now.
Sunoo looks at me suddenly, as if remembering I am there and perhaps realizing this entire conversation has been happening in front of someone outside their usual circle.
“Sorry,” he says, actually sounding a little sorry. “We’re being annoying.”
“You’re fine,” I say.
“You can say we’re annoying.”
“You’re annoying.”
He brightens. “See? Honest.”
Jay looks at me for a second, then says, “You get used to it.”
“Do I have to?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That almost gets a laugh out of him.
Jungwon glances at me, and there is something grateful in it. Or maybe I am making that up because I want to.
We reach the turn for the history wing. The hallway narrows here, the walls lined with old class photos and framed maps that probably cost too much to look so faded. Sunghoon and Ni-ki stand near Mrs. Hawthorne’s door, talking quietly. Ni-ki spots the group first, his gaze moving over all of us before settling on Jungwon.
Something passes between them.
Not a look anyone could explain.
Just a check.
Jungwon gives a tiny nod.
Ni-ki looks away.
Sunghoon’s eyes land on me. He nods too, polite and unreadable. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
Jungwon stops just before the classroom door.
For a second, I think he is going to keep walking with the boys. Instead, he turns slightly toward me.
“I’ll see you later?” he asks.
The question is casual.
It should not make my pulse trip.
“At lunch?” I ask, because apparently I need specifics to function.
“Yeah.” He pauses. “Or seventh. If Jenna wins.”
“She usually does.”
“I’ve noticed.”
There is a brief silence. Not awkward exactly. Just aware.
Then Sunoo calls, “Jungwon, you coming or what?”
Jungwon closes his eyes for half a second.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.
“Go,” I say.
He looks at me once more, like he wants to say something else but decides against it. “Yeah. See you.”
“See you.”
He walks off with the boys, his pace easy again, Sunoo already talking at his side. Heeseung leans closer to say something I cannot hear, and Jungwon shoves him lightly by the shoulder, embarrassed but smiling now.
Relaxed.
Because of Amy-Jane.
Because of them.
Because for one short stretch of hallway, he gets to be a person with a crush and friends who make it everyone’s problem.
I stand there a second too long.
Ni-ki looks at me from beside the door. Not rudely. Just enough to make me realize I am blocking traffic.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping aside.
He shrugs. “Hawthorne’s already mad.”
“That does seem to be the theme.”
Sunghoon opens the classroom door. “She said if one more person mentions Homecoming before the bell, she’s assigning a reflection essay.”
I look into the room.
Half the class is already whispering about Homecoming.
Mrs. Hawthorne stands at the board with her hands folded in front of her, watching all of us like she has been personally betrayed by joy.
I take my seat near the window and pull out my notebook.
Outside, the courtyard trees shift in a light wind. A few leaves break loose and scatter across the stone path below, dry enough to scrape instead of stick. The sky is clearer than it has been all week.
I write the date at the top of the page.
September 11.
Then, because my brain is apparently determined to be difficult, I write underneath it:
Homecoming.
I stare at the word until Mrs. Hawthorne begins class.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙫𝙚: 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙨
The day after something terrible happens, the city does not know how to be quiet about it.
It wakes up hungry.
By the time I come downstairs Wednesday morning, Dad is already standing in the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced against the counter like it is the only thing keeping him from walking through a wall. The coffee machine spits and gurgles behind him. The smell of it is too sharp in the room, bitter enough to scrape the back of my throat.
The Sentinel sits unopened on the table.
Not folded halfway this time. Not flattened under Dad’s palm. Just there, sealed in its plastic sleeve, rainwater still clinging to the edges from where he must have grabbed it off the porch and then thought better of it.
He hasn’t read it yet.
“No,” he says into the phone.
A pause.
His eyes close, but his voice stays level. “No, Victor. My answer didn’t change overnight.”
I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Dad’s shoulders are tight beneath his dress shirt. He must have gotten ready for work by habit, but he looks like he has no intention of going anywhere. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the knot half-formed and forgotten. On the counter beside him, his camera bag sits open with nothing inside but the lens cloth, folded neatly like a surrender.
He listens for another few seconds.
Then his jaw shifts.
“She is not giving a statement,” he says. “Not to you. Not to The Sentinel. Not to any affiliate who thinks calling me from a different number makes the question new.”
I grip the banister.
The house feels too still around his voice. Upstairs, the bathroom fan hums faintly because I forgot to turn it off. Outside, a car rolls over wet pavement, tires whispering past the curb. Ordinary sounds. Indifferent ones.
Dad’s voice drops lower.
“No, I’m not refusing because I have something to hide. I’m refusing because my daughter is not a prop in your argument.” He goes quiet as Victor speaks over him. I can tell he is speaking over him by the way Dad’s mouth flattens, the way his free hand curls against the countertop. “I don’t care which side you think you’re helping. You’re not using her to condemn Spider-Man or twist what happened into something it wasn’t.”
A faint buzzing comes from the phone. Victor’s voice is muffled, sharp, impossible to make out.
Dad laughs once.
There is no humor in it.
“You printed my photos under captions I didn’t write,” he says. “So don’t talk to me about trust.”
The silence after that is immediate.
I wonder if Victor hung up first or if Dad did. It doesn’t matter. Dad lowers the phone slowly, staring at the screen like he might still be able to see the man through it.
I shift my weight.
The floorboard gives a small complaint beneath my foot.
Dad turns.
For one second, his face is still the one he used on the phone: hard, cold, older than it should be. Then he sees me, and something in him rearranges itself too quickly. The anger doesn’t disappear. It only gets pushed behind the place where he keeps me.
“Morning,” he says.
I let go of the banister. “Morning.”
He looks past me toward the stairs, as if checking whether I have all my limbs despite having slept in my own room. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The word comes out automatic.
Dad’s expression tells me he hates it as much as I do.
I cross the kitchen and pull out the chair across from the newspaper. The plastic sleeve catches the gray morning light, making the headline underneath unreadable. I stare at it anyway.
“Was that work?” I ask.
Dad sets his phone facedown on the counter. “Technically.”
“That means Victor.”
“That means Victor.”
I nod once.
The coffee machine stops with a final wet hiss. Dad reaches for a mug and pours without drinking any of it. His movements are careful. Too careful. He has been up for a while. Maybe all night. His eyes have the red, dry look of someone who tried sleeping and lost.
“They want to interview me?” I ask.
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
I look at him.
Dad exhales. “Yes. But the answer is no.”
“I wasn’t saying I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say no like I was about to sign a contract?”
He looks down into his coffee. “Because people are very good at making young women feel rude for protecting themselves.”
The sentence lands quietly.
I don’t know what to do with it, so I look back at the paper.
“They have videos,” I say.
“They have too many.”
“Of me?”
Dad doesn’t answer right away.
My stomach tightens.
“Dad.”
“There are clips from different angles,” he says carefully. “Most of them are focused on the bus and Spider-Man. Some show you near the doors.”
“Near the doors,” I repeat.
He hears the accusation in it and closes his eyes for half a second. “Helping the boy down.”
I sit back.
My hands are cold, though the kitchen is warm. I remember the weight of Milo’s coat in my hands, the hard pull in my shoulders when he slid from the step, the awful certainty that if I didn’t keep my voice steady, he would look back at the street and freeze all over again.
The memory had felt private last night, somehow. Not secret. Just mine.
Now the city has it.
Dad picks up the paper, still in the sleeve, and moves it away from me.
That makes me look at him.
“I’m not five.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
“Then don’t move things like I can’t handle them.”
He flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to regret the edge in my voice as soon as it leaves me.
He sets the paper back down.
“There’s a difference between handling something and being forced to swallow it,” he says.
I look away first.
“I don’t hate him,” Dad says.
I glance back.
His eyes are on the table now, not on me. “Spider-Man.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
He wraps both hands around his mug but still doesn’t drink. “I’m grateful to him. I don’t know how not to be. Whatever else is true, he has kept you alive more than once, and I have to live with the fact that a stranger in a mask has been able to reach you faster than I have.”
The honesty in that sits between us, heavier than the newspaper.
“But gratitude doesn’t mean I trust everything around him,” Dad continues. “The police, the mayor, Kane, the people online turning him into either a saint or a disease. Once they decide you mean something, they stop seeing you as a person. I won’t let them do that to you.”
My throat tightens.
There are easier things to argue with than love that knows exactly what it is afraid of.
“I didn’t mean for anyone to film me.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to be part of anything.”
“I know that too.”
“But it doesn’t matter.”
Dad finally lifts his coffee and takes a sip. His face tightens like it tastes worse than expected. “No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”
That is the first honest thing either of us says all morning.
The rules come after.
Not all at once. Dad tries to make them sound practical, which somehow makes them worse. I go straight to school. I keep my phone on. I do not talk to anyone with a camera, a microphone, a badge, a blog, or a sentence that starts with “just between us.” I come home immediately after last period. No art club. No library after hours. No stopping at The Literary Nook with Jenna. No walking home.
“I have free period at the end of the day,” I remind him.
“You spend it on campus.”
“That is what free period means.”
He gives me a look.
I hold up my hands. “I’m not arguing. I’m clarifying.”
“You are doing both.”
“Efficiently.”
His mouth twitches, but the almost-smile dies before it can become anything useful. “I’ll pick you up at dismissal.”
“You have work.”
“I have sick time.”
“You’re not sick.”
“I have stress,” he says flatly. “Plenty of it.”
I lower my gaze to the table.
The Sentinel waits between us, untouched.
“Are you going to get in trouble?” I ask.
“For refusing Victor?”
“For refusing everyone.”
Dad’s hand tightens around the mug. “Probably.”
The answer makes something twist behind my ribs. “Dad.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I hate that. I hate the calm in it more. The way adults can say they will deal with things when what they mean is they have already chosen what damage they are willing to take.
The drive to Daylight Academy is worse than the kitchen.
At least in the kitchen, the fear had walls.
Outside, the city has already started building its version of yesterday.
Two news vans idle across from the front gates when Dad pulls up. Their satellite masts rise into the gray sky like insects’ legs. A reporter in a beige coat stands near the curb with a paper coffee cup in one hand, speaking to a cameraman who keeps glancing toward the school entrance. Police tape still blocks part of the drop-off lane. The broken streetlight is gone, but the pavement where it fell is scraped raw, pale scars cutting through the dark asphalt.
The bus is gone too.
The webbing is not.
Not all of it. Thin white remnants cling to the stone pillars and the edge of the curb, torn where workers must have cut the lines loose. They look strange in daylight. Less miraculous. More like evidence.
Dad parks farther down the block than usual.
Neither of us moves.
Students walk past in clusters, heads bent together, voices low and bright with the nervous energy people get after being close to danger but not close enough to be permanently changed by it. Some look toward the news vans. Some take pictures. A few point at the damaged curb.
One girl lifts her phone toward the entrance, filming.
A teacher steps in front of her and lowers it with one look.
Dad watches all of it through the windshield.
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he says.
“I know.”
“If someone corners you—”
“I find a teacher.”
“If a reporter approaches you—”
“I don’t answer.”
“If a student records you—”
“Dad.”
He stops.
His fingers flex around the steering wheel, then loosen. “Sorry.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “You don’t have to apologize for being worried.”
“I do if it starts turning you into an inmate.”
I look at him then.
He keeps his eyes forward, jaw set, like he regrets the sentence but not enough to take it back.
For a moment, I see him the way he must have been before my mother died. Younger. Still serious, probably, but not this sharpened by loss. Not always braced for the world to collect what he loves.
“I’ll text you,” I say.
He nods. “Please.”
I get out before either of us can make the goodbye heavier than it already is.
The morning air smells like wet stone and exhaust. I cross toward the entrance with my bag tight against one shoulder, aware of every phone in every hand even when none are pointed at me. The school looks almost normal from the outside, which feels insulting. Same brick. Same windows. Same banners announcing fall clubs and senior meetings. Only the police tape and the scratched pavement admit anything happened.
Halfway up the steps, Jenna appears from behind one of the columns.
She has her camera bag across her chest, but the camera itself is not out. That is how I know she is worried.
“You made it,” she says.
“Barely. My dad almost installed a tracking device in my spine.”
Jenna’s eyes flick toward the news vans. “Give him a day. He may still shop around.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He is exactly that bad with better vocabulary.”
I breathe out, not quite laughing.
Jenna studies my face more carefully than she wants me to notice. Her curls are loose today, falling around her shoulders instead of pinned back, and there is a faint crease between her brows that makes her look older. She glances once toward the reporters, then steps closer so her voice doesn’t carry.
“People are talking.”
“I assumed.”
“Not everyone. But enough.”
“About the bus?”
“About everything.” She hesitates. “About Spider-Man talking to you after.”
My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag.
The image comes back before I can stop it: the burn mark along his side, the tremor in his hand, the careful distance he kept between us. The way he asked if I was okay like the answer mattered more than the police closing in behind him.
“He asked about the kid,” I say.
“I know.”
I look at her.
Jenna’s mouth presses into a thin line. “There’s video.”
Of course there is.
The words settle without surprise. I think that makes them worse.
“Can you hear us?” I ask.
“No. Not really. Too much noise.” Her gaze moves over my face. “But people don’t need sound to make up dialogue.”
A group of juniors passes us on the steps, lowering their voices too late. One of them looks at me, then away. Another whispers something that makes the others go quiet.
Jenna turns her head slowly.
They walk faster.
“Don’t do that all day,” I murmur.
“Do what?”
“Look at people like you’re judging them.”
“Because I am.”
“Jenna.”
Her expression softens, but only a little. “I’m serious. Don’t answer questions. Not because you did anything wrong. Because people aren’t asking so they can understand. They’re asking so they can repeat it worse.”
The sentence lands too close to something Dad would say, but from Jenna it sounds less like a locked door and more like a hand at my back.
“Okay,” I say.
She nods once, satisfied enough for now. “Good. We have English first. Erikson will either handle this gracefully or turn it into a lesson about public narratives.”
“He would.”
“He absolutely would.”
Inside, Daylight Academy smells like rain-damp uniforms, floor polish, and the burnt dust of old radiators being forced back to life too early in the season. The hallway noise is wrong. Not quieter exactly, but uneven. Conversations stop as we pass and then restart behind us with the careful softness of people pretending they were never talking about us in the first place.
By the time we reach AP English, I feel peeled open.
Mr. Erikson is already at the board, writing the date in his thin, slanted handwriting. Wednesday. September 10th. Beneath it, he has written one sentence:
WHO OWNS A STORY ONCE IT BECOMES PUBLIC?
Jenna sees it and gives me a look.
I stare at the board.
Of course.
Mr. Erikson turns when the warning bell chimes, marker still in hand. His eyes pass over the room, pausing briefly on me. Not long enough to make a spectacle. Long enough to say he knows exactly what he is doing.
“Before anyone decides to test my patience this morning,” he says, setting the marker down, “we are not using this class to interrogate classmates.”
A few people shift in their seats.
My face heats anyway.
“We are, however,” he continues, “going to discuss the difference between witnessing an event and consuming it. Those are not the same action, despite what half the city seems determined to prove.”
Jenna leans closer without looking at me. “Graceful and lesson. He found a way.”
I keep my eyes on my notebook.
The class does not talk about me directly.
That is almost worse.
They talk around me. Around Spider-Man. Around the bus. Around headlines and public safety and whether fear makes people more honest or more useful. Mr. Erikson keeps the conversation sharp but contained, redirecting anyone who gets too close to turning the room into a comment section.
Amy-Jane sits two rows ahead of me.
Her hair is pulled back with a dark ribbon today, simple and neat, the kind of detail that makes her look like she belongs in the warm light of a painting. She listens more than she speaks at first, pen resting between her fingers. When someone near the windows says the media has a responsibility to show every angle, she finally turns.
“Showing every angle isn’t the same as using every angle responsibly,” she says.
The room quiets slightly.
She does not look at me.
“A person can be visible in something and still not belong to the public,” she continues. “Being filmed doesn’t mean someone consented to become evidence.”
Mr. Erikson watches her with the faintest lift of his brow.
The boy by the window shrugs. “But if it happened in public, people are allowed to talk about it.”
“Allowed doesn’t mean careful,” Amy-Jane says. Her voice stays even. Not defensive. Not eager to win. “And careful matters when people are scared.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Jenna is very still beside me.
I lower my gaze to my notebook and draw a line down the margin, then another. The pencil leaves dark marks against the paper. I tell myself Amy-Jane could be talking about anyone. Spider-Man. The bus driver. The man with the electrical brace. The city. Maybe she is.
Maybe that is why it matters.
Because she does not need to know everything to be kind.
After class, people gather their things slower than usual. Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Conversations restart in careful fragments.
Jenna waits for me by the door, but Amy-Jane reaches my desk first.
She does not crowd me. She stops at a reasonable distance, books held against her chest, eyes steady but not prying.
“Liya?”
I slide my notebook into my bag. “Yeah?”
“I saw one of the pictures from yesterday.”
My stomach drops before I can stop it.
Amy-Jane notices. Her expression shifts immediately. “Not the one people keep sharing of Spider-Man. The other one. Near the bus doors.”
I look down at my bag zipper. “Oh.”
“I just wanted to say…” She pauses, searching for the right words instead of grabbing the easiest ones. “I thought what you did was cool. Not in the way people online mean it. I mean it was brave, but quiet.”
“I didn’t really do anything,” I say.
Amy-Jane’s mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “That’s what people say when they did something.”
I don’t know how to answer that.
Jenna steps beside me, not interrupting, but making her presence known. Amy-Jane glances at her and gives a small nod.
“I’m not trying to make it weird,” Amy-Jane says. “I just thought you should hear it from someone who isn’t asking for details.”
That is what makes me look at her.
She means it.
There is no angle in her face. No hunger. No little flicker of wanting a secret she can carry back to someone else. She is only standing there, being decent in a way that makes my jealousy feel childish even though I know it is not.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
Amy-Jane nods again, then shifts her books in her arms. “I’ll see you in Art.”
“Yeah.”
She leaves with the same composed ease she seems to bring everywhere.
Jenna watches her go.
After a moment, she says, “That was inconveniently nice.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah.”
“I hate when people make it hard to dislike them.”
“I don’t dislike her.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
We both start walking.
The hallway has grown crowded between periods, bodies moving in both directions, lockers clanging open, teachers calling for people not to block the stairs. A few students look at me with open curiosity. Most try to be subtle and fail.
At the far end of the hall, near the corridor that cuts toward the cafeteria and back gym entrance, I see Jungwon.
My steps slow before I can stop them.
He stands with Jay, Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Ni-ki clustered close enough to form a wall without looking like they mean to. Jungwon’s backpack hangs off one shoulder. His posture is almost normal, but only almost. He holds himself too carefully on the left side.
The sight of him in uniform after yesterday feels wrong.
Jenna follows my gaze, then exhales quietly.
“I’m gonna head to class,” she says. “Text me if anything weird happens.”
“I will.”
She gives me a quick look—checking, not pushing—then slips into the crowd and disappears.
I stay.
We are too far away to hear at first. Students pass between us, breaking the view into pieces: Heeseung’s serious profile, Jay’s hand moving as he talks, Sunoo’s worried expression, Jungwon looking down instead of at any of them.
Then the crowd thins.
Jay’s voice reaches me, low but sharp. “You could barely stand yesterday.”
Jungwon answers quietly. “I’m fine now.”
“That’s not the point,” Heeseung says.
Sunghoon leans back against the lockers, arms crossed. “You disappeared for almost an hour.”
“I had to make sure no one followed.”
“And you came back looking like shit,” Jay says. “Don’t act like that’s normal.”
Jungwon’s jaw tightens. “I handled it.”
Ni-ki looks at him. “That’s not what we’re arguing about.”
No one laughs.
Jungwon looks down at the floor.
Sunoo steps closer, voice softer. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t have helped.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Jay asks.
Jake nudges him lightly, but Jay doesn’t back off.
Jungwon looks up, tired in a way he doesn’t usually let show. “There were people stuck. What was I supposed to do?”
“We know,” Heeseung says. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just worn out.
Heeseung takes a second. “You don’t tell us anything.”
Jungwon looks away.
“You don’t ask for help,” Heeseung continues. “You don’t even give us a heads-up. You just disappear and expect us to cover for you after.”
Jungwon’s voice drops. “I’m not asking you to cover for me.”
Jay lets out a short breath. “Yeah, you are. Every time you vanish, we’re the ones standing there making excuses.”
“I’m not dragging you into it.”
“You already did,” Jay says. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
Jungwon’s shoulders tense. “It’s better if you’re not involved.”
Sunghoon pushes off the lockers. “You don’t get to decide that for everyone.”
Jungwon looks at him, something tight passing between them. “What then?” he says, voice low but edged now. “Do you want me to let you help out Spider-Man and get yourselves killed? I’m still figuring this out—it’s only been six months—”
Before anyone can say anything else, a voice cuts in.
“Jungwon?”
Everyone turns.
Amy-Jane stands a few feet away with a black notebook in her hands.
The shift is immediate.
Jay straightens. Sunoo steps back. Jake looks away. Heeseung’s expression smooths out. Sunghoon pulls his phone out like he’s been checking it the whole time. Ni-ki glances at Jungwon, then looks down.
Jungwon straightens too quickly.
I see the flicker of pain before he hides it.
Amy-Jane notices something.
Her brows draw together.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing at the group. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Jungwon says.
Too fast.
Jay looks away.
Sunoo presses his lips together.
Amy-Jane steps closer and holds out the notebook. “You left this in Algebra yesterday. Mrs. Jensen gave it to me.”
Jungwon takes it.
Their fingers brush.
It’s quick.
But not nothing.
“I spoke with the teacher after the bell rang,” she adds. “She gave me some helpful tips I thought you might want to know.”
Jungwon looks down at the notebook, then back at her. His expression softens, just a little.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You looked like you needed it.”
The boys go quiet.
Jungwon doesn’t answer right away.
Amy-Jane studies him more closely this time, her gaze lingering in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She tilts her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You say that a lot.”
His eyes flick toward the others, then back to her too quickly, like he didn’t mean to return his attention so fast.
Sunoo looks down, hiding a knowing smile.
Jay’s expression goes blank, but his brows lift just slightly.
“I’m just tired,” Jungwon says, quieter now.
Amy-Jane hums softly, unconvinced. She shifts her weight, stepping just a little closer than necessary. “Then eat something,” she says, her voice gentler but more certain. “You forget when you’re tired.”
She says it like it’s not a guess.
Like she’s noticed.
Jungwon blinks, caught off guard in a way that shows more than he probably wants. “I won’t.”
“You will,” she replies, a hint of teasing slipping into her tone.
For a second, he just looks at her.
Really looks.
His shoulders loosen a fraction, something soft breaking through the careful control he’s been holding all morning. “Maybe,” he admits, almost under his breath.
That almost makes him smile.
Not fully.
But enough that it lingers a second longer than it should.
I look away.
The hallway noise fills back in around them, like nothing happened.
I start walking again before I can stand there any longer.
The crowd closes in, and they disappear behind it.
For the rest of the morning, I feel like I am carrying something fragile under my ribs.
P.E. is held inside the gym, even though the doors to the outdoor track and football field stand open at the far end. Coach Thompson has apparently decided none of us need “additional opportunities to act stupid near vehicles,” which is how he phrases trauma when he does not want to use the word, so he keeps us away from the entrance that leads back toward the drop-off lane.
We spend the period under the harsh white lights, doing half-hearted stretches and a short set of laps around the court instead of heading outside. No one complains as much as usual. Even the people who normally treat P.E. like state-sanctioned suffering seem relieved to stay contained somewhere with walls.
Jungwon runs three lanes ahead of me.
He keeps pace for the first two laps. On the third, his steps shorten. On the fourth, his left hand presses briefly against his side before he drops it again.
No one else seems to notice.
That is not true.
Sunghoon notices from the bleachers, even though he is pretending to tie his shoe. Jake notices from the far side of the court. Jenna notices because she notices me noticing.
Coach Thompson blows his whistle. “Walk it out. Nobody needs to prove anything to me today.”
Jungwon slows with everyone else, face calm, breath carefully measured. He does not look at me.
I am grateful for that.
I hate that I am grateful for that.
After P.E., Art feels almost indecently peaceful.
The room smells like paint water, graphite, and clay dust. Rainlight presses softly through the high windows, turning the tables silver at the edges. Ms. Hartman has pinned a new sheet of instructions to the board, but most of the class ignores it until she taps the paper twice and gives us the look that means she can outwait anyone.
“Don’t turn your mural into a memorial unless you actually have a reason for it,” she says. “The city isn’t just what scared you yesterday. It’s also everything you noticed before and after.”
A few students glance at me.
Ms. Hartman does not.
That is why I like her.
I take my usual seat near the windows. Amy-Jane sits two tables over at first, but after Ms. Hartman finishes explaining the day’s work, she brings her sketchbook and moves to the empty stool across from mine.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She sets her things down carefully. Her sketchbook is already open, full of clean lines and small notes written in the margins. I catch glimpses of buildings threaded with vines, a cracked road, flowers growing through places flowers should not survive.
I look away before it becomes staring.
For a while, we work in quiet.
It is not uncomfortable, exactly. It is strange because it could be comfortable if I let it, and I don’t know what to do with that. Amy-Jane does not force conversation. She shades the corner of a building with the side of her pencil, slow and patient. I darken the windows on my own sketch until they begin to look like eyes.
Eventually, she says, “People are being weird with you.”
I pause. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
“That’s generous.”
She smiles faintly. “Very.”
I look down at my page. “It’ll pass.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe not. But it also kind of doesn’t matter as much as it feels like it does right now. We’re graduating this year. In a few months, most people are going to be too busy worrying about college or their grades to care about any of this. And after that… I probably won’t even see most of them again.”
Amy-Jane nods slowly. “That’s true,” she says. “People move on faster than they think they will.”
Then she adds, “But I think people also like patterns. And you’ve been near Spider-Man more than once.”
The pencil stills in my hand.
Amy-Jane’s expression changes when she realizes how it sounds. “I’m not saying that like I think you did something wrong.”
“I know.”
“I just mean people notice repetition before they understand context.”
That sounds like something Mr. Erikson would appreciate too much.
I resume shading, though the lines come out heavier now. “There isn’t much context.”
Amy-Jane does not answer immediately.
When she does, her voice is careful. “Maybe not one you can explain.”
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes on her sketch, but there is nothing absent about her. She is paying attention. Maybe she always is. Maybe that is the problem.
“You sound like you know something,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head slightly. “I just know people don’t always get to explain themselves.”
That should comfort me.
Instead, I think of Jungwon in the hallway with the boys around him—the way they closed in without meaning to, the way every word carried more weight than it should have. How he stood there, trying to hold two versions of himself apart with nothing but willpower, even as they pressed against each other. He never asked them to understand everything, but they did anyway, and it only made things harder.
And he never asks me either.
But I see it. The effort it takes for him to keep those worlds separate, to carry what he does without letting it spill into everything else. I understand, even if he doesn’t say it out loud, that it isn’t my place to step into that space or try to untangle it for him. Whatever he’s dealing with, whatever he’s protecting—it’s heavier than anything I could fix.
All I can do is respect it.
And maybe, in some small way, make things easier by not asking for more than he can give.
Amy-Jane looks up then. “I really did mean what I said earlier. About yesterday.”
My throat tightens with a tired kind of embarrassment. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I know.” She taps her pencil lightly against the edge of her sketchbook. “I’m not trying to make you into a hero. I just think people sometimes deserve to know when they acted like a decent person in a situation where decency wasn’t convenient.”
The words are too kind to resent.
“Thanks,” I say.
Amy-Jane nods and looks back at her sketch.
For a few minutes, there is only the soft drag of pencils and Ms. Hartman moving between tables. Someone near the sink drops a brush and swears under their breath. Ms. Hartman says their name without looking up.
Amy-Jane’s pencil slows.
“Was Jungwon there when it happened?” she asks.
I keep my face still.
The question is simple. Normal. It should not feel like a hand closing around my wrist.
“At the front?” I ask.
“Yeah. I thought I saw him in one of the videos before things got bad, but it was blurry.”
My pulse moves into my throat.
I shade the edge of a rooftop too dark. “A lot of people were outside.”
“Right.” She nods, but her gaze drifts to the rain-streaked windows. “He seemed strange today.”
I say nothing.
Amy-Jane presses her lips together, then gives a small, self-conscious laugh that does not really sound like her. “Sorry. That came out like I was asking you to explain him.”
“I don’t think anyone can explain him.”
Her smile turns soft before she can hide it.
There it is.
Not dramatic at first—then it is. A faint flush rises along her cheeks, soft but unmistakable, blooming before she can hide it. It lingers there, betraying her in a way words never could.
Oh.
“No,” she says quietly. “Probably not.”
I look back at my sketch.
There are things a person can know without being told.
Amy-Jane likes him.
I don’t blame her for it. I’ve liked him long enough to understand how easily it happens, how quietly it settles in without asking permission. There’s something about him that draws people in—not loudly, not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that makes you want to stay, to notice, to care. And standing here, watching her, I can’t help but feel the difference between us. She fits into his world in a way that feels natural, like she belongs in the spaces he lets people see. I don’t know if I ever have.
She is already closer than I want her to be.
And worse, she deserves to be.
By Free Period, the school has settled into a strange, brittle rhythm.
The hallways are normal if you don’t look too closely. Students still complain about homework. Someone still drops a water bottle down the stairs. Two juniors argue outside the vending machines about whether a band’s second album is underrated or just bad. Life insists on returning to itself, even when the shape of it has changed.
I go to the library because there is nowhere else to go.
Dad has already texted twice.
Dad: Still picking you up at dismissal.
Dad: Stay inside until I get there.
I send back a thumbs-up, then delete it because he hates those when he is worried.
Me: I will.
The library is fuller than usual. Rainy days do that, but so does fear. People gather in quiet places after loud things happen. They pretend it is for homework.
I take the corner table near history and literature.
Jungwon does not come.
I tell myself I did not expect him to.
That is almost true.
Jenna joins me halfway through the period with a granola bar and the expression of someone carrying information she has decided I deserve but may not enjoy.
“I heard two freshmen say you’re Spider-Man’s civilian contact,” she says, sitting across from me.
I stare at her.
She unwraps the granola bar. “I’m not repeating it because I think it’s funny.”
“Civilian contact?”
“I know.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means they watched a couple videos and started making stuff up.”
I rub my forehead. “Great.”
“They also said he saved you from a falling helicopter last year, so I wouldn’t take their research seriously.”
“There wasn’t a helicopter.”
“I assumed.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin.
Jenna sets the granola bar down between us. “Eat half.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I, but I’m annoying myself less when I chew.”
I take half because refusing would become a larger conversation.
For a while, we sit in silence. Jenna opens her laptop and pretends to work. I pretend to sketch. The granola bar tastes like cardboard and chocolate chips trying their best.
Eventually, Jenna says, “Your dad still picking you up?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you mad?”
“At him?”
“At being watched.”
I think about it.
The easy answer is yes. The truer answer is harder to hold.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hate feeling trapped. But I know why he’s doing it.”
Jenna nods. “That makes it worse sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
“Because then you can’t even enjoy being mad.”
The bell rings before I have to answer.
At dismissal, I follow Dad’s instructions exactly.
I stay inside until his car pulls up. I do not linger near the reporters. I do not answer the sophomore who asks what really happened on the bus. I do not look toward the old science wing, even though part of me expects to see a red-and-blue figure vanish behind it again.
Dad is parked at the curb with the hazard lights on.
I slide into the passenger seat, and he looks me over before I even shut the door.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to with your face.”
He pulls away from the school. “My face has been through a lot.”
“Clearly.”
A small silence follows, not tense, not easy either, until Dad lets out a quiet chuckle like he actually found what I said funny.
He glances at me once we pass the news vans. “Did anyone bother you?”
“No reporters.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I lean my head against the seat. “People stared. Some asked things. Jenna handled most of it by making eye contact.”
“That sounds like something Jenna would do.”
“It is one of her public services.”
This time, Dad does smile, but it fades quickly.
At the next light, his phone starts ringing through the car speakers.
The screen on the dashboard shows The Sentinel.
Dad’s mouth hardens.
He declines the call.
Thirty seconds later, it rings again.
He declines it again.
When it starts a third time, he shuts the sound off completely.
I look out the window.
“I can answer questions if it makes things easier for you,” I say.
“No.”
“I don’t mean on camera. Just to your boss, or whoever needs—”
“No, Liya.”
The firmness in his voice shuts the sentence down.
I turn back to him.
His eyes stay on the road. “You don’t make yourself smaller to make my job easier.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were offering because you feel guilty.”
The words hit too close.
Dad exhales. “I know what that looks like. I’ve done it for most of my life.”
The light turns green.
We move forward.
For a while, the car holds only the muted thrum of traffic and rain beginning again, soft at first, then harder against the windshield. Dad turns the wipers on. They drag across the glass with a tired rhythm.
“I’m not angry that you helped the boy,” he says after several blocks.
I look at him.
“I’m angry that you were close enough to have to,” he continues. “Those are different things. I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and his voice strains around it like the words hurt. “I am. I wish I wasn’t so scared that it gets tangled up in everything else.”
The ache in my chest comes back.
I stare down at my hands.
The cut across my knuckle has started to close already, a thin red line beneath the skin.
“I don’t want to be a headline,” I say.
“I know.”
At home, Dad makes another pot of coffee, which feels medically unwise but emotionally predictable. I go upstairs before he can change his mind and add new rules to the existing ones.
My room is dim and gray with rainlight. I drop my bag by the desk and sit on the floor instead of the bed, back against the side of the mattress, knees drawn up. The mural sketch lies where I left it, half-tucked beneath a stack of books. The city in it looks more crowded than before, buildings leaning toward each other as if trying to overhear their own future.
My phone buzzes.
Jenna: alive?
Me: physically
Jenna: emotionally?
Me: under review
Jenna: acceptable
Jenna: eat something later or I’m telling your dad you looked pale
Me: you’re abusing your access to authority figures
Jenna: yes
I set the phone down, then pick it up again when it buzzes a minute later.
This time, it is Jungwon.
Jungwon: did your dad let you keep your phone
I stare at the message.
Something soft and foolish turns over in my chest.
Me: barely
Me: I think he considered mailing me to a safer state
The reply comes faster than I expect.
Jungwon: which state is safer
Me: none
Me: that was probably the issue
A pause.
Jungwon: makes sense
It is nothing.
I hold the phone with both hands and watch the bubbles appear, disappear, then appear again.
Jungwon: school was weird today
I lean my head back against the mattress.
Me: yeah
Jungwon: people kept talking about yesterday like they were reviewing a movie
The sentence sits on the screen.
I read it twice.
There is too much in it. Not enough to prove anything, but enough to feel like he has placed a hand against a door without opening it.
Me: I think people do that when something scares them
I wait, then add:
Me: turning it into a story makes it easier to deal with it
The bubbles appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Jungwon: maybe
I can almost see him on the other side of it. Sitting somewhere quiet. Maybe his room. Maybe some rooftop he should not be on with a healing burn hidden beneath his shirt. Maybe surrounded by friends who want too much from him, reaching for me because he thinks I don't know about his secret identity. I can settle with that as a fact.
Jungwon: did people bother you a lot
Me: not a lot
Me: Jenna scared most of them away
Jungwon: she can do that?
Me: she considers it community service
There is a pause long enough for me to hear Dad downstairs answer the house phone.
His voice rises through the floorboards, low and controlled.
“No. She isn’t available.”
My stomach tightens.
I look toward my closed door.
Dad continues, each word clipped clean. “You can tell Victor that calling the house crosses a line I’m happy to make very unpleasant for him.”
Silence.
Then: “Do not call here again.”
The phone clicks back into its cradle.
I stare at my bedroom door for a while.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Jungwon: you still there?
Me: yeah
Me: my dad’s downstairs arguing with reporters like it’s his full-time job
Jungwon: isn’t he a journalist
Me: that’s why it’s complicated
For a moment, the conversation feels almost normal.
Then Jungwon sends:
Jungwon: he’s right to keep them away from you
I stop.
The room seems to quiet around the message.
Me: you think so?
Jungwon: yeah
Another message follows.
Jungwon: people kinda decide what they want someone to be
Jungwon: and then get mad when they don’t fit it
I read it until the words stop looking like words.
The ache in them is not hidden well enough.
Me: is that about me or just everything?
The bubbles appear immediately.
Then disappear.
I regret sending it.
Not because it is cruel. It isn’t. But because it steps too close to the place we keep pretending not to see.
A full minute passes.
Jungwon: both, I guess
I let out a slow breath.
Both.
Not a confession. Not a slip. Nothing I can hold up to the light and name.
Still, something.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I could push. I could ask what he means. I could make him choose between the truth and another lie, and maybe some impatient part of me wants to, because wanting someone who keeps half of himself hidden begins to feel like waiting for someone who might not come back.
But then I remember the hallway.
The boys around him. Heeseung’s quiet anger. Jay’s fear disguised as frustration. Amy-Jane’s hand brushing his when she returned his notebook. The way Jungwon softened when she told him not to forget to eat.
He already has people asking for pieces of him.
So I give him something easier.
Me: for what it’s worth
Me: I think people are bad at letting anyone be just a person
The reply comes after a few seconds.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: you’re good at making depressing things sound reasonable
I look at the message.
A small laugh escapes me, tired but real.
Me: that might be my only skill
Jungwon: not your only one
My fingers still.
Me: what else am I good at then?
The bubbles appear.
Disappear.
For once, he takes so long that I start to think he won’t answer.
Then:
Jungwon: staying calm when people need someone calm
I stare at the screen.
The room blurs slightly at the edges.
I think of Milo’s raincoat in my fists. The freshman girl’s hand clamped around my sleeve. Dad’s voice on the phone. Spider-Man’s mask turned toward me through the rain.
Me: I didn’t feel calm
Jungwon: that doesn’t always matter
The sentence sits there, quiet and sure.
I do not know what to do with being seen by him in a way he should not be able to explain.
Downstairs, a cabinet closes. Dad moves through the kitchen, probably cleaning things that are already clean because he can’t sit still. Rain taps against my window. The whole house feels held between one breath and another.
Jungwon texts again before I can answer.
Jungwon: did you work on your mural today?
The shift is obvious.
Me: a little
Jungwon: still depressing but not pointless?
My chest tightens around the memory of the library, of his tired face bent over my sketch, of him seeing the crowded city before he saw the hidden figure.
Me: that’s the goal
Jungwon: did you hide the hopeful part somewhere small?
I look toward my desk.
The mural sketch waits beneath my books, unfinished, with its rooftops, bridge, windows, and the small figure on the roof who might change the picture or might only be another shadow. I get up and pull the page free, and for a while I stand over it with my phone in one hand, studying the city I have drawn. My pencil lies beside the paper, and I pick it up, drawing in the narrow space between two buildings, almost too small to notice, a window with a light on—not bright, not enough to save the whole city.
Just there.
Then I take a picture and send it before I can think better of it.
Me: maybe
He reads it almost immediately.
No response comes for a while.
I sit back on the edge of my bed, phone balanced in my palm, listening to rain and the low murmur of Dad’s voice downstairs as another call comes in and gets refused. The city keeps reaching for us through wires, screens, headlines, other people’s mouths.
Then Jungwon replies.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: that works
It is not much.
Still, I hold the phone to my chest for one weak second before setting it facedown beside me.
Because I know how this goes.
Amy-Jane will return more notebooks. She will notice when he looks tired. She will say the right thing at the right time, not because she is trying to win something, but because kindness comes naturally to her in a way that makes people lean closer without realizing they have moved.
Jungwon will soften.
The boys will see it first. Maybe they already have.
My phone buzzes once more.
I reach for it too quickly.
Jungwon: rest tonight
I stare at the words until the screen dims.
Then I type back.
Me: you too
He does not answer again.
That is okay.
It has to be.
I set the phone down and return to the mural. Outside, rain drags silver lines down the glass. Downstairs, Dad tells someone from The Sentinel that no means no, his voice steady enough to sound like a locked door.
I shade the buildings darker.
I leave the small window lit.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙎𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨
Tuesday arrives without ceremony.
No thunder. No citywide sirens before breakfast. No headline loud enough to shake the kitchen windows. Just a thin, colorless morning pressing itself against the glass, light leaking through the curtains in tired strips while Dad stands at the counter with his coffee untouched and his phone balanced between his shoulder and ear.
I sit at the table with toast I have no real interest in eating, watching butter melt into the surface until it turns glossy and uneven. The house smells like burnt bread and old coffee, like every morning we have tried to pretend is normal.
Dad has The Sentinel open beside him. Not fully. Folded halfway, the way people fold things they don’t want to look at directly but can’t bring themselves to put away. Victor Kane’s name sits at the top of the page in sharp black print, attached to another opinion column about public safety and accountability. Spider-Man isn’t in the headline this time, but he is there anyway, buried between the lines like an infection.
Dad hasn’t said anything about it. That is how I know it’s bad.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone, voice flat. “I saw it.”
A pause.
His jaw tightens.
“No, I’m not giving you a quote for that.” He reaches for his coffee, forgets why, and sets his hand back down on the counter empty. “Because she's my daughter, and I’m not helping anyone make it worse.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
I pick at the corner of my toast, tearing off a piece and rolling it between my fingers until it turns soft and useless.
Dad’s eyes flick toward me. The irritation in his face shifts immediately into something quieter, careful. He lowers his voice, but not enough for me to miss the edge in it. “I have to take my daughter to school. We can talk later.”
He hangs up before whoever is on the other end can answer.
For a moment, the kitchen settles into the kind of silence that makes ordinary sounds feel staged: the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking above the doorway, the dull scrape of Dad’s thumb against the side of his phone. He looks older in the morning light, the gray threaded at his temples catching pale and harsh.
“You don’t have to read it,” I say.
His gaze drops to the paper. “I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Because not knowing doesn’t make it go away.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He folds the paper the rest of the way and sets it aside, flattening his palm over the page like he can hold the words down by force. “You’re staying after today?”
The question catches in my chest for half a second.
“Maybe,” I say, too quickly. “Free period. Library. I might work on the mural.”
Dad looks at me the way he does when he knows there is more underneath a sentence than I’ve given him, but he doesn’t dig. Not this morning. Maybe he’s too tired. Maybe we both are.
“Text me before you leave campus.”
“I will.”
“And if anything feels strange—”
“Dad.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Let me finish.”
I stop.
His voice softens, but the worry stays. “If anything feels strange, you call me. Not after you decide whether or not it matters. Not after you think you can handle it. Right away.”
The toast sits heavy in my stomach, though I’ve barely eaten any. I nod because arguing would only make him repeat himself, and because some part of me understands the shape of his fear even when it frustrates me. He lost my mother to something he couldn’t chase, couldn’t photograph, couldn’t expose in a paper and force into the light. I think that ruined something in him. I think now, every danger looks like it might be the one that takes what’s left.
“I’ll call,” I say.
He studies me for another second, then nods once. That is the closest we get to peace before school.
The drive to Daylight Academy is quiet, broken only by the radio whispering traffic reports and Dad drumming two fingers against the steering wheel. Graystone moves past my window in damp pieces: storefronts still opening, sidewalks darkened from last night’s rain, people in coats they don’t need yet but wear anyway because September has started threatening autumn. The city looks ordinary from inside the car.
When Dad pulls up near the school, he doesn’t immediately unlock the doors. Students stream past us in loose clusters, laughing, yawning, stepping around puddles with practiced annoyance. A group of freshmen nearly collide with a teacher carrying too many papers.
Dad glances at the entrance, then back at me. “You have your phone?”
I lift it from my pocket.
“Charged?”
“Eighty-two percent.”
“Good.” His hand taps once against the wheel. “Have a normal day.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek before he can say anything else. “You too.”
He huffs softly. “Not likely.”
I step out into the morning and shut the door behind me. Dad waits, as always, until I’m halfway up the steps before pulling away. I don’t look back because I know if I do, he’ll still be watching, and I don’t want to carry that expression into the building with me.
Inside, Daylight Academy has its usual smell of floor polish, damp jackets, and cheap perfume. The hallway noise gathers around me immediately, familiar and uneven, lockers slamming in sharp bursts, sneakers squeaking against tile, voices rising and falling like small weather systems. I move through it with my backpack tight against one shoulder, careful not to scan too obviously for anyone.
Which means, naturally, I find him almost at once.
Jungwon stands near the Chemistry hall with Sunoo and Jake, his hair still slightly damp at the ends, hoodie unzipped over his uniform shirt. He looks rested in the superficial way people can after not sleeping enough: eyes open, posture upright, face arranged into something close to normal. Sunoo is talking with both hands, leaning into whatever story he’s telling, while Jake listens with an expression caught between amusement and exhaustion.
Jungwon’s attention isn’t really on either of them.
I notice that before I can stop myself. The way his gaze keeps shifting toward the front entrance, toward passing students, toward the windows where the gray morning presses itself against the glass. It isn’t nervousness exactly. More like listening with his whole body. Waiting for a sound nobody else knows to hear.
Then his eyes find mine.
It lasts less than a breath. A small acknowledgement, nothing that would mean anything to anyone watching. He doesn’t smile, but something in his face eases by a fraction, and I hate how quickly I notice that too.
Jenna appears at my side before I can think too hard about it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says, falling into step beside me.
I keep walking. “Good morning to you too.”
“It is morning. Whether it’s good is still under review.”
I glance at her. Her curls are pinned back today with two silver clips that don’t quite hold, and her camera bag bounces against her hip as she walks. She looks awake in a way that feels personally offensive.
“What thing?” I ask, though I know better.
“The quiet observation thing.”
“That’s just my face.”
We make it to Chemistry right as Mrs. Henderson starts writing on the board, her handwriting narrow and severe enough to make even warm-up questions feel like a migraine. The day folds itself into routine after that, at least on the surface. Chemistry, then AP English, then History. Teachers talk. Students answer. Notes fill pages. The building breathes around us, old and heavy, pretending the outside world has no claim here.
By lunch, the sky has darkened from tired gray into something flatter, more metallic. Rain threatens without falling. The cafeteria buzzes under fluorescent lights, trays scraping against tables, chairs dragging, people complaining about food they will still finish because hunger makes hypocrites of everyone.
Jenna and I sit near the windows again. She has fries, a yogurt, and two cookies she swears she did not steal from someone else’s tray. I have a turkey sandwich Dad wrapped so tightly in wax paper that opening it feels like disarming a small package.
Across the cafeteria, the old corner table remains mostly empty.
That has become its own kind of statement.
Sunoo sits with Jake and two girls from student council today, his voice lower than usual, though his hands still move when he talks. Heeseung is nowhere in sight. Sunghoon and Ni-ki pass through once, not stopping, both of them carrying bottled drinks and the same contained tension I’ve started recognizing too easily. Jay stands near the vending machines with his phone in one hand, expression blank, then leaves without buying anything.
Jungwon doesn’t come in until almost halfway through lunch.
He enters with Amy-Jane.
They are not walking close enough to be anything, but they are walking together. That is enough for my stomach to tighten before I can reason with it. Amy-Jane is speaking, one hand curled around the strap of her bag, her expression thoughtful. Jungwon listens with his head slightly bent toward her, not smiling exactly, but present in a way that looks careful.
Jenna’s gaze flicks to me. For once, she says nothing.
Amy-Jane stops near her table. Jungwon says something I can’t hear. She smiles, small and grateful, then touches his sleeve lightly before walking away.
It is nothing.
It is absolutely nothing.
His eyes follow her for a moment, and the part of me that wants to be reasonable takes notes like a dutiful student. Of course he looks at her. Of course he does. Amy-Jane is kind in a way that doesn’t feel performed. She has clean handwriting, steady opinions, a family name people recognize, and the ability to say the right thing without making it sound rehearsed. She can defend Spider-Man in a classroom without knowing him, without knowing what it costs him to be spoken about at all.
Jungwon turns, scanning the cafeteria, and his gaze catches on me.
The moment is brief. Almost accidental. Still, I feel the shift of it, the small uncomfortable knowledge that both things are true. He can soften for her. He can look for me.
I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite because I need something to do with my face.
Jenna waits until I swallow before she speaks, her voice gentler than I expect. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t see that.”
I look down at my tray. “I’m not pretending.”
“You are, but I’m not going to make you talk about it.”
“That’s new for you.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
I almost smile. It fades before it becomes anything useful. “There’s nothing to talk about. They’re friends.”
Jenna looks across the cafeteria, then back at me. “Maybe.”
“That was not supportive.”
“It was honest.”
I fold the wax paper into a small square. “Honesty is overrated.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s just inconvenient.”
That sounds like something Mr. Erikson would write on the board and expect us to spend forty minutes discussing. I don’t say that, though. I only push the rest of my sandwich around the paper and try not to look over again.
By the time free period comes, I have talked myself into a version of calm that feels convincing only if no one touches it.
The library is quieter than usual. Rain has finally started, not hard enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to blur the view of the courtyard into silver streaks and dark stone. Students sit scattered between tables with laptops open and headphones in, everyone softened by the weather into a shared reluctance to speak too loudly. The lamps along the shelves cast warm pools of light over the wood, turning the dust in the air into something almost gentle.
I take my usual corner near history and literature.
My mural sketch is already in my bag, edges softened from being handled too much. I lay it flat and smooth my palms over the paper. The city is there in layered lines: the bridge, the rooftops, the narrow streets, the windows watching from every direction. The small figure on the roof remains half-hidden in the upper corner, more suggestion than subject. Anyone else might miss it.
My phone sits facedown beside my pencil.
Three minutes pass. Then six. Then nine.
I tell myself I am not waiting. I am working. There is a difference, even if my body does not seem to know it.
At eleven minutes, a shadow falls across the table.
“Is this seat taken?”
I look up too quickly.
Jungwon stands on the other side of the table with one hand on the back of the chair, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks a little damp from the rain, small droplets caught in his hair and along the seam of his hoodie. Up close, the tiredness is more visible than it was from across the cafeteria. Not dramatic. Not alarming. Just there, faintly bruised under his eyes, threaded through the set of his mouth.
I shake my head. “No.”
He sits, careful not to jostle the table. For a moment, neither of us says anything. He pulls a notebook from his bag, then a pen, then sets both down without opening them. His gaze drifts to my sketch.
“That’s the mural?”
“Concept for it. Maybe. Ms. Hartman wants the truth of the city, which sounds simple until you try to draw it.”
He leans forward slightly, studying the page without touching it. I expect him to look at the hidden figure first. He doesn’t. His eyes move across the bridge, the uneven rooftops, the crowded windows. He takes his time with it.
“It feels crowded,” he says.
My fingers tighten around the pencil. “In a bad way?”
“No.” He glances up at me. “In a real way. Like everyone’s living close to each other but still not really looking.”
The answer settles in a place I don’t expect. I look back down at the sketch, suddenly less embarrassed by it.
“That’s kind of what I was trying to do.”
“I can tell.”
He says it simply. No performance, no easy compliment. It makes it harder to dismiss.
I nudge the corner of the page. “Ms. Hartman might say it’s too heavy.”
“Maybe heavy isn’t bad.”
“Committees usually prefer hopeful.”
Jungwon’s mouth curves faintly, though it doesn’t quite become a smile. “You could hide the hopeful part somewhere small.”
I glance at the tiny figure on the roof before I can stop myself. Jungwon follows my gaze. The air changes in that barely perceptible way I’ve started feeling around him, a tightening under the skin, a silence with too much inside it.
He sees it.
Of course he sees it.
He does not ask if it is Spider-Man.
Instead, he says, “Small things can still change the whole picture.”
My throat feels dry. “That sounds like something you say when you don’t want to admit the sketch is depressing.”
“It is depressing,” he says, and then, before I can decide whether to be offended, adds, “but not in a pointless way.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. Quiet, short, more breath than sound. His eyes lift at it, and the tiredness in his face softens.
“Sorry,” he says. “That sounded better in my head.”
“No, it’s fine. Depressing but not pointless is probably the closest anyone’s gotten to understanding my art.”
He looks down, turning his pen slowly between his fingers. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“I know.”
The conversation settles after that, not awkwardly, but in the way some silences become part of the table. Rain trails down the windows in thin, wavering lines. Somewhere near the front desk, Mrs. Finch stamps a book with a soft, repetitive thud. Jungwon opens his notebook at last, but he doesn’t write. I keep shading a line of buildings that already has enough shadow.
After a while, he says, “Amy-Jane said your concept was good.”
My hand pauses.
I make myself keep the pencil moving. “She has good taste,”I say half jokingly.
“She said you have a way of making buildings feel like people.”
That is too specific to be a casual mention. It is also too kind.
I stare at the page. “That’s nice of her.”
“She's really good at art, so she knows what she's talking about.”
“I know.”
He looks at me then, maybe hearing something in my voice I didn’t mean to leave there. I keep my eyes on the sketch. The pencil makes a faint scratch against the paper, too loud in the quiet.
Jungwon shifts slightly. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t.”
A pause.
“I think I did.”
I exhale, not quite a sigh. “It’s not weird. She’s good at art. And she’s… nice.”
“She is.”
The agreement lands softly, but it lands.
I nod once, because that is what normal people do when they are having normal conversations about normal things. “She defended Spider-Man in English yesterday. It seems you have another fan to talk about Spider-Man with, maybe make a club.”
Jungwon’s pen stops turning.
I don’t look at him. “Not in a dramatic way. People were talking about the article, and she said the headline wasn’t neutral. That people were reacting to the framing instead of the facts.”
The silence stretches.
When Jungwon answers, his voice is lower than before. “She said that?”
“Yeah.”
He leans back, eyes moving toward the rain-dark window. For a second, he looks older than he is. Or maybe just worn down enough that the mask of being fine slips at the edges.
“She’s right,” he says.
I study his profile, the careful line of his jaw, the way his hand rests loose on the table except for the thumb pressed hard against the side of his pen. “A lot of people probably know she’s right.”
“That doesn’t always matter.”
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
His gaze returns to me. There is something searching in it, something almost startled by the fact that I understand. I wonder, not for the first time, how lonely it must be to hear people debate whether you are good while you sit three desks away pretending to care about algebra.
He looks away first.
“I’m tired of everyone sounding so sure,” he says after a moment. “Not just about Spider-Man. About everything. People decide what something is, and then they only look for proof that keeps it that way.”
The words are too honest. He seems to realize it after they leave his mouth, because his shoulders tighten.
I pretend not to notice. “My dad says people like boxes because they make fear easier to carry.”
Jungwon’s expression shifts. “Your dad said that?”
“Not exactly. He uses more newspaper words.”
That almost gets a smile from him. “He seems intense.”
“He is.”
“In a bad way?”
I think about Dad’s hand flattening The Sentinel on the kitchen counter, his voice on the phone, his insistence that I call if anything feels wrong. I think about the way he photographs disaster because still images are the only way he knows to fight time.
“No,” I say slowly. “Not bad. Just scared. And stubborn. And convinced those are different things.”
Jungwon nods like he understands too well.
For a while, we actually work. He asks about the algebra problems Amy-Jane didn’t finish, and I help in the limited way someone can help when they barely trust her own answers. He catches one of my mistakes without making a show of it. I fix one of his signs before he notices. It is quiet, ordinary, almost comfortable. The kind of hour that would mean nothing if I didn’t know what his hands could do with webbing and concrete and the weight of a collapsing world.
The bell rings too soon.
Not the full end-of-day bell. Just the warning that free period is nearly done, a soft chime through the speakers that makes a few students groan and begin gathering their things. Jungwon closes his notebook slowly, like he doesn’t want to move yet. I slide my sketch into my folder and tuck my pencil into the elastic loop.
“You staying for art club?” he asks.
“Not today. Ms. Hartman moved the meeting to Thursday.”
“Oh.”
“I’m waiting for Dad. He said he’d be late, but probably not that late.”
Jungwon nods. “I can wait with you for a bit.”
The offer is quiet. Not grand enough to refuse without making it strange. Still, my first instinct is to look for the trap in it, the hidden reason, the angle where I become pathetic for wanting to say yes.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know.”
That is all. No pressure. No explanation.
I zip my bag. “Okay.”
Outside, the rain has slowed into a mist that hangs in the air rather than falling cleanly. The courtyard stones shine dark beneath our feet, reflecting the old arches of Daylight Academy in broken pieces. Most students rush toward cars or buses with their shoulders hunched, jackets pulled over their heads. Others linger under the covered walkway, complaining about the weather as if it has personally wronged them.
Jungwon walks beside me with his hands in his hoodie pockets, his pace careful enough to match mine without making it obvious. For a few minutes, we don’t talk. The silence is not empty, but it isn’t heavy either. It feels like the quiet in the library followed us outside and learned how to breathe.
Near the front steps, Sunoo spots us from under the overhang. His gaze moves from Jungwon to me with open curiosity before Jake says something to him and pulls his attention away. Heeseung stands a little farther back, leaning against one of the stone columns with his phone in hand, but he isn’t looking at the screen. His eyes track Jungwon for a second, then shift away.
Jungwon sees him. I can tell by the way his shoulders change.
“You need to go?” I ask.
He glances at me. “No.”
“You looked like you did.”
“It’s fine.”
I don’t push. That feels like a small mercy, and maybe he knows it, because the tension around his mouth eases after a moment.
We reach the edge of the drop-off lane. Cars slide past in slow, impatient lines, windshield wipers ticking back and forth. The school shuttle idles near the curb, half-full of students who live farther out toward the east side. A city bus follows behind it, delayed by the mess of school traffic, its windows fogged lightly from the inside. People crowd along the sidewalk: students waiting for rides, parents leaning across passenger seats to shout names, a cyclist ringing his bell at nobody in particular.
My phone buzzes.
Dad:
Running fifteen late. Stay by the front.
I type back that I will. Jungwon watches the traffic, eyes narrowed slightly against the mist.
“Dad’s late,” I say.
“I can stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn't offer otherwise.”
The words come out plain, but my chest reacts anyway, stupid and soft. I look down at my phone because it is safer than looking at him.
Then the city makes a sound that doesn’t belong to rain or traffic.
A metallic shriek cuts across the afternoon, long and violent, followed by the deep, sickening crunch of something heavy hitting something that refuses to move. The conversations around us break apart. Heads turn. A few people scream before anyone knows why.
The city bus lurches sideways at the far end of the lane.
For a second, it looks almost slow, impossible in its weight, front wheels jumping the curb as if lifted by an invisible hand. Sparks spit from beneath it in bright, frantic bursts. The driver fights the wheel, but the bus keeps skidding, slamming into a streetlight hard enough to bend the pole halfway toward the ground. Glass cracks. Metal groans. The back end swings out, clipping the corner of the shuttle and sending students inside shouting against the windows.
Everything happens too fast after that.
Brakes squeal. A car horn sticks, blaring one long note. People surge backward toward the school steps, pushing, stumbling, dragging each other out of the lane. The city bus tilts at a sharp angle where one side has mounted the curb, its front trapped against the bent streetlight. Blue-white electricity flickers along something clamped near the front wheel, crawling over the metal like living veins.
A man stands in the street in front of it.
At first, my brain refuses to understand him. He wears a dark raincoat with the hood up, but beneath it, wires coil around his torso in uneven loops, connected to a box strapped against his chest. One arm is covered in a metal brace from wrist to elbow, ugly and improvised, the fingers tipped with copper points. A pulse of light travels from the box to his hand and snaps outward into the wet street, making everyone nearby scream and scatter.
“Stay back,” he shouts.
His voice is amplified somehow, distorted through a speaker clipped near his throat. It buzzes at the edges, mechanical and thin.
Someone near me whispers, “Is that a bomb?”
A teacher yells for everyone to get inside. Another shouts for the buses to unload, but the city bus doors don’t open. The driver pounds at the controls from inside, face pale behind the cracked windshield. Students on the school shuttle scramble out through the rear emergency door, coughing and crying as Coach Thompson and another teacher wave them toward the building.
The man in the street raises his braced hand. Electricity snaps from his fingers to the front of the city bus, and the whole vehicle jolts. People inside scream. The doors shudder but stay sealed.
“Call the police,” someone yells.
Half the crowd already has their phones out.
Jungwon has gone very still beside me.
I don’t look at him right away. I can’t. I feel the change before I see it: the air around him tightening, his breathing going quiet, his attention narrowing until nothing exists except the bus, the man, the trapped people, the angle of the streetlight bent against the windshield. He is not panicking. That is worse. Panic would look human.
This is calculation.
His hand slips out of his pocket.
The knuckles are white.
I turn my head just enough to see his face. His eyes move over the scene with a speed that makes my skin prickle. Bus. Wires. Driver. Crowd. Roofline. Alley beyond the gym. Camera angles. Teachers. Heeseung under the columns, already moving toward Sunoo and Jake. Sunghoon and Ni-ki near the side entrance, both looking at Jungwon without looking like they are looking.
He needs to leave.
The realization arrives cleanly, with no drama attached to it. He needs to leave, and I am standing right beside him, the one person who could make that difficult by asking the obvious question or staring too long or forcing him to make some terrible excuse.
So I give him one.
“I need to call my dad,” I say, my voice louder than it needs to be but steady enough. “He’ll hear about this on the scanner and lose his mind if I don’t answer.”
Jungwon looks at me.
For one brief second, all the noise thins around us. His expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes do. Something startled moves through them. Something grateful, though he would never name it that here.
“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”
I step away from him, turning my back before he can hesitate. I lift my phone to my ear even though I haven’t called anyone, staring toward the school doors as if reception requires my full attention. My heart beats so hard that the phone trembles against my cheek.
Behind me, there is the softest shift of movement.
Not a footstep exactly. Not enough for anyone else to notice under the chaos. Just the absence of him, sudden as a door closing.
I count to five before I look.
Jungwon is gone.
The space beside me is empty.
For half a second, I just stare at it.
The mist drifts through the spot where Jungwon had been standing, soft and useless, as if the air itself is trying to cover for him. Around me, everything keeps moving too fast: students shoving toward the front doors, teachers shouting over each other, car horns blaring from the lane, someone crying hard enough that the sound breaks apart in their throat.
Then the bus jolts again.
The whole front of it rocks against the bent streetlight, metal screaming against metal. The driver’s hands slam against the steering wheel from inside, but the doors still don’t open. Faces crowd the fogged windows, palms smacking against glass. A woman near the middle presses a little boy behind her, shielding him with her body even though there is nowhere to go.
I lift my phone to my ear with shaking fingers.
Dad answers on the third ring.
“Liya?”
“I’m at the front,” I say quickly, forcing the words out before he can hear the chaos and start filling in the blanks himself. “There’s an incident with a bus. I’m okay. I’m still on campus.”
“What do you mean an incident?”
His voice changes immediately. The tiredness is gone, scraped clean by fear.
“Dad, I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
The man in the street raises his braced arm again. Blue-white electricity snaps from the copper tips of his fingers and hits the side of the bus with a crack loud enough to punch through every sound around it. The vehicle shudders. A few students scream and run harder for the doors.
“Get inside,” Dad says. “Right now.”
“I’m going,” I lie.
“Liya.”
“I am.”
“Put a teacher on the phone.”
“I can’t—there’s too much—”
“Liya, listen to me.”
His voice almost disappears beneath a new sound: a web snapping taut.
It cuts through the air above us, thin and bright against the gray afternoon. My head jerks up. A red-and-blue figure swings low over the drop-off lane, coming from the direction of the gym roof. He releases the web at the last second and lands on top of the city bus near the rear, far from the front wheel where the electricity keeps crawling.
The roof dents beneath him.
The crowd erupts.
Spider-Man rises into a crouch, one hand braced against the metal, head angled toward the man in the street. Even from here, I can see how quickly he reads the scene. He looks first at the people, then at the bus, then at the sparking device clamped near the front wheel. Not the villain. Not the cameras. The people.
“Liya!” Dad’s voice snaps through the phone. “Was that—?”
“I have to go,” I say.
“No, you do not hang up on me—”
“I’m going inside. I’ll call you right back.”
I end the call before the guilt can stop me.
The lie tastes awful, but keeping the phone to my ear while the world tears open feels worse. I shove it into my pocket and move with the crowd toward the steps, not because I want to leave, but because the teachers are right about one thing: standing in the open lane is stupid.
Spider-Man points toward the school without looking away from the man in the street. “Everybody back! Inside or behind the columns. Now.”
His voice is loud enough to carry but not panicked. That helps more than I want it to. People obey faster when someone sounds like they believe there is still a way out.
The man in the raincoat turns toward him, his hood slipping back just enough to reveal a gaunt face, rain plastering pale hair to his forehead. The metal box strapped to his chest pulses faintly beneath the wet fabric, wires feeding from it into the brace around his arm and down toward the street. One thick cable trails behind him, snaking across the pavement to the device clamped to the bus’s front wheel.
That is what has it trapped.
Not a bomb. Not exactly.
A lock.
The thought comes clear and sudden. The clamp is holding the wheel and feeding current through the frame, enough to keep the doors sealed and anyone inside too terrified to touch anything metal.
Spider-Man sees it too.
He shifts his weight on the roof of the bus, keeping low. “Okay,” he calls down, voice tilted into something almost conversational. “So I’m guessing this isn’t part of the normal afternoon route.”
The man’s head snaps up. “Stay away from me.”
“Would love to. Really. But you parked a bus on a school sidewalk, and that's kind of hard to ignore.”
The man throws his braced arm forward.
A bolt of electricity snaps toward the roof.
Spider-Man dives sideways, rolling clean across the bus and dropping over the far edge. The bolt hits the roof where he was a breath ago, bursting in a sharp flash. The people inside scream as light flickers through the windows.
He doesn’t stay hidden. A web shoots from below the bus’s side and sticks to the man’s wrist. Spider-Man yanks.
The man stumbles forward, boots scraping against wet pavement, but he slams his other hand against the brace and the web begins to smoke. The strands blacken and snap apart.
Spider-Man lands on the curb between the bus and the school steps, putting himself between the crowd and the man. His back is to us now, shoulders squared, body balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Noted,” he says. “Web-resistant. Annoying, but noted.”
The man laughs once, harsh and humorless. “You think this is about you?”
Spider-Man tilts his head. “And here I thought you were trying to impress the only hero in town.”
The man’s face twists. “It’s about what people ignore. The ones who are actually in trouble—no one looks twice.” He jabs his braced hand toward the school, toward the phones, toward the windows full of faces. “So now they get to feel it. What it’s like to be scared and helpless while everyone just watches.”
The words land strangely, too rehearsed and too raw at once. Like he has been saying them to himself for days.
Spider-Man doesn’t answer immediately.
Then his voice drops, all the sharpness leaving it. “There are kids on that bus.”
The man’s jaw tightens. “Then they’ll learn early.”
He lifts his arm again.
Spider-Man moves first.
He fires two webs at once: one to the man’s ankle, the other snapping tight around the metal pole of the bus stop sign. Using it as an anchor, he yanks hard, redirecting the man’s momentum sideways instead of straight toward the bus. The sudden pull throws off his aim. The blast meant for the windows shoots wide and strikes the wet asphalt. Electricity skitters over the ground in a jagged fan.
Everyone on the steps surges backward.
A freshman girl slips beside me, her shoes sliding on the rain-slick stone. She falls hard, landing on one elbow with a cry that gets swallowed by the crowd. For a second, no one sees her. People are too busy watching Spider-Man, too busy trying not to be the next person to fall.
I reach down without thinking.
“Hey—come on.” I hook my hands under her arms and pull her upright, dragging her toward the inside edge of the column. “Move with me. Don’t stop here.”
Her face is wet, not just from rain. “My brother’s on the shuttle.”
I glance toward the school shuttle clipped near the rear of the city bus. Its back emergency door is open now, and Coach Thompson is lifting students down one at a time, his face red with effort. The shuttle is damaged, but not trapped. Kids are getting out.
“What does he look like?”
“Blue backpack,” she chokes out. “He’s little. Sixth grade. He—he was visiting from the middle school program—”
“I’ll look,” I say, though I don’t know if I can.
Her fingers clamp around my sleeve. “Please.”
I turn toward the shuttle, scanning the students being herded toward the gym doors. Blue backpack. Blue backpack. There are too many bags, too many uniforms, too much motion.
Then I see him.
Small, shaking, standing near the open emergency door with one shoe untied and a blue backpack hanging off one shoulder. He refuses to jump down. Coach Thompson has one hand extended, but the boy keeps looking toward the trapped city bus, frozen by the screams.
“There,” I say, pointing. “Is that him?”
The girl makes a broken sound. “Eli!”
The boy’s head snaps toward us.
Coach Thompson follows the sound, sees us, and waves the boy down with a sharper urgency. “Move, kid. Now.”
Eli finally jumps. Coach catches him badly, more of a grab than a catch, but it gets him on the ground. The girl beside me tries to run for him. I catch her sleeve before she can dart back into the open lane.
“No. Let them bring him.”
She fights me for one panicked second. “That’s my brother.”
“I know. But if you run, someone else has to go after you.”
That makes her stop.
Across the lane, Coach Thompson pushes Eli toward another teacher, who rushes him along the safer path behind the parked cars. The boy reaches us a few seconds later, crying so hard he can barely breathe. His sister grabs him, folding around him with both arms.
I step back, breath shaking.
That was nothing. Barely anything.
But my hands tremble like I’ve lifted something heavier than a person.
A crash yanks my attention back to the bus.
Spider-Man hits the side of the school shuttle, shoulder-first, hard enough to rock it on its tires. A dent blooms in the metal behind him. He drops to one knee but pushes up immediately, shaking one hand like it has gone numb.
The man in the raincoat advances, the chest box glowing brighter now. The cable between him and the bus clamp pulls taut across the street.
Spider-Man glances at it.
The cable. The clamp. The people still trapped inside.
Then he runs.
Not at the man.
At the cable.
He sprints low across the wet pavement, dodging another bolt that tears through the mist where his head had been. His feet hit the curb, then a car hood, then the side mirror of an abandoned sedan. He launches off it and fires a web at the cable, wrapping it once, twice, three times.
The man realizes too late.
Spider-Man lands on the opposite side of the cable and yanks with his whole body.
The cable tears free from the chest box in a burst of sparks.
The clamp on the bus flickers.
For one beautiful second, the blue-white veins along the bus frame vanish.
“Doors!” Spider-Man shouts. “Try the doors!”
The driver slams his hand against the controls. The front doors gasp open halfway, jerking against damage from the crash. A sound goes through the trapped passengers—not relief exactly, but the first breath after drowning.
The man screams.
He slams his braced hand into the torn port on his chest box, rerouting power through the remaining wires. The box flashes hot. The bus clamp sparks back to life, weaker this time, but enough to make the doors freeze again before anyone can get out.
Spider-Man’s head turns sharply toward the bus.
One passenger has made it halfway through the front doors.
A woman, maybe in her thirties, one leg caught between the folding panels as they lock around her. She cries out, hands clawing at the rubber edges.
Spider-Man fires a web toward the door and pulls, muscles straining. The panels give an inch. Then another. Not enough.
The man raises his braced arm toward Spider-Man’s exposed back.
I see it before anyone else seems to.
“Behind you!” I shout.
Spider-Man drops instantly.
The bolt passes over him and hits the bus stop sign instead, blowing it apart in a shower of metal and sparks. The woman trapped in the door screams. Spider-Man rolls under the next blast, comes up beside the bus, and jams both hands into the narrow gap of the doors.
He pulls.
The doors groan open.
“Out,” he tells the woman. “Step toward the sidewalk. Don’t touch the frame.”
She stumbles free. A police officer, finally close enough to be useful, grabs her under the arms and drags her away from the bus. Spider-Man steps back, but the movement is too slow. The man’s next blast clips him in the side.
The sound he makes is small.
I almost don’t hear it.
His body twists with the hit, electricity crawling over the suit in a sharp blue flash. He slams into the curb, catches himself on one hand, and stays there for half a second too long.
The man laughs.
The crowd’s cheers die.
Spider-Man lifts his head.
Something about the motion is wrong. Too careful. Too human.
My stomach turns over.
He pushes himself up anyway.
“You know,” he says, voice rougher now, “for someone who wants to be heard, you’re making a pretty bad argument.”
The man snarls and fires again.
This time Spider-Man doesn’t dodge away. He jumps up.
The bolt hits the ground beneath him as he fires a web toward one of the stone columns at the school entrance. He swings in a tight arc, low enough that his feet skim the roof of a stalled car. At the highest point, he releases and flips over the man’s head, landing behind him near the torn cable.
For the first time, the man has to turn his back on the bus.
That is what Spider-Man wanted.
I see it as it happens. He is not trying to beat him yet. He is pulling him away from the people.
Step by step.
Blast by blast.
Every time the man aims toward the bus, Spider-Man gets in the way. Every time he aims toward Spider-Man, Spider-Man moves farther into the open street, away from the school steps, away from the shuttle, away from the trapped passengers. It is messy and dangerous and nothing like the clean videos people post online with music underneath. His foot slips once. A web burns through before it can hold. He catches the edge of a blast against his shoulder and staggers but keeps moving.
The fight is not a dance.
It is a series of choices made too quickly to admire.
Behind him, the driver forces the bus doors open again by hand. This time, with the clamp weakened and Spider-Man keeping the man’s attention away, the passengers begin to spill out.
One by one.
An older man first, then a teenager with blood on his forehead, then a mother carrying a toddler bundled against her chest. Teachers rush them toward the school. Police try to form a line, but they’re slow, confused by the electricity, too cautious about where to stand.
A little boy appears at the bus doors and freezes.
Young. Maybe seven or eight, with a red raincoat and one hand pressed to the doorframe he has clearly been told not to touch. His eyes are wide and empty with fear.
“Don’t touch the metal,” the driver snaps, panic making his voice sharp.
The boy flinches and starts crying harder.
No adult reaches him immediately. The nearest officer is helping the bleeding teenager. The driver is still half-trapped behind the wheel. The boy stands at the open bus doors, shaking, too scared to step down and too scared to go back.
I move before I decide to.
Not into the street. Not past the police line. Just to the edge of the curb closest to the school side, where the front doors of the bus angle toward the sidewalk. There are still several yards between me and the man, and Spider-Man has dragged him farther down the lane, but my heartbeat doesn’t care about distance.
“Hey,” I call, trying to make my voice steady. “Red coat.”
The boy looks at me.
The bus steps are high from where the front has jumped the curb. Too high for him to climb down without help.
I crouch, palms open. “You’re okay. Don’t touch the sides. Keep your hands to yourself and look at me.”
He sobs. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” My voice comes out firmer than I feel. “One step. Just one. Sit down on the step.”
He shakes his head.
Behind him, a woman inside the bus whispers something, trying to coax him forward, but the boy’s eyes stay locked on me.
I point to the floor of the bus. “Sit first. Like you’re going down stairs on a playground.”
That seems to reach him. His knees bend. He sits, stiff and terrified, hands curled in his lap.
“Good,” I say. “That’s good. Now scoot forward. Slow.”
A blast cracks somewhere down the lane.
I don’t look.
The boy does. His face crumples.
“Look at me,” I say quickly. “Not there. Me.”
His wet eyes snap back.
“What’s your name?”
“Milo.”
“Okay, Milo. I’m Liya. You’re going to slide down, and I’m going to catch your coat. Not your hands. Your coat. Okay?”
He nods once, tiny and miserable.
I reach up, gripping the front of his raincoat as he slides off the last step. He drops harder than I expect, his weight yanking my shoulders forward, but I keep hold of him and pull him against me before he can stumble backward. He is warm and shaking and very, very real.
The second his shoes hit the sidewalk, a teacher rushes in and takes him from me.
“Go,” I tell him, though I don’t know if he hears me.
The teacher carries him toward the doors.
I step back, breathless.
And then I feel it.
Not a hand. Not a touch.
A look.
I turn before I can stop myself.
Spider-Man is across the lane, half-crouched on top of a car, one hand pressed to the roof for balance. The man in the raincoat is several yards beyond him now, closer to the street than the school, electricity gathering around his brace in a frantic, unstable glow.
Spider-Man’s head turns in my direction.
Not for long. Less than a second. But enough to make it feel like he might have noticed me.
Then the man charges him.
Spider-Man turns back just in time.
The man swings his braced arm like a club. Spider-Man ducks beneath it, pivots, and webs the man’s elbow from behind. He pulls, using the man’s momentum against him. The brace slams into the hood of the car with a metallic crack, denting it deep.
Sparks burst from the copper fingers.
The man screams and rips free, but the movement tears more wires from the chest box. The glow flickers unevenly now, pulsing too bright, then too dim.
Spider-Man notices.
He backs up one step, then another, leading him farther from the bus. His left arm hangs slightly lower than his right. The hit to his side is catching up with him.
The man doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He lifts both hands to the chest box, forcing power into the damaged brace. The copper fingertips flare white.
The air changes.
Every hair along my arms lifts.
Spider-Man’s head snaps toward the bus, then toward the crowd.
He knows before the rest of us do.
The chest box gives a high, rising whine.
“Down!” Spider-Man shouts.
This time, nobody hesitates.
I drop behind the stone planter at the edge of the steps, arms over my head. Around me, people hit the ground in a messy wave. The blast goes off a heartbeat later, not a clean bolt but a wide burst of electrical force that ripples across the wet pavement and blows out the windows of the nearest parked cars. Glass scatters like hard rain.
The sound leaves my ears ringing.
For a moment, I can’t tell what happened.
Then I lift my head.
The man is on one knee in the street, chest box smoking, brace sparking wildly. Spider-Man is still standing.
Barely.
He had webbed himself between two street poles, one line from each hand, and used the tension to pull himself above the worst of the blast. He hangs there for a second, suspended over the lane like a torn flag, then drops onto the asphalt in a rough landing that makes him stumble.
The crowd is silent.
The man tries to lift his arm again.
Nothing happens.
Just sparks.
Spider-Man straightens slowly.
“Yeah,” he says, voice strained enough that the humor barely holds. “That sounded expensive.”
The man lunges at him with his unbraced hand.
Spider-Man meets him halfway.
The last part of the fight is ugly and fast.
Spider-Man steps inside the swing, catches the man’s wrist, and turns under it, twisting his arm behind his back. The man tries to slam the sparking brace into Spider-Man’s ribs, but Spider-Man hooks a foot behind his ankle and knocks him off balance. They both go down hard. Spider-Man rolls with it, ends up on top, and fires webbing in quick, precise bursts: wrists first, then ankles, then the damaged brace, cocooning it until the sparks die beneath layers of white.
The man thrashes once.
Spider-Man presses him down with one knee between his shoulder blades.
“Stay,” he says, breathing hard.
Police rush in all at once, as if the end of the fight gives them permission to exist again. Two officers pull the man’s arms behind him. Another shouts for a bomb squad, even though the box is already smoking itself into silence. Someone calls for paramedics. Someone else calls for more units. Radios crackle. Shoes splash through puddles.
Spider-Man backs away from the officers before they can decide whether to thank him or arrest him.
The bus is almost empty now. The driver is helped out last, limping badly but conscious. The bent streetlight groans above the hood, its base cracked, the bus still pressed against it at a dangerous angle.
Spider-Man sees that too.
Of course he does.
He moves toward the bus again, slower this time. No one cheers. Maybe because everyone can see the way he favors one side now. Maybe because the danger hasn’t fully ended.
The streetlight gives another metallic moan.
The bus shifts.
Only an inch, but enough.
“Back!” an officer yells. “Get back!”
Spider-Man fires two webs to the front of the bus, then two more to the stone pillars at the school entrance. He pulls until the lines go taut, anchoring the bus in place. The streetlight finally snaps at the base and drops away from the hood with a heavy crash. Without it, the bus tries to roll forward off the curb.
Spider-Man digs his heels into the wet pavement.
For one terrible second, it looks like the bus will drag him with it.
Then the web lines catch.
The bus jolts and holds.
Teachers and officers shout. A tow truck will need to come. Firefighters. Someone official with equipment and a vest and the right words for the news.
But for now, it holds.
Spider-Man keeps the tension for another few breaths, making sure, then releases one hand at a time. The webbing remains stretched between the bus and pillars, humming faintly under the strain.
He steps back.
His shoulders rise and fall once.
Twice.
Then his head turns slightly toward the school steps.
Toward me.
I don’t move.
Around us, the world slowly remembers how to be loud. People stand. Someone starts crying. Someone else laughs in a shocked, broken way. Teachers count students, voices shaking as they call names. The police drag the man in the raincoat toward a squad car while the smoking chest box hangs useless against his torso.
Spider-Man crosses the lane, not directly to me, but close enough.
Close enough that I can see the burn mark along his side where the electricity hit. The suit is darkened there, the fabric scorched. His left hand flexes once, then curls into a fist as if to hide the tremor.
He stops near the stone planter, a careful distance away.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Impossible to hear unless you are me.
I nod. My throat feels too tight for anything else.
His mask tilts toward the front doors, where Milo is clinging to the teacher who carried him inside. “The kid?”
“He’s okay,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “Scared. But okay.”
Spider-Man nods once.
He looks like he wants to say more. Or maybe he looks like he wants to leave and can’t figure out how to do it without making that obvious. Police are beginning to look his way now. So are students. Phones are raised again. Somewhere, a news van is probably already speeding through traffic, my father maybe right behind it, furious and terrified and carrying both like weapons.
Spider-Man’s hand twitches toward his side.
He is hurt.
Not badly enough to fall over. Not badly enough for anyone else to understand the shape of it. But I know what I saw. The blast. The stumble. The way he keeps his breathing measured, like too much of it would cost him.
I could ask.
Are you hurt? Are you going to be okay? Where do you go after this? Who checks on you when the city stops watching?
I don’t.
Because the answer to all of those questions would trap him here.
So I glance past him, toward the edge of the lane where the police are starting to shift closer, their formation tightening, hands hovering near their belts. More people are lifting their phones now, stepping forward despite the warnings, drawn in by the aftermath like it’s something they’re allowed to touch.
“They’re coming toward you,” I say quietly. “And people are starting to crowd again.”
Spider-Man follows my gaze for a split second.
I don’t give him time to brush it off.
“You should go,” I add, a little firmer. “Before they decide you’re part of the problem.”
He looks back at me.
The white eyes of the mask give nothing away, but something in the angle of his head shifts—like he’s weighing it, like he already knows I’m right and just doesn’t want to leave yet.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he exhales, barely audible.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably a good idea.”
I nod once, even though my chest tightens at the thought of him disappearing again.
He lingers for half a heartbeat longer, then shifts his weight, already preparing to move.
I turn away first.
It is harder than I expect.
I stare out at the rain-dark courtyard, letting the noise of the crowd fill the space behind me, my pulse beating hard in my throat as I count silently, the way I did before.
One.
Two.
Three.
A web shoots.
I don’t look.
Four.
Five.
The air shifts.
When I finally turn, he is already above the gym roof, a red-and-blue blur cutting through the mist. He swings once, low and uneven, then catches the next building and disappears behind the old science wing like the rain has swallowed him whole.
Only then do I actually call my dad.
He answers immediately.
“Liya.”
“I’m okay,” I say first, because it is the only way to keep him from breaking apart through the phone. “I’m okay. I’m by the front steps.”
“What happened? I heard something over the scanner. A bus, some lunatic with electrical—are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you inside?”
I look at the shattered glass glittering across the street, the bus anchored in white webbing, the teachers still counting students with pale faces.
“Not exactly.”
Dad swears under his breath. Not at me. Not fully. At the world, maybe. At himself for being fifteen minutes late. At every awful thing that keeps finding its way to my school.
“I’m three blocks away,” he says. “Do not move.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
The line stays open even after neither of us speaks. I hear his car engine, the sharp tick of his blinker, his breath coming too fast. I stay where I am, one hand pressed around my phone, the other curled into my sleeve to hide how badly it shakes.
Jenna finds me before Dad does.
She comes from inside the building, hair half-fallen from its clips, camera bag twisted across her chest. Her face is pale, eyes too wide, and when she reaches me she doesn’t ask if I am okay. She just grabs my wrist and holds on.
“What the hell was that?” she whispers.
“I don’t know.”
That is the safest answer. Maybe even the truest one.
Her gaze moves over me quickly, checking for blood, bruises, evidence. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Not really,” I add.
“That means you did something.”
I look toward the front doors, where Milo sits on the floor with his red raincoat pooled around him, a counselor crouched in front of him. His hands are wrapped around a paper cup of water. He is still crying, but less now.
Jenna follows my gaze.
Her grip on my wrist loosens. “You helped him?”
“He was stuck at the door.”
“Liya.”
“I didn’t go into the street.”
She just stares at me.
“I didn’t.”
She studies me for a moment, then exhales, shaky and annoyed and relieved all at once. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You think you’re regular difficult. You’re advanced difficult.”
That gets a laugh out of me. It comes out wrong, too close to a sob, but Jenna doesn’t point that out. She only squeezes my wrist once before letting go.
Dad’s car screeches into the lane a minute later.
He parks terribly, half over the curb, not even bothering to straighten the wheel. The second he gets out, I can see the camera bag on the passenger seat, abandoned. For once, he doesn’t reach for it.
He runs to me.
I barely have time to brace before his arms close around me. He hugs like he is trying to pull me back through every disaster I have ever stood too close to, one by one, until I am small enough to keep safe in his hands.
“I told you to go inside,” he says into my hair.
“I know.”
“You said you were going inside.”
“I know.”
His arms tighten, then loosen just enough for him to pull back and look at my face. His eyes scan me the way they always do now, searching for hidden damage. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
His gaze drops to my hands. I realize too late that there is a thin line of red across one knuckle, probably from the stone planter or Milo’s raincoat zipper. Dad sees it.
“That’s not nothing.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Liya.”
“I helped a kid get down from the bus door. That’s all.”
Dad’s expression shifts through fear, anger, and something more complicated. Something like pride that has nowhere safe to stand.
“You should’ve let the adults handle it.”
“There weren’t any adults close enough.”
He closes his eyes for a second.
When he opens them, the anger is still there, but exhausted. Wounded. “You are going to kill me before I’m forty-five.”
“You’re already forty-six.”
“Not helping.”
Jenna makes a small sound beside us that might be a laugh she wisely tries to bury.
Dad looks at her, then back at me. “We’re leaving.”
“Don’t you have to—” I gesture weakly toward the bus, the police, the scene already turning into a headline.
“No,” he says.
The answer is immediate.
I stare at him.
His jaw works once. “Someone else can photograph it.”
He guides me toward the car with one hand on my shoulder, still firm, still shaking a little. Jenna walks with us until the curb, where one of the teachers calls her name and waves her toward the student check-in area. She looks at me, reluctant.
“Text me,” she says.
“I will.”
“I mean actually.”
“I will actually text you.”
She gives Dad one cautious glance, then hurries back toward the school entrance.
The ride home is silent at first.
Not peaceful. Not angry either. Just full. Dad drives with both hands on the wheel, his knuckles pale, his camera bag sliding on the floorboard every time he brakes too sharply. The radio is off. The windshield wipers drag mist across the glass in slow, uneven sweeps.
I keep my hands in my lap and stare at the tiny cut on my knuckle.
The city outside looks different after something happens. Not because it changes, but because it doesn’t. Stores stay open. People cross streets. A man walks his dog under a black umbrella. The world continues with an almost offensive calm, dragging the disaster behind it like a shadow no one wants to look at directly.
Dad turns onto our street.
“You lied to me,” he says finally.
I swallow. “I know.”
“I need you to understand that I can’t protect you if you lie.”
“I know.”
“No, Liya. I don’t think you do.” His voice stays even, which is worse than yelling. “I don’t think you understand what it feels like to hear something over a police scanner and not know if my daughter is under it, beside it, inside it—”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
The words land hard because they are true.
I turn my head toward the window. Rain threads down the glass, turning the houses into wavering shapes. “There was a kid.”
Dad doesn’t answer.
“He was stuck at the bus door. Spider-Man had moved the guy away, and the teachers were helping other people, and he was just standing there. He couldn’t get down.” My voice thins despite my best efforts. “I didn’t run into the street. I didn’t go near the man. I just talked him down and caught his coat.”
Dad pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Then he leans back in his seat and presses both hands over his face. When he speaks, his voice is muffled. “You sound like your mother.”
I look at him.
He lowers his hands, eyes red around the edges. “That is not always comforting.”
The ache in my chest softens into something worse.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know.”
“I really am.”
“I know that too.”
The silence afterward is different. Not repaired. Not easy. But less sharp.
Inside, the house smells like morning because we left it too quickly: coffee gone stale, toast crumbs still on the table, The Sentinel folded beneath Dad’s palm print. He locks the front door behind us and stands there for a second, staring at the deadbolt like it has ever stopped anything that truly wanted to get in.
“Go upstairs,” he says.
“Am I grounded more?”
He gives me a tired look. “Do you want the official ruling now, or after I’ve had enough coffee not to sound insane?”
“After coffee.”
“Smart.”
I climb the stairs slowly.
My room is dim, the rain pressing gray light against the window. I drop my bag by the desk and sit on the edge of the bed without turning on the lamp. My body feels strange now that it has stopped moving. Hollow in some places. Too loud in others. The image of the bus keeps replaying in pieces: Milo’s red coat, Spider-Man’s burned side, the web lines holding the bus to the stone pillars like the city had been stitched together by force.
My phone buzzes.
For a second, I think it is Jenna.
It isn’t.
Jungwon: you got home?
I stare at the message until the screen begins to blur.
Of course. Of course he texts like he heard about it instead of lived it. Like he was never there. Like I hadn’t felt the space beside me go empty and watched Spider-Man appear less than a minute later.
I type back.
Me: yeah
The bubbles appear, vanish, appear again.
Jungwon: you’re okay?
Me: yeah
Me: just grounded in a more advanced way now probably
A pause.
Then—
Jungwon: sounds serious
Me: very
Me: might never see daylight again
I almost smile.
Me: both
The next pause is longer.
Rain taps softly against the glass. I glance toward the window, half-expecting to see a shape there, crouched on the ledge like the night itself has learned bad habits.
There is nothing.
My phone buzzes again.
Jungwon: one of the guys told me about what happened
Jungwon: that kid in the red coat
Jungwon: is he okay?
I stop breathing for a second.
There it is.
Small. Careless, maybe. Or not careless at all.
A thread left between us.
I look at the message for a long time, thumb hovering above the keyboard.
Me: yeah
Me: he was scared, but he got inside
Jungwon: good
One word.
Again.
But this one feels heavier than the last.
I should leave it there. That would be the safe thing. The normal thing. The thing people do when they are not standing at the edge of someone else’s secret, pretending not to notice the drop.
Instead, I type before I can lose the nerve.
Me: are you okay?
The bubbles appear immediately.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
A full minute passes before his answer comes through.
Jungwon: yeah
I stare at it.
Another message follows.
Jungwon: just tired
That, at least, sounds true.
I sit back against the wall, knees drawn up to my chest, phone balanced loosely in one hand. Outside, the rain keeps touching the window, soft and persistent, blurring the glass until my reflection looks like someone I almost recognize.
Me: rest then
The reply comes after a few seconds.
Jungwon: you too
I lock the screen before I can say anything else.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙚𝙣: 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙁𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙣
By the time Jenna and I leave The Literary Nook, the street outside has gone blue with evening.
Not dark, not really. Just that strange hour where everything looks half-erased, the sidewalks slick with old rain, the shop windows glowing warmer than they should. The convenience store bag swings from Jenna’s wrist, crinkling every few steps. Sour gummies, two sodas, a packet of chocolate-covered pretzels she insisted had “emotional value” because they were on sale.
I still have my phone in my hand.
The screen has gone black, but I keep feeling the weight of it anyway. Like it’s changed shape just because Jungwon’s number is inside.
Jenna glances over at me once, then again.
“What?” I ask, tucking the phone into my pocket before she can make a whole thing of it.
“Nothing.”
“You looked at me.”
“I have eyes.”
I shoot her a flat look.
She smiles around a gummy worm she’s halfway through chewing. “You’re very tense for someone who just bought soda and watched me embarrass myself in a bookstore.”
“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”
“I asked the cashier if they had a rewards program and then forgot my own email.”
“That’s normal.”
“It was not. I panicked and said Gmail like he was supposed to know what that meant.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, small but real. Jenna grins like she won something.
Behind us, The Literary Nook’s bell gives a faint chime as the door opens again. I don’t turn. I tell myself not to.
I make it three steps.
Then, because I’m weak in a very quiet, controlled way, I glance back.
Jungwon stands just outside the bookstore, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe, the bag of books hanging from his hand. The newspaper is still tucked beneath his arm, folded now so the headline isn’t visible. He’s looking down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, not typing. Just staring.
The fairy lights behind him catch in his hair, softening the tired set of his face. From here, with the distance and the blue evening between us, he almost looks normal. A senior at school. A boy with homework and a bag of books and friends who know how to fill the cafeteria with noise.
Not Spiderman.
Not the figure in red and blue that the city keeps dragging apart in headlines.
Not the person who asked for my number like we were starting something simple.
Jenna follows my glance and slows a little. “You know,” she says, quieter now, “I can walk ahead and pretend I didn’t see anything.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“I didn’t say there was.”
I look at her.
She lifts both hands, the candy bag dangling from two fingers. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being normal.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying.”
That gets another laugh out of me, though this one fades faster.
My phone buzzes before we reach the corner.
The sound is small. Barely anything against the street noise, the distant hiss of tires on damp asphalt, the low murmur of a couple arguing outside the laundromat. But it cuts straight through me.
I don’t take it out right away.
Jenna notices. Of course she does. She keeps walking, but her eyes flick down toward my pocket.
“You gonna check that?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Two more steps.
“You’re very bad at not wanting to check it.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
“That’s fine. I’m still right.”
I stop walking with a sigh, mostly because pretending not to care is somehow more obvious than caring. My fingers feel colder than they should when I pull the phone from my pocket.
Jungwon: hey, it’s Jungwon
That’s it.
No punctuation. No explanation. No reason for my pulse to trip the way it does.
I stare at the message for a second longer than necessary, then type back before I can overthink it.
Me: I know. I watched you type it in.
The bubbles appear almost immediately.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: still felt weird not saying it
I press my lips together.
Jenna leans slightly toward me.
I angle the phone away. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t reading.”
“You were breathing near the screen.”
“I breathe everywhere.”
I turn my shoulder and type.
Me: fair
That feels too short. I almost add something else. Something casual. Something normal. Something a person who has friends would know how to say without making it feel like a legal document.
Nothing comes.
Jungwon answers anyway.
Jungwon: you get home okay?
I look at the message until the words blur a little.
It’s a harmless question. Anyone could ask it. Jenna could ask it. Dad asks it even when I’m already in the house.
But from Jungwon, it carries too much. Or maybe I put too much on it because I know what he does at night. Because I know he asks things like that after glass breaks and sirens fade and he swings out of alleys with his shoulder hanging wrong.
Because I know he’s capable of sounding casual while bleeding.
Me: walking now
Me: Jenna’s with me
Jungwon: good
There’s a pause.
Jungwon: tell her I said hi
I glance at Jenna, who is trying very hard to look like she isn’t waiting.
“Jungwon says hi.”
Jenna brightens instantly, then clearly tries to dim it down and fails. “Oh. Tell him hi. Normal hi. Like, casual.”
“You can just say hi.”
“I am saying hi through you. That’s different.”
I type it exactly how she said it.
Me: Jenna says “hi. normal hi. casual.”
A few seconds pass.
Jungwon: that sounds like her
I don’t know what to do with the small warmth that opens in my chest. So I lock the screen and push the phone back into my pocket like that will end it.
It doesn’t.
The walk home feels longer after that.
Dad is waiting when we get back, the living room lamp on, his office door cracked open just enough for light to spill across the hallway floor. He doesn’t say much when we come in. Just looks at the convenience store bag, then at me, then at Jenna, like he’s measuring whether either of us managed to become a public safety risk in the twenty minutes we were gone.
Jenna gives him an innocent smile.
Dad points toward the kitchen. “Put the drinks away before they sweat all over the table.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, and hurries past him.
I hover by the door, one hand still wrapped around the strap of my bag.
Dad studies me for a second too long. “Everything okay?”
The question is ordinary. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just got snacks.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move right away. His gaze drifts over my face, searching for the part I’m not giving him.
I wonder if Mom ever felt like this around him. Like he could photograph a lie before it fully left your mouth.
Finally, he steps aside. “Jenna’s parents called?”
“She texted them,” I say. “They’ll be home around eight.”
“Good.”
His voice is tired, not angry. The kind of tired that makes me feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything. Or when I’ve done too many things and he only knows about half of them.
Then her parent's finally did arrive.
Dad walks her to the door. I hover a few steps back, pretending to check my phone while they talk.
“Thanks again, Mr. Park,” Jenna says, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Sorry for, you know… showing up like that.”
“It’s fine,” Dad says. He opens the door for her. “Just text your parents next time before you wander off.”
“I did,” she says quickly. “They just didn’t answer.”
He nods once. “Alright. Get home safe.”
“I will.” She glances at me, then back at him. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
Dad keeps his hand on the knob for a second longer than necessary, like he’s thinking about something he hasn’t decided to say yet.
I start up the stairs.
“She’s not bad,” he says.
I stop halfway up and look back. “I didn’t say she was.”
“No, you didn’t.” He lets go of the door and turns toward me, rubbing his jaw. “Just… making an observation.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates, then adds, “She talks a lot.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
He watches me for a second. “You don’t.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Not always a bad thing,” he says.
I don’t really know what he wants me to do with that, so I just nod and turn back toward the stairs.
Upstairs, my room is exactly how we left it. Sketchbooks stacked crooked on my desk. A pencil on the floor. The window shut but not latched properly, letting in a hairline of cold air.
I lock it this time.
Then I sit on the edge of my bed and pull out my phone.
There are no new messages.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
I set the phone facedown on my nightstand, change into pajamas, wash my face, brush my teeth, turn off the light. I do everything in the right order, like rituals can make a person reasonable.
But when I slide under the covers, my hand still finds the phone.
The screen lights up, too bright in the dark.
Jungwon’s message sits there, plain and harmless.
Jungwon: good
That’s all.
Not a confession. Not a secret. Not even a real conversation.
Just one word.
I lock the screen again and roll over until the room disappears into shadow.
For once, I don’t draw.
—
By Monday morning, the air has shifted.
Not drastically. Nothing dramatic. The sky doesn’t split open, and the city doesn’t suddenly decide to stop whispering about Spiderman. But the weekend has pulled a thin skin over everything. The kind that makes it possible to pretend a few things have healed, even when they haven’t.
Dad drives me to school with one hand on the wheel and his coffee balanced in the cup holder, untouched and already going cold. The radio mutters low between us, some morning host laughing too loudly about traffic delays on Fifth. Dad doesn’t laugh. He keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, then the street, then me, like he’s expecting bad news to run alongside the car.
I keep my backpack on my lap and my phone buried at the bottom of it.
It buzzed once last night.
Not Jungwon. A reminder from the school portal about an upcoming AP English assignment.
I wasn’t disappointed. Not exactly.
Disappointment implies I expected something.
“You have art club today?” Dad asks as we turn onto Daylight Avenue.
“Maybe. Ms. Hartman said she’d post something about the mural.”
He nods. “You staying after?”
“I’ll text you if I do.”
His mouth tightens a little, but he doesn’t argue. Grounding has turned from a rule into an atmosphere. It’s still there, even when he doesn’t name it.
“Straight home if not,” he says.
“I know.”
He pulls up near the curb, behind a line of cars. Students spill toward the entrance in loose clusters, jackets unzipped, hair still damp from rushed showers, voices carrying across the morning.
For a second, I stay seated.
Dad notices. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” I reach for the door handle. “Just tired.”
That isn’t entirely a lie.
He gives a small nod. “Eat lunch today.”
I look back at him. “That was random.”
“You get weird when you don’t eat.”
“I’ll try not to be.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “Eat anyway.”
I step out before the softness can make either of us uncomfortable.
The car door shuts behind me with a familiar thud, and Dad waits until I reach the main steps before pulling away.
Daylight Academy looks the same as always: stone arches, ivy crawling over the walls, tall windows catching the pale light like sheets of dull silver. The school has a way of making every morning feel older than it is.
Inside, the hallway smells like floor polish, cheap perfume, wet fabric, and whatever breakfast someone decided to eat too close to the lockers. My sneakers squeak once against the tile. I hate the sound immediately.
Jenna finds me before Chemistry.
She appears at my side with her planner tucked under one arm and her camera bag slung across her chest, hair escaping its clip in tiny curls near her temples. She looks too awake for someone who spent Friday evening interrogating my entire childhood and then eating gummy worms on my bed.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
“You look like you slept three hours.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I figured.”
She studies me while we walk, but for once she doesn’t push. Maybe she’s learning. Or maybe she’s saving the questions for when I’m too tired to dodge them.
Chemistry is already half-full when we arrive. Mrs. Henderson stands at the front, writing reaction types across the board in her small, precise handwriting. The windows are cracked open, letting in a thin breeze that doesn’t do much for the bleach smell clinging to the room.
Sunoo is leaning back in his chair, talking to a boy beside him with his hands moving more than his mouth. Jungwon isn’t there yet.
I notice that without wanting to.
Jenna drops into the seat beside me and starts organizing her pens by color.
“Do you do that every morning?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel like I have control over my life.”
I glance at the perfectly aligned row of pens. “Does it work?”
“No.”
I smile despite myself and pull out my notebook.
The door opens a few minutes before the bell.
Jungwon walks in with his hood down, hair slightly damp, backpack hanging from one shoulder. He looks better than he did Friday. Less hollow around the eyes. Still tired, but in a human way. Like homework and bad sleep. Not like smoke and headlines.
There are no visible bruises. No cuts. No limp.
I don’t know why that bothers me. I knew he healed quickly. I’d seen proof of it enough times. But part of me still expects evidence. Something the rest of the world can’t explain away. A mark that says, yes, what happened happened.
Instead, he looks like Jungwon.
That’s almost worse.
His gaze moves over the room and finds me for half a second. He gives a small nod. Not a smile. Not nothing either.
I nod back.
Then he takes his seat near Sunoo.
That’s it.
Normal.
I open my notebook and write the date at the top of the page.
September 8.
The numbers look too sharp.
Mrs. Henderson begins before the bell has fully stopped ringing.
“Combination, decomposition, single replacement, double replacement, combustion,” she says, tapping each word on the board. “You should know these. Some of you do not.”
A few students laugh quietly.
She turns, unimpressed. “That wasn’t a joke.”
The laughter dies fast.
We spend twenty minutes copying notes and circling reaction patterns. My pen moves because my hand knows how to perform being present, even when the rest of me keeps drifting. Across the room, Sunoo has gone quiet for once, chin propped on his hand. Jungwon sits beside him, pencil turning slowly between his fingers.
Jenna leans slightly toward me. “Did you do the English reading?”
“Most of it.”
“That means no.”
“That means most of it.”
“Did you finish?”
“No.”
She nods. “So no.”
I don’t argue because she’s right.
Mrs. Henderson passes out a worksheet and gives us the rest of the period to start. Jenna immediately bends over hers with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. I answer the first three, then get stuck on the fourth.
A chair scrapes ahead of us.
Sunoo twists around, his worksheet pinched between two fingers. “Jenna. You got number six?”
Jenna looks up, eyebrows raised. “We’re on number four.”
“I’m planning ahead.”
“You skipped five.”
“I didn’t like it.”
She stares at him for a second, then reluctantly slides her paper closer. “Don’t copy. Look at the format.”
“I know how to look at formats.”
“Then do that.”
Their voices stay low, ordinary, nothing loud enough for Mrs. Henderson to snap at them. Still, the exchange draws Jungwon’s attention. He glances back, and his eyes briefly catch mine before dropping to my notebook.
“You good on four?” he asks.
It takes a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
Jenna looks at my blank answer, then at me.
I ignore her.
Jungwon doesn’t call me out. He just nods and turns back around.
The relief that follows is ridiculous.
I fill in number four wrong on purpose, then erase it so hard the paper thins.
—
AP English comes with colder light and Mr. Erikson’s usual attempt at making old literature feel like it has anything to do with us.
Today, apparently, it’s Paradise Lost.
The classroom hums with low conversation when I step in. Jenna slips into the seat beside me. Jay is already in the corner, earbuds in, one foot hooked around the leg of his chair. Amy-Jane sits near the front, posture straight, hair clipped neatly away from her face. She has three different colors of highlighter lined up beside her notebook.
I hate that I notice things like that.
Not hate.
That’s too strong.
I dislike the version of myself that notices and then compares.
Mr. Erikson starts class with a question written on the board:
Who gets to decide what makes someone fallen?
A few students groan.
He turns from the board, marker still in hand. “I know. Thinking on a Monday. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
No one laughs much, but he doesn’t seem offended.
The discussion starts slowly. Milton, rebellion, punishment, pride, perception. Words that feel too big and too far away until someone in the second row raises their hand and says, “Isn’t it kind of like that Spiderman thing?”
The room shifts.
Not a dramatic shift. No sudden silence, no chairs scraping back. Just a small tightening, like a thread pulled through fabric.
Mr. Erikson pauses. “You mean the article?”
“Yeah,” the student says. “The whole hero or murderer thing. Like, people already liked him, but now everyone’s acting like they always knew he was dangerous.”
My pen stops moving.
Jenna glances at me.
I keep my face neutral.
Mr. Erikson leans back against his desk, considering. “That’s a useful connection. Public perception can change quickly, especially when fear is involved.” He pauses, then adds, “But let’s push it further. This isn’t just about perception. This is the first time our city—maybe any city—has had someone like this. Someone with abilities no one else has.”
The room shifts again, more noticeably this time.
“Like, superpowers?” someone says from the back.
“Yes,” Mr. Erikson says simply. “If we’re being honest about it.”
A few students exchange looks. Someone lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but no one dismisses it outright.
“So what does that mean?” he continues. “Not just for him, but for everyone else? Safety. Responsibility. Authority. Who decides what’s right when someone has that kind of power?”
Jay takes one earbud out.
For the first time all period, he looks fully awake.
Another student leans forward. “I mean, if he can stop crimes, that’s good, right? Like, better than nothing.”
“Unless he messes up,” someone else counters. “Or decides something is a crime when it’s not.”
“Or if he gets hurt,” a girl near the window adds. “Then what? We’re just… relying on one person?”
“Or worse,” someone mutters, “what if he decides he doesn’t want to help anymore?”
The questions stack quickly, overlapping.
“Or what if he’s lying about why he does it?”
“What if he’s not the only one?"
“What if someone like that decides to do something bad?”
Mr. Erikson doesn’t interrupt. He lets it build, lets the uncertainty fill the room.
“Or when people don’t have facts,” Amy-Jane says.
Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts cleanly through the noise.
A few heads turn.
She looks slightly uncomfortable with the attention but doesn’t retract it. “I just mean… the headline asks a question it already wants people to answer. It’s not really neutral. And now everyone’s reacting to that instead of what actually happened.”
Mr. Erikson nods once. “Good. Framing matters. Especially when something new enters the world and people don’t know how to categorize it yet.”
Another student shrugs. “But that guy said murderer. The suspect. Maybe he knows something.”
“Maybe,” Amy-Jane says. “But suspects say things. That doesn’t mean the paper should present it like proof. Especially when people are already scared.”
Her tone stays even. Not defensive. Not emotional. Just clear.
Mr. Erikson folds his arms loosely. “Fear tends to fill in gaps where information is missing. And when something—or someone—doesn’t fit into existing systems, people try to force it into one. Hero. Villain. Savior. Threat.”
He gestures lightly toward the board, where Milton’s name is still written. “Milton writes about rebellion and judgment in a cosmic sense. But we’re doing the same thing here, just on a smaller scale. Deciding who gets to define morality when the rules don’t quite apply anymore.”
I look down at my notes, at the half-written sentence about moral judgment and narrative control. My fingers tighten around the pen.
It would be easier if she were shallow.
That thought embarrasses me the second it forms.
Amy-Jane isn’t doing anything wrong. She’s sitting there with her neat notes and her calm voice, saying the thing I want to say but can’t quite trust myself to say without sounding like I know too much.
Jay’s gaze flicks from Amy-Jane to the board, then down to his desk. His expression barely changes.
Mr. Erikson lets the discussion breathe for another few minutes before gently steering it back to Milton. But the room doesn’t fully return. The conversation lingers, threaded through everything else—through the text, through the questions, through the quiet understanding that this isn’t just a classroom debate.
It’s happening everywhere.
In headlines. In comment sections. In living rooms and late-night broadcasts.
The article has entered the air, and now it stays there, invisible but present, hovering over notebooks and old paperbacks and the faint scratch of pens.
When the bell rings, Jenna packs up slowly.
“That was weird,” she murmurs.
“What was?”
She gives me a look. “The Spiderman thing.”
“A lot of people are talking about it.”
“Yeah. I know.”
She waits for me to say more. I don’t.
Jay passes our desks on his way out. He doesn’t look at me, but he slows briefly near the trash can, just enough to drop a crumpled paper inside with unnecessary precision. Then he leaves.
Jenna watches him go. “He always looks like he knows bad news before it happens.”
I zip my bag. “Maybe he just has resting judgment face.”
She smiles faintly. “That too.”
—
History is worse because Jungwon isn’t there.
That should make it easier. Instead, it gives my brain too much room.
Mrs. Hawthorne lectures about early trade routes and the way cities rose and fell depending on who controlled them. She says it like it’s harmless history, like shifting borders and quiet takeovers belong safely in the past with faded maps and brittle parchment.
But all I can think about is Dad’s photographs under Victor Kane’s headline.
Sunghoon sits two rows over, one hand curled around his pen, tapping once every few seconds. Ni-ki is beside him, slouched lower, his notes half-finished. They whisper only once, brief enough that Mrs. Hawthorne doesn’t catch it.
I do.
Not the words. Just the timing.
The moment Mrs. Hawthorne says propaganda, Sunghoon leans toward Ni-ki. Ni-ki’s eyes move to the window, then back to his paper.
That’s all.
Nothing incriminating. Nothing obvious.
Still, my stomach knots.
I hate how much I notice now. I hate that knowing one secret makes everything else look like evidence.
Maybe this is what happens when the world cracks open. Light gets in, but so does every shadow.
Mrs. Hawthorne calls on me once. I answer well enough. Adequate enough. She moves on.
By the time the bell rings, my notes are clean, organized, and almost entirely useless.
—
P.E. smells like rubber, sweat, and whatever industrial cleaner the janitors use when they want to convince themselves a gym can be purified.
Coach Thompson has us outside today, which should feel like mercy. It doesn’t. The sun is too bright, the air too warm for early September, and the grass still holds dampness from the weekend rain. By the time Jenna and I reach the field, half the class is already complaining.
Jungwon stands near Heeseung, Ni-ki, and Sunghoon, stretching one arm across his chest. He looks normal here too. Annoyingly normal. No stiffness in his shoulder. No careful favoring of one side. If I hadn’t seen him crash into an alley, if I hadn’t seen him bleed beneath the mask, I would have believed the body in front of me had never known anything worse than a gym evaluation.
But I did see it.
So I watch for what’s missing.
Not too much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just the briefest glance as Coach Thompson starts dividing us into groups for relay drills.
Jungwon is slower today.
Not slow. Not obviously. No one else would catch it. He still moves better than most of us, still light on his feet, still controlled in a way that makes the rest of the field look clumsy around him.
But he doesn’t push.
He lets Ni-ki pass him during the sprint. He laughs it off when Heeseung says something under his breath. He rubs at his side once when he thinks everyone is looking at Coach.
Healing, then.
Not instant.
That should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
Jenna bumps my shoulder lightly while we wait in line. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m hot.”
“You’re always quiet when you’re thinking too much.”
“That’s a big accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation.”
I squint toward the field. “You sound like Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She recoils. “Take that back.”
I almost laugh, but Coach blows his whistle, and the line starts moving.
Relay drills are mostly humiliation dressed up as teamwork. I don’t fall, which feels like growth. Jenna nearly does, then recovers with a dramatic gasp that makes two girls behind us laugh.
When Jungwon’s turn comes, he runs cleanly but carefully. His speed is still enough to draw attention. A few people cheer. Someone whistles. He slows before the finish line in a way that looks casual unless you’re searching for the seam.
I am.
He hands the baton to Heeseung, who takes off without a word.
When Jungwon walks back, his gaze passes over me. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything that could be noticed.
But his hand flexes once at his side, like a conversation he decided not to have.
I look away first.
—
Lunch is quieter than it used to be.
The boys don’t sit in their old corner. They haven’t for a week, and somehow their absence still changes the cafeteria. The table is still there, obviously. Same scuffed surface, same uneven legs, same view of the vending machines. But without them, it looks like any other table.
Jenna and I sit near the windows with trays we mostly pick at. She has fries and an apple she clearly has no intention of eating. I have a sandwich Dad packed this morning, folded too carefully in wax paper.
“Your dad still cuts your sandwiches?” Jenna says, noticing.
“Yes.”
“That’s very parent of him.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“It shows he still views you as his little girl.”
“It says he owns a knife.”
She gives me a look. “You’re avoiding sentiment.”
“I’m eating lunch.”
“Yeah, sure, sure.”
I take a bite just to end the discussion.
Across the cafeteria, Sunoo sits with Jake and two guys from the soccer team. He’s talking, but not with the same ease as before. His gaze keeps drifting toward the entrance like he’s waiting for someone.
Jungwon doesn’t come in.
Neither does Heeseung.
Sunghoon and Ni-ki pass through once, grab bottled drinks, and leave again. Ni-ki sees me looking and gives a quick, polite nod. Not suspicious. Not dramatic. Just the kind of nod people give when they recognize you and don’t know whether to stop.
I nod back.
Jenna follows my gaze. “They’ve been weird.”
I focus on my sandwich. “Who?”
She doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
After a second, she says, “Not bad weird. Just… different.”
“A lot happened.”
“Yeah, but it’s like they all decided to stop being seen at the same time.”
I don’t answer.
She pushes a fry through ketchup, watching the red smear across the tray. “Maybe they’re just tired of people staring.”
“Maybe.”
Jenna looks at me, then lets it go.
I’m grateful enough that it hurts a little.
—
Algebra is where the day starts to feel like a joke someone forgot to tell me.
Mrs. Jensen is already at the board when I walk in, writing equations with tight, efficient movements. The room smells like dry erase markers and old paper. The blinds are half-closed, striping the desks with pale light.
Jungwon is in his usual seat.
Heeseung is beside him, chair tilted back just far enough to annoy anyone with authority.
Amy-Jane sits in front of them, her notebook open, hair falling over one shoulder as she writes something before class has even started. Everyone knows who she is. You don’t really get a choice about that when your last name shows up in the news for reasons that aren’t scandals—charity galas, city council events, ribbon cuttings where her father stands at a podium and smiles like he owns the skyline. Mayor Li. People say it like it explains everything.
I’ve heard enough about her without trying. That she lives in one of those houses near the river with gates and a driveway that curves too long to be practical. That she volunteers on weekends, not because she has to, but because she actually shows up. That she’s never been caught doing anything wrong, which somehow makes people trust her more and less at the same time. There are rumors, of course—there are always rumors—but none of them stick. Nothing messy enough to ruin the image.
I’ve seen her hold doors open for people who don’t thank her. I’ve seen her stay after class to ask questions she probably already knows the answers to. I’ve seen teachers soften when they talk to her, like she makes their jobs easier just by existing.
She doesn’t look up from her notes.
I take my seat two rows back and pretend none of this matters.
It works for approximately thirty seconds.
“Group review today,” Mrs. Jensen says once the bell rings. “Four people. You may work with the people nearest you. If that becomes a problem, I will make it my problem.”
A few chairs scrape.
I stay still, hoping the laws of proximity will have mercy.
They do not.
Amy-Jane turns around first. “Do you want to join us?”
She’s looking at me.
For a moment, I think I imagined it.
Then Jungwon looks over too, and Heeseung’s chair drops forward with a soft thud.
“Sure,” I say, because no is too noticeable.
I gather my notebook and move to the empty desk beside Amy-Jane, angled slightly toward Jungwon and Heeseung. Four desks pushed close, knees almost touching under the narrow space, worksheet in the middle like a peace treaty no one signed.
Mrs. Jensen starts the timer and tells us to finish the first side before she checks progress.
For a while, it’s just math.
Numbers, variables, the scratch of pencils, Amy-Jane’s neat handwriting, Heeseung quietly doing most of the work faster than he lets on. Jungwon leans over his paper with his brow furrowed, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His forearms are unmarked.
No bruises.
Nothing.
I write my name at the top of the worksheet even though I already did. Then I cross out the second one before anyone sees.
Amy-Jane taps the edge of Jungwon’s paper. “How did you get that?”
Jungwon glances up. “Which one?”
“Seven. I got a different answer.”
He shifts the paper toward her. “I moved the negative over first. Jensen usually wants it clean before you divide.”
Amy-Jane leans closer to look.
It’s subtle, the way he changes.
Not enough for anyone to point at. Not enough for Jenna to make a face across the room if she were here. But I notice because I’ve spent too long noticing him.
His voice lowers. Not in a dramatic way. Just quieter. More careful. He stops tapping his pencil. His shoulders square a little, like he’s trying to seem less tired than he is.
Amy-Jane nods slowly. “Oh. That makes sense.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Your way probably still works. You just have to fix the sign here.”
He points to her paper, but doesn’t touch it until she slides it closer.
Heeseung looks between them once, then down at his own worksheet. His mouth moves like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just flips his pencil around and erases a number with more focus than necessary.
I keep my eyes on my paper.
My face stays normal.
That feels important, though no one is checking.
Amy-Jane laughs quietly at herself. “I always miss the negative.”
“I do that too,” Jungwon says.
“You do not,” Heeseung says, not looking up.
Jungwon glances at him. “I do sometimes.”
Heeseung writes another answer. “Sure.”
It’s nothing. Barely a conversation. Not a confession, not a sign, not anything worth caring about.
Still, something inside me settles in a place I don’t like.
Amy-Jane is easy to like. That’s the problem. She isn’t cruel. She isn’t smug. She doesn’t look at me like I’m in the way. When she turns her paper toward me to ask if my answer matched hers on number ten, her smile is small but genuine.
I tell her mine did.
It didn’t.
I fix it after.
Mrs. Jensen comes around to check our work. She pauses behind Heeseung first, then Jungwon, then Amy-Jane, then me. Her eyes scan the page.
“Better, Liya,” she says.
The praise is so unexpected that I look up.
Mrs. Jensen has already moved on.
Amy-Jane gives me a quick smile. “Nice.”
“Thanks,” I say.
My voice sounds normal.
I’m proud of that.
Near the end of class, Amy-Jane starts packing before the bell. Jungwon notices.
“You leaving early?”
“Office appointment,” she says, sliding her folder into her bag. “College counselor.”
“Oh.”
Amy-Jane zips her bag, then hesitates. “Can I ask you later about the last two problems? I don’t think I wrote them right.”
Jungwon nods too quickly, then seems to realize and slows it down. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Thanks.”
She stands, gives Mrs. Jensen a note, and slips out just before the bell.
Jungwon watches the door close.
Only for a second.
Then he looks back down.
Heeseung does not look at him. Which somehow says more than if he had.
I gather my things carefully, one page at a time. My hands are steady. My throat is not.
When the bell rings, Jungwon stands and nearly bumps his knee against the desk. He mutters something under his breath, then reaches for his backpack.
I move before there’s a chance for awkwardness.
“See you,” I say, not to anyone specific.
Jungwon looks up. “Yeah. See you.”
Heeseung says nothing, but his gaze flicks briefly to me, then back to his bag.
I leave before I can decide what that means.
—
Art class saves me and ruins me in the same breath.
Ms. Hartman has covered the front tables with butcher paper, old magazines, color swatches, and printed photos of Graystone from different angles — skyline at dusk, the old bridge, the east market, Daylight Academy’s stone front, downtown streets washed in neon after rain.
The mural project has officially begun.
“The theme is civic identity,” she announces, clapping her hands once. “Which sounds boring because the committee named it, not me. What I want from you is the truth of the city. Not the brochure version. Not the tourist version. Your version.”
My fingers itch for a pencil immediately.
Amy-Jane is already at the far table, flipping through photos. She looks up when I approach and shifts her bag off the chair beside her.
“You can sit here if you want.”
I hesitate, then sit.
The chair legs scrape softly against the floor.
For a while, we work without speaking. The quiet is easier than Algebra. Art class quiet has texture — scissors slicing through paper, charcoal tapping lightly, Ms. Hartman moving between tables with her bracelets clicking together.
I choose a photo of the skyline, then one of the bridge, then another of an alley I recognize near The Literary Nook. The composition comes together slowly, city lines layered over each other, buildings pressed close, windows bright like watchful eyes.
Without meaning to, I draw a figure in the upper corner.
Small. Almost hidden.
A body crouched on the edge of a rooftop.
I stare at it for too long.
Then I shade over it until it becomes part of the skyline.
Amy-Jane notices, but she doesn’t say anything right away.
That makes me like her more.
Which makes everything worse.
After a few minutes, she slides one of her own sketches toward the center of the table. “Does this look too clean?”
I look over.
Her concept is beautiful. Of course it is. A soft, almost architectural design of Graystone’s old buildings opening into newer streets, flowers breaking through cracks in the pavement. There’s hope in it, but not the obnoxious kind. Not sunshine pasted over rot. Something gentler.
“No,” I say. “It looks balanced.”
She considers that. “I’m worried it looks fake.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Are you just saying that to be nice?”
“I don’t think so.”
A small smile crosses her face. “Fair.”
She looks at my page next, careful not to lean too close. “Yours feels heavier.”
I glance down. “That’s bad?”
“No. Just different.” She studies it a moment longer. “It looks like the city is watching itself.”
The words settle strangely under my skin.
“I didn’t mean to make it creepy,” I say.
“I didn’t mean creepy.” She pauses, searching. “More like… aware.”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I adjust a line that didn’t need adjusting.
Amy-Jane picks up a charcoal pencil, then sets it down again. “Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens out of habit. “Sure.”
“Your dad works for The Sentinel, right?”
Of course.
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly. “That must be strange right now.”
I keep my eyes on the page. “It’s not great.”
“My mom read the article.” Amy-Jane’s voice stays careful. “She said it was irresponsible.”
I look up despite myself.
Amy-Jane gives a small shrug, almost apologetic. “She works in public policy. She gets annoyed when people turn panic into proof.”
Something tight in my chest shifts.
“Your mom sounds smart,” I say.
“She’d like hearing that.” Amy-Jane’s mouth curves faintly. “She thinks most people online need to sit in silence for ten minutes before they post anything.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Amy-Jane looks back at her sketch. “I don’t know what Spiderman did before. Maybe there’s something people don’t know. But that robbery could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”
My pencil stills.
She doesn’t sound like she’s defending a crush. She doesn’t sound like she’s trying to impress anyone. She sounds like someone who thought about it and came to the least cruel conclusion she could.
I understand, suddenly, why Jungwon would look at her differently.
It isn’t just because she’s pretty.
That would be easier.
“Yeah,” I say. “It could’ve been.”
For the rest of class, we work in a quiet that doesn’t feel empty.
—
Free period is the last hour of the day, and by then the sky outside has gone gray again.
Not storm-gray. Just tired-gray.
I go to the library because it’s easier than going home early and having Dad ask why I look like someone wrung me out. The library is quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of quiet that feels earned. A few students are scattered between tables, headphones in, notebooks open, nobody bothering anyone else.
I take my usual corner near history and literature.
My phone sits beside my notebook.
I tell myself it’s only there because I need the calculator.
I’m sketching the mural concept again when it buzzes.
My hand stops mid-line.
Jungwon: do you have a picture of the algebra worksheet?
For a second, I just stare.
Then I take the worksheet from my folder, smooth it out on the table, and snap a photo.
Me: sent
Jungwon: thanks
I wait.
Nothing else comes.
That should be fine. That is fine. That is a completely normal exchange between proper friends who have each other’s numbers and share classes and ask for worksheets.
I set the phone down.
It buzzes again.
Jungwon: sorry
Jungwon: meant to take one before amy-jane left with hers
There it is.
Small. Harmless. Honest without meaning to be.
I type back slowly.
Me: no problem
Then, because leaving it there feels too stiff even for me, I add:
Me: Jensen posted it online too
Jungwon: did she?
Jungwon: that would’ve been smarter to check first
Me: probably
The bubbles appear, disappear, appear again.
Jungwon: you staying after today?
My pulse does something very stupid.
I look around the library as if someone might see the question hovering over my phone.
Me: free period
Me: library
A pause.
Jungwon: right
Jungwon: i’m meeting someone after school for algebra
Jungwon: but maybe tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
The word sits there, too open.
It’s the first time he’s asked.
Not for homework. Not for notes. Not because we happened to be in the same place at the same time.
For me.
I stare at the message longer than I should, like if I look away it might disappear or change into something easier to answer.
My chest feels tight in a way I don’t recognize right away.
I write three different responses and delete all of them.
Sure.
Okay.
Maybe.
All of them look wrong.
Finally, I type:
Me: yeah, maybe
That is safe.
That is controlled.
That reveals nothing.
Jungwon: cool
I lock the phone and press it facedown on the table.
The library feels warmer than before.
I go back to sketching, but my lines come out uneven.
Ten minutes later, I pack up because sitting still has become impossible.
The hallway outside is almost empty. Last period always thins the school out, leaving behind the echo of lockers and distant voices from classrooms still pretending to function. My footsteps sound too loud against the tile.
I take the long way toward the east exit. Not because I’m looking for anyone. Because the front hall gets crowded. Because the east stairwell is quieter. Because I can lie to myself fluently when necessary.
Near the Algebra hall, voices drift from an open classroom.
Mrs. Jensen’s room.
The door is propped open with a trash can. Inside, the overhead lights are off except for the one row near the windows, leaving the room softer than usual. Jungwon sits at a desk near the front, notebook open. Amy-Jane stands beside him, leaning over the worksheet with her hair falling forward slightly.
They aren’t touching.
They aren’t doing anything.
He points at a line on the paper. She nods, asks something too low for me to hear. He answers, then looks up at her while she writes.
The smile he gives her is small.
Quiet.
Not the kind that belongs to hallways or cafeteria tables. Not the one he gives when Sunoo is being loud, not the tired half-smile he gives me when we’re both pretending.
This one is careful in a different way.
I stop only for a second.
Less than that, maybe.
Long enough to understand I was right.
Then I keep walking.
No one sees me. Or if they do, they don’t call out.
The east exit opens with a heavy groan, spilling me into the cooling air. The football field stretches ahead, the bleachers dark against the gray sky. Wind moves through the grass in uneven ripples.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t check it until I reach the sidewalk.
Jungwon: tomorrow during free maybe?
Jungwon: if you’re not busy
I stare at the message until the screen dims.
Then I unlock it again.
Me: I’ll probably be in the library
Jungwon: okay
Jungwon: see you then
I put the phone away.
The walk home is quiet.
Not peaceful. Just quiet.
The kind where every sound seems to keep its distance: the low drag of tires over pavement, the thin bark of a dog behind a fence, the rustle of leaves gathering near storm drains. My backpack knocks lightly against my hip with each step.
I think about Amy-Jane’s sketch.
Flowers through pavement. Old buildings opening into new streets. A city that can be damaged and still decide to grow something anyway.
I think about Jungwon’s hand on the worksheet, his voice lowered beside her.
I think about Spiderman on shattered glass, his mask tilted toward the word murderer.
I think about how two things can be true at once.
He can be kind to me.
He can trust me a little.
He can still want someone else.
The thought doesn’t break anything. It just settles, heavy and familiar, like a book placed carefully on a shelf already bowing under the weight.
When I get home, Dad’s car isn’t in the driveway yet.
I let myself in, lock the door behind me, and stand in the quiet living room for a moment. The house smells like old coffee and lemon cleaner. A pile of newspapers sits on the table, The Sentinel folded facedown on top like Dad couldn’t stand looking at it.
I go upstairs.
My room is dim, the afternoon light fading against the walls. The sketches on my desk wait where I left them — rooftops, windows, half-made figures hidden in the skyline.
I sit down and pull the mural page toward me.
For once, I don’t start with him.
I draw the city first.
The bridge. The buildings. The narrow street outside The Literary Nook. The windows that watch without speaking. The places where people stand too close to danger because they can’t help wanting to know the truth.
Only after the skyline is finished do I add the shape on the roof.
Small enough that someone might miss it.
Clear enough that I won’t.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙉𝙞𝙣𝙚: 𝙃𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨
The living room has never felt smaller. A week of being grounded has a way of shrinking walls, of turning ordinary furniture into prison bars. The couch cushions sag beneath me, their fabric scratchy against my bare arms as I sit stiff, backpack already by my feet, shoes laced, hair brushed, every detail in order. I’m not waiting for school so much as waiting for release — like a prisoner counting the clang of keys.
It’s September 5th. Friday. The calendar on the wall stares me down with its square of red ink circling the date, Dad’s handwriting scrawled across it in hurried pen: staff meeting. He’s in the kitchen with his phone pressed hard to his ear, his voice low, tense, threaded with the kind of frustration that always ends with silence.
“…you twisted it, Victor. You twisted everything.” His voice carries just enough for me to catch, words ragged at the edges. “I didn’t take those photos so you could—”
A pause. The sharp interruption on the other end bleeds through even from here, Kane’s words too muffled to make out but sharp enough to sting.
I glance down at my own phone, the glow of the screen harsh against the morning dim. The article is still open. I’d read it once last night, then again when I couldn’t sleep, and now again while Dad fights the same losing fight he’s had all week.
The headline slashes across the top in bold:“Spider-Man: Hero or Murderer?”
Beneath it, Dad’s photographs. His angles, his focus — the same pictures he’s always taken with the intent to show the truth. But twisted here, pulled into a narrative dripping venom.
One shot: Spider-Man crouched on shattered glass, muscles taut, web still trembling from where it had yanked a weapon away.The caption beneath: “Aggressor poised for attack.”
Another shot: the old man clutching his dog, Archie, tears streaking down his face.The caption: “Collateral damage in Spider-Man’s reckless games.”
And then the worst one. A blurry frame of the suspect being dragged away, spit flying as he screamed his accusation: Spirax says hello… you’re a murderer! The photo catches Spider-Man just as his mask tilts in that direction, head bowed against the words like they carried weight. The caption: “Even his enemies know the truth.”
I swallow hard, bile bitter in my throat.
From the kitchen, Dad’s voice cracks louder, sharp with disbelief. “You can’t just print lies because it sells, Victor! He saved lives. You saw the reports—he stopped them before anyone was killed.” Another pause. His hand smacks the counter, rattling a mug. “Don’t talk to me about ‘public interest.’ I was there. I saw it. You’re tearing down the only person—”
Kane cuts him off again. I can tell by the slump of Dad’s words, the way his tone deflates like air leaking from a tire. “…yes. I’ll still cover the next assignment. No, I won’t—no, I…”
His voice trails thin. Silence takes its place.
I look back down at the phone in my lap, at Spider-Man’s frozen mask staring up from a smear of newsprint pixels, white eyes empty as if all the noise — cheers, gasps, shouts — never touched him at all.
The kitchen floor creaks. Dad reappears in the doorway, phone sliding into his pocket, his shoulders hunched like he’s aged ten years since breakfast. He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for me to catch, then exhales hard.
“Get up, Liya,” he says, voice rough, eyes avoiding mine.
The drive is quiet, the kind of heavy quiet that hums louder than the engine itself. Dad keeps one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absent patterns against his thigh, his jaw set like he’s still chewing on Kane’s words. I don’t bother trying to break it — not when the weight of the past week sits just as firmly between us as the center console.
It’s been seven days since I last saw Spider-Man. Seven days since glass rained down like confetti, since the crowd cheered, since a criminal’s voice ripped through the air with that jagged word: murderer.
Since then… nothing.
Or, not exactly nothing. The city’s still moved, still breathed, still produced enough everyday disasters to keep police scanners buzzing — car accidents, small-time robberies, the usual city clutter. But nothing heavy enough to call him out again. No headlines. No rescues. No proof he’s still out there.
People swear they’ve caught glimpses — a man in red slipping through shadows, a blur against the skyline, a kid’s voice swearing he saw him pulling a cat from a fire escape. But it’s all half-whispers, half-wishes. To everyone else, it’s like Spider-Man’s vanished.
To me, though… he’s always been just a few desks away.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching street after street pass by in a blur. At school, Jungwon’s been quieter. Not gone, not entirely — just… dimmed. The lightness he usually carries with him into a room, that ripple of ease that always seemed to follow him? Duller now. His words, when he offers them, are clipped, spare.
The boys are different too. Their orbit has shifted, pulled tighter. They’ve stopped holding court in the cafeteria, stopped staking out that corner table where everyone could watch them. Without them, the cafeteria feels flatter, like someone pulled the spotlight offstage.
It’s made Jenna pout more than once. She doesn’t even bother hiding it, sighing dramatically over her untouched sandwich, her crush on Jake still painfully obvious. But she doesn’t linger there long — not anymore. Instead, she talks to me. About yearbook layouts, about teachers, about whatever weird trend she caught on TikTok the night before.
Somehow, against all odds, Jenna and I have gotten closer.
Sometimes I don’t believe it. Sometimes I catch myself scanning the hallway, not for Jungwon, not for Spider-Man, but for Jenna — waiting for her without even realizing it until she’s suddenly there, tugging at my sleeve with some half-formed thought she has to share.
The car slows at a red light. I pick at a fraying seam on my backpack, my throat tight with questions I’ll never ask aloud.
Does the article weigh on him like it does me? Does he see the word murderer stamped across his face every time he closes his eyes?
The light flicks green. Dad’s hands tighten on the wheel. Daylight Academy creeps closer.
—
The day drags in that uneven way only school can manage — stretches of silence stitched with sudden noise, teachers’ voices drifting like static. It’s an Even day, which means AP English first, then P.E., then Art. By the time the final bell rings, my head is stuffed with words about Milton’s Paradise Lost, the burn of laps across the gym, and charcoal dust still under my fingernails.
I linger outside near the drop-off lane, backpack hugged close. The campus buzzes around me — cars pulling in, students spilling out. I check my phone once, twice, waiting for Dad’s message saying he’s here.
Instead, a voice pipes up behind me.
“Hey, Liya.”
I turn, startled. Jenna is jogging toward me, her yearbook camera bag slung over one shoulder, ponytail bouncing. She stops in front of me, catching her breath with a sheepish grin.
“So, um,” she starts, fiddling with her camera strap. “This is going to sound really stupid, but… my parents are working late, and I totally left my keys at home. Which means I’m locked out until, like, eight o’clock.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Classic me, right?”
I blink. “…Oh.”
“Yeah, so…” She rocks on her heels, then blurts, “Can I hang out at your place? Just until my parents get home?”
My stomach knots. “I—I’d have to ask my dad. I’m still, y’know… grounded.”
Her smile quirks sideways. “I know. You told me, remember? Third day in. Right after you finally stopped turning tomato-red whenever I asked where you’d been disappearing after school.”
Heat creeps back into my cheeks anyway. “Yeah. That.”
Before Jenna can press further, Dad’s car pulls into the lane, the familiar rattle of the engine loud against the chatter around us. I exhale and adjust my grip on my bag. “Come on.”
We walk together toward the car. Dad lowers the window as we approach, his eyes flicking from me to Jenna.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound casual. “This is Jenna. From school.”
Jenna steps up, confidence flickering across her face even as her hands fidget with the camera strap. “Hi, Mr. Faulkner. It’s nice to meet you.”
Dad gives a small nod. “Jenna.” His voice is neutral, cautious.
“She, um…” I hesitate. “She needs somewhere to stay for a few hours. Locked herself out.”
His brow furrows. “Liya…”
Jenna jumps in before the weight of his pause can settle. “Sir, I promise I won’t be any trouble. I’ll just hang out, do some homework, maybe go over photo edits. I’m on the school paper, so half the time my life’s glued to a laptop anyway.” She flashes a small grin, earnest. “If anything, Liya’s going to get bored of me before the night’s over.”
Dad’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I don’t usually…” He glances at me, then back at Jenna. “Liya doesn’t bring people home.”
Jenna tilts her head, reading him with that uncanny ease she has. “Maybe that’s a good reason to let her. Sometimes distance just means no one’s asked yet.”
His eyes narrow faintly, caught between suspicion and thought. He doesn’t answer right away.
Jenna doesn’t falter. “Look, I get it. You don’t know me. But you’ve probably seen my byline in the school paper — Jenna Alvarez. Photography and journalism. If you want, I can even show you some of my work. I’m not dangerous, unless you count bad puns.”
Dad exhales slowly, like he’s testing the weight of her words in the air.
“Please,” Jenna adds, softer now. “It’s either Liya’s house or me sitting on the curb outside mine for five hours. I swear I’ll be good.”
Dad’s silence stretches, long enough that the air feels too tight in my lungs. Jenna doesn’t back down — her chin tips up just slightly, her eyes steady on him like she’s staking her case to a jury.
Finally, Dad sighs. His hand leaves the steering wheel, rubbing at the bridge of his nose the way he does when he’s conceding ground he never meant to.
“Fine,” he says at last, voice clipped. “But just for tonight.” His gaze cuts toward me, sharp enough to pin me in place. “And you’re both staying inside. No wandering. No exceptions.”
Relief floods Jenna’s face before I can even react. “Thank you, Mr. Faulkner. Seriously. I’ll be invisible.”
Dad grunts, not quite convinced, but unlocks the doors anyway.
The ride home is filled with Jenna’s chatter, her voice weaving in and out of the low hum of the engine. She tries to keep it light — asking about teachers, recounting a ridiculous thing Jake said in math class, filling the silence Dad refuses to bridge. I give her half-smiles, small nods, letting her words carry us the rest of the way.
When we finally pull into our narrow driveway, I feel my stomach tighten. The townhouse sits as it always has — brick chipped at the corners, windows smudged from past August storms, the porch light bulb burned out weeks ago. It’s ordinary, forgettable. But to me, it’s… raw. A place I’ve kept sealed off, away from the curious eyes of classmates.
Dad kills the engine. The car ticks into silence.
Jenna leans forward in the back seat, peering out the window. “This is nice,” she says brightly, genuine enough that it doesn’t sound like pity. “Cozy.”
I glance at her, then at the front door — closed, locked, waiting like a secret I’m about to spill. My pulse flutters.
Dad’s already halfway up the walk with his camera bag slung heavy over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.
Jenna falls into step beside me as we climb the stairs. “I feel like I’ve unlocked a new level of Liya Faulkner lore,” she teases softly, bumping my shoulder with hers. “I’ve heard about your dad, I’ve seen your sketches, but the house? Total mystery.”
I shake my head, embarrassed. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just… a house.”
Inside, the air smells faintly of old coffee and the lemon cleaner Dad uses when he can’t sleep. The living room is a patchwork of bookshelves and photo frames, stacks of newspapers teetering on the coffee table. The couch cushion is still indented from where I sat this morning, waiting.
Jenna steps in slowly, her eyes roaming, careful not to gawk. She lingers on the photos — my parents on their wedding day, my mom’s hands mid-gesture in a candid shot, me as a kid with paint all over my face.
She smiles faintly. “So this is where the magic happens.”
I drop my bag by the door, suddenly aware of every creak in the floorboards, every corner I’ve never let anyone into before.
Dad drops his camera bag onto the recliner with a heavy thud, the sound rattling through the quiet room. He loosens his tie but doesn’t sit, choosing instead to stand near the dining table like a sentry. His eyes flick to Jenna, then to me, then back again.
Jenna senses it immediately — the weight of his hesitation, the scrutiny in the way he studies her. But instead of shrinking under it, she flashes that easy smile I’ve seen her use on teachers and classmates alike.
“Mr. Faulkner, your living room is amazing,” she says warmly, gesturing toward the shelves stacked high with books and film reels. “It looks like a set from one of those old news dramas. Very spotlight on the truth.”
His brows tick together, the smallest crease. “It’s cluttered,” he mutters.
She shakes her head. “Cluttered just means lived in. Honest.” She shrugs, casually leaning her camera bag against the couch. “My place is nothing but blank walls and IKEA. This feels more real.”
Dad studies her a moment longer, then exhales through his nose. “So you’re on the school paper.”
“Yes, sir,” Jenna answers without missing a beat. “Journalism and photography. I love catching people in their real moments. Honest moments.” She lifts her camera slightly, not turning it on, just letting it rest against her palm like a badge. “I guess that’s something Liya and I share. She draws it, I shoot it.”
I stiffen, suddenly self-conscious under both their gazes.
Dad’s eyes slide to me, then back to her. “And what’s your angle?”
Jenna tilts her head, considering. “Stories that matter. Sometimes that’s the basketball game. Sometimes it’s bigger. But I’m not in it for gossip.” She pauses, softer now. “I just… like giving people a voice.”
The line hangs between them. For a second, I swear Dad’s expression softens — just slightly, like her words brushed against something he respects.
But then his jaw tightens again. “Journalists cause trouble when they don’t know when to stop.”
Jenna doesn’t flinch. “True,” she agrees, calm as ever. “But the good ones know when not to.”
The room hums with quiet, my heart a little too loud in my ears.
Dad doesn’t move for a long beat, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The clock ticks in the kitchen, steady as a metronome, the silence between them sharpening every sound.
Jenna doesn’t break eye contact. She doesn’t press, either. She just waits — steady, calm, like she already knows silence is sometimes the best answer in a debate.
Finally, Dad rubs a hand over his mouth, muttering half to himself, “You’re more stubborn than you look.”
Jenna grins. “It’s a gift.”
His gaze flicks to me — tired, wary — then back to her. “Alright. You can stay. Just tonight. But the rules don’t change. No sneaking out. No slipping past me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Jenna says quickly, relief flashing in her voice. “Thank you.”
Dad exhales like he’s giving in to something heavier than just a guest. He picks up his camera bag again, retreating toward the hallway. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t make me regret this.”
The words hang in the air as his footsteps fade.
Jenna lets out a slow, exaggerated breath and flops back against the couch cushions. “Well,” she whispers with a grin, “first impression: terrifying. Second impression: maybe not so bad.”
Jenna stretches across the couch like she owns it, her sneakers dangling just off the rug, camera bag tucked against her side. She’s watching me, not with the idle glance of someone killing time, but with the kind of focus that makes me fidget — like she’s already framing me in her head, deciding if I’m the story or the headline.
“So,” she says after a beat, her tone deliberately casual. “You’ve officially run out of excuses not to tell me more about yourself.”
I blink. “Excuses?”
She grins. “Liya, come on. You’re like… a vault. Everyone else in school has some embarrassing story floating around — middle school braces, bad hair dye phases, their weird cousin at Thanksgiving — but you?” She points at me like she’s calling me out in front of a jury. “Blank slate. I’ve known you for two weeks now and the most I can tell people is ‘she’s in art club and she sketches like she’s building an empire.’”
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. “That’s… enough, isn’t it?”
“Not even close,” she counters. Then softer, tilting her head: “I don’t wanna gossip about you. I just… wanna know you.”
The words land heavier than I expect. I stare down at my hands, graphite stains still smudged along the creases of my fingers.
“My mom,” I murmur before I can stop myself. “She’s the one who wanted me at Daylight.”
Jenna straightens, her voice gentler now. “She’s not…?”
I shake my head. “No. She died. Years ago.” The word still feels raw, even if time has dulled its edges. “Cancer. Quick.”
For once, Jenna doesn’t fill the silence. She just nods, letting it settle.
I glance at the picture frames on the shelf — her laugh caught mid-snap, her hand curled around mine when I was small. “Dad kept me in Graystone after that. Said it was better. Safer. So I don’t… really let people in. I guess.”
Jenna leans back, her expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. “That’s why you keep distance.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “It’s easier. People can’t leave if they’re never really inside.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell me it’s sad or wrong or selfish. Instead, she nudges my knee lightly with hers. “Well. Too late. You let me in. Should’ve thought about that before I showed up on your couch.”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
Jenna tucks her legs under her, turning fully toward me now, eyes lit like she’s found a crack in the door and refuses to let it swing shut again.
“Okay,” she says, her voice brightening just a little too much, like she’s covering for the weight of what I just shared. “Two weeks of friendship and I get my first real piece of Liya Faulkner lore. But—” she lifts a finger like she’s cross-examining me, “—I need more.”
I groan. “You’re relentless.”
“Journalist,” she corrects with a grin. “It’s in the job description.”
I shake my head, sinking deeper into the couch, but she doesn’t back off.
“So,” Jenna presses, “favorite memory of your mom. Go.”
My throat tightens, but the answer slips out anyway. “Her laugh. It was… big. Like, too big for her body. She’d laugh at her own jokes until she cried, and then I’d laugh because she couldn’t stop. Dad used to roll his eyes, but I think he loved it.”
Jenna’s smile softens, real and quiet this time. “See? That’s not so hard.”
I shrug, tracing a finger over the seam of the cushion.
She leans in a little. “Alright, next question: what’s with the sketching? Like—yeah, you’re talented, but why all the time? Why not photography, or painting, or something less… smudgy?” She nods at the faint graphite stains still on my palms.
I hesitate. “Because sketching feels… alive. You don’t need perfect light or expensive paints. Just a pencil. And if you mess up, you just turn the page and start again. It’s the only thing that feels like mine.”
Jenna hums, thoughtful. “So it’s not just a hobby. It’s your language.”
I glance at her, caught off guard. “…Yeah. I guess it is.”
She grins, satisfied, then tilts her head again. “Okay, last one for now. Why’d you let me in?”
The question hangs heavier than the others. My pulse skips.
“I didn’t,” I mutter, defensive out of instinct. “You sort of… barged in.”
“Uh-uh,” she says, wagging a finger. “You could’ve told me no. You didn’t. Which means you wanted me here.”
I look away, heat rising in my cheeks. The photos on the wall blur, my voice low when I finally answer. “…Maybe I did.”
Jenna bounces up from the couch with a sudden burst of energy, like she’s afraid staying still too long will ruin the mood. “Okay,” she declares, “if you won’t hand me the Liya Faulkner biography willingly, I’ll just… investigate.”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“Investigative journalism, babe,” she tosses over her shoulder, already moving toward the shelves.
She crouches in front of the photo frames, fingertips brushing dust from the glass. The first she picks up is of my mom — hair tied back, her smile so wide it crinkles her eyes. She’s holding me as a toddler, my cheeks smeared with what looks like cake frosting.
“She’s gorgeous,” Jenna says softly. “And you’re… wow, you were a messy kid.”
I roll my eyes, but the tightness in my chest makes it hard to breathe. “Birthday party. I face-planted into the cake.”
Jenna grins, placing the photo back carefully. She moves to the next — Dad with his camera slung around his neck, crouched low to capture something out of frame. His younger face looks sharper, hungrier, the lines of exhaustion not yet carved into his skin.
“Classic reporter stance,” Jenna says. “Bet he still moves like that at every crime scene.”
I glance toward the hallway where he disappeared earlier. “Yeah. He never stops.”
She hums, studying another frame — me at seven, front teeth missing, holding up a ribbon from an art contest. My hair is tangled, my shirt smeared with paint, but I’m grinning so wide it nearly splits my face.
“You’ve always been this way,” she says with a knowing look. “Art in your veins.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Or just messy.”
Jenna shakes her head, setting the photo back gently. Her gaze flicks over the rest — landscapes Dad shot on assignments, candid moments of my mom mid-laugh, a few family shots with me awkwardly caught between them.
“This house is like… a scrapbook,” she says finally. “Every wall’s a headline.”
I cross my arms, suddenly wishing she’d stop looking too closely. “It’s just… home.”
She turns back to me, her expression soft but sharp in the way only Jenna manages. “No, Liya. It’s a story. You just don’t wanna admit you’re in the middle of it.”
Jenna’s eyes flick toward the staircase, and I know the thought’s already brewing before she even says it.
“So…” she starts, sing-song, “what’s upstairs?”
I freeze. “Bedrooms.”
Her grin spreads. “Yours.”
“No.” The word snaps out sharper than I mean it to, but she just raises her eyebrows.
“No?” she echoes, like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
I cross my arms tighter. “It’s… messy.”
Jenna tips her head, that little smirk pulling at her lips. “Messy I can handle. Remember, I’ve seen your sketchbook. Nothing scares me.”
Before I can stop her, she’s halfway up the stairs, light on her feet. My stomach lurches, and I bolt after her, whisper-hissing her name. “Jenna! I didn’t say you could—”
She doesn’t listen. Of course she doesn’t.
By the time I catch up, she’s standing in the doorway of my room, one hand braced against the frame. Her eyes sweep slowly across the space — the unmade bed, the stacks of sketchbooks on the desk, the crumpled sheets of failed drawings stuffed into the wastebasket. The cracked window where I’d once let Spider-Man in.
“Wow,” she breathes, not mocking — just taking it in. “It’s so… you.”
I hover behind her, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is,” she says quickly. She steps inside, careful, like the floorboards might bite. Her gaze catches on the mess of papers strewn across my desk, sketches of rooftops, skylines, Spider-Man’s mask half-formed in graphite smudges.
She doesn’t touch them, but she looks long enough for me to want to snatch them up and hide them.
“You really don’t let people in, huh?” she says softly, her back still to me.
I grip the edge of the doorframe, wishing I could disappear into it. “…No.”
Her reflection shifts faintly in the glass of the window. “But you let me.”
Jenna drifts closer to the desk, her hands tucked behind her back like she’s restraining herself from touching anything. She leans down, scanning the scattered pages with that sharp, observant eye of hers.
“You weren’t kidding,” she murmurs. “It really is all him.”
I tense. “It’s practice.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “Sure. Practice. That’s why you’ve got twenty versions of the same mask staring at me right now.”
Heat rises up my neck. “It’s anatomy. Movement studies.”
“Uh-huh.” She glances back at me over her shoulder, her eyes glinting. “Or maybe it’s obsession.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. The silence says more than words could.
Jenna doesn’t press with cruelty. Instead, she straightens and tilts her head, softer now. “You like him. Not in a crush way,” she adds quickly, “but in a… he got under your skin kind of way.”
I stare at the floor, toe nudging the rug. “…He saved me.”
“And now you can’t stop seeing him.”
Her words cut close to the truth, and the ache in my chest tightens.
Jenna studies me a long moment, then grins, breaking the heaviness. “I mean, if I had a superhero rescuing me and then haunting my sketchbooks, I’d probably call it destiny.” She flops onto my bed dramatically, arms spread wide. “But hey, what do I know? I’m just the nosy journalist who got herself invited into your top-secret lair.”
I roll my eyes, but my throat is too tight for more than that.
Jenna rolls onto her side, propping her head on one hand as she sinks into the mess of blankets on my bed like she’s always belonged there. Her hair has slipped loose from its tie, strands curling around her face, and the light from the window cuts across her features in soft stripes. For someone who spends so much time behind a camera, she seems completely unbothered by being seen.
“So,” she says, voice even, “what’s the deal with your dad? He’s… intense.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “He’s a journalist. That’s just… who he is.”
She studies me, waiting for more.
I sigh. “He’s been with The Sentinel forever. Before I was even born. He covered everything — crime, politics, protests. He’s always chasing something, always out there with his camera. It’s like he doesn’t know how to stop.”
Jenna’s brows lift slightly. “That explains the apartment. Feels like a newsroom exploded in here.”
I glance at the shelves of papers stacked downstairs. “Yeah. That’s him. And since my mom died, it’s been worse. Like… if he’s not moving, he’s sinking. So he keeps moving.”
Jenna doesn’t look away, her gaze steady. “And you?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “I keep my distance. Give him room to… do what he thinks he has to. I think he believes keeping me close, grounding me, controlling things — it’ll keep me safe. But half the time it just feels like he’s scared of losing me the way he lost her.”
Her expression softens, but she doesn’t jump in to soothe or contradict. She just lets me say it.
The silence stretches, the hum of traffic faint through the cracked window. Finally, she shifts on my bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, her camera strap still looped loosely around her wrist like she can’t bear to set it aside.
“Must be hard,” she says gently, “living with someone who’s always chasing stories instead of living them.”
I glance at her, the words heavy in my chest. “Yeah. It is.”
Jenna tucks her legs under her, still perched on my bed like she’s claimed it for the night. Her eyes keep flicking between me and the sketches scattered across the desk. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than before, curious but not prying like an interview.
“Okay,” she says. “So your dad keeps moving because he’s scared of stopping. And you… keep people out. But why?”
I lean against the dresser, crossing my arms tight. “Because it’s easier. If you don’t let people in, you don’t have to lose them.”
Jenna tilts her head, studying me in that unnervingly patient way. The late afternoon light catches the strands of her hair that slipped free, glinting like copper. “You mean your mom?”
I nod once, throat tightening. “And everyone after. Friends, neighbors… people don’t stick around. They get busy, they move, they find better things. After a while, you stop trying.”
Jenna doesn’t say anything right away. She just pulls her camera strap tighter around her wrist, like it anchors her to the moment.
“You know,” she says finally, “that’s not the Liya people see at school. You come off like—” she gestures vaguely, searching for the word, “like you’ve already figured out where you fit. Like you don’t need anyone.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “That’s the point. If they think I don’t need them, they won’t notice when I don’t have them.”
Her expression shifts — not pity, not shock, just… recognition. She hugs her knees closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “Two weeks isn’t a long time,” she says carefully, “but I feel like I’ve seen more of you here than most people get in years.”
I look away, heat rising to my cheeks. “Maybe that’s because you don’t stop asking questions.”
“Maybe,” she says with a small smile. “Or maybe it’s because you wanted someone to finally ask.”
The words hang between us, heavier than the quiet hum of the house.
Jenna flops back against my bed like she plans on staying there all night, but I can feel the heaviness of the conversation pressing against me. My throat itches for a change of subject. For air.
“Hey,” I blurt, sharper than I mean to. “Want to go get snacks?”
Jenna perks up immediately. “Always.”
I hesitate, then call down the hall, raising my voice just enough to reach the closed office door: “Dad? Can we go out and grab some snacks?”
There’s a pause. Then his muffled voice, stern and automatic: “No.”
Jenna glances at me, amused. I roll my eyes and try again. “Come on, it’ll be quick. Just the corner store.”
From behind the door: “You’re grounded, Liya. Remember what that means?”
I grit my teeth, but Jenna leans forward, whispering, “Let me try.”
Before I can stop her, she cups her hands around her mouth and calls down the hall, her voice bright and polite: “Mr. Faulkner, sir, please? I promise it’ll just be snacks. In and out. No trouble.”
A heavy sigh carries from the office. “Jenna…”
She grins, undeterred. “I’m practically starving. And I’ve heard the corner store here has the best gummy worms in the city. It’d be… cruel journalism malpractice not to confirm the rumors.”
Another long pause. His chair squeaks, the sound of him shifting. Finally his voice cuts back, sharper now: “It’s late. You should be home.”
“I would be,” she calls back smoothly, “if I had my keys.”
That silence is different — tighter. I almost laugh at the way she wedges logic into his reluctance.
The door creaks open a sliver. Dad’s face appears in the gap, jaw tight, eyes flicking between us. He looks at Jenna for a long moment, then at me, then exhales like the weight of the world is pressing out of him.
“Fine,” he says, low, resigned. “Snacks. Straight there and back. And I mean it.”
Jenna beams like she’s just won a front-page feature.
—
The convenience store is fluorescent and flat, buzzing too loud against my ears. Jenna tears down the candy aisle like she’s on a mission, emerging with sour gummies and a bottle of soda cradled in her arms. I grab a drink just to have something to hold, the condensation slicking my palm. The clerk doesn’t look up when we pay.
Outside, the air is cooler, the sky deepening into bruised shades of blue. That’s when I see it.
The Literary Nook.
Its front window glows soft, fairy lights tangled like stars across rows of books that lean and tilt as if they’re whispering to each other. The gold script on the sign is faded, but I’d know it anywhere. The smell hits faintly even from across the street — paper and ink, the kind that lingers on your skin long after you leave.
My chest tightens.
I haven’t been here in a week. A week of school and silence and Dad’s rules. The Nook feels like another world entirely, one I’ve been locked out of. The floorboards that creak like secrets, the labyrinth of shelves, the chair in the corner where I left Celestial Warriors half-finished. The bookmark is still there, holding a sentence I never got to finish.
I tell myself to keep walking. Dad’s waiting.
Jenna notices where I’m looking. She chews slowly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “That your spot?”
I shake my head too quickly. “It’s a bookstore.”
Her grin curves, knowing. “Not just any bookstore. You looked like you were about to run straight through traffic.”
Heat pricks my neck. “We should go back.”
“Why?” she challenges, easy, steady. “We’re seventeen. Practically adults. If we can’t go into a bookstore on our own, what’s the point?”
The fairy lights blink in the window, patient and relentless.
I shift my grip on the soda, the pull in my chest sharper now. Jenna bumps my arm lightly, but her voice is softer when she says, “Come on. Ten minutes. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”
I look back at the glowing window, the shelves stacked high, the corner where my book waits. I already feel the weight of the unfinished sentence tugging at me like a thread.
My mouth is dry when I finally say, “...Fine.”
The bell above the door gives its soft chime as we step inside. The air greets me the way it always does — warm, heavy with the smell of ink and paper, the hush of shelves pressing close. But tonight the hush feels different. Lamps are dimmed, chairs pushed back in, the fairy lights casting smaller pools of glow. They’re closing soon.
Jenna leans into me, whispering, “We’ve got time,” before darting toward the display of glossy hardcovers.
I stay rooted in the entryway — because I see him.
Jungwon.
He’s half-shadowed near the corner shelves, a couple of books tucked under his arm, a folded newspaper balanced on top. Even from here, I can make out the headline, the bold letters I’d read this morning on my phone.
Hero or Murderer.
My stomach twists.
His features are sharper tonight, his expression carved into something still, unreadable. He doesn’t look angry. Not exactly. Just—absent. Like he’s standing there with the books in his hands but his mind is already gone, pulled somewhere darker. His eyes skim the words on the page he’s pretending to read, but they don’t settle. He’s here. And at the same time… he isn’t.
The floorboard creaks under my shoe, and for a moment his gaze lifts. Catches. Then flickers away, like he didn’t see me at all.
Jenna follows my stare, her eyes darting to him, then back to me. I feel her smile before I see it.
“I’ll go check out the back shelves,” she says lightly, brushing my arm with her hand. “You know. Give you a minute.”
She slips away between the aisles, her camera bag brushing against the wooden shelves as she disappears into the glow of fairy lights.
I stay frozen, heart thudding, watching him in the half-light.
I move before I can talk myself out of it, the floor groaning softly beneath each step. The shelves close in around me, spines blurring into a darkened mosaic until there’s only him — shoulders hunched, jaw set, fingers gripping the edge of the newspaper too tightly.
I stop a breath away, the fairy lights above pooling faint gold into his hair. Up close, the hollowness in his expression is sharper. His eyes flick over the same paragraph again and again, not taking in a single word.
“Jungwon,” I say quietly.
He startles just slightly, blinking as if he’s surfacing from underwater. Then he forces a small smile, thin, brittle. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I glance at the books under his arm, then at the newspaper folded on top. The bold headline stares back at me, the same one Dad had fought Kane about this morning. Hero or Murderer.
The words scrape in my throat, but I don’t mention them. Not yet.
“You come here a lot then?” His voice is flat, like he’s trying for normal and missing.
“Sometimes,” I murmur. My hands tighten around the soda can still cold in my grip. I can’t stop watching the way his knuckles blanch against the paper, like he’s holding it to keep from unraveling.
He looks away quickly, down at the shelves, at nothing at all. His smile flickers out.
For a moment I see both sides of him at once — the boy everyone at school gravitates toward, and the mask that swings through fire and glass. The one the city cheers, the one the paper condemns. And beneath both, something darker, fraying at the edges.
“You okay?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
His jaw works, like he’s chewing on a hundred words but only swallows them down. “Yeah,” he says finally, the lie too clean.
I shift the soda in my hand, condensation slipping down my wrist, and force myself to speak before the silence locks us both in place.
“You’ve seemed… off lately,” I say carefully. “Quieter. And you guys don’t sit in the cafeteria anymore. Jenna noticed too.”
Jungwon’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look at me. He flips the newspaper over like he’s bored of it, though his grip lingers on the edge. “Yeah. Just… busy, I guess.”
“That’s not it.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. I take a breath, softer this time. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
He glances at me finally, quick, like the weight of my words caught him off guard. For a second, something raw flickers there, then shutters again. “I’m fine, Liya. Really.”
I study him, the lie stretched too thin across his face. I could call it out. I don’t.
Instead, I shrug, shifting my weight. “I know we’re not… exactly friends,” I admit, the words heavier than they should be. “But… I’m here. If you need.”
The air stills between us. Jungwon stares at me, eyes dark in the lamplight, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me or push me away. His fingers curl tighter around the stack of books, the newspaper pressed thin between them.
Jungwon’s grip on the books loosens, the newspaper sliding lower in his arm. His expression softens, not all at once, but gradually — like ice thinning under sunlight. He looks at me fully this time, not through me.
Then he sets the books down on the shelf beside him and extends a hand. “We should be friends,” he says, voice low but certain. “Like properly. Not halfway.”
For a heartbeat, I just stare. My throat feels too tight, my hands awkward at my sides. But I reach out anyway, my fingers brushing his before I commit to the gesture. His hand is warm, steady, and the shake lingers longer than it should.
My chest tightens.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Friends.”
Something eases in his posture. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting his face in pale glow. “Then let’s start with this. Numbers?”
I blink, then nod quickly, fumbling for my phone. We trade devices, the quiet between us filled with the soft clicks of typing. When I hand his phone back, my name looks strange in his contacts — like it doesn’t belong there and yet suddenly does.
He tucks it away again, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth.
I force a smile in return, though my stomach twists.
Because the truth sits heavy behind my ribs: he thinks this is a beginning, a clean start. But I already know who he is beneath the mask. He doesn’t know that I know. And what kind of friendship is built on that lie?
The thought needles at me, sharp and uneasy. But then I remember the way his hand felt in mine, the way his voice softened, how for once he didn’t seem so far away.
Maybe the truth can wait, just long enough for something real to grow.
I shrug the thought off, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
“Friends,” I whisper again, as if saying it twice might make it true.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 𝙏𝙤𝙤 𝙈𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙎𝙠𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨, 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙀𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝘼𝙣𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨
The carpet is rough against my elbows, the floor littered with papers that bleed into one another like an accidental collage. My knees ache from sitting too long, folded under me in some awkward sprawl, but I don’t move. Graphite dust smears across my palms, black streaks pressed into the ridges of my fingerprints. My fingertips are so dark it looks like I’ve been clawing through ash.
Pages are everywhere. Some half-hearted landscapes — outlines of rooftops, bridges, silhouettes of the city skyline that trail off into nothing, unfinished strokes frozen mid-thought. They stare back at me like abandoned sentences.
But most of the pages aren’t the city.
They’re him.
Spiderman.
His shape in motion, arm flung wide in the arc of a swing. A crouch on a ledge, lines jagged and uneven where I couldn’t catch the balance right. The lean twist of his torso mid-fight, web shooting sharp across the page. Masked face, tilted just enough to suggest something human and not human underneath.
I keep drawing him because I can’t stop. Because the memory of him moving — the velocity, the impossible control — won’t leave me alone. My pencil scratches, presses too hard, the paper buckling under the force. Every angle I try to trap, every curve of a shoulder or line of his jaw beneath that mask, it’s all wrong. Too stiff. Too flat. He’s never still long enough to capture, not really.
I tell myself it’s practice. That I’m just trying to understand movement, anatomy, the way fabric folds when it’s stretched mid-air. But my stomach twists every time I lie to myself like that.
It’s curiosity. Obsession. The kind of itch that won’t fade even if I scratch my skin raw.
Because I was there. I saw him fight, saw him bleed. I saw the scrape under his ear this morning in Chemistry. And I know — I know — it’s Jungwon under that hood.
And yet here I am, sketching the mask. Not the boy.
Maybe it’s easier that way.
The graphite breaks, the tip of the pencil snapping under the pressure of my hand. I swear under my breath, fingers smudged darker as I sweep away the shavings. Another ruined page. Another crumpled attempt that doesn’t even look alive.
Why can’t I get him right?
Why can’t I stop trying?
A low sound breaks the silence — a half-laugh, half-groan — and I freeze, pencil still hovering mid-line.
“Wow,” Dad says from the doorway, his hand braced against the frame like he needs the support. His eyes sweep across the sprawl of papers, the smudged hands, the chaos of sketches that carpet nearly every inch of the floor. “Y’know, if your mother were here, she’d say this proves you’re definitely her kid.”
I huff, not sure whether to smile or bury my face in the sketchbook. “Great. Genetic mess-making. Just what I needed.”
He steps further in, careful where he plants his feet, until he’s standing over me. From above, I must look like some crime scene outline in graphite. “What’s all this, kiddo? You drawing for fun, or staging some sort of art apocalypse?”
I flip a page over, embarrassed by the messy scrawl of Spiderman’s silhouette that stares back at me. “I’m… I’m trying to come up with a concept for the mural this year.” My voice sounds thin, defensive. “Something that represents the city.”
He crouches slightly, arms resting over his knees, and tilts his head at the sea of red masks and webbed figures. His brow arches just enough for me to want to crawl under the carpet. “Except,” he says gently, finishing the thought I’ve been circling all afternoon, “all you can see is him.”
Heat stings my cheeks. I let the pencil drop, rubbing the smudge of graphite down my palm until it looks more like dirt. “God, I’m acting like a creep.”
Dad frowns softly. “Hey. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
I shake my head, frustration bubbling out before I can stop it. “It’s just—look at this! It’s pathetic. I’ve drawn the same stupid mask twenty times. I can’t think about the city, or color palettes, or composition, or—anything. Just him. The way he moved. The way he—” I cut myself off, pressing the heel of my hand into my eyes until fireworks spark behind my lids. “It’s like he’s burned into my brain and I can’t shut it off.”
There’s a beat of silence before Dad answers, his voice steady, low. “Kiddo… you almost died.”
My hands drop into my lap, heavy, useless.
He continues, leaning down so he’s level with me, his voice gentler now. “If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t even be here to draw these dumb sketches. That’s not obsession. That’s you processing. It’s okay to be stuck on him right now. Give yourself a break.”
I look up at him, my throat dry. “Dad… what do you think of Spiderman?”
He glances at the scatter of papers, then stoops to pick one up. The page crinkles in his fingers, the pencil marks darker in some places, smudged in others. A crouched silhouette, mid-swing. He studies it for a long beat before shaking his head with a soft, almost incredulous smile.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he says simply. “Law or no law, vigilante or menace, whatever label the city’s arguing about… he saved my daughter. That’s all I care about. I’ll be grateful until my last day.”
My chest tightens. I twist the fabric of my sweatshirt between my fingers. “Then why do some people hate him so much? Especially your boss.”
Dad exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Victor Kane doesn’t like anyone he can’t control. To him, Spiderman is a headline he can’t steer, a story he can’t spin into neat copy. And people, Liya—” he taps the paper lightly, “—people fear what they can’t put in a box. Mutants, masked heroes, whatever you want to call them. They remind us we’re not the top of the food chain anymore.”
“Do you agree with him?” I whisper.
He shrugs, tossing the paper back down with a sigh. “Doesn’t matter what I think. If it isn’t Spiderman, it’ll be someone else. Another mutant. Another mask. They’ll always be here, whether people like it or not.”
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes hard against his jacket pocket, vibrating sharp in the quiet. He fishes it out, frowning at the screen, then answers with a clipped, “This is Faulkner.”
I can hear the muffled urgency on the other end, a man’s sharp voice, words tumbling over static. Dad’s jaw tightens. “Where? …Alright. I’ll be there.” He snaps the phone shut, already moving.
“What happened?” I ask, scrambling to my feet.
“Armed robbery. Jewelry store downtown. Three suspects. One’s got tech—military grade, they think.” He’s already out of my room, heading for his, tugging his jacket straight. “Kane wants me on scene. Says the city needs pictures.”
I follow, the doors left wide open, my footsteps quick on the hallway rug. “So you’re just—going?”
“That’s my job, kiddo.” He tosses his camera bag onto the bed, already swapping out lenses, fingers moving like clockwork.
I hesitate, then blurt, “Can I come?”
He freezes, then turns, eyes wide like I just asked if I could juggle knives. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I shoot back, frustration spilling over. “I’ll stay out of the way. Just—just on the sidelines, like everyone else.”
“Because ‘the sidelines’ in this city still get glass in their hair and bullets whizzing past their ears,” he retorts, stuffing extra batteries into his bag. “That’s not a field trip, Liya. That’s a death wish.”
“Dad, please,” I beg, trailing after him as he heads back to the hall. “I’m stuck. I can’t think, I can’t draw, I can’t—maybe this will help. Maybe this’ll get me out of my rut.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “So watching maniacs with stolen tech tear up downtown is your idea of inspiration now?”
“I’ll stay behind the tape. I promise.” I hurry to match his pace, my words tumbling out fast. “I won’t even move, I’ll just—watch. Like everyone else. I swear.”
He stops at the door, peeks out into the stairwell, then turns back to point a stern finger at me. “You do exactly as I say. No wandering. No slipping past the barricade. You’re glued to me, understood?”
-
The city block is a knot of noise and motion by the time we arrive, the usual hum of downtown smothered under the shriek of sirens and the strobe of blue-red lights bouncing off every windowpane.
I stick close to Dad as we slip past a crowd already pressed against yellow tape. The jewelry store sits like a wounded animal at the center — its glass front spiderwebbed with fractures, jagged holes punched clean through like someone took a hammer to a diamond case and didn’t stop swinging. Alarms blare in an endless loop, a metallic wail threading through the air.
Cops cluster in uneven knots along the sidewalk, hands on holsters, radios hissing clipped phrases: north exit secure, suspects still inside, wait for backup. Their voices sound more nervous than commanding. A handful of officers keep their palms out toward the crowd, trying to hold the line as locals shove closer, necks craning for a glimpse of the mess inside.
I can smell the glass dust from here, sharp and bitter in my nose.
A news van blocks half the street, cables snaking out across the asphalt like veins. Just a few feet away, a reporter in a bright blue blazer holds her mic steady, lips painted with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Eyewitnesses say the suspects stormed the store just after five p.m., using modified taser rifles to keep security at bay. They’re believed to have trapped several employees inside, though police have not confirmed the exact number.”
Her cameraman nods for her to keep going, his lens turning to sweep over the crowd — and for one stomach-lurching second, it feels like it lands right on me. I duck my head, clutching my sketchbook to my chest like a shield.
Around us, chatter breaks in overlapping fragments:
“They were dressed in black—hoods, masks, the whole deal.”“Saw one of ’em drag the cashier down when she tried to run.”“Heard they rigged the doors with some kind of shock wires. Cops can’t even get close.”
Dad is already scanning the storefront, camera lifted to his eye, snapping quick shots like his fingers are on autopilot. His wedding ring clicks faintly against the shutter with each press.
I edge closer to the tape, trying to see between the blur of uniforms and flashing lights. Through the fractured glass, shadows move — frantic, restless. One of the suspects appears in the opening, face hidden by a ski mask, a weapon clutched tight in his grip. Not a gun. Not a canon. A crude contraption strapped with metal rods and crackling blue arcs, like a cattle prod ripped apart and rebuilt meaner.
He swings it once toward the officers, the spark jumping so loud I can hear the snap from here. The cops jolt back immediately, raising their hands, and the crowd gasps as one.
The suspect disappears back inside, dragging the threat with him.
Somewhere in the chaos, a kid perched on his dad’s shoulders whispers the words I can’t stop thinking: “Where’s Spiderman?”
No one answers.
The crowd swells tighter against the barricade, voices overlapping into a nervous hum. Dad edges closer to the curb, angling for a better shot, muttering half-formed notes to himself between clicks of the shutter. The cops near the entrance shout warnings again, their nerves fraying as another blue crackle lights up the jewelry store’s interior.
Somewhere behind me, a leash snaps taut and then loose.
A blur of tan fur brushes my leg. I stumble back, heart leaping into my throat. A dog — small, wiry, frantic — darts past, weaving through ankles and nearly tripping an officer before bolting toward the storefront.
“Archie!” A reedy voice breaks through the noise. An old woman at the edge of the crowd clutches at the empty leash in her hand, panic twisting her face. “He’s just trying to get to my husband! My husband’s in there!”
Gasps ripple outward, people turning, the words catching like fire. Hostage. Husband.
My body moves before my brain can stop it. I lunge, fingers grazing the dog’s scruff — but it slips past me, claws skittering against asphalt, barking sharp enough to cut through the sirens.
“Liya!” Dad’s voice cracks across the crowd. “Don’t—!”
I hear him, I really do, but it’s too late. My sneakers slam into pavement as I chase the dog, the yellow tape flashing across my vision like a finish line. Two officers reach out to snag me as I rush past, but my momentum carries me forward, slipping through their grasp.
The dog darts right up to the fractured glass, barking itself hoarse.
Inside, the muffled chaos shifts. A man’s voice rises above it — cracked with age but strong enough to carry: “Archie! Archie, boy, it’s alright! I’m here—”
A bark answers him, frantic, tail wagging against shards of glass. Relief ripples through the crowd—
And then another voice cuts it off, low and sharp. One of the suspects, snarling something muffled. The hostage’s voice chokes short, silenced.
“Enough!” The word echoes, and the dog whimpers, pawing uselessly at the glass.
Hands grab my arm — firm, tugging me back. “You can’t be here, miss,” an officer hisses, already guiding me toward the curb. My pulse spikes hot, my breath ragged in my chest.
The crowd’s noise grows louder, sharper. My dad’s voice again, desperate, “Liya!”
And then the world shifts.
A shadow arcs overhead. The air bends with motion, wind rushing as something lands solid and sure just behind me. The ground reverberates with the impact.
The officer holding my forearm freezes. The crowd roars as one.
I don’t even have to turn to know.
I twist around, heart in my throat, and the words slip out before I can stop them. “You.”
The mask tilts, white eyes narrowing with a glint that looks suspiciously like amusement. “Funny,” Spiderman says, voice muffled but cocky, “because that’s actually my line.”
The officer still gripping my arm gapes up at him. Spiderman claps the man on the shoulder lightly, the movement quick but firm. “Hey, pal, do me a favor? Finish walking this troublemaker out of my blast zone so I can clean up aisle five.”
“I wasn’t—” I start, heat burning in my cheeks.
Spiderman doesn’t even glance my way. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you were just, what, dog-sitting? Practicing your Olympic hurdling skills over police tape?” He points a finger at me, wagging it like a scolding teacher. “Ten out of ten form, by the way. Minus ten for common sense.”
The officer, still stunned, nods quickly and tugs me back. Dad is suddenly there, camera bag thumping against his hip, his hand like a vise on my shoulder. “Liya,” he mutters, voice sharp enough to slice. “We’re talking about this later.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My eyes are locked on the figure in red and blue as he steps closer to the storefront, movements coiled and ready.
Inside, one of the suspects appears again, weapon sparking blue in his hands. “Stay back!” he yells, voice cracking beneath the mask.
Spiderman tilts his head. “You know, buddy, when your weapon looks like it was cobbled together from a toaster and a car battery, maybe don’t swing it around in front of glass. Just saying.”
The suspect snarls and thrusts the prod forward. A snap of electricity flares.
Spiderman moves faster than the spark. He shoots a web that yanks the weapon sideways, the current discharging harmlessly into the already shattered glass. Shards rain down, scattering like brittle confetti.
The crowd gasps. A few cheer.
“Careful!” one of the cops barks, but Spiderman’s already flipping up, twisting mid-air, planting both feet square against the suspect’s chest. The man crashes back into a display case with a grunt, the weapon skittering across the floor.
Two more suspects burst from the back, shoving hostages ahead of them. The crowd screams, the cops tense.
Spiderman raises both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Okay, first off — terrible customer service. Second, put the civilians down gently before I embarrass you in front of all these nice people.”
One suspect shoves an older woman toward the glass, the blue crackle of another prod snapping dangerously close to her. Spiderman fires two quick webs — one sticking the weapon to the ceiling, the other tugging the woman clear and spinning her into the arms of a waiting officer.
“Catch!” Spiderman calls out cheerfully, like they’re playing a game.
The officer nearly stumbles but steadies, guiding the woman back.
Dad’s grip tightens on my shoulder, annoyed but unblinking, his camera forgotten for the moment. “He’s insane,” he mutters, though I can’t tell if it’s awe or irritation.
Inside, the last suspect makes a desperate move, grabbing the old man — the one with the dog — by the collar and dragging him toward the smashed window. “Stay back or he gets it!”
The dog barks wildly from behind the line, straining against an officer’s arms now holding the leash. The old man struggles, eyes frantic.
Spiderman’s voice turns sharp, though the sarcasm lingers at the edges. “Yeah, see, here’s the problem: you picked the guy with the cutest dog in the crowd. Now everyone hates you extra.”
The suspect snarls, tightening his grip.
In a blur, Spiderman shoots two lines of web — one to the man’s arm, one to the window frame. He yanks, spinning the suspect sideways. The hostage stumbles free as cops surge forward to pull him clear.
Spiderman lands in a crouch between the criminals and the exit, mask tilting as if daring them. “So… wanna do this the hard way? Spoiler: I love the hard way.”
The suspects hesitate, eyes flicking to each other, then back at him. Their makeshift weapons buzz faintly, arcs of weak blue electricity snapping across the tips.
Spiderman sighs, tilting his head. “Alright. Group project it is. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Both lunge at once. The crowd shrieks, cops raise their guns but hold, and in that frozen half-second, Spiderman spins low. A leg sweeps out, kicking the feet from under the first suspect. He topples hard, weapon clattering across the floor.
The second swings his crackling prod down, missing by inches as Spiderman rolls, springing up behind him. A quick thwip of web pins the man’s arm to his own leg, and another web yanks the weapon free.
“Careful,” Spiderman says, mock serious. “You’ll trip.”
The suspect stumbles forward, tangled, and crashes face-first into the jewelry counter. Glass shatters, scattering diamonds across the floor like spilled stars.
The first suspect scrambles back to his knees, reaching for his weapon. Spiderman fires another web, gluing the man’s hand flat against the floor. “Nope,” he quips, shaking his head. “That’s mine now.”
Cops surge forward as both suspects thrash helplessly, bound in sticky webs that only seem to tighten as they struggle. One officer slaps cuffs on the first, another grabs the second, pulling masks away to reveal flushed, panicked faces.
The crowd erupts — cheers, whistles, even a chant of his name starting somewhere near the back. Phones rise high, flashes popping.
Spiderman brushes off his hands like he’s dusting flour, then turns toward the officers. “All yours, boys in blue. Maybe next time try using the loudspeakers for karaoke — might scare them off faster.”
A few cops roll their eyes, but there are smirks too, relief bleeding through the tension.
Spiderman pivots, crouching low to speak to the older man who’s now clutching his reunited dog. “You’ve got a good boy here,” he says softly, scratching behind the pup’s ears. "He needs a stronger leash, okay?”
The man nods, tears streaking his soot-marked face. “Thank you.”
The suspects are dragged out, cuffed, their muffled protests drowned under the swell of cheers. Phones rise higher, flashes popping like lightning. Reporters jostle at the edge of the barricade, voices pitched high as they try to shout over the crowd.
The bright blue blazer reporter lifts her mic higher, camera swinging to track his every move.
But Spiderman doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even glance their way.
Instead, he steps closer to the line of police tape — closer to where I stand, still pinned under Dad’s hand.
The mask turns toward Dad first. He tilts his head in recognition. “Faulkner,” he says evenly. “The Sentinel’s photographer. You never miss a scene.”
Dad stiffens, grip on my shoulder like a clamp. “That’s… right.”
“I’ve seen you try for the shot,” Spiderman says, nodding faintly toward the camera hanging from Dad’s chest. “Almost caught me twice.”
Dad exhales. “That’s my job.”
The moment hangs taut between them. Around us, the crowd chants his name. Then Spiderman looks at me.
“You shouldn’t have been past the tape,” he says, softer now, quiet enough it feels meant only for me. “It’s not safe out here. You know that.”
I swallow hard, sketchbook digging into my palms.
Dad’s voice bristles. “She won’t be, next time.”
Before Spiderman can move again, a ragged shout tears through the noise. One of the suspects, half-pinned in a cop’s grip, thrashes violently against his cuffs, spit flying as he roars:
“Spirax says hello!” His voice cracks into a manic laugh, eyes rolling toward the mask. “Everyone will know the truth! You’re no hero — you’re a murderer!”
The words cut through the crowd like glass. Gasps ripple outward, the cheer collapsing into uneasy murmurs.
Spiderman’s head turns slightly toward the voice, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
The suspect’s shouts are swallowed quickly as officers drag him down the street, but the words linger, heavy in the air, pulsing under my skin.
The suspect’s words still echo, jagged and raw, even as officers wrestle him further down the street. Spirax says hello… you’re a murderer. The crowd stirs restlessly, the buzz of excitement breaking into uneasy questions.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out, thin and reckless: “What did he mean? Who’s Spir—”
But Spiderman is already moving. A sharp thwip cuts through the air, his web slinging high above the flashing lights. The crowd tilts upward, phones rising again, gasps chasing his silhouette as he swings into the skyline, swallowed by the city before my question even finishes leaving my lips.
I stand frozen at the tape, my dad’s hand still firm on my shoulder, the sketchbook trembling against my chest.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙡𝙪𝙢𝙚 𝙊𝙛 𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚
The morning slinks in around the edges of my room, pale and reluctant. Light leaks through the blinds in narrow slashes, cutting across the walls and spilling over the mess of my desk, the abandoned hoodie on the floor, the half-open sketchbook still face-down on my bed.
I don't move at first. Just let the silence stack up around me, heavy and a little too sharp, like if I breathe wrong it'll all come crashing down. My head aches faintly, a dull throb at my temples from too little sleep and too much thinking.
The memory of last night hovers just behind my eyelids—the way the city spun under my feet, the way the alley stank of metal and burnt plastic, the way he looked at me like he actually, really saw me.
My stomach turns over.
I scrub my hands over my face and sit up, the blanket sliding off my shoulders. The air bites against my skin, cool and sour with the leftover smell of rain from the night before.
Downstairs, I hear movement—the soft clatter of dishes, the low hum of Dad’s radio crackling out a half-static song from a decade nobody asked for. The smell of burnt toast drifts up the stairs like a white flag.
I tug a sweatshirt over my head, wincing when it tugs too hard against my messy ponytail, and stumble barefoot into the hallway. Every step feels a little too loud, like I’m announcing myself to the universe.
Dad’s at the kitchen counter, flipping through a small pile of manila folders, a camera strap tangled around his wrist like he forgot it was even there. His hair sticks up at the back—cowlick stubborn as ever—and there’s a faint coffee stain on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says without looking up, voice easy, like the world didn’t almost tilt off its axis last night.
“Morning,” I croak back, my voice cracked and weird. I clear my throat and try again, forcing it lighter. “You burn the toast again?”
He snorts, flipping a folder shut. “It's not burnt. It's extra crispy. Gourmet.”
I laugh under my breath, the sound sticking to the back of my teeth. I grab a piece anyway, still warm, and bite down. It tastes like charcoal and stubbornness, but it’s familiar enough that it steadies me a little.
“You ready?” Dad asks, tossing his jacket over one shoulder as he grabs his keys from the hook by the door. “I got called in a little later today, so I can still drop you off.”
I nod, jamming my feet into my sneakers by the door. The world feels...brittle, today. Like if I press too hard, it’ll crack wide open.
He ruffles my hair as he passes, a quick, affectionate mess of my already hopeless ponytail. “Big plans after school? You gonna finally destroy the art club with your creative genius?”
I roll my eyes but can’t fight the smile twitching at my mouth. “Yeah, sure. Total domination. Paintbrushes everywhere. Mass panic.”
“Atta girl.”
The drive to school is short. Familiar. The streets blur past, washed out and bleary in the soft morning haze. Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever indie song is whispering from the radio, his wedding ring tapping out a soft, metallic rhythm.
I lean my forehead against the window, the glass cool and a little greasy. Trees whip by in a blur of early autumn golds and browns, the first hints of the season clawing at the edges of the sidewalks.
When he pulls up in front of Daylight Academy, the usual mess is already spilling out onto the curb—students with backpacks twice their size, girls huddled around their phones, guys kicking soccer balls between moving cars like death isn't a thing that could happen to them.
Dad squeezes my shoulder gently before I open the door. "Hey. Seriously. Text me if you need anything, okay?"
I nod, the lump rising in my throat too sudden, too heavy. I shove it down hard, flashing him a quick, crooked smile.
"Love you," I say, voice barely above the scrape of sneakers against pavement.
"Love you more," he fires back automatically, already leaning across the passenger seat to shout after me. "And don't burn down the school!"
I groan, cheeks flaming, and slam the car door before anyone can hear him.
The world blurs at the edges when you're this tired. Like the whole morning’s been dipped in water and wrung out wrong.
My sneakers squeak against the linoleum as I shuffle into first period, the fluorescent lights already a personal attack. Mrs. Henderson’s voice drones somewhere behind the clutter of my thoughts, taking attendance in that sharp, no-nonsense way that somehow still feels like nails on a chalkboard.
The smell of bleach and burnt plastic hangs thick in the air — the unfortunate scent of every high school chemistry room on Earth — and I fight the urge to gag. My head swims, not enough sleep, not enough anything, and definitely too much Yang Jungwon burned into my brain.
I drop into my usual seat near the back, ignoring the way the chair wobbles under me, the metal legs uneven. My backpack thuds to the floor like it’s given up too.
Across the room, Sunoo’s already halfway into some grand retelling of last night's game highlights to the guy next to him, arms flailing like he’s choreographing a Broadway show. Jenna’s a few seats ahead, scribbling furiously into a planner that's exploding with color-coded sticky notes.
And then— Jungwon.
Sliding into the seat one row over, two desks up. Hood up. Slouched low. His face mostly hidden except for the line of his jaw, the scabbed scrape just under his ear.
I look away fast, heart tripping over itself. Like if I stare too long, someone will know. Somehow, the secret will bleed out through my skin.
"Alright," Mrs. Henderson says, slapping a stack of papers onto her desk loud enough to snap everyone into some parody of attention. "Lab partners today. Review assignment. No complaints."
A collective groan ripples across the room. She ignores it, already dividing us with ruthless efficiency.
"Jenna with Sunoo. Jungwon—" her eyes flick up, catching his barely-there slouch, "—you’re with Liya."
I think I black out for a second.
By the time I come back to myself, Jungwon’s turning around in his seat, one eyebrow raised, waiting.
I don't move. Can't. Everything feels heavy — sweater, hair, bones.
"Well, come on," he says, low enough that it’s just for me. Not impatient. Not even annoyed. Just... expectant. Like he knows I’ll come. Like he knew this would happen.
Swallowing whatever noise wants to claw out of my throat, I shove my chair back and grab my notebook, crossing the too-bright room to drop into the empty seat beside him.
The distance between us feels loud. Awkward. Worse than last night, somehow, because now there’s this live wire running under my skin, humming every time he moves.
He slides a worksheet toward me without a word. His fingers brush the paper — not mine — but it’s too close, too aware. My brain short-circuits for half a second.
I force my voice to work, aiming for casual but probably landing somewhere around robot having a meltdown. "So... balancing equations?"
Jungwon leans back slightly, stretching his legs under the table. His knee almost — almost — bumps mine.
"Something like that," he says, glancing at the paper, then at me. Quick. Sharp. Like he’s reading more than just my face.
I look down too fast, hair falling into my eyes.
Outside the window, the sky is the color of old dishwater, and I can still feel last night's smoke trapped in my lungs, like the city hasn't really exhaled yet.
Maybe neither have I.
Mrs. Henderson starts the timer. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes sitting next to the guy who saved a whole street last night and still had the nerve to call me out for tripping over a trash can.
Thirty minutes pretending I don’t know more than I’m supposed to.
The timer blinks cold and merciless from the projector screen—29:44 and counting.
I pick up my pen, uncapping it slowly, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Beside me, Jungwon shifts, tapping the end of his pencil lightly against the table in an uneven rhythm. The sound matches my pulse—erratic, uncertain.
He clears his throat softly, sliding the worksheet a fraction closer. "Okay, so—this first one. Sodium and water. Do you know the products?"
My mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out. Chemistry’s always been a language I barely speak, all those letters dancing around equations like they're mocking me. I flip through my notes, pretending to look busy, stalling. "Uh, sodium hydroxide and hydrogen gas...right?"
His lips twitch into a small, crooked smile. "Yeah, nice."
"Thanks," I mutter, cheeks warming. My pen hovers uselessly over the page. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jenna lean toward Sunoo, laughter muffled behind her palm as he whispers something that makes her notebook fall to the floor. It hits the tiles with a sharp smack, scattering her neatly arranged pens. She sighs dramatically, smacking his arm as she stoops to gather everything up.
"Okay, number two—iron reacting with oxygen," Jungwon continues, breaking the silence between us, his voice steady, patient. The sleeve of his hoodie slips up as he points at the paper, revealing faint bruises circling his wrist, a mottled purple-yellow that whispers stories I shouldn't know.
"Rust," I blurt out, eyes fixed stubbornly on the worksheet, avoiding his skin, his bruises, the question burning at the back of my throat.
He laughs softly—a quiet huff that sounds relieved more than amused. "Iron oxide," he corrects gently, "but close enough."
I glance up, catching a flash of warmth in his eyes that he quickly covers by ducking his head again, scribbling something down. The silence stretches comfortably this time, background noise filling the spaces between us: Mrs. Henderson shuffling papers, Sunoo's boisterous voice cutting above Jenna's whispered reprimands, the ticking of the clock that refuses to hurry.
I steal another look at Jungwon while he's distracted. The scrape under his ear stands out sharply against his pale skin, raw and angry-red. It makes my stomach twist. Yesterday he'd been swinging through explosions and chaos, saving lives; now he's here, calmly correcting my mediocre chemistry skills.
A sudden laugh from across the room breaks my thoughts. Jenna’s doubled over, Sunoo grinning triumphantly beside her. Jungwon follows my gaze, his eyes softening. "They’re so loud," he murmurs with amusement, "like they have a volume dial stuck on max."
"Maybe they don't realize other people exist," I whisper back, relieved at how normal the words sound leaving my mouth.
Jungwon nods, twirling his pencil absently between his fingers, "Probably not. Sunoo's world is pretty small—mostly sports highlights and bad jokes."
"I noticed," I say with a small smile, "though Jenna seems to enjoy it."
Jungwon shrugs lightly, leaning closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Yeah, but Jenna thinks pineapple belongs on pizza, so her judgment’s a little questionable."
I gasp softly, fake-offended. "Hey, pineapple is a totally valid topping."
He shakes his head solemnly, eyes sparkling with quiet mischief. "I trusted you, Liya. You've let me down."
My cheeks burn hotter, but it feels good, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Jungwon’s smile widens just a bit, making the tightness around his eyes ease up, the bruise-colored shadows fading slightly.
The timer on the projector flashes 5:07. My heart sinks, knowing this weird bubble we’ve created is about to burst. Jungwon seems to notice too, his pencil slowing to a stop. He leans back, stretching with a yawn he tries—and fails—to smother.
"Long night?" I ask carefully, risking a glance at his face, catching how the shadows under his eyes seem deeper now.
He freezes just for a heartbeat, eyes darting away before meeting mine again, cautious but steady. "Just homework and...stuff," he says, his voice deliberately vague. "You know how senior year is. It feels like a week was actually a month."
"Tell me about it," I sigh, closing my notebook. "It’s been nonstop."
Jungwon nods thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair, pushing his hood back just enough to reveal tousled strands falling messily across his forehead. "Feels like there's not enough hours in the day anymore."
"Yeah," I say softly, biting the inside of my cheek. A question sits heavy on my tongue, dangerous and tempting, but I swallow it down. Now isn’t the time—not here, not with the bell seconds from shattering this brief illusion of normalcy.
The shrill ring tears through the room right on cue, chairs scraping noisily against the tiles. Jungwon stands first, grabbing our worksheets. "I’ll turn these in," he offers, holding out his hand for mine.
"Thanks," I mumble, handing it over, fingers brushing his for just a second too long. The touch sends a jolt down my spine, sharp enough to make me yank my hand back. Jungwon either doesn't notice or pretends not to, turning away with a casual wave over his shoulder.
I gather my things quickly, weaving through the chaos of backpacks and chatter. History next—one more period before lunch and a break from the racing thoughts tangled around Yang Jungwon.
In the hallway, the bell echoes off the lockers, mixing with the rush of footsteps and overlapping voices. Jenna appears at my side, eyes bright with curiosity.
"You and Jungwon seemed pretty friendly," she teases, elbowing me playfully.
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks betray me again, flushing deeply. "We were literally just doing chemistry," I say, hoping the casual tone sounds convincing.
"Uh-huh," Jenna grins knowingly. "And you’re definitely not turning the color of my cherry lip gloss right now."
I glare at her halfheartedly. "Your lip gloss is obnoxiously bright."
"Exactly my point," she says triumphantly, linking her arm with mine. "Come on, I'll drop you off. Mrs. Hawthorne looks like she woke up on the wrong side of history again."
Jenna peels away at the corner stairwell with a wink, muttering something about running off to AP English, and I’m left to trail the current of bodies flowing toward Mrs. Hawthorne’s room.
The air in the history wing is always colder, like the building itself knows what class you’re about to step into and is trying to numb you in advance. The walls are lined with faded maps no one looks at anymore, oceans tinged that particular shade of blue-green that screams laminated in the 80s.
Mrs. Hawthorne is already perched at her desk when I slip in — spine like a ruler, glasses catching the weak sunlight that manages to sneak past the half-drawn blinds. A pile of graded essays sits to one side, each marked with her notorious scarlet scrawl.
“Seats,” she says, sharp as chalk snapping. No one dares to linger.
I slide into my usual spot near the window, my notebook balanced on my knees. Sunghoon and Ni-ki take their seats across the aisle, heads bent close as they mutter something in hushed tones that sound far more interesting than whatever we’re about to cover.
Mrs. Hawthorne clears her throat, her voice like gravel smoothed by years of lecturing. “Today, we’re discussing revolutions — their causes, their consequences, and the way ordinary citizens often bear the heaviest costs.”
The word lingers in the air, heavier than the dust motes.
I press my pen to paper, the ink smudging almost immediately, my hand too restless to stay steady. Revolutions. People rising up. Things collapsing, changing. Mutants with masks. A boy in a hoodie who vanishes from one room only to reappear across the city, saving it from tearing itself apart.
My gaze slides sideways before I can stop it.
Sunghoon is tapping his pencil against the edge of the desk, rhythm steady, like he’s thinking through something much deeper than homework. Ni-ki leans in, eyes flicking toward me briefly, then back to Sunghoon with that same guarded weight I’ve caught before.
How long have they known?How long have they been carrying this with him, holding the secret so close it doesn’t even crack the surface when the world around them is boiling with questions?
Because they knew that day.I saw it in their faces when Jungwon slipped back into the auditorium, the way they deflected, covered, lied without hesitation. Friends don’t look that calm unless they’ve already practiced. Unless they’ve been doing it for a while.
Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice drones on about the French Revolution — bread riots, barricades, blood in the gutters — but it blurs, bleeding into the memory of news anchors just last year: Who is the Spider-Man? Where did he come from? Mutant menace or miracle?
The city was loud with fear, with awe. And me? I was just sketching a boy in the back of my chemistry notes, not realizing that every loop of his jawline, every shadow of his smile, was the same boy who would swing past my window at night.
The page in front of me is a mess of ink now, smears and scratches that don’t look like notes at all.
“Miss Faulkner,” Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice cuts clean through the fog, slicing me back into my seat. She peers over her glasses, expression unimpressed. “Perhaps you can enlighten us on why revolutions often start not with leaders, but with the everyday citizens who’ve had enough?”
Heat spikes up my neck. My mouth opens, words scrambling to catch up.
“Uh—because… because it’s the people who feel it first. The hunger. The injustice. They don’t have anyone else to… to carry it for them.”
A pause. Then, slowly, Mrs. Hawthorne nods, her sharp eyes flicking to the board. “Adequate.”
I exhale, shoulders sagging.
Sunghoon glances at me once, something unreadable in his gaze, before jotting another note. Ni-ki smirks faintly, like he knows I’m barely holding it together.
I hunch lower in my chair, pen clenched tight.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what terrifies me more — that Jungwon’s been Spiderman all this time and I never noticed… or that his friends did, and they never once slipped.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙞𝙭: 𝙍𝙚𝙙 𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨
The cold digs in deeper the farther I walk, settling into my sleeves, my lungs, the space between my thoughts. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched, passing shuttered shops and flickering signs, each footstep hollow against the sidewalk. The silence out here isn’t real—it’s just stretched thin, waiting to snap.
A block down, the air starts to taste different. Metallic. Like the scent of blood in your mouth after biting your lip. And underneath that, smoke. Faint but creeping, curling down the alleyways and seeping through cracks like a warning.
I pick up my pace.
My sneakers scrape against the curb as I cross into the next street, and the shift hits me all at once. Sirens. Barked orders from police radios. Blue and red lights bouncing off brick.
The scene isn’t cordoned off, not yet. Not fully. The cops are still figuring it out, yelling at bystanders to back up, waving their arms like they're herding cats. People linger anyway, necks craned, phones lifted high, the glow from their screens casting ghost-light across their faces.
I slip between two people arguing over whether they heard an explosion or a gunshot. The woman smells like oranges and stress.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, but no one listens.
I keep moving, weaving through the slow ripple of bodies until I’m near the edge of it. There’s shattered glass on the ground—some storefront took the brunt of whatever this was. A café, maybe. The logo's half-gone, burned or blown away. Smoke still curls from the busted-out door like something breathing in reverse.
My heart flips in my chest, a strange and quiet somersault.
He has to be here. If this was serious—if someone was in danger—he’d show up. Right?
I hover near a fire hydrant, arms crossed tight over my chest. Trying to blend. Just another girl gawking at the mess, just another kid hoping for a glimpse of something bigger.
My fingers tap against my sleeve, restless.
This was stupid. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
A shadow dropping from the roof? A blur of red and blue?
And if I do see him—what then? What am I going to do, wave? Clap? Yell, “Hey, Jungwon, nice backflip?”
The sirens scream louder as a second firetruck pulls in. The crowd shifts again, people murmuring, rubbernecking. Phones click like insects.
A gust of wind kicks up debris, makes me wince.
My eyes scan the rooftops, the windows.
Still nothing.
I tug my hood further down, pulling it close like armor. My skin buzzes with cold and nerves.
Maybe he won’t come. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe this is one of those things Spiderman doesn’t show up for. Maybe—
A crash. Metal screeching. A chorus of screams slicing through the air.
Then— Gasps. Shouts. Movement.
And a blur of color launching over the nearest rooftop.
My breath catches. My knees go weak for half a second.
He’s here.
The blur doesn’t stop—it swings, hard and fast, crashing into a second-story window and kicking off the wall with this perfect, bone-deep elegance, like gravity’s just a rumor and momentum belongs to him.
Spiderman.
People scream again—this time closer, sharper. A man shouts something about “Run, he’s got a gun!” and the crowd lurches like a wave, dragging me a few steps back before I dig in my heels, twisting to keep him in sight.
A figure barrels out of the ruined café, hunched and bulky beneath layers of what looks like makeshift armor—metal plates welded to a jacket, a backpack rigged with wires and sparking junk. His mask is a repurposed welding shield, jagged at the edges. Homemade tech. Sloppy, dangerous.
He’s yelling, but I can’t make out the words—his voice is mechanical, distorted, like it's coming through a busted speaker. In his hand, a weapon—something between a rifle and a leaf blower, wired and glowing.
Someone near me yells, “That’s the guy from the news last week—the one who fried the ATM with his ‘pulse cannon.’”
Pulse cannon?
Spiderman swings in low, skimming the ground, then fires a web that hits the cannon just as the guy tries to lift it. It jerks sideways, sparking, backfiring into the pavement. The man stumbles, slamming into a car so hard the alarm starts wailing.
The crowd cheers. Someone whistles. A woman beside me mutters, “God, I love this freak.”
My heart’s hammering, chest tight. I inch forward, still in the shadows, still watching. I don’t think I blink once.
Spiderman lands on the hood of the car like it’s a springboard, bouncing off into a kick that connects square with the guy’s chest—metal clanging, air whooshing out in a grunt. The man hits the pavement hard.
But he’s not done. He swings the cannon upward and fires.
The blast isn’t loud. It’s low, ugly—like the air itself just got shoved. I feel it before I hear it.
It hits Spiderman mid-air.
He jerks sideways, the trajectory wrong, like something pulled him out of the sky.
He crashes into a lamppost—hard. Glass rains down from the fixture, tiny bright shards catching the red-blue flash of his suit.
The crowd gasps as one, sharp and wide-eyed. Someone near me says, “Shit.”
He doesn’t get up immediately.
My hands go numb.
He moves, finally. Not much. Just a twitch. A shift. One hand grabbing the pole like he’s reminding his body which direction is up.
The guy with the cannon roars and charges, dragging the sparking weapon behind him. He lifts it high—aims it like it’s a sledgehammer, not a gun.
And then—
Web.
Fast. Precise. It hits the cannon’s nozzle, yanking it sideways. The weapon discharges into the ground again, blowing up concrete in a flash of orange-white.
Spiderman’s back on his feet. Limping. Shoulder slouched, probably bruised or worse. But he doesn’t wait.
He launches himself forward, low and fast, like a slingshot, dodging the next swing. His hands blur—webs hit the guy’s legs, elbows, wrists. It takes all of three seconds. The man hits the ground, tangled, cursing beneath the crackle of static.
Cops swarm in from the edge. Late, like always. They shout and wave guns, but the fight’s already over.
Spiderman stands over the guy, breathing hard. His mask is tilted slightly at the chin. Not off—but close.
He doesn’t look up at them. Or the cameras. Or even the people screaming his name like he’s a celebrity.
He turns.
And looks straight at me.
Just for a second.
My feet won’t move. Not at first.
I’m just... standing there, mouth slightly open like an idiot, blinking into the chaos, heart threatening to punch its way out of my ribs. Did he—? Did he actually see me?
The roar of the crowd swells again, snapping the moment clean in two.
Spiderman—Jungwon—whatever—is already moving, stumbling a half step before he shoots a web into the scaffolding across the street. He yanks himself up, muscles pulling taut beneath the suit, vanishing into the dark like a disappearing trick.
Except.
There. A jolt—small but unmistakable—rippling through his body mid-swing. Like something inside him gave way.
He’s hurt.
The realization shoves me forward. I move without thinking, weaving through people still shouting and filming and elbowing for a better view. My sneakers skid against broken glass as I break into a jog, ducking my head low, trying not to draw attention.
This is insane. This is past insane. This is so many layers of bad idea I can’t even count them.
But I’m doing it anyway.
I catch glimpses of him between buildings, flashes of movement too fast for anyone else to track—but I see him. I know it’s him.
My lungs are already burning, the cold scraping at my throat. I cut through a side street, nearly tripping over a knocked-over trash can. Somewhere behind me, a cop yells at someone to stay back, but the noise fades into static.
A van screeches past, headlights blooming wide and sudden. I duck into a narrow alley, heart hammering against my ribs, shoes slapping against wet concrete. I almost wipe out when the ground tilts beneath my foot—slick with something I don’t even want to look at—but somehow I keep my balance, keep moving.
Ahead, the rooftops split into jagged lines against the purpling sky.
There—another blur of red and blue. A heavy, uneven swing. He’s favoring his side now, dropping lower with every arc.
I push harder, my hands catching on the rusted edge of a fence as I haul myself over it. It rattles under my weight, loud enough that someone on the street might’ve heard, but I don’t stop to check.
A breath, a heartbeat, a scraped knee.
And then—
He slams into the pile of trash bags, a sick, heavy sound punching the air out of the alley. For a second, he just... lies there, crumpled in the wreckage, the world holding its breath.
I don’t move. I barely breathe. My fingers are locked around the cold brick at the corner of the building, my heart hammering so loud it feels like a siren in my ears.
He shifts, dragging himself upright against the graffiti-scarred wall, movements stiff and uneven. The mask is half-askew now, revealing the sharp line of his jaw, the grim set of his mouth.
And then— His head turns. Right to me.
Not like he hears something. Not like he senses a sound. Like he knew I was there. Like he’s been knowing for a while.
The streetlamp overhead flickers, buzzes. My shadow stretches long across the alley, useless at hiding anything.
I’m still frozen when he speaks, his voice low, cracked at the edges.
“I knew you were following me,” he says.
I blink, mouth opening, closing, struggling to find actual words instead of just noises. “What—how—?”
He pushes himself off the wall, limping a little, the move casual but careful, like he’s trying not to make it obvious how much pain he’s in. His fingers adjust the half-slid mask back into place with a practiced, frustrated flick.
"You almost got hit by that van back there," he mutters, not even looking at me at first. “Kinda hard not to notice.”
The shame spikes hot under my skin before I can stop it. My mouth works uselessly for a second. “I—I was being careful—”
His head tilts just slightly, the mask catching the light in a way that makes him look less like a person and more like a warning.
"You tripped over a trash can," he says dryly. "And ran straight across traffic."
I scowl, fists clenching at my sides. "It was one trash can."
"And a bus lane," he shoots back, voice rough but weirdly...teasing. Like he’s fighting a smile.
Heat flares under my cheeks. I cross my arms, willing myself to look angry instead of mortified. "Well, sorry for trying to make sure you didn’t bleed out in an alley, or whatever.”
He exhales—a sharp, shuddery breath—and for a second, I can almost see it, the exhaustion dragging at his edges, pulling him thinner and thinner.
I rock back on my heels, chest tight, hands jammed into my sweater sleeves to keep them from shaking.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Because he’s not supposed to be real like this.
He laughs. Or tries to. It comes out wrecked and breathless, snagging halfway up his throat like it hurts to even pretend.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, rolling his shoulders like that might convince both of us. His voice is lighter now, that fake casual tone people use when they’re holding something closed with both hands. “Takes a minute sometimes. Healing isn’t exactly, uh…instant.”
He shifts his weight onto one leg, stiff and lopsided, like a marionette with half its strings cut. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, itching to move, to escape.
I stare at him, mouth dry. Every part of me itches to blurt it out—I know it’s you, Jungwon, I know—but the words glue themselves to the back of my teeth.
He keeps talking, maybe because silence is worse. Maybe because if he fills the air fast enough, he won’t have to hear whatever I’m thinking.
“You should probably, uh…” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, toward the mouth of the alley. His hand is shaking slightly. “Go. Before cops start blocking off everything. They’ll ask questions.” He pauses. Breathes. Adds, with a kind of crooked humor, “You don’t seem like the type that’s great under interrogation.”
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to throw something at his stupid, battered head. Maybe two trash cans this time.
Instead, I hug my arms tighter around myself, feeling the night scrape against my skin, rough and cold.
“You’re hurt,” I say, because it’s all I can get out without betraying more. Like: You’re bleeding, I saw you crash, you’re limping, you idiot. Like: You’re not supposed to bleed. Like: You’re not supposed to be him.
Spiderman—Jungwon—waves it off, a sloppy, dismissive flick. His body sags a little after, like the motion cost him more than he meant it to.
“Nothing bad,” he says. “Broken ribs suck, but they’ll stitch themselves back together. Give it a few days.” Another half-smile. Another lie.
I shift my weight, sneakers scuffing against wet asphalt. The alley smells like trash and old rain, like smoke still clinging to the ruins of the café a few blocks back. Somewhere farther off, a siren warbles, low and lonely.
He rocks on his heels, his whole frame a coil of nervous energy. Ready to bolt. Ready to swing away. From me. From this.
From being seen.
I want to ask him—Why didn’t you just tell me?Why are you pretending I don’t know?Why does it feel worse, somehow, that you’re still lying even when I’m standing right here?
But I don’t. Because he doesn’t owe me anything.
He shifts again, about to speak— But the world cuts him off.
A siren flares closer, harsh and grating. Not like before. This one’s right here—barreling around the corner, headlights raking across the alley mouth like a searchlight.
Spiderman’s head snaps toward it. His body follows a second later, jerking into motion on pure instinct.
“Go,” he says, voice low, sharp, already moving toward the fire escape bolted to the side of the building. His shoulder brushes mine as he passes—too fast, too solid—and the contact lights a fuse somewhere deep under my skin.
“I—” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
But he’s already vaulting up the ladder, dragging himself up with raw, uneven strength. The metal groans under his weight, and for one breathless second I think he’s going to fall again.
But he doesn’t. He disappears into the shadow above, swallowed up like he was never even there.
The squad car screeches to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Doors slam open. Voices bark orders into the cold night.
My pulse slams against my throat. Move. Move, now.
I bolt, boots slipping against slick asphalt, cutting back toward the way I came. My breath scrapes ragged in my lungs. The night claws at me, sharp and wet and endless.
Every alley blurs together. Every street looks the same—dark, empty, indifferent. My hood flaps around my face, useless against the cold stabbing into my cheeks.
My legs burn. My side stitches up tight. But I don’t stop.
Because Dad’s going to beat me home. Because if he beats me home, I’m dead. Because there will be no lying, no pretending I fell asleep early, no blaming it on homework or a shower or anything.
The neighborhood starts to look familiar again—sharp-edged houses, crooked fences, the faint glow of our porchlight in the distance like a barely-lit beacon.
I sprint across the street, ignoring the honk of a car a block away. My keys fumble in my hand—cold metal, slippery with panic. I stab them into the lock, twist too hard, almost drop them.
The front tire of Dad’s car screeches against the curb just as I shove the door open and tumble inside.
I slap the lock down with the heel of my palm. My lungs burn. My sweater’s soaked through with sweat and rain and fear.
The porch light flares bright as the car headlights swing across it. A beat. Another.
Then the engine cuts. The door slams shut. Boots crunch up the walkway.
I throw myself against the stair rail, dragging in a breath like a drowning person, hauling my body upstairs one panicked step at a time, heart a cannonball in my throat.
I make it to the landing just as the front door swings open.
Dad steps in, brushing rain off his jacket with the kind of distracted, practiced motion that comes from years of chasing the next disaster. His boots leave wet prints across the worn floorboards. His camera bag thuds heavily against his hip as he shrugs out of it, letting it slump into the corner near the umbrella stand.
I flatten myself against the wall upstairs, holding my breath. Listening.
He exhales—a rough, tired sound—and runs a hand through his hair. His keys jingle against the little bowl on the side table. Then, after a beat too long:
“Liya?” His voice floats up the stairwell, easy, but not careless. Listening for hesitation. Listening for guilt.
I clear my throat, forcing casual into my lungs.
“Up here!” I call back, wincing a little at how hoarse I sound.
A pause. The house hums around it—the low buzz of the fridge, the soft tick of the hallway clock.
“You asleep?” he asks, lighter now. Playful. Testing.
“Almost,” I lie, tugging my sweater straight, willing the blood to drain from my cheeks.
“I was about to—uh—get some water.”
“Alright,” he says after a moment, voice rolling out slower. He doesn’t push. Not yet. But I hear it—the thread of suspicion curling just under the words, soft but there.
I inch back down the hall, trying not to trip over my own feet, and duck into my room. The door clicks shut behind me with a whisper of wood against wood.
I lean back against it, heart still rattling, sweater sticking damp against my skin. Downstairs, the murmur of Dad moving around starts again—the fridge door swinging open, the muted clink of a glass against the counter.
I peel off my sneakers, each movement stiff and mechanical, and shove them under my bed with my toe.
The window by my desk is still cracked open from earlier. A thread of cold air curls through it, brushing against my arms, tugging at the loose strands of my hair like ghost fingers.
I cross the room slowly, dragging the window shut. The latch clicks.
My reflection wavers in the glass—hood half-down, hair a mess, face pale under the streetlight’s spill.
Downstairs, a cupboard slams harder than necessary. I flinch.
Dinner will probably be quiet. Not angry quiet—just the kind of heavy, tired quiet where love hangs there between you, but neither of you knows what to do with it.
I press my forehead lightly against the cool glass, the cold threading into my skin, and close my eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚: 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝘼𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙
I stare at him, my pulse a staggering, uneven rhythm against my ribs. The world around us sharpens—air thick with the scent of damp grass, the distant metallic clang of the flagpole shuddering in the evening breeze, the faint hum of traffic beyond the school’s fences. But in front of me, Jungwon. Jungwon, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips parted like he’s about to say something but can’t quite shape the words.
A dozen thoughts collide in my head, none of them forming a full sentence.
Jungwon. Spider-Man. Jungwon is Spider-Man.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, as if a switch flips, he lets out a laugh—high-pitched, forced, completely unconvincing. “Wow,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands that were already a mess from the wind. “I—I can see how you’d think that, but uh… nope. Not me. Just a fan.” He gestures vaguely at the mask in my hand, like it's some cheap merch he forgot was there.
A fan.
My mouth parts, but I don’t say anything. I just watch as he fumbles with his backpack, shoving prints and sketches back inside with too much force, his movements jerky, rushed. His hands tremble slightly, and he clenches them into fists before shoving them into the front pocket of his hoodie. His foot taps against the pavement. The boy is vibrating with nerves.
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I say slowly, eyes narrowing. “A fan.” I roll the mask between my fingers. “You’re really committed, huh?”
Jungwon straightens up, a little too fast, and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, warm and firm. I blink, taken aback by the sudden contact.
“Liya, you—” He exhales sharply, his grip tightening like he’s bracing himself for something. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”
I tilt my head, meeting his frantic gaze. “You’re very passionate for a fan.”
His lips part, his face flickering between a dozen emotions before settling into some weak attempt at offense. “I just—Spider-Man’s reputation is very important to me,” he says, a little too fast, eyes darting to the side. “The city needs him to be, y’know, a symbol, and—”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because suddenly, I’m thinking about my bedroom window.
The open curtains. The cool night air. The figure perched on the ledge, his weight light enough to barely creak the wood. The way the lamplight caught the edge of red and blue, fabric stretching over muscle.
Jungwon was there.
Jungwon saw me.
In my pajamas. In my post-shower, half-dead exhaustion. Hair a mess, skin bare, expression as unfiltered as the chaotic state of my entire life.
Oh my God.
And—
The closet. The school. The fire. That argument. When I turned, face inches from his, breath caught between anger and something else. The realization pricks at the edges of my brain, slow, cruel, inescapable.
Jungwon has seen me at my worst.
Every single time.
I tune back in just as he’s saying, “—so really, it wouldn’t make sense for me to be Spider-Man, and I think—”
But I don’t hear the rest.
Because now, I’m very aware of how close he is.
And of his hands. Still on my shoulders.
And how my face is on fire. The mask is still in my hand, soft and warm from my grip, but my fingers feel numb. My heartbeat rattles inside my ears, too fast, too loud. Jungwon is right there, his hands solid and firm on my shoulders, his words still spilling from his lips in a frantic, breathless tumble—something about probability, logic, and why this is all just a coincidence.
I can’t hear a damn thing.
I feel the heat spreading up my neck, creeping across my cheeks, turning my entire face into a furnace. Not because I’m embarrassed. Not because of the absurdity of this situation. But because I am embarrassed.
Because he’s too close.
Because his fingers are still gripping me like I might sprint off screaming his secret into the sky. Because his voice is pitched high, like he’s pleading with the universe to swallow us both whole before I can actually say anything.
His hands tighten slightly, grounding me back into the moment. “Liya, seriously, you—”
I shove the mask at his chest. A little too hard.
He grunts, startled, fumbling to catch it before it drops into the dirt. His hands close around it fast, pulling it toward himself like I’ve just handed him a ticking bomb. His eyes dart to me, wary.
“I won’t say anything,” I say, my voice sharp, a little clipped, still too hot with the realization that he saw me that night. “About you being a fanboy.”
Jungwon exhales. A rush of relief flashes across his face, like he actually thinks that worked. Like he actually thinks I buy it. He nods fast, stuffing the mask back into his bag, already talking again, already spinning something—an explanation, an excuse, whatever it is.
But my brain is still racing.
The auditorium.
The explosion.
How he was right there—and then gone. And how Spiderman was just suddenly in his place.
The words swirl, connect, snap into place. A puzzle I hadn’t realized I was solving.
My stomach twists, a slow coil of something too tight, too much, squeezing at my ribs. It makes it hard to breathe, harder to focus, harder to be normal, which is already an impossible feat in front of him.
I want to be the version of myself that’s cool, composed, the one who doesn’t get caught in stupid situations like this. The one who wouldn’t be standing here, feet planted like lead, a thousand thoughts colliding at the speed of sound.
But I’m not that version.
I’m the one whose palms are clammy, whose heart is hammering a little too hard, whose brain is short-circuiting under the weight of everything. The one who’s been making a fool of herself in front of Yang Jungwon since—God, since forever.
And now, after everything, after the fire, after the bookstore, after the night on my window—this is how I find out.
The realization is too much.
“Liya?”
I blink, and his voice cuts through the haze, the static of my thoughts breaking just enough for me to focus. He’s still looking at me, still holding his bag close like I might lunge for it and rip the mask out again. His brows are drawn, concern laced into every inch of his face.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because no, I am not okay. I am so far from okay that I don’t even know where okay is.
I take a step back. Then another. The air feels too thick, too charged, like I might drown if I stay here a second longer.
Jungwon shifts, moving slightly forward, like he thinks I might faint or explode or do something. But I shake my head, quickly, forcing a breath into my lungs.
“I have to go.”
It’s rushed, too quick, barely a full sentence, but it’s the only thing I can get out before I turn, before I start walking. Fast. Away from him, away from this, away from the fact that my crush—the one I can barely function around on a normal day—is freaking Spiderman.
I can hear him call after me. Once. Then again. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just keep walking, my hands balled into fists, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
I just need to go home.
—
The front door creaks open under my weight, the wood groaning as if protesting my presence. Inside, the living room is dim, the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds in thin, golden lines. The scent of coffee lingers, mixing with the faint trace of ink and the sharper tang of developed film.
Dad is at the dining table, stacks of printed photos spread out like an unfinished puzzle, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He doesn’t look up immediately, too focused on sifting through the prints, but then his head lifts at the sound of my steps.
“Liya, that you?” His voice is easy, expectant.
I drop my bag by the couch, barely pausing. “Yeah,” I say, but it’s thin, lacking. The weight in my chest hasn’t eased—not with the distance, not with the air between me and him.
Dad hums, flipping through the pictures, not pressing. I can feel his eyes track me as I move toward the hallway, but I don’t turn, don’t offer more. My legs move on autopilot, carrying me up the stairs, past the walls lined with old photographs, past the slightly ajar door of the room that still smells like Mom’s perfume on quiet days.
I reach my door, push inside, and shut it behind me.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of my room closes in like a held breath. I don’t bother flipping the light switch. Twilight seeps through the window blinds, cutting the walls into uneven panels of pale gray and deep shadow. Everything looks off-kilter, unfamiliar—like someone rearranged my life while I wasn’t paying attention.
The pile of clothes on the chair, usually a harmless mess, now feels like evidence of some deeper failure. My half-made bed sits crooked, the comforter twisted like I’d fought it in my sleep. The corner of my sketchbook pokes out from under a hoodie, graphite smudges visible even in the low light.
I stand there, unmoving. Just breathing. Trying to get my heart to settle, to make my brain stop buzzing like a lightbulb about to burn out.
But the weight of the mask—that stupid, glaring red mask—lingers in my mind like an afterimage burned into my retinas. My feet drag across the carpet as I make my way to the bed, collapsing face-first into the mattress. The sheets smell like detergent and something faintly floral, but even that small comfort doesn’t help.
Jungwon.
Spiderman.
The same person. Probably. Definitely.
My eyes squeeze shut, and the memory hits me again like a freight train. The window. The fluttering curtains. The cool breeze threading through the night air. And him, perched there like it was the most normal thing in the world. I’d thrown a book at his head. Sherlock Holmes, hardcover, limited edition.
I groan, rolling onto my back and dragging a pillow over my face. “Oh my God,” I mumble into the fabric, voice muffled and pathetic. “I threw a book at Yang Jungwon.”
The pillow does nothing to block out the spiral of humiliation. He’d caught it, easy and fluid, like gravity was just a suggestion. And I’d stood there, wide-eyed, hair probably frizzed out like a dandelion, wearing pajamas with little stars on them. I slap my hands over my face, heat rushing up my neck. “Kill me now,” I whisper to the ceiling.
But—no. No, Jungwon said he wasn’t Spiderman. He’d babbled about being a fan, about collecting merch or whatever, like that explained the literal mask in his bag.
Maybe… maybe he really wasn’t. Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m being ridiculous.
I lower my hands, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, letting the quiet press in again. It could’ve been a coincidence. The auditorium thing. Him disappearing. Spiderman showing up. People wear replicas all the time, right? Right.
Except—God, how stupid do I have to be to even try convincing myself of that?
The mask. The bruises vanishing overnight. The way Spiderman had moved, had spoken to me in the closet, like he knew me. Like he wasn’t surprised to see me there at all.
I sit up fast, heart hammering in my chest, and grip the edge of the bed so hard my knuckles ache. Of course it’s him. It’s been him this whole time. How could I not have seen it?
I did see it.
I just didn’t want to.
The realization sinks in like a stone, heavy and sharp-edged, pressing against my ribs. I sit there, barely breathing, the silence stretching out until the faint hum of the house becomes deafening—the fridge cycling on in the kitchen, the tick of the hallway clock, the creak of the floorboards settling under invisible weight.
My hand drifts to my face, fingers curling into my hair, pulling at the roots like pain might ground me. It doesn’t. The truth doesn’t just sit there quietly; it crackles, electric and unbearable, sparking memories I’d shoved aside because they didn’t fit neatly into the narrative I wanted.
Spiderman, hanging awkwardly at my bedroom window like a stray cat. The low rasp of his voice when he’d told me to stay safe. The way he’d caught the book I’d chucked at his head without even glancing at it.
Jungwon. It was Jungwon.
I groan, slumping forward, elbows digging into my knees. Heat burns under my skin, the kind that makes my ears ring and my throat tighten. He saw me—really saw me. Disheveled. Barefaced. Wrapped in an oversized hoodie and existential dread. The version of myself I keep tightly contained outside these four walls.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter into my hands, voice fraying at the edges.
A sharp knock cuts through the moment, rattling the thin veneer of calm I was barely clinging to.
“Liya!” Dad’s voice, urgent and breathless, bleeds through the door. Another knock, quicker this time. “Open up, kiddo!”
I stumble to my feet, legs unsteady like I’ve been standing on a fault line. The floor is cold under my socks as I shuffle to the door, heart still racing for entirely different reasons now.
When I pull it open, Dad’s already halfway into his coat, the strap of his camera clamped between his teeth as he wrestles with the zipper. His hair sticks up in odd angles, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times.
“There’s a scene downtown,” he says around the strap, voice muffled. He spits it out, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other digs through his pockets. “Cops just called it in. Robbery, I think. Could be something bigger. Paper wants shots ASAP.”
I blink at him, still caught in the fog of my own spiraling thoughts. He moves like a storm, fast and chaotic, stuffing a spare lens into his shoulder bag while kicking aside a stray sneaker in the hallway.
“There’s lasagna in the fridge,” he adds, yanking the camera free from where it’s tangled in his jacket. “If you get hungry. And—God, where’s my press badge?—if you need anything, text me, okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage, stepping back as he barrels toward the stairs, half-dressed and fully panicked. “Got it.”
He pauses at the top step, turning back with the kind of sharp, parental focus that cuts through even his rush. “And you’re still grounded, Liya. No sneaking out. I mean it.”
I raise my hands in surrender, too drained to argue. “I know. I won’t.”
Satisfied, he spins on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, boots thudding against the wood. I trail after him slowly, lingering by the railing as he throws open the front door, the night air rushing in like a slap to the face.
The engine sputters, then roars to life. From my bedroom window, I watch the headlights carve long, pale streaks across the driveway as he backs out, tires crunching over loose gravel. The taillights flicker red before he disappears down the street, swallowed by the dusk.
I lean against the window frame, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. He’s heading straight for the chaos, camera in hand, ready to freeze someone else’s worst day into a perfect, marketable snapshot.
Maybe he’ll finally get his Spiderman shot.
The thought barely finishes forming before another crashes into it, colder, sharper, leaving my breath caught in my throat.
He’ll be there. Jungwon will be there.
I stay by the window, arms wrapped tight around myself, watching the empty street as if I might catch a flicker of movement, a shadow cutting across the pavement, a web stretching out between the rooftops. But there’s nothing. Just the hum of the neighbor’s porch light and the distant wail of sirens threading through the city, curling around my ribs like a hook dragging me forward.
I turn away too fast, stumbling back into my room, the air suddenly too thick. My hands hover uselessly before they land on the edge of my desk, gripping tight. This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.
But the thought keeps pressing, insistent, curling at the edges of my mind like smoke.
I could go.
I could see—see if he shows up, see if I’m really, actually right, see if Spiderman swings into the scene like he always does.
I push away from the desk, moving before I can stop myself. My closet door creaks as I yank it open. My fingers find the hem of my sweater, tugging it off the hanger in one sharp motion. I pull it over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves.
Then I stop.
What am I even doing?
If I go—then what? Corner him? Demand an answer I already know? And then what, again? What am I expecting? A confession? Some dramatic moment where he realizes I’ve figured it out?
My hands twitch at my sides. My pulse pounds against my skull.
This is ridiculous.
I tear the sweater off, tossing it onto my bed.
Then—hesitation.
A beat.
Then I grab it again.
Shove it back on.
Walk to the door, hand on the knob.
Stop.
Rip the sweater off again.
The fabric crumples in my grip, my frustration burning hot in my veins. What am I doing? Going means admitting this is real. That Jungwon is actually Spiderman, that he’s been lying, that everything I thought I knew about him—about who he is—has been something else entirely.
I drop onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms to my face.
The room is too small. Too tight. Too full of the weight of my own thoughts.
I exhale through my nose, slow, forceful. My hands drop from my face, fingers pressing against the bedspread, gripping, releasing. Then, without thinking—no, despite thinking—I reach for the sweater again.
The fabric slides over my arms, familiar, grounding. I shove my hands through the sleeves, tugging it down over my waist, the motion sharp and mechanical. My heartbeat is an insistent drum against my ribs as I push myself upright.
This is insane.
I’m insane.
I shake my head at myself, dragging my fingers through my hair as I move toward the door. Every step feels weighted, like I’m still fighting myself. But my feet keep going.
Down the hall.
Down the stairs.
Each creaky step a reminder that I am fully capable of making the worst decisions possible.
At the bottom, I hesitate. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of settling wood. The pictures on the wall blur as I pass them, my focus locked on the floor, on my hands, on the sheer absurdity of what I’m about to do.
I crouch down, fingers fumbling with the laces of my sneakers. My knee knocks against the leg of the entryway table as I tug them tight. The impact jolts through my bones, grounding me in the moment.
I don’t have to do this.
I could go back upstairs. Pretend none of this happened. Crawl under my blankets and let Jungwon—Spiderman—exist in some separate, untouchable reality.
But then what?
I stand up, reaching for the key ring on the hook by the door, fingers curling around the cold metal. The weight of it feels final.
The lock clicks softly behind me as I step outside, the night air sharp against my skin.
The street is quiet. Still. Shadows stretch long beneath the streetlights, painting the pavement in slashes of yellow and black. My breath ghosts out in thin curls as I tug my hood up, ducking my head.
I’ll be back before Dad gets home. That’s the rule I set for myself. The boundary. As long as I make it back first, everything will be fine.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙧: 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙄𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙
Thursday dawns with a muted glow, the sun barely piercing through the thick curtains of my room. I’m jolted awake by the harsh blare of my alarm, the digital numbers glaring at me in accusation. 7:45. I was supposed to be up an hour ago. Panic surges through me, dispelling the last remnants of sleep. School starts in half an hour, and I’m nowhere near ready.
I leap out of bed, nearly tripping over the heap of clothes I discarded last night. Grabbing my favorite pair of jeans – the ones with the ripped knees and just the right amount of stretch – I yank them on, hopping on one foot as I try to balance. Next, I pull on a snug black turtleneck, the fabric warm and comforting against the morning chill. A quick glance in the mirror shows my hair in disarray, so I hastily run a brush through it, taming the wild strands into a half-decent ponytail.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my father, equally disheveled, rushing past my bedroom door. "Liya, are you up? We overslept!" he shouts, his voice tinged with the same urgency I feel. I hear the clatter of his camera equipment, the telltale sign that he’s scrambling to gather everything for his job at The Sentinel.
"Yeah, I’m up!" I call back, slipping on my sneakers and grabbing my backpack. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it waking me up further. I dab on some concealer over the bruise on my cheek, a fading reminder of the accident, and swipe on a quick layer of lip balm. There’s no time for anything more.
The house is a whirlwind of activity as we both race against the clock. My father is in the kitchen, shoving papers and his camera into his bag while trying to pour himself a coffee. He looks up as I enter, his eyes mirroring my own sense of frantic energy. "We’ve got to go, Liya. Grab a granola bar or something for the road."
I snatch a bar from the counter and stuff it into my pocket. "Got it. Let’s go."
We dash out the door, the cool morning air hitting us as we run to the car. My father fumbles with the keys, and we both slide into our seats, the engine roaring to life as he floors the gas pedal. The streets blur past us in a haze of buildings and trees, the city slowly waking up around us. My father glances at me, his expression serious. "Remember, safety first. I know you’re eager to get back to school, but no more running into burning buildings, okay?"
"Okay," I reply, trying to sound earnest even though I’m just anxious to get through this conversation. "I promise."
He nods, satisfied for the moment, and we drive the rest of the way in silence, the tension of the morning easing slightly. As we approach the school, he pulls over a block away, not wanting to get caught in the chaos of the drop-off zone.
I lean over and give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the ride. See you later."
He reaches out, gently rubbing the bruise on my cheek with his thumb, his eyes soft with concern. "Take care, Liya. Be careful."
I offer him a reassuring smile, my voice soft. "I’m fine, Dad. Really."
As I walk towards the school entrance, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I'm not sure what to expect after the catastrophe that was Monday. Will things be back to normal? Will people be talking about what happened? About me?
I push open the heavy double doors and step inside, immediately struck by how... normal everything looks. The hallways are bustling with students, lockers slamming, and the din of chatter filling the air. It's as if nothing ever happened. As if the school hadn't been a war zone just a few days ago.
I make my way down the hallway, my eyes scanning the walls and floors for any sign of the destruction that had taken place. But the walls are pristine, the floors polished to a shine. It's almost eerie how thoroughly the cleanup crew has erased any trace of Monday's events.
But as I venture further into the school, the illusion of normalcy begins to crack. I notice the auditorium doors propped open, the sound of power tools and construction workers' voices spilling out into the hallway. I peer inside as I pass, catching a glimpse of the extensive repairs underway. The stage is a maze of scaffolding and tarps, the seats covered in plastic.
I continue down the hall, my unease growing with each step. And then I see it. The science classroom. Or rather, what's left of it. A massive white tarp covers the gaping hole where the wall used to be, the plastic rippling slightly in the breeze from the open windows. I can still picture the desks flying through the air, the sickening crunch as they collided with the wall.
As I draw closer, the sharp scent of fresh paint assaults my nostrils. I glance to my left and see a section of the wall that looks too bright, too clean compared to the rest. The wall where I had been thrown against during the fight, leaving a Liya-shaped dent in the drywall.
I quickly avert my gaze, my cheeks burning with shame and anger. I can feel the stares of my classmates boring into my back as I hurry past, their whispers following me like a swarm of insects. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the scuffed toes of my sneakers, wishing I could disappear.
I fumble with the zipper of my backpack, my fingers trembling slightly as I tug it open. I reach inside, rummaging past crumpled worksheets and stray pencils until I find what I'm looking for - the overly folded paper I'd shoved into the side pocket on Monday. I pull it out, the edges soft and worn from being handled too many times.
I smooth it out on my lap, my eyes scanning the schedule printed in neat rows. First period - AP English, Room 204, Mr. Erikson. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach as I navigate the crowded hallway.
The bell rings just as I step into the classroom, the shrill sound making me jump. I hesitate in the doorway, my eyes darting around the room as I search for an empty seat. Desks are arranged in tidy rows, students already settling into their chosen spots. Backpacks are slung over chairs, notebooks and pens scattered across desktops.
As I hover uncertainly, a flash of movement catches my eye. I turn to see Jenna waving at me from the back of the room, her curly hair bouncing with each enthusiastic gesture. She points to the empty desk beside her, a wide grin spreading across her face.
I feel a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I make my way towards her, weaving between the desks. Jenna's friendly demeanor is instantly comforting, her bright eyes and easy smile putting me at ease.
I slide into the seat beside her, setting my backpack on the floor. "Thanks," I whisper, giving her a grateful look.
"No problem," she whispers back, her voice warm. "I'm glad we have a class together."
I nod, feeling a flicker of warmth in my chest. It's nice to have a friendly face in the room, someone who doesn't look at me with suspicion or awe.
As I settle in, I take a moment to study the classroom. The walls are lined with posters of famous authors and literary quotes, the chalkboard already filled with Mr. Erikson's neat handwriting. Bookshelves overflow with worn paperbacks, their spines cracked and faded.
At the front of the room, Mr. Erikson leans against his desk, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He's young for a teacher, maybe in his early thirties, with tousled brown hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He surveys the room with a calm, patient expression, waiting for the chatter to die down.
"All right, everyone," he says, his voice carrying easily over the din. "Let's get started. I'm passing out the syllabus now. And let's hope we can have a proper school day without any more monster attacks or supernatural disasters, yeah?"
A nervous titter runs through the room, students exchanging uneasy glances. I feel my cheeks heat up, my fingers curling into fists on my lap. I know Mr. Erikson means well, but his casual joke hits a little too close to home.
As he begins to distribute the syllabus, I let my gaze drift around the room, taking in the faces of my classmates. Jenna leans over every so often, whispering comments and observations that make me smile despite myself.
And then my eyes land on a familiar figure hunched over his desk in the corner of the room. Jay. He looks tired and bored, his chin propped up on one hand as he doodles idly in the margins of his syllabus. Every so often, his gaze flicks up, scanning the room as if searching for a distraction.
I quickly look away, my heart doing a little flip in my chest. The memory of our last interaction—the harsh words, cold and threatening—is still too raw, enough to boil some anger in me.
But then another figure catches my eye, and I feel a different kind of ache in my chest. Amy-Jane. She sits near the front of the room, her glossy dark hair cascading down her back, her posture perfect. She's listening attentively to Mr. Erikson, her pen poised over her notebook.
I watch her for a moment, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the graceful arc of her neck. She's so effortlessly beautiful, so poised and put-together. Everything I'm not.
I feel a hot, prickly sensation in the pit of my stomach, a feeling I recognize all too well. Jealousy. I hate that I feel this way, hate the petty, ugly emotions that churn inside me. But I can't help it.
I tear my gaze away from Amy-Jane, focusing instead on the syllabus in front of me. But even as I try to concentrate on Mr. Erikson's words, my mind keeps drifting back to Jungwon and Amy-Jane, to the complicated tangle of emotions they stir up inside me.
Mr. Erikson's voice drones on, discussing the reading list for the semester. I try to focus, jotting down titles in my notebook - The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye. Classic high school fare. But even as my pen moves across the page, I find my thoughts wandering.
I glance at the clock, watching the minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. The room feels stuffy, the air thick and heavy. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable, but it's impossible. My skin prickles with restless energy, a desperate urge to be anywhere but here.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the bell rings. The shrill sound startles me out of my daze, and I blink, looking around in confusion. My classmates are already gathering their things, chattering excitedly as they head for the door.
I glance down at my schedule, my heart sinking as I see my next class: P.E. Just what I need, another hour of humiliation and self-consciousness. I can already picture it - the too-bright fluorescent lights of the gym, the stench of sweat and rubber, the annoyance as I stumble through whatever sadistic activity the teacher has planned.
I sigh, shoving my notebook into my backpack with a little more force than necessary. As I stand up, I feel a presence beside me and turn to see Jenna, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Hey, Liya! Looks like we have P.E. together next period," she says, grinning. "Walk with me?"
I force a smile, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. "Sure, sounds great," I lie, falling into step beside her as we head out into the bustling hallway.
As we walk, dodging elbows and backpacks, I can't help but feel a sense of dread settling in my stomach. P.E. has always been my least favorite class, a source of constant anxiety and self-doubt. I've never been particularly athletic, and the thought of putting my clumsy, uncoordinated body on display for all to see fills me with a sickening sense of fear.
But as we make our way through the crowded hallways, Jenna chatters away beside me, her voice bright and cheerful. And despite my nerves, I find myself feeling grateful for her presence, for the way she seems to radiate warmth and positivity.
—
My muscles ache and my lungs burn as I collapse onto the polished hardwood floor of the gymnasium, struggling to catch my breath. Around me, my classmates are in similar states of exhaustion, sprawled out in a loose circle around the blue gymnastics mat in the center of the room.
I let my gaze drift upwards, taking in the high ceilings and the metal rafters crisscrossing overhead. From the center of the mat, a thick rope dangles ominously, swaying slightly in the recycled air.
Coach Thompson stands at the edge of the mat, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. He's an intimidating figure, with close-cropped hair and a perpetual scowl etched onto his weathered face.
"Listen up," he barks, his voice echoing off the walls. "Your next evaluation will be the rope climb. You'll be timed and scored based on your speed and technique."
I feel my stomach drop at his words, a wave of dread washing over me. I've never been good at climbing, and the thought of hauling myself up that rope in front of everyone makes me want to disappear into the floor.
As Coach Thompson continues his instructions, I find my attention drifting, my gaze drawn to the far end of the gym. The double doors burst open, and a group of football players come storming in, their cleats clattering against the hardwood.
They're rowdy and boisterous, jostling each other and laughing as they make their way towards the locker rooms. Beside me, Jenna sits up straighter, her eyes widening.
"Oh my god, there's Jake," she whispers, her voice tinged with excitement. "He's so cute, don't you think?"
I nod absently, my attention caught by a familiar figure entering through the main doors. It's Jungwon, looking flustered and out of breath as he hurries into the gym.
I feel my breath catch in my throat as I watch him, memories of our encounter in the alleyway flooding back to me. The way he'd pulled my hood over my head, shielding me from the rain. The warmth of his hand on my arm.
"Mr. Yang, how nice of you to join us," Coach Thompson calls out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Care to explain your tardiness?"
Jungwon's face flushes red as he stammers out an apology, tripping over his words in his haste to explain. "I'm so sorry, Coach. I had to finish up a project for photography class and I lost track of time."
Coach Thompson holds up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. He scribbles something on his clipboard before tearing off the sheet and thrusting it towards Jungwon.
"I don't want to hear excuses," he says gruffly. "You'll do double the evaluations to make up for what you missed. And you'll do them right here, where I can keep an eye on you."
Jungwon nods meekly, taking the paper and glancing down at it. From across the room, I see Heeseung, Ni-ki, and Sunghoon snickering to themselves, exchanging knowing looks.
I feel a flicker of irritation at the sight of them, remembering their rudeness from earlier. But I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the task at hand.
Coach Thompson resumes calling out names, each student stepping up to the mat when summoned. They eye the rope warily before gripping it tightly, waiting for the signal to begin.
"Faster, Kim!" Coach barks at a petite girl struggling to hoist herself up. "You think an attacker is going to wait for you to climb to safety?"
The girl redoubles her efforts, her face reddening with exertion. Beside her, another student scurries up the rope like a squirrel, making it look effortless.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, nerves fluttering in my stomach as I await my turn. I've never been particularly athletic, and the thought of dangling in midair, with nothing but a rope to cling to, makes my palms sweat.
From the corner of my eye, I see Jungwon drop to the ground and begin a set of push-ups, his friends gathered around him. Heeseung counts out the reps, his voice carrying across the room.
"...eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Come on, Jungwon, is that all you've got?"
Jungwon ignores him, his jaw clenched with determination as he lowers himself down again. Sweat beads on his forehead, dampening his hair.
Sunghoon chimes in, his tone mocking. "Looks like someone skipped arm day. Maybe if you spent less time in the darkroom and more time in the gym..."
"Shut up," Jungwon grunts, not breaking his rhythm. "I can do this all day."
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, remembering how kind he was to me earlier. Part of me wants to speak up, to tell his friends to back off. But I remain silent, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
As if sensing my gaze, Jungwon glances up, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, I'm caught off guard by the intensity of his stare, the determination blazing in his eyes.
Then Coach Thompson's voice cuts through the air, jolting me back to the present.
"Liya! You're up."
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I step up to the mat. The rough fibers of the rope bite into my palms as I wrap my hands around it, bracing myself for the climb ahead.
From behind me, I hear Heeseung's voice, low and taunting. "This should be good. Ten bucks says she doesn't even make it halfway."
I grit my teeth, anger and determination surging through me. I'll show him. I'll show all of them.
With a deep breath, I hoist myself up, my arms straining with the effort. The rope sways beneath me, making my stomach lurch. But I force myself to keep going, hand over hand, inch by painstaking inch.
As I climb higher, the voices below fade away, replaced by the pounding of my own heart in my ears. The world narrows to the rope in my hands, the burn of my muscles, the single-minded focus of reaching the top.
At last, I reach the top, my arms shaking with exhaustion, my breath coming in ragged gasps. A surge of pride rushes through me as I cling to the rope, looking down at the distant ground below.
I did it. I actually made it to the top.
But my triumph is short-lived as I realize the daunting task that lies ahead: getting back down. My arms tremble, and my palms are slick with sweat. I try to tell myself that going down should be easier, but the thought does little to calm my racing heart.
I can't help but steal a glance at the faces below, at the mix of boredom and anticipation in their eyes. Some look as tired as I feel, while others seem to be waiting for something to happen, for me to make a mistake.
And then I see him. Jungwon. He's stopped what he was doing and is watching me intently, his gaze unwavering. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I quickly look away, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Hurry up, Liya!" Coach Thompson calls out, his voice impatient.
Taking a shaky breath, I begin my descent, my movements careful and deliberate. But after just two steps, I feel my hand slip, the rope burning against my skin. Pain shoots through my palm, and before I can stop myself, I let go.
Time seems to slow as I fall, the pit of my stomach dropping out from under me. The air rushes past my ears, and I brace myself for the impact, squeezing my eyes shut.
And then I hit the mat, hard. The breath is knocked from my lungs, and for a moment, I can only lie there, stunned. Around me, I hear the gasps and yelps of the other students, the echo of my fall reverberating through the gym.
Slowly, I open my eyes, blinking against the bright fluorescent lights. The world seems to spin, and I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I try to sit up, but my body refuses to cooperate, and I fall back against the mat with a groan.
"Liya! Are you okay?" Jenna's voice cuts through the haze, and I feel her hand on my shoulder, gentle but insistent.
I want to answer her, to tell her that I'm fine, but the words stick in my throat. All I can do is nod, even as pain throbs through my body.
Coach Thompson appears above me, his face etched with concern. "Liya, do you need to go to the nurse's office?"
I shake my head, despite the ache in my temples. The last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself, to be seen as weak or fragile.
"I need to hear you say it," Coach Thompson insists, his tone firm.
"No, I don't need to go," I manage to croak out, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
Coach Thompson hesitates for a moment, then nods. He turns to the rest of the class, clapping his hands together. "Alright, next up, Jungwon! Start your mile run, then join us for dodgeball."
At the mention of dodgeball, a few cheers erupt from the students, their earlier concern for me forgotten. I can't help but feel a twinge of relief at the distraction, even as my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Jenna helps me to my feet, her arm around my waist for support. I lean against her, grateful for the steadiness she provides. Together, we make our way to the bleachers, where I sink down heavily, my legs shaking beneath me.
As others come by the bleachers to get their water from the bottles that stand on the lowest step, I can't help but notice Heeseung approaching, with Sunghoon and Ni-ki following close behind. They sit on the bleacher below mine, and Heeseung looks up at me, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Impressive, Liya," he says, his tone both mocking and admiring. "Running into a building with a monster, and now taking a fall like that. You're something else."
Ni-ki chimes in, his eyes wide. "Yeah, you're like a ragdoll or something. Just bouncing right back up."
I take a long swig from my water bottle, rolling my eyes at their comments. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat, and I feel a renewed sense of determination coursing through me. I stand up, my legs still a bit shaky, but I refuse to let it show.
As I pass by the boys, I pause, looking down at them with a raised eyebrow. "At least I have guts, unlike some people," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
To my surprise, they don't laugh or mock me further. Instead, they nod, a hint of genuine respect in their eyes. They turn back to their own conversation, and I continue on my way, feeling a small sense of victory.
As I make my way towards the gym, I spot a familiar face among the crowd - a girl from the art club last year. She catches my eye and smiles, waving me over. I return the smile, and head over.
"Hey, Liya!" she greets me, her voice warm and enthusiastic. "Are you planning on coming to the first art club meeting after school today?"
I nod, feeling a small sense of excitement at the prospect of getting back into art projects. "Yeah, definitely. I wouldn't miss it."
Just then, the shrill sound of Coach Thompson's whistle pierces the air, cutting through the chatter and laughter of the students. "Alright, everyone!" he shouts, his voice booming across the gym. "Gather round, it's time for dodgeball!"
A mix of groans and cheers erupts from the class, and I feel a sense of dread wash over me. Dodgeball has never been my strong suit, and after the day I've had, I'm not sure I have the energy for it. But I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the game ahead, and join the throng of students making their way to the center of the gym.
Coach Thompson stands in the middle of the gym, his arms crossed and his face set in a stern expression. He surveys the class for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before he speaks again. "I'm going to pick two team captains," he says, his voice echoing off the walls. "And they'll choose their teams. Got it?"
There's a murmur of assent from the class, and Coach Thompson nods. "Alright then. Jessica, you're one captain. And..." he pauses, scanning the crowd, before his gaze settles on a tall, athletic-looking boy. "Jose, you're the other."
I watch as Jessica and Jose step forward, both of them looking confident and self-assured. They start picking their teams, calling out names one by one. I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, waiting to be chosen.
"Liya!" Jessica calls out, and I feel a small sense of relief wash over me. At least I won't be the last one picked. I make my way over to Jessica's side of the gym, taking my place among my teammates.
As I look around, I catch sight of Jungwon jogging over to our side of the gym, a small smile on his face. Coach Thompson must have told him to join our team. As he takes his place beside me, our eyes meet for a brief moment. He gives me a small, friendly smile, and I feel my cheeks flush. I quickly look away, giving him a shy nod in return.
Coach Thompson blows his whistle again, and the game begins. The other team surges forward, their arms cocked back, ready to throw. I brace myself, my heart pounding in my chest.
The first ball comes hurtling towards me, and I dive out of the way, feeling it whiz past my ear. Another one comes, and another, and I dodge and weave, trying to stay on my feet. The gym is a blur of motion, bodies twisting and turning, balls flying through the air.
I can hear the shouts and cheers of my teammates, urging each other on. I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world seems to slow down around me, every movement, every sound, every sensation heightened and intensified.
Suddenly, I hear a shout of warning from one of my teammates. I spin around, just in time to see a ball hurtling straight towards my face. My eyes widen in shock, and I instinctively raise my hands to protect myself, bracing for the impact.
But the impact never comes. Instead, I feel a whoosh of air, and hear the dull thud of the ball hitting something solid. I open my eyes, blinking in confusion, and see a hand holding the ball, just inches from my face.
I follow the hand up to its owner, and my eyes widen even further when I see who it is. Jungwon. He's standing right in front of me, his arm outstretched, the ball clutched firmly in his hand. He looks at me, a small, crooked smile on his face.
"Thanks," I manage to stammer out, my heart still racing from the close call.
"No problem," he replies, his voice warm and friendly. He tosses the ball back to the other team, then turns to say something to me.
But before he can get the words out, I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone on the other team has the ball, and they're aiming it right at us. Without thinking, I lunge forward, pushing Jungwon out of the way.
The ball slams into my shoulder with a sickening thud, sending a jolt of pain shooting down my arm. I stumble backwards, gritting my teeth against the ache. The whistle blows, sharp and shrill, signaling that I'm out.
I trudge over to the sidelines, rubbing my shoulder gingerly. I take a seat on the bleachers, my eyes drawn back to the game. Jungwon is still in, darting and weaving across the court with incredible speed and agility. I try not to stare, but it's hard not to be mesmerized by his movements.
He dodges a ball thrown by an opponent, twisting his body at the last second to avoid it. Then, in one fluid motion, he snatches a ball out of the air and sends it hurtling back towards the other team. It's like watching a dance, his every step perfectly choreographed.
I'm not the only one who's noticed his skills. Around me, I hear the murmurs of the other students who have been knocked out of the game. They're all talking about Jungwon, their voices tinged with awe and admiration. A group of girls a few feet away from me are practically swooning, their eyes glued to his every move.
But there's something about the way he moves that seems almost too perfect, too effortless. It's like he's not even trying, like this is all just a game to him. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about it doesn't sit right with me.
As if sensing my gaze, Jungwon turns his head and catches me staring. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and I feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. I quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in the game.
But then, out of nowhere, a ball comes flying towards him. He's so focused on me that he doesn't see it coming. It hits him square in the chest, and the whistle blows once more.
Jungwon jogs over to the sidelines, a good-natured grin on his face despite being knocked out. He plops down on the bleachers, leaving a couple of empty spaces between us. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the game, trying to act like I haven't been watching him this whole time.
"Liya?" His voice is soft, almost hesitant. I turn my head towards him, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
"Yes?" I say, wincing internally at how overly enthusiastic I sound.
He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was wondering if you'd like to sit with me and my friends at lunch today."
I blink at him, wondering if I've misheard. Jungwon, one of the most popular guys in school, wants me to sit with him at lunch? I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. My mind is reeling, trying to process this unexpected turn of events.
I nod slowly, a small smile spreading across my face. "Sure, that sounds great."
"Cool," he replies, his own grin widening. We sit there for a moment, an awkward silence settling between us. I fidget with the hem of my shirt, unsure of what to say next.
Jungwon is the first to break the silence. He points to his own cheek, gesturing towards me. "Your bruise seems to be healing well."
Instinctively, I reach up and touch my cheek, feeling the slight sting beneath my fingertips. It's not as bad as it was before, but the remnants of the injury still linger. I nod in response, my eyes drifting to his face. That's when I notice something strange - the bruises that had marred his skin just a day ago are now gone, as if they had never existed.
"How..." I breathe out, the question more to myself than to him. Before he can respond, the coach's whistle blares loudly, signaling the end of the game.
"Alright, everyone! Go get cleaned up before the bell rings!" the coach shouts, his voice echoing across the field.
Jungwon stands up, his friends already making their way towards him. He glances back at me, a soft smile on his lips. "I'll spot you at lunch, Liya."
I watch as he jogs away, my mind still trying to wrap around the mystery of his vanished bruises. Jenna appears beside me, her voice animated as she starts talking about the game. But like before, I find it hard to concentrate on her words. My thoughts keep drifting back to Jungwon and the inexplicable disappearance of his injuries.
As we make our way towards the locker rooms, I barely register my surroundings. The chatter of my classmates fades into the background, and the hallways blur together. All I can focus on is the image of Jungwon's unblemished face and the unspoken questions that hang in the air between us.
The fragrance of my shampoo wafts around me as Jenna and I walk side-by-side towards the cafeteria. My damp hair clings to the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Jenna's voice fills the air, her words tumbling out in an excited rush.
"I can't believe we're actually going to sit with them!" she gushes, her eyes wide with anticipation. "What should I say to Jake? Should I act cool and casual or should I be more direct?"
I nod along, trying to appear engaged, but my mind is elsewhere. This is my first time having someone actually wanting to be around my presence for this long. I've never had someone consistently around me before, not like this. It's uncharted territory, and I'm not sure how to navigate it.
As we step into the lunchroom, the buzz of conversation and the clatter of trays assault my senses. The room is alive with activity, students milling about, laughing and chatting with their friends. Jenna turns to me, an apologetic smile on her face.
"I'm going to grab some food. I'll meet you at the table, okay?" she says, already backing away towards the lunch line.
I nod, trying to ignore the rising tide of anxiety in my chest. I can feel eyes on me as I stand there, awkwardly scanning the room for any sign of Jungwon or his friends. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my homemade lunch clutched tightly in my hands.
Suddenly, I feel an arm drape across my shoulders, and I look up to see Sunoo grinning down at me. His presence is like a beacon of light in the crowded cafeteria, his charisma radiating off him in waves.
"I heard you're our special guest today," he says, his voice playful and warm.
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that I'm not anyone special, but he's already guiding me through the throng of students. We weave our way past the empty table where I usually sit, the one that has become a familiar sanctuary over the years. But today, I'm venturing into new territory.
As we approach the table where Jungwon and his friends are already seated, I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. These are guys I've never spoken to before, guys whose existence I was only vaguely aware of since I arrived at Daylight Academy. But here I am, about to sit down and have lunch with them.
I find an empty seat and set my lunch down, my movements stiff and uncertain. The guys continue their conversation, seemingly unfazed by my presence. It's as if I'm just another part of their group, as if my being here isn't strange at all.
Jungwon takes his seat across from me, sandwiched between Sunghoon and Ni-ki. He catches my eye and offers a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. I feel a rush of gratitude for the empty seats on either side of me, giving me a buffer of space in this unfamiliar situation.
I focus on unpacking my lunch, my fingers trembling slightly as I unwrap my sandwich. The conversation flows around me, the guys joking and laughing with an easy camaraderie. I listen intently, trying to pick up on the threads of their discussion, but I can't quite seem to find my place.
As I take a bite of my sandwich, I let my gaze wander around the table, taking in the faces of these boys who have suddenly become a part of my world.
As I chew my food, Jay's voice cuts through the chatter, his tone cool and nonchalant. "So, Liya, how did it feel being saved by Spider-Man?"
I swallow my bite and shrug, trying to match his casual demeanor. "I'm grateful, obviously. He seemed like a cool guy." The words feel inadequate, failing to capture the intensity of that moment, the rush of fear and relief that had coursed through me.
Sunghoon leans forward, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Did you see him fight Shadowlash inside the school?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I only caught a glimpse of him attacking before he told me to run." The memory flashes through my mind - the blur of red and blue, the urgency in Spider-Man's voice as he urged me to safety.
Throughout the conversation, I can't help but notice Jungwon's silence. He keeps his gaze fixed on his food, his expression unreadable. I wonder what's going through his mind, why he seems so distant compared to the others.
Suddenly, Jenna appears, sliding into the empty seat beside me. I feel a rush of relief at her presence, grateful for a friendly face. She flashes a smile at Jake as she settles in, and I can only imagine the somersaults her heart must be doing.
"What's up, guys?" Jenna asks breezily. "What are we talking about?"
Sunoo grins. "We were just discussing Liya's encounter with Spider-Man on Monday."
Jenna's eyes widen, and she turns to me, pointing excitedly. "Ooh, did you get to see who he was under the mask?"
Before I can answer, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. The boys' smiles fade, their postures stiffening. They stare at me intently, as if my response holds some great significance. The air feels charged with an unspoken tension.
I glance back at Jenna, trying to ignore the strange vibe. "No, I didn't see his face." My words hang in the air for a moment, and then, like a rubber band snapping back into place, the mood at the table shifts. The boys relax, their easy grins returning.
Jenna pouts, a look of disappointment crossing her features. "Well, that sucks."
I nod in agreement, but my mind is reeling. What was that all about? Why did the guys react so oddly to Jenna's question? I can't shake the feeling that there's something more going on here, something I'm not privy to.
The hours seemed to melt away in art class, my mind absorbed in the swirl of colors and textures on the canvas before me. I barely registered the passing of time until I glanced up and noticed Amy-Jane seated across the room, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked on her own masterpiece.
The art room was a sanctuary, a place where the outside world ceased to exist. The walls were adorned with vibrant student artwork, each piece telling a unique story. Shelves overflowed with supplies—paints, brushes, charcoal, and clay—beckoning us to explore and create.
Ms. Hartman, our art teacher and the head of the art club, moved through the room with an infectious energy. Her passion for art was evident in every word she spoke. As the final bell rang, she called out, "Liya, don't forget about the art club meeting after school. We'll be discussing upcoming projects!"
I nodded, excitement bubbling up inside me. As the other students filtered out, I lingered, watching as familiar faces from last year's club trickled in, joined by a handful of new members. Ms. Hartman passed out sheets detailing the various events and projects the art club would be involved in throughout the year. My eyes scanned the list: a community mural, a charity auction, a gallery showcase. Each opportunity sparked a flood of ideas in my mind.
As the meeting wound down, Ms. Hartman turned her attention to the seniors. "I've been working hard to compile your art portfolios," she said with a warm smile. "They'll be ready for you to take home by the end of the year. Keep creating, keep inspiring."
Time seemed to evaporate as we delved into discussions of color theory and composition. Before I knew it, the meeting had ended, and I found myself walking alone through the quiet halls. With the front entrance locked after hours, I made my way towards the east exit, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridors.
Pushing open the heavy metal door, I stepped out into the waning light of the afternoon. The football field stretched out before me, the bleachers casting long shadows across the manicured grass. I cut through the parking lot, my mind still lost in the world of art.
Suddenly, a rustling sound caught my attention, seeming to emanate from the edge of the field. Curiosity pulled me forward, my feet moving of their own accord. As I drew closer, a figure emerged from behind the bleachers, their back towards me. In a blink, we collided, tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and scattered papers.
I looked up, my heart skipping a beat as I realized who I had literally run into. Jungwon. His backpack had fallen open, spilling a mix of photo prints and sketches onto the asphalt. "I'm so sorry," I stammered, reaching out to gather the scattered pages. "I didn't see you there."
"No, no, it's my fault," Jungwon insisted, his own apologies tumbling out in a rush. "I should have been paying more attention."
We knelt there, both of us frantically trying to collect the fallen items. As I reached for his backpack, my hand brushed against something soft and textured. I pulled it out, my breath catching in my throat as I realized what I held. A red mask, unmistakably Spider-Man's.
I turned to Jungwon, the mask clutched in my hand, my eyes wide with shock. He froze, his gaze locked on the piece of fabric, a mixture of surprise and something akin to fear etched across his features.
Slowly, I extended my hand, offering the mask back to him. The words fell from my lips in a whisper, a truth I couldn’t believe. "You're Spider-Man."
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚: 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝘼 𝘽𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝘼𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝘾𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝
Physical pain is a curious thing; it's like a thick fog that rolls in, smothering all other worries. Even my concern for Jungwon becomes muted under the dull throb of the bruise on my cheek. By the time we get back to our small townhouse in Graystone—a quiet, unassuming city that rarely ever sees the kind of chaos that unfolded today—I'm almost grateful for the distraction the pain provides.
As soon as the door shuts behind us, my dad launches into a barrage of questions. "Liya, what were you thinking running back inside like that?" His voice pitches with every query, a crescendo of concern that fills the cramped living room. "How did you get this bruise? And really, are you—," he pauses, searching for the right words, "—are you sure you're okay, not just physically but...?" His question about my sanity hangs between us, an unfinished bridge.
I shrug off his last question with a half-smile, trying to ease his worry. "I'm okay, Dad, really."
He nods, though his eyes say he's far from convinced. Running a hand through his already disheveled hair—a trait I've inherited—he continues, "Well, the parents from Daylight Academy were informed there'd be two days off school because of the accident."
That's his subtle way of saying I'm grounded without using the word. He knows I understand, but he softens the decree by adding, "How about we order from Pizza Paradise? Extra cheese, your favorite." Pizza Paradise is our go-to on nights when cooking feels like a chore too cumbersome to undertake. It's a small, local spot that claims their secret sauce recipe came straight from an Italian nonna—unlikely, but it's delicious enough that we've never bothered to doubt it.
Despite the casual suggestion, I know it’s his way of making sure I don't run off if I feel the urge. Any other teenager might bristle at such overt surveillance, but this is Dad, and his actions stem more from fear than anger at my recklessness. After losing Mom, it's just been the two of us, navigating our grief and now this new, unexpected threat.
I nod, sinking into our old, worn couch that's as much a patchwork of history as we are—a collection of moments stitched together, fraying at the edges but still holding. "Sounds perfect," I reply, letting the familiarity of the routine soothe the both of us.
Our townhouse is small, the rooms a little too lived-in, cluttered with memories that crowd the shelves and walls. Photos of Mom smile down at us from frames that line the mantelpiece, her eyes following us with a quiet permanence. The coffee table is a battlefield of old magazines, school books, and several remotes that never seem to control the devices they're supposed to. It's a comfortable chaos, one that wraps around you like a well-worn blanket.
As Dad dials the number for Pizza Paradise, I tuck my legs under me and glance around the living room. The green wallpaper, chosen by Mom because it reminded her of the springtime parks she loved, peels at the corners, slightly showing the worn out beige beneath it. Outside, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows that creep across the floor, dark tendrils that stretch like fingers. As the room darkens with the fading light, the shadows from the setting sun stretch longer across the floor, like dark rivers flooding the plains of our worn carpet. I'm chewing gum, staring blankly at the TV that's playing a rerun of some sitcom we used to watch together, but I'm not laughing. Not tonight. My mind wanders, tracing the paths of what could have happened today. I keep coming back to Jungwon—was he safe? How had Spiderman managed to reach him amid the chaos?
"Dad's talking, Liya." His voice breaks through my reverie, more gentle than reproachful.
"Huh?" I startle, snapping back to the room filled with the musty scent of old books and faintly, the citrus of our used-up air freshener.
"College, honey. Have you given it any more thought?" Dad's eyes are kind, the crinkles at their corners deepening with his concern.
College. Right. I press my lips together, feeling the weight of the question like the textbooks on our cluttered coffee table. "I... haven't decided yet," I admit, the words tasting of uncertainty and the mint gum I've been chewing on too long.
He opens his mouth, probably to offer reassurance or maybe to encourage me to think about futures I'm too preoccupied to imagine right now, but the sharp ring of the doorbell cuts him off.
"I'll get it," I say quickly, a little too eagerly, seizing the chance to escape from the conversation. Rising from the couch, I cross the room, each step a deliberate delay of the inevitable discussion. As I pull open the door, the cool evening air brushes against my face, bringing a momentary relief. The pizza delivery guy hands over the warm boxes, and just like that, the normalcy of a family dinner snaps back into place, leaving my concerns about Jungwon lingering silently between the shadows and the fading light. I lay sprawled across the couch, too stuffed to move, with an ice pack numbing my cheek—a battle scar from earlier when I got a little too animated telling Dad about Jungwon's impossible escapes. Dad's already lost to sleep, his snores a soft echo in the dimly lit living room where the glow of the TV flickers, casting ghostly light across his relaxed features.
We're halfway through some action movie that Dad picked, more explosions than plot, and my mind's only half on the screen. The rest is upstairs, in that unspoken worry about noises that shouldn't be there.
Then, it comes—a thud from upstairs. My heart skips. Not the movie. Not Dad. I sit up, listening harder. Another thump, like something—or someone—had bumped against a wall. Dad doesn't stir; just another log added to his symphony of snuffles and murmurs.
Carefully, I set the ice pack down on the coffee table, right beside the greasy remains of our pepperoni pizza, the cardboard box stained with oil spots. The cool metal of the pack clinks lightly against the wood, a small, crisp sound in the otherwise muffled room.
I rise, my movements slow, fluid, trying not to disturb the precarious peace of Dad's slumber. As I pass by our cluttered bookshelf, my fingers brush against the spines of hardcovers and paperbacks jammed too tightly together. I hesitate, then snatch up a heavy, hardbound copy of Sherlock Holmes—more weapon than literature in this moment.
Each step on the stairs creaks under my weight, a reluctant betrayal as I make my way up. My breath feels too loud in my ears, my heart a drumbeat I'm certain could wake Dad. But he sleeps on, oblivious and out of reach.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretches out, dimly lit by the nightlight plugged in near the bathroom. Three doors: Mom and Dad's room, mine, and the bathroom between them. The thuds had stopped, replaced now by a stifling silence, the kind that presses in on your ears when you strain to hear anything at all.
I grip the book tighter, feeling the edges bite into my palm, and I inch toward my door, each breath a ragged whisper. The door is ajar—had I left it like that? My mind races, but I can't remember.
The floorboard just outside my room groans under my tentative step, and I freeze, every nerve ending screaming alert. I wait, one, two, three heartbeats. Nothing more. Slowly, I push the door, the hinges whimpering softly. The familiar mess of my room comes into view—the posters on the walls, the pile of clothes on a chair, the window slightly open, curtains fluttering like a soft breath.
My heart stutters as the curtains flutter, teasing glimpses of a figure too familiar and yet impossibly real perched right outside my window. Spider-Man. Right here. It’s like seeing a myth in motion, but before rational thought can take hold, my nerves do—a silly, knee-jerk reaction. My grip on the Sherlock Holmes book tightens, and without a thought, it’s sailing through the air towards him.
He turns, an almost lazy, fluid motion, and catches the book with an ease that defies gravity and reason. The moment stretches out, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and the surprise that has me frozen in place.
I slap both hands over my mouth, my eyes wide. Embarrassment heats my cheeks more than any slap could. I’m mortified, standing there gawking at him through the gap in the window, my makeshift weapon now in his hands. The room feels smaller somehow, or maybe I just wish I could shrink away from the absurdity of my own actions.
Spider-Man seems to hesitate, then, with a sheepish raise of his hand, he mirrors an apology. His movements are awkward, almost human beneath the mask. He steps closer to the window, the soft thud of his boots on the ledge a stark contrast to the silent tension. He extends the book back to me, his gesture careful, almost respectful of the bizarre sanctity of this moment.
I lower my hands slowly, brushing back strands of loose hair that’d escaped. Leaning against the window frame, I manage a shaky laugh, my voice a whisper of sound that barely carries. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—just scared, you know?"
He nods, the motion sharp against the backdrop of my fluttering curtains. "It’s okay. Really." His voice is muffled by the mask, but the warmth is there, an unexpected comfort.
I reach out, taking the book back, my fingers brushing against his. For a moment, the world doesn’t extend beyond this strange, shared space between a hero and a girl too quick to throw her literature.
"Thanks," I murmur, words lost to the wind as he backs away with another awkward wave, disappearing the way only a hero can. I’m left there, leaning on the sill, the night air cool against my flushed face, and no words to describe the surreal heartbeat of this night.
I shuffle aside, making room, a silent invitation hanging between us. He only shakes his head, his posture relaxed as he settles onto the edge of my window, one leg casually swinging inside my room. The book in my hand feels suddenly pointless, so I toss it onto my bed, the thud it makes oddly satisfying against the silence.
I just watch him for a moment, the surreal nature of Spider-Man sitting in my window making my thoughts scatter like marbles on a tilted floor. What do you even say to a superhero? Especially when your first instinct had been to throw a book at him. My mind races through a dozen started sentences, none of them feeling right.
Thankfully, he breaks the silence first, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. His voice is calm, almost casual. "Jungwon got home safe, by the way."
The relief that washes over me is immediate and overwhelming, loosening the tight knot of worry that had been lodged in my chest since the afternoon. "Oh, thank God," I breathe out, leaning a little closer, as if drawn by the gravity of his words. "I've been so worried. How did you...?" My voice trails off, curiosity piqued but unsure how to phrase the million questions I have.
He just gives a small, knowing smile, the kind that tells me he's used to the awe and the inquiries but still finds them mildly amusing. "It’s all in a day’s work, really."
As I step closer, the lamppost outside throws a harsh glare around him, framing him like some sort of celestial being caught in a mundane world. I extend my hand out—half-wanting to check if he's as real as he seems, half-regretting how awkward it feels to shake hands with a superhero. But he grasps it firmly, and the reality of his grip brings a sense of solidity to the moment.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He nods, and there's a brief, comfortable silence as he releases my hand. Then, his head tilts slightly, and I feel the weight of his gaze, even behind the mask. "Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice laced with a concern that seems too genuine for someone who deals with far bigger problems than a bruised cheek.
"What?" I blink, confused for a second, then my hand flies to my face, touching the tender skin of my right cheek where the ice had numbed the pain. The coolness has faded, leaving a dull throb in its place. "Oh, um, it's bearable," I admit, trying to downplay the discomfort. "Nothing that time can’t heal."
He nods again, understanding, or at least pretending to. There’s a quiet acknowledgment in his posture, a readiness to listen that makes the room—the whole world—feel safer, just for a moment.
He points at my cheek, his gesture a little clumsy. "Still, I'm sorry about that."
I wave it off, trying to ease the weight of the moment. "It's not a big deal, really. I'm just glad you were there to stop those desks from hitting me. That would’ve been a lot worse."
We fall into an easy rhythm of conversation, the tension unspooling slightly with each shared word. But then, a thought hits me, sudden and sharp. "Wait," I interrupt, squinting slightly in suspicion. "How did you even know where I live?"
He hesitates, his body language shifting, the confidence slipping for a moment. "Uh, I have my ways. It's part of the job, you know, making sure everyone’s safe," he stammers, clearly caught off guard by the question.
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "So, you’re a stalker?"
He jumps up to his full height on the windowsill, defensive but playful. "No, no, it’s not like that!"
I can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up freely. He seems so much like a regular guy sometimes, maybe even someone who could be in my class, not just the superhero from the news. "Okay, okay, I believe you. But seriously, why come here now?"
He settles back down, though he stays perched on the edge of the sill. "I just wanted to check on you, make sure that bruise was the worst of it," he admits, his tone earnest.
We fall into a quiet kind of silence, the kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward. I nod, still a bit dazed by his reason for showing up. It's strange, thinking a superhero would take the time to check on someone like me. I mean, what does a day in the life of a superhero even look like? But I shrug off the wonder of it all, figuring it’s just one of those things I’ll never fully understand.
Minutes tick by, the only sound is the distant hum of the city and the occasional car passing below. Then he breaks the silence again, his voice serious this time. "You shouldn't have run into the building, though. It was reckless." He pauses, glancing at me with a hint of admiration. "But brave."
I roll my eyes but can't suppress a smile. "Yeah, I know. Probably wasn't the smartest move." I agree, thinking back to the chaos of today, the heat of the moment pushing me forward.
He looks over his shoulder suddenly, as if hearing something I can’t, his body tensing like he’s ready to spring into action. "I have to go," he says, and there’s a slight urgency in his tone now.
"Yeah," I respond, feeling a twinge of disappointment as I step back to give him space. I watch him swing out of my window, graceful and almost otherworldly. His figure cuts through the cool night air, and within moments, he's just a fleeting shadow against the city lights, disappearing into the fabric of the night.
Standing there, I lean out just a bit, catching the last glimpse of him, the echo of our conversation lingering in the now silent room. I pull back, the window frame cold against my hands, and I can't help but feel a mix of awe and a tiny sting of loneliness as I slide the window shut.
—
I wake up to the muted light of an overcast Tuesday, the kind of day where the sky seems to weigh heavy, pressing down on the world below. School has been canceled since the accident, a relief and a curse all at once. My father, ever practical, decides that today will not be wasted. He leaves a list of errands for me on the kitchen counter, a mix of mundane tasks meant to keep me occupied and out of trouble.
The first task is to pick up groceries from the local market. I pull on my favorite hoodie, its soft fabric a comfort against the lingering chill in the air. As I step outside, the city hums around me, a symphony of distant engines, murmuring voices, and the occasional blare of a horn. I make my way down the sidewalk, my sneakers slapping against the damp concrete. The air smells faintly of rain, a promise of showers to come later.
The market is bustling with activity, despite the somber mood that seems to hang over the city. Inside, the aisles are a flurry of movement, people darting around, filling their carts with the essentials. I navigate through the crowd, methodically checking off items from my father's list. Apples, milk, bread, a box of his favorite cereal. Each item is a small victory, a piece of normalcy in an otherwise disrupted week.
My next stop is the dry cleaner's. The bell above the door jingles as I enter, the familiar scent of starch and fabric softener hitting my nose. Mr. Lee, the elderly owner, greets me with a nod, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. We exchange a few words about the weather and the state of the neighborhood, his voice carrying the weight of years spent in the same place, witnessing the ebb and flow of life around him. I hand over the ticket, and he disappears into the back, emerging moments later with my father's freshly pressed suits. The hangers clink softly together as I take them, the fabric cool and smooth under my fingers.
My errands continue in a steady rhythm. I stop by the post office to mail a letter, the sterile smell of paper and ink filling the small space. The clerk behind the counter barely looks up as I slide the envelope through the slot. Outside, the clouds have grown darker, the threat of rain more imminent. I quicken my pace, eager to finish my tasks before the skies open up.
As I turn the corner onto my street, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from my father. "Let's watch a movie tonight. How about 'Starship Dreams'?" The thought of a quiet evening in, lost in the escapism of a film, brings a smile to my face. But the message doesn’t end there. "Could you pick up some sweets from Sweet Haven on your way back?"
Sweet Haven is a small, family-owned candy store a few blocks from our apartment. Its pastel-painted facade stands out against the drab gray of the surrounding buildings, a cheerful beacon on a dreary day. As I push open the door, a tiny bell rings, announcing my arrival. The interior is a whimsical explosion of color and sugary scents, jars of candies lining the shelves, each one more enticing than the last.
I take my time, wandering through the store, the wooden floorboards creaking softly underfoot. My eyes linger on the vibrant displays of gummies, chocolates, and caramels, each piece a work of art. The shopkeeper, a kind woman with a warm smile, offers me a sample of their latest creation, a piece of lavender-infused white chocolate. It melts on my tongue, a delicate blend of flavors that leaves me wanting more.
As I approach the checkout counter, my eyes are still dancing with the vibrant colors and sugary delights surrounding me. The assortment of candies I’ve chosen feels like a small treasure trove, each piece a promise of sweet escapism. I place the bag on the counter, and the shopkeeper rings up my purchase with the same warm smile she greeted me with. Her hands move deftly, wrapping each item with care, as if each candy were a precious gem.
Just as I’m about to leave Sweet Haven, I catch a glimpse of something through the large front window. Across the street, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, is my favorite bookstore, "The Literary Nook." Its warm, inviting light spills out onto the sidewalk, creating a cozy oasis amidst the gray cityscape. The fairy lights twinkle like stars, framing the large windows that offer a peek into a world of books and stories.
I hesitate, clutching the bag of candy. My father's errands are still on my mind, and I know he wouldn't be pleased if I took too long. He’s been more protective since the accident, his concern often feeling like a heavy, unspoken presence between us. But as I gaze at the bookstore, the thought of exploring its shelves, finding a new escape within its walls, is too tempting to resist.
"He’s not upset," I remind myself, "just worried." The distinction feels important. I take a deep breath, convincing myself that a quick visit wouldn’t hurt. He probably won’t even notice if I take a few extra minutes. With that thought in mind, I step out of Sweet Haven and make my way across the street, the rain a gentle drizzle now, barely more than a mist.
The Literary Nook is even more enchanting up close. The smell of old paper and ink greets me as I push open the door, the little bell above jingling softly. Inside, it’s a labyrinth of wooden shelves, each one overflowing with books. Comfortable chairs are scattered throughout, inviting customers to sit and lose themselves in a story. The soft light from the fairy lights, combined with the warm glow of table lamps, creates a magical, almost ethereal atmosphere.
I wander through the aisles, each step on the creaky wooden floorboards echoing softly in the quiet space. The sense of peace here is profound, the outside world slipping away with each passing second. I make my way towards the manga section, my heart quickening with anticipation. The shelves are well-stocked, each title a doorway to another world. As my fingers brush against the spines of the books, I spot it – the latest volume of my favorite series, "Celestial Warriors."
My breath catches in my throat as I reach for it, the cover art vibrant and dynamic, promising new adventures within its pages. I flip it open, the familiar characters and storylines drawing me in instantly. The excitement bubbles up inside me, a giddy thrill that makes me forget everything else for a moment.
Just then, a voice behind me says, "I love that series too." It’s a voice I know well, one that I’ve heard in both quiet moments and chaotic ones. I turn around, my heart pounding, and there he is – Jungwon. His face is slightly bruised, a reminder of recent events, but his eyes are bright and warm. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pushed back to reveal his tousled hair, and jeans that are just a bit too long, the cuffs frayed from dragging on the ground. He looks both rugged and approachable, his presence a mix of strength and softness.
I nod at Jungwon, my throat suddenly dry. The only words that manage to escape my lips are, "You're alive." As soon as I say them, I mentally slap myself. What a stupid thing to say. It sounds as if I’m surprised he survived, and maybe I am, but not in a way that sounds good out loud. His brow furrows in confusion, but he nods, his expression softening as he processes my awkward statement.
Desperately trying to salvage the situation, I stammer, "I mean, I’m happy you’re alive." My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I want to disappear into the pages of the book in my hands.
Jungwon’s smile returns, and he chuckles softly. "I’m happy I’m alive too," he replies, his tone light and teasing. The tension in my chest loosens just a little, but then he continues, "Heeseung told me you ran inside the school looking for me."
Before he can finish his sentence, the wave of embarrassment crashes over me again, and without thinking, I thrust the manga volume at him. "Here, have it!" I blurt out, the words tumbling out in a rush. He catches the book easily, his reflexes quick despite the surprise.
I curse myself silently, feeling the heat rise in my face. Not only had I revealed my weird crush on him in the most awkward way possible, but now I had literally thrown a book at him. My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of mortification and panic, and I can’t bear to look him in the eye.
Jungwon looks at the manga in his hands, then back at me, a mixture of amusement and confusion on his face. I can’t read his thoughts, but I’m certain he’s thinking how strange and awkward I am. The realization is like a punch to the gut, and I know I have to get out of here before I make things even worse.
Turning abruptly, I avoid his gaze and make a beeline for the back of the store. The Literary Nook has a little area in the back, an alleyway transformed into a cozy nook with benches and fairy lights, perfect for reading on pleasant days. It’s my only escape route now.
The narrow pathway between the shelves feels like a gauntlet, each step echoing my frantic thoughts. I can feel Jungwon’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look back. My feet carry me swiftly to the back door, my pulse racing in my ears. As I push open the door, the cool air hits my face, a welcome contrast to the heat of my embarrassment.
The alley is quiet, the fairy lights casting a gentle glow on the rustic benches and potted plants. It’s a haven of calm, but my heart is still hammering. I sink onto one of the benches, trying to steady my breathing, my mind replaying the scene over and over. I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could rewind time and erase the past few minutes.
I sit there, my face buried in my hands, the cool air mingling with the warmth of my embarrassment. The alley is usually a refuge, but now it feels like a spotlight, highlighting my awkwardness in painful detail. I replay the scene in my mind, each moment more cringe-worthy than the last. The gentle patter of rain starts, a soft drizzle that I barely notice through the fog of my emotions.
Then I hear the door creak open behind me, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t need to look to know it’s Jungwon. I feel a mix of dread and anticipation as his footsteps approach, each one louder in the silence of the alley. I can’t fathom why he would follow me, what he could possibly say after my clumsy exit.
He stops in front of me, and I look up, my eyes meeting his. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only concern. He reaches past my head, and I flinch slightly, unsure of his intention. But then I feel the gentle tug as he pulls the hood of my hoodie over my head, shielding me from the rain. It’s only then that I realize my hair and shoulders are damp, the cool droplets mingling with the heat of my flushed cheeks.
Jungwon's gesture is so simple, yet so unexpectedly kind, that it leaves me momentarily speechless. He steps back, and his mouth moves, words spilling out, but they don’t register. I’m still reeling from the sudden shift, from the awkwardness of moments ago to this quiet, almost tender interaction. My mind struggles to catch up, to process the fact that he’s here, that he cares enough to follow me.
He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, and I snap back to reality. "What?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with the remnants of my earlier panic. It’s the only word I can manage, the only thing that breaks through the haze of my thoughts.
Jungwon repeats himself, his voice patient and calm, "I said, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay." There’s genuine concern in his tone, a softness that catches me off guard. He sits on the bench next to me, keeping a respectful distance, but close enough that I can feel his presence, solid and reassuring.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The rain continues its gentle descent, the fairy lights casting a warm glow on the scene, turning the alley into a surreal, almost dreamlike space. It feels like we’re in a world apart, a moment suspended in time.
"I’m okay," I finally manage to say, though my voice is still shaky. "I just... I didn’t know what to say back there. I’m sorry for throwing the book at you."
Jungwon laughs softly, the sound a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves. "Don’t worry about it," he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’ve had worse things thrown at me. And besides, it’s a good book. I’m glad we both like it."
His words ease some of the tension in my chest, and I find myself smiling, the knot of embarrassment slowly unwinding. The rain continues to fall, a steady rhythm that seems to mirror the calming of my thoughts. We sit there in silence for a moment, the city’s distant hum a backdrop to our quiet conversation.
The silence between us is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of rain and the distant hum of the city. I find myself relaxing, the earlier embarrassment fading away, replaced by a sense of calm. Jungwon’s presence is unexpectedly reassuring, his laughter still echoing softly in my mind.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out and see a message from my dad. My heart sinks as I read the text: "Where are you? Everything okay?" I glance at the time and realize I’ve been gone longer than I intended.
"Shoot," I mutter under my breath, the knot of anxiety returning. I quickly type a reply, "I’m fine, just got caught up at the bookstore. Heading home now." I hit send and tuck my phone away, feeling the weight of responsibility settle back on my shoulders.
"I have to go," I say to Jungwon, my voice tinged with regret. Standing up, I fumble for the right words, trying to make my exit without seeming too abrupt. "Thanks for, um, coming after me. And for the hood," I add, tugging it slightly to emphasize my point.
As I turn to leave, Jungwon’s voice stops me in my tracks. "Liya," he says, and the sound of my name from his lips catches me off guard. It’s the first time I’ve heard him say it, and the way he says it makes my heart skip a beat. I try to keep my composure, not wanting to appear too flustered.
"Yeah?" I respond, my voice a little higher than I intended.
He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that makes my chest feel lighter. "Take care, okay? See you around."
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything coherent. "You too," I manage to mumble, before turning and heading toward the exit of the alley. My feet move quickly, the rain now a gentle mist around me. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, and I force myself not to look back, even though every part of me wants to.
The alley leads me back to the main street, where the city seems to have taken on a softer, quieter tone under the blanket of rain. My mind is a whirl of thoughts and emotions, replaying the scene in the alley over and over. I replay the way Jungwon said my name, the kindness in his eyes, the unexpected ease of our conversation.
As I walk, I can’t help but smile, despite the lingering embarrassment. Maybe I’ll speak to him again at school, maybe not. But for now, I focus on getting home, my father’s message a reminder of the world outside this small, magical moment.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙬𝙤: 𝙎𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙤𝙩?
The doors slam shut behind me with a resounding thud, sealing off the chaotic world outside. Suddenly, the school feels like a different universe—eerily quiet and strangely deserted. The only sound piercing this unnatural silence is the blaring alarm, its shrill cries echoing off the empty lockers and tiled floors. It's like standing inside a ringing bell, the noise so loud yet oddly muffled by the closed doors, as if the world outside is pressing its hands against the glass, trying to get in.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My palms are sweaty, and I can feel the rapid thump of my pulse in my ears, competing with the alarm. I need to focus, to think clearly, but it's hard when every cell in your body is screaming at you to run. Instead, I force myself to stop, to listen. I tilt my head, trying to sniff the air. There's a hint of something acrid, like burnt plastic, but it's faint. I hope it means the fire is far, maybe on the other side of the building. That's where I won't go.
Walking down the hallway, I peek into each classroom I pass. The chairs are upturned, books strewn across the floor—a frozen scene of a hurried evacuation. No flames lick the edges of these rooms, no smoke curls under the doors. Just empty spaces, holding their breath.
As I move, the building suddenly shudders—a violent tremor that throws me off balance. It's not just a small shake; it's as if the earth itself is roaring beneath my feet. I stumble, my hands flailing for something solid. Nothing but air greets my fingers, and then, harshly, the cold, hard floor.
I crash down, knees first. Pain shoots up my legs, sharp and quick, like lightning. My hair, which I left loose this morning in a hurry, cascades over my face, tickling my nose and clinging to my lips. I sigh, more in irritation than pain, as I brush it away with a clumsy swipe of my hand. Sitting there on the cold tile, surrounded by the continuous wail of the alarm and the heavy silence of an empty school, I realize this silence is just as loud as the chaos outside.
Pushing myself off the floor isn't easy; every joint protests, and the tiles are colder against my palms than they should be. But I get up, dust off my jeans, and start down the hallway again, my sneakers squeaking softly against the slick floor. The auditorium is at the end of this corridor, a hulking shadow against the flickering overhead lights.
As I get closer, the noise starts to swell. It's a mixture of shouts and crashes, like someone's throwing chairs or banging doors. I slow down, my steps hesitant. The sounds are muffled but distinct. Voices, definitely voices—one high and mocking, another deep and growling. They're too distorted to make out words until a clear shout cuts through the chaos, "Spiderman!" followed by a harsh laugh and a name that sends a shiver down my spine—Shadowlash. What on earth are they doing?
My heart beats a frantic tattoo against my ribs as I edge closer to the auditorium doors, which are slightly ajar. The voices grow louder, the sounds of scuffling more intense. I tell myself I'm just going to look, just going to make sure he's there. Jungwon, I mean. I need to see if he's okay. That's all.
I reach the door, my hand trembling as I touch the cool metal. Taking a deep breath, I press my face to the narrow opening, peering into the dimly lit space. Inside, the auditorium is chaos personified—chairs overturned, papers fluttering down like lost birds. And there, in the midst of it all, figures move and dodge in a dance too dangerous to be anything but real.
I can't see Jungwon, not yet, but the tension hooks me, pulling me closer to the action, to the danger. My eyes widen as I scan the room, searching for that one familiar face in the pandemonium. My breath catches in my throat, heart pounding in my ears almost as loud as the alarm had been. I'm here, at the door, not planning to go in. Just looking, just making sure. But as the shouting continues and the name "Shadowlash" echoes again, a part of me wonders if just looking will be enough.
Through the crack in the door, the scene inside sharpens into focus. Two figures dart across the stage, their movements quick and dangerous, like shadows flickering under a stormy sky. One is agile, dressed in a suit that clings to him like a second skin, red and blue blending into the dim lighting. The other, larger and more menacing, moves with deliberate, terrifying grace.
"You still have energy? Or are you just here to dance with me?" The taunt flies through the air, edged with malice.
Spiderman dodges a swipe that could have taken his head off. "Just wondering if Spirax has been keeping you busy, or if you're still sulking over our last run-in!" His voice is light, but there's an edge to it, like a knife hidden beneath silk.
Shadowlash growls, a sound that vibrates through the auditorium, "Busy tearing you apart." His next attack is a whirlwind, so fast it's barely a blur.
I watch, unable to tear my eyes away, as Spiderman leaps just in time, soaring through the air—a red and blue comet shooting across the dark canvas of the auditorium. But his trajectory is all wrong. He's heading straight for the door. Straight for me.
The impact is inevitable. The doors burst open with a crash that sends me stumbling backward. I barely register the figure slamming into me, both of us hitting the ground hard. The weight of him is a sudden, crushing surprise. Spiderman is on top of me, his mask inches from my face, and for a second, we're both just staring at each other, stunned.
"Sp-Spiderman?" I stutter, my voice squeaking with shock and fear.
Before he can respond, my eyes snap to the figure now fully visible through the doorway—Shadowlash. He's massive, covered in scales that shimmer with a sickly green hue, like oil on water. His eyes, burning red and soulless, fixate on us, and his mouth twists into a snarl, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.
Shadowlash raises his hand, and the air around it starts to crackle and hiss, energy gathering into a swirling vortex of dark, electric power. His ability to manipulate dark energy, shaping it into physical attacks, is more terrifying up close.
"Watch out!" I yell, shoving at Spiderman with all the panic-driven strength I can muster. We tumble to the side just as a blast of dark energy slams into the spot we were just occupying, sending shards of tile and plaster into the air like a burst of black fireworks.
Breathing hard, pressed against the cool floor, I realize the danger isn't over. Spiderman scrambles to his feet, pulling me up with him. "You need to get out of here," he says, urgency lacing his voice as he glances back at the looming threat of Shadowlash. But even as he speaks, I know it's not going to be that easy. Not with Shadowlash blocking the only exit, his grin spreading wider as he prepares another strike.
My breaths come in quick bursts as Spiderman pulls me along, his grip firm around my wrist. "We need to get out of here," he insists, urgency clear in every syllable.
"But I can't leave," I gasp out, trying to keep pace with his longer strides. I need to tell him why, about Jungwon, about how he might still be in here somewhere, but before I can explain, he yanks me into a classroom—Science Lab 3B, I think.
With one fluid movement, he shoves us both into a small storage closet, the kind where they keep lab coats and goggles. It smells like chemicals and dust, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline and fear that course through me. Spiderman presses his index finger to his lips, signaling silence, his other hand lightly resting on my shoulder, steadying me.
We're so close in the cramped space that I can count the threads on his suit, see the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The proximity sends a thrill mixed with fear through me. Outside, Shadowlash's heavy footsteps thud past the classroom. Each step feels like a drumbeat against my skull, loud and ominous.
Here, in the dim light of the closet, Spiderman's eyes meet mine. They're intense, focused, a stark contrast to the playful banter he's known for in the videos I've watched a million times online—videos of daring rescues, of him swinging between skyscrapers, always just out of reach of the authorities who can't decide if he's a hero or a menace. But now, he's real, right here, so close that I can see the tiny scratches on his mask, probably from battles past.
I've heard about his power, of course, the ability to scale walls with ease and sense danger before it strikes—a tingling sensation he calls his "spider-sense." But knowing about it and seeing it in action, feeling the tension of it in this confined space, are two entirely different things. It's almost too much to believe, like stepping inside a comic book, except the danger is real and palpable, pressing in from just beyond the thin wooden door.
"What do you mean you can't leave?" Spiderman hisses, his voice a whisper sharp as shattered glass.
My nose scrunches up—I can't believe he's scolding me. Pointing a finger right at his masked face, I retort, "Don't be rude." Then I jab my finger toward the door, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "My friend Jungwon… he's still in the building. I saw him sneak into the auditorium, and he could be in danger."
"Your friend?" Spiderman mumbles under his breath, and even though it's barely audible, I catch the skepticism lacing the two words.
I roll my eyes and look away, biting the inside of my cheek. His tone makes it painfully clear how pathetic it sounds. Am I that obvious? A loner, someone who might be inventing connections? The thought stings, bitter and cold.
"You risk coming in here for him? I could've found him eventually, you know?" he continues, his voice low but not unkind.
I swallow, my throat tight. "I realize that now, but I didn't want to risk waiting."
From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head slightly. "Idiot," he mutters, not quite under his breath, and a hot flush of anger washes over me. I'm about to snap back, ready to unleash a string of words I might regret, when the air changes, growing colder, denser. Spiderman leans in so close I can feel his breath through the mask, a whisper barely brushing against my ear. "Trust me," he murmurs, his voice a hushed echo in the cramped space of the closet. "When you get an opening, run back to the entrance of the school. Don't look back."
He pulls back slightly, his gaze piercing through the white mesh of his mask, searching my face for any sign of comprehension or dissent. I can almost feel the intensity of his stare, weighing the silence between us. Slowly, I nod, understanding the gravity of his instruction, the imperative hidden in his tone.
Spiderman shifts slightly, pressing his ear against the thin wood of the closet door. I can't see his face, hidden as it is behind the mask, but I imagine his eyes closed, concentrating hard, tuning into whatever sixth sense alerts him to danger.
The cramped closet feels even smaller now, the air thick with tension. The only light—a sliver that had been sneaking through the crack at the bottom of the door—vanishes. My heart skips a beat. Shadowlash must be standing just outside. The thought sends a chill through me, colder than the air that whispers under the door.
Suddenly, Spiderman springs into action, shoving the closet door open with such force it slams against something solid—Shadowlash, I assume. In an instant, he's launching a flurry of webbing that splatters across what must be Shadowlash's face. The thick, sticky strands glisten like dew in a spider's web under the harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom.
Spiderman's move creates the opening he'd mentioned. Without thinking, I duck to the left, my heart thundering in my ears as I skirt around the chaotic swirl of Spiderman and Shadowlash's confrontation. Spiderman is a blur of red and blue, his movements almost too fast to track as he engages our enemy with a dancer's grace but a fighter's intent.
I do as he says, not turning back, focusing only on the exit. But just as I near the doorway, three desks come hurtling through the classroom wall like missiles. The impact is sudden and violent, sending splinters and debris flying through the air. I'm clipped by the corner of a desk, the force knocking me off my feet and onto the cold, hard ground. Pain blooms hot and sharp on my cheek, a stark contrast to the cold linoleum against my skin.
Dazed, I look up, my vision swimming slightly as I try to make sense of the chaos. That's when I see it—the webs. They're stretched over the desks, thick and restraining, holding back what would have been a lethal barrage. Spiderman's intervention, his quick thinking and quicker actions, saved me from a direct hit.
Above the ringing of the fire alarm, which is still relentless in its shrill cry, I hear Spiderman's voice cut through the tumult. "Run!" he yells, urgency threaded through every syllable. His power isn't just in his strength or his web-slinging; it's in his reflexes, his incredible ability to act and react in moments where even a second's hesitation could mean disaster.
Pushing through the pain and the shock, I scramble to my feet, driven by his command and the adrenaline surging through my veins. I can't think about the ache in my cheek or the pounding in my head. All I can do is run, putting distance between myself and the chaos, trusting that Spiderman will handle Shadowlash. My only focus now is the echoing command to escape, to make it to safety, while behind me, the battle rages on.
As I burst through the front doors of the school, the outside world rushes towards me—a blur of colors and sounds. Behind me, the clash and clamor of the fight spill out from the corridors, echoing in the heavy thud of bodies and the sharp snaps of Spiderman's webs. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a loud echo in my ears.
The moment I'm clear of the doorway, strong hands grip my arms, pulling me further away from the building. Two cops, their faces set in grim lines, rush me down the school steps, their grip firm but not unkind. Around us, a chaotic scene unfolds: students cluster in tight, whispering groups, pointing back towards the school, their faces a mix of fear and excitement. Teachers try to maintain order, their voices strained as they call for calm, attempting to herd students to safety.
Among the crowd, I catch glimpses of wide eyes fixed on me—students I recognize from classes, their expressions a mix of shock and curiosity. They whisper among themselves, throwing glances my way, as if I hold some secret knowledge of the chaos inside.
Once we're a safe distance from the building, the officers finally loosen their grip. One of them nods at me, a silent signal that I'm free to go but not to stray far. I'm left standing there, slightly swaying, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving a cold, shaky feeling in its wake.
Before I can take a step, a paramedic approaches, her expression a mix of concern and professionalism. "Are you okay?" she asks, her eyes quickly taking in the bruise blossoming on my cheek.
Her fingers brush lightly against the tender skin, and I wince at the contact. "I'm fine," I mutter, more out of reflex than honesty. The pain is sharp, a vivid reminder of the desk's impact, but it feels trivial compared to the terror of what's still unfolding inside. As the paramedic steps back, my gaze shifts to where the six boys—Sunoo, Heeseung, Jake, Jay, Sunghoon, and Ni-ki—still stand. They haven’t moved, just exchanging hushed, urgent whispers. The air around us feels charged, thick with unspoken questions and the tang of fear that’s almost like the metallic taste of blood in the mouth.
Heeseung breaks from the group, striding towards where my backpack lies abandoned, a lonely island on the grass. He scoops it up, dusting it off with a care that seems at odds with the sharp angles of his jaw tensed in concern. His eyes, dark and intent, never leave mine as he approaches. He towers over me, his shadow merging with mine on the sun-warmed cut grass, handing me the backpack with a gesture that’s both brusque and oddly gentle.
I take it, my fingers brushing his briefly, the contact sparking a static of unease between us. I clutch the backpack to my chest, armor against the chaos and the questions I can see forming on his lips.
“What did you see in there?” Heeseung leans in, his voice low, tinged with a gravity that pulls at the very air around us.
I fail to maintain the annoyed pout I attempt, my features softening into worry. “If Jungwon is hurt, or worse, it’s on you,” I say, my voice a blend of anger and fear, a bitter cocktail that leaves a sour trace on my tongue.
A slight smile quirks the corner of his mouth—a grim acknowledgment of my accusation—but then his attention shifts, drawn away by a familiar voice cutting through the noise.
“Liya!” The call slices through the murmur of the crowd, urgent and frazzled.
I turn, just as my father, camera swinging wildly at his side like an afterthought of his profession, rushes towards me. His face is a map of worry, lines etched deep by the newsman’s instinct to be where the story is, yet now driven by a father’s fear. His camera, usually his shield and tool, hangs forgotten as he closes the distance between us, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, taking in the bruise, the dust on my clothes, the tightness of my grip on the backpack.
He reaches me, his hands hovering before he pulls me into a tight hug, the kind that tries to press the fear out of my bones and replace it with the safety of his presence. As I cling to my dad, I can feel his heart pounding against my ear, fast and hard—a drumbeat of sheer terror. His arms are a fortress around me, but they tremble with the strain of emotions barely kept at bay. Losing Mom carved a gaping void in our lives, her absence a constant echo in our once joyful home. If something happened to me too, I couldn't bear to think about the emptiness that would swallow him whole.
Through the tight embrace, I press a reassuring hand against his back. "I'm here, Dad," I whisper, my voice a steady thread in the swirl of chaos around us. "I'm okay." The words are more for him than for me, a lifeline thrown across the turbulent sea of his fears.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands cupping my face, his eyes scanning every inch as if to memorize that I'm really there, unharmed. He opens his mouth, likely to ask a thousand questions or maybe just to tell me never to scare him like that again, but I cut him off.
"Shadowlash and I didn’t exactly get along," I say, trying to inject a hint of levity into the tension between us, "but Spiderman was there. He helped."
From the corner of my eye, I catch Heeseung's reaction. He lets out a low chuckle, not unkind but knowing, as if the mention of Spiderman is a private joke only he understands. He shakes his head slightly, amusement flickering over his features before he turns and walks away, leaving us to our moment.
My dad's brow furrows, parsing my words. "Spiderman?" he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue with a mix of skepticism and relief. He's heard the stories, seen the footage, but like most, he's never been sure what to make of the masked vigilante swinging through our city’s skyscrapers.
As my dad and I stand, the sudden eruption of shouts from the police cuts through the crowd’s murmurs. Officers begin to sprint down the steps of the school, urgently waving their hands and shouting commands that slice through the air like knives through silk. The scene shifts into sharper focus as Spiderman and Shadowlash tumble out the front door, a tangled mass of color and shadow.
Shadowlash is relentless, his limbs moving with the precision of a machine, his powers manifesting as tendrils of dark energy that whip through the air. Spiderman dodges, a blur of red and blue, his movements almost balletic. He counters with swift, sharp jabs and an array of webs that shoot out to ensnare Shadowlash's limbs. The ground around them is scattered with debris, remnants of their brutal dance.
People are being herded back, the crowd’s initial shock transforming into a controlled panic as teachers and police coordinate an evacuation. "Move back! Keep moving!" the officers shout, pushing the crowd further from the unfolding spectacle.
Amidst the chaos, my dad grips my arm, pulling me back. His touch is insistent, yet protective, as he steers us away from the immediate danger. I stumble slightly, my gaze still locked on the battle. Spiderman leaps, twisting in the air to avoid a dark swipe from Shadowlash, then retaliates with a web aimed directly at his adversary's face. The crowd gasps collectively, a sound that ripples through the air like a wave.
"Why aren’t you taking pictures?" I ask my dad suddenly, glancing up at him as we move. "This is huge. I’m sure The Sentinel would want this on their front page."
He looks down at me, the camera hanging unused by his side, then back at the fight. His expression is torn, a man divided between his duty as a journalist and his role as a father. "You’re my top priority, Liya," he says firmly, his voice thick with emotion. "Right now, nothing else matters."
I nod, understanding the weight of his words, even as part of me still flickers back to the fight. Spiderman is pushing Shadowlash back, step by step, his agility and speed a stark contrast to Shadowlash’s brute force and dark powers. The fight seems to reach a crescendo, the tension snapping like a too-tight wire as Spiderman finally manages to wrap Shadowlash in a cocoon of webbing, pinning him to the ground. The police rush in, ready to take over, but the crowd, now at a safer distance, watches with bated breath, the outcome hanging in the air like the final note of a symphony.
As we reach the edge of the street, now choked with a standstill of cars and a thick swarm of spectators frozen mid-step, I notice Spiderman perching high above on the school's entrance, his posture reminiscent of a vigilant gargoyle surveying its domain. The sight of him, so poised and distant, reignites a spark of determination in me. My dad maneuvers us through the thickening crowd, but I can't shake the feeling of an unfinished chapter.
Compelled by a surge of gratitude, I break away from my dad's protective hold just long enough to plant my feet and shout, "Spiderman!" My voice slices through the hum of the crowd, sharp and clear, carried by an urgency that I didn't know I possessed. For a moment, I worry it wasn’t loud enough, lost in the sea of noise.
But then, miraculously, he turns. His head snaps in the direction of my voice, and as our eyes meet across the chaos, I wave as high as my arms will allow, yelling, "Thank you!" with all the breath my lungs can muster.
Around me, heads turn, whispers flutter through the air like leaves stirred by a sudden wind. "That's the girl he rescued from inside," someone murmurs just loud enough for others to pick up the thread. The whispers grow, a tapestry of speculation and awe weaving around me.
As the attention shifts momentarily towards me, I scan the crowd for any sign of Jungwon. The faces blur into a mosaic of colors and expressions, individual features melting into indistinct shapes the further they are. I strain my eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, to confirm he's safe, to see the outcome of the promise Spiderman made.
I remind myself to trust him, to hold onto the belief that Spiderman would save Jungwon just as he had helped me. After all, his powers—those incredible reflexes that seem to anticipate danger before it strikes, his ability to move with such swiftness and precision—are not just for show. They've saved lives today, and I have to believe they'll continue to do so. My gaze lingers on the figure above, a silent sentinel against the chaos, before I let my dad pull me back into the safety of his side.
𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙄𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚
The morning sun drags itself over Daylight Academy, gilding stone arches and ivy in a false warmth. Shadows stretch long across the facade, crawling over carved masonry like they’ve been here longer than the students ever will. The place doesn’t look like a school so much as a fortress — part cathedral, part warning.
The oak doors resist when I push them open, hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the entrance swallows me whole: marble floors that reflect too much light, banners of blue and silver shifting faintly with the draft. The ceiling arches high overhead, a vault heavy with the silence of first-day nerves.
It’s quieter than I expect. Conversations hover low, caught under the weight of what it means to be here.
My sneakers squeak against polished stone as I walk further in. Ivy-clad walls and heavy banners have seen years of faces pass by, and still I feel them watching. Lucky Liya. That’s what people whisper when they think I can’t hear. Dad calls it a miracle, always ready with a headline. Mom would’ve called it fate. Neither word feels right. To me, it’s just heavy — stitched into me, carried whether I want it or not.
My hand trails along the stone, grooves rough against my fingertips. For a breath, it steadies me.
Then a voice cuts through the hush. “Heads up, Liya!”
I duck instinctively. A football slices past, thudding into a locker so hard the clang echoes. Gasps burst into laughter.
A tall boy jogs over, grin sheepish, apology quick. “Sorry!”
I shake my head, my voice even. “Try not to kill someone before first period.”
He smirks, unfazed, and jogs off toward the gym, ball tucked under his arm.
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. It doesn’t last long. My schedule crackles when I pull it from my pocket. Chemistry. Mrs. Henderson. Room 213B. The paper feels too stiff, too final. I fold it back into place and follow the rising noise toward the science wing.
By the time I reach the hall, the air is louder, students spilling everywhere in clusters, their laughter catching sharp against the tile. Room 213B yawns open, voices and movement pressing out like steam.
The smell hits first — wax and whiteboard markers, faint bleach underneath. The classroom is already crowded, backpacks slung like barricades across desks.
I scan the room. My gaze skips over bright notebooks, summer stories spilling from every mouth.
Then it lands.
That laugh. Clear, unguarded.
Yang Jungwon, leaning against a lab table near the window, sun turning his hair into threads of gold. His smile pulls at the air around him, high cheekbones sharper now, his eyes crinkling at the corners like they’ve never known the weight the rest of us carry.
Jungwon looks different. Not drastically — just enough that it unsettles me. His hair is a little longer, dark strands catching the sunlight like gold threads woven through. His laughter rings out, quick and unguarded, drawing glances without even trying. Sunoo is beside him, always loud, his hands painting the story midair while Jungwon leans in with the kind of attention that makes every word seem important. Surrounded, but somehow apart.
I hover at the threshold, pulse stuttering. The room feels warmer all of a sudden, like the air itself shifted. Cleaning products sting faintly in my nose, clashing with a sharp floral perfume that hangs close to the door. My fingers dig into the strap of my backpack.
I force myself forward, slipping between desks, each bump of metal or brush of fabric a reminder of how solid this space feels compared to me. There’s an empty seat in the back. I take it, setting my notebook down with deliberate care, as though neatness can steady me. My pen rests flat against the page, but my gaze keeps betraying me.
From here I can see him clearly. The way his head tilts when Sunoo’s voice crescendos, the way his mouth curves when he’s listening rather than laughing. He has this steadiness about him — not calm exactly, but grounded, like the noise can’t shake him.
The scrape of the classroom door yanks me back.
Mrs. Henderson enters, the air tightening around her. She carries herself like a metronome, precise and unwavering, her leather briefcase dropping onto the desk with a weight that silences the chatter. She’s tall, or maybe her presence just stretches her further; her gray-streaked hair is wound into a severe bun, tugging her features sharp. Wire-rimmed glasses perch low, catching the fluorescent light so her eyes glint when they sweep across the room. When they land on me for a heartbeat, it feels like being pinned in place.
“Good morning. Seats.” Her alto carries cleanly, not raised, but enough to scatter conversations into hurried shuffles.
The scrape of chairs and thump of backpacks settles into rhythm as she clicks through the first slide on the projector. “Chemistry isn’t just equations,” she says, voice smooth but edged with command. “It’s the pattern of reactions, the way materials meet, transform, resist. It’s prediction, and it’s surprise. You will be challenged, but you will learn.”
I try to follow, jotting notes in neat lines. But my attention drifts forward again, to where Jungwon sits three rows ahead, his hair lifting slightly in the draft from the open window. Every nod of his head registers, even from here.
The chair beside me screeches. A girl with a halo of curls slips into the seat, dropping her books with a nervous smile. “Hi.”
“Hey,” I murmur, lips curving automatically. My hand moves across the page, but the ink pools heavy where my thoughts falter.
Mrs. Henderson continues, her words about bonds — strong, weak, breakable — catching in my chest. I glance up once more. Jungwon leans back, profile traced in sunlight, his focus caught on Sunoo again. Lines I shouldn’t know so well, mapped into me anyway.
The ink blot spreads beneath my pen, dark and unyielding. A bond, I think. Fragile or not, the pull is already there.
Mrs. Henderson’s enthusiasm for the subject is palpable; she talks about the elements as if they are old friends she can’t wait for us to meet. “You’ll get to know them, work with them, and yes, occasionally, they’ll surprise you—much like people,” she says, a twinkle of amusement in her eye.
My pen pauses over a diagram of an atom, the nucleus and electrons laid out in neat orbits. I glance up again, my eyes seeking Jungwon despite my intentions. He’s leaning back slightly in his chair, his profile etched against the bright light from the window, every line and angle of his face a familiar map that I’ve traced in my thoughts more times than I care to admit.
All summer, I’d caught myself taking the long way home, past his street. Hoping for a glimpse. The sidewalks had been strangely empty though, his house still, the front windows dark. I told myself it was nothing, laughed at the pathetic edge of it — but I lingered anyway. More than once.
Mrs. Henderson’s lecture cuts off abruptly, snapping me back.
The girl beside me leans in, her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m Jenna, by the way.”
I turn, and the whirl of thoughts stilling in my head finds something steady in her face. A tumble of curls frames her cheeks, strands that refuse to stay in place. Her eyes are wide, curious, the kind that catch small details and keep them.
“Hi, Jenna,” I murmur back. Recognition sparks — the yearbook girl. Always darting through crowds with a camera at her hip, catching the things most of us forget to notice.
She smiles like it’s a secret. “I think I’ve seen you with the art club, right? You guys did that mural last spring?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little surprised she remembered. I’d only helped with the background washes, nothing worth notice.
But Jenna’s nod is earnest. The connection settles me more than I expect, grounding the swirl of nerves that had been tugging me off course all morning.
The bell splits the air, shrill and abrupt. Notebooks slam shut, pens clatter into bags. Jenna hesitates, her smile fading into something smaller. “So… do we have the next class together?”
I zip up my bag, weighing her expectation like it’s fragile. “History,” I admit, voice quieter than I mean.
Her mouth dips just slightly before she pastes on a brighter nod. “I’ll see you around then.”
“Yeah. See you,” I echo, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
Jungwon slips out of the classroom ahead of me, his friends close behind, his shoulders moving with that same easy rhythm. He doesn’t look back. My chest clenches with the urge to scold myself into composure. Get it together, Liya.
The hallway hums with life, louder than the morning had been. Laughter ricochets off lockers, footsteps crowd the space, the whole building shifting into its familiar, noisy chaos.
I thread through it slowly, my pace cautious. Faces blur past until one catches — Mia from art club, her jeans streaked with yesterday’s paint. Our eyes meet, and I give her a small smile. She returns it quick, bright, and then we keep moving. That’s how it is.
Jonah, hunched with a notebook against his chest, passes next, graphite already smudged on his fingertips. Elise is just behind him, hair pulled into a messy knot, hands clutched around a sketchbook too heavy for its spiral binding. We trade nods, brief and passing, like sketches left unfinished.
Comfortable. Distant. The kind of ties that exist only within walls painted with brushes and color — and dissolve as soon as the bell rings.
It’s always been like this—me skimming along the edges of circles, brushing the surface of friendships without ever breaking through. People know me; I know people. But the connections fray before they ever tie, leaving me floating in that space between near and far, together and alone.
The noise of the corridor fades as I tug my crumpled schedule from my pocket. My fingers trace the ink-smudged lines. History, Room 210. Mrs. Hawthorne. Relief leaves me in a small breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Room 210 feels different the moment I step in. Not the tight order of Chemistry, but something looser, softer. Students lounge across desks like they own the place, laughter spilling in fragments that weave through the air. Mrs. Hawthorne sits behind her desk, a thin, wiry frame bent over a stack of papers. Her hair, streaked with silver, escapes the knot she’s twisted it into, and her glasses perch low on her nose like they’ve been there for decades. She flips through her papers with sharp, economical movements, each one crisp as a page being cut from its binding.
I slip into a chair at the back, my backpack settling onto the floor with a muted thud. The absence of Jungwon in this room is a relief so immediate that my shoulders loosen without permission. Maybe here I can actually keep my head straight.
But my gaze drifts anyway, and it snags on two figures a few rows over—Sunghoon and Ni-ki. Their heads lean close together, voices pitched low in conspiracy. A quiet barrier wraps around them, invisible but impenetrable, a reminder that I’m circling their orbit without belonging to it.
Mrs. Hawthorne clears her throat, a razor through the noise. “Alright, everyone, let’s bring it in.” Her voice is firm, not cruel—authority worn smooth by use. The chatter trickles off, chairs groaning as bodies shift upright. She outlines the syllabus with clipped precision, her tone brisk but not without a thread of passion buried under the monotony.
Time slides strangely beneath her voice, minutes collapsing into pages of history. By the time the bell sounds, it feels like she’s marched us through an entire war in less than an hour, her brow furrowed as if annoyed we didn’t keep up.
The scrape of chairs floods the room as everyone bolts for freedom. I pack my books in practiced haste, the edges worn and frayed from years of use. My stomach growls at the thought of lunch, though the cafeteria probably has nothing better than soggy tacos today.
The hallway swallows me whole. It’s a river at full current, bodies and voices colliding in sharp bursts. Being small has its perks; I slip through the gaps between shoulders and backpacks like water.
At last, I reach my locker tucked in its quieter corner. The combination clicks, familiar as muscle memory, and the door creaks open. I slide my history book inside, my mind already wandering toward food.
And then—
“Jungwon!”
The voice is sharp, loud enough to pierce through the chaos. Heeseung.
My hand stills halfway through shoving the book onto the shelf. My chest tightens, heart battering like a frantic bird against its cage. Slowly, I turn.
A few lockers down, Heeseung and Jay stand shoulder to shoulder, their eyes scanning the tide of students. Their focus lands somewhere beyond me.
Curiosity gnaws, pulling me into their line of sight. I shift, peering around a knot of kids.
There he is.
Jungwon, surrounded by Ni-ki, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jake. Their laughter moves through the corridor like a wave, bright and magnetic. Jungwon’s smile flashes, easy and careless, the kind that tilts a room’s gravity.
As they move together, it’s like watching a comet streak across a night sky—fast, impossible to ignore, leaving everything brighter in its wake. Students part instinctively to make room, eyes lingering, whispers trailing after them. The atmosphere bends around them, a small universe with its own orbit.
And I’m only another body in the crowd, tugged toward the light but never inside it.
I lean back against the cold, dented metal of my locker, pretending to dig through my backpack while my eyes stray toward them. The air hums differently around that group, like static charged with too much energy. They move together and the hallway bends for them, parting in unconscious waves. Some of the girls straighten in their passing, laughter pitched brighter, sharper—like church bells rung a little too loudly. One girl with hair the shade of autumn leaves stares openly, so entranced she doesn’t notice her stack of books slipping dangerously toward the floor.
“Do you think they ever notice?” The words escape before I can reel them back, soft enough that I almost believe I only thought them.
“Notice what?”
I start, twisting to find Jamie beside me—another art club regular, her eyes quick and curious, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“The way everyone watches them,” I murmur, nodding toward the fading trail of laughter. “Like they’re a movie playing and the rest of us are just extras.”
Jamie chuckles low, her gaze following the group until they vanish around the corner. “I think they like their bubble too much to care.” She tips her head, her voice dipping quieter. “Must be nice though—living in a world where everything’s just a game.”
Her words settle heavier than I expect. By the time the boys’ laughter disappears entirely, the hallway feels dimmer, stitched back together with ordinary noise.
—
The cafeteria is a blur of clatter and chatter, an ocean of voices that never really quiets. My tray ends up at the far back table, the one that always feels stickier than the rest, where stragglers or loners sometimes drift but never stay. Today, it’s only me.
I push my fork half-heartedly through the lasagna—if it can even be called that. Layers slump into a mush of sauce and pasta, a puzzle too soft to hold its shape. I pick at it, listening to the swell and fall of voices all around me, the scrape of chairs, the sharp laugh of someone who feels too at home here. The room moves like a tide, everyone caught in currents I’ve never figured out how to swim.
By the time I scrape my tray clean enough to pass inspection, the bell rings, abrupt and merciless. Everyone surges up at once. I’m the last to leave, as always.
—
Algebra waits like a weight in my chest. Mrs. Jensen. Just the thought of her name makes me straighten my shoulders. I take the long way, detouring through the bathroom. Not to fix myself up—just to breathe, to see if my reflection looks ready enough to get through the rest of the day.
When I finally push out into the hall, the emptiness tells me I’m already late. My pulse kicks hard. I reach the door, hand hovering above the handle. The metal is cool, slightly sticky under my palm, and for a second I think about walking away. But then I twist it.
The click of the latch echoes like a gunshot. The room freezes. Every head swivels, eyes cutting into me—curious, irritated, expectant.
Mrs. Jensen stands at the front, mid-sentence, and the pause she gives me feels longer than it is. Her mouth presses into a thin line, not anger so much as weary disapproval etched into the slope of her shoulders. “Liya Faulkner,” she says finally, voice wrapped in polite sharpness. “Glad you could join us.”
“I—sorry,” I stammer, heat flooding my face. “I just… got a little turned around.” The excuse sounds flimsy even to me, and the prickle of my classmates’ eyes makes my skin itch.
Mrs. Jensen sighs through her nose, softening only a fraction. “Try to be on time. We were just beginning the syllabus.” She gestures at the only empty desk.
The walk there is heavier than it should be, each step dragging with the weight of silent judgment. My backpack feels twice as full. When I drop into the seat, the chair’s chill seeps right through denim, a physical reminder of how out of place I feel. My fingers fumble over the zipper, tugging out my battered math book, but the syllabus Mrs. Jensen handed out earlier is missing from my desk. Of course.
My cheeks burn hotter. I press my palms flat to the desk, willing them steady.
And then—
A sheet of paper slides across the wood. It drifts to a stop at my fingertips, white against the scuffed surface. I reach for it automatically, startled.
When I lift my gaze to thank whoever it is, the words die in my throat.
Jungwon.
The same boy who, just minutes ago, was laughter’s center of gravity in the hallway.
He gives me a smile, soft and unexpectedly reassuring, like warmth breaking through the last chill of winter. His voice drops low, meant only for me. “You’re fine. You didn’t miss anything.”
The kindness in his tone doesn’t match the hum of the classroom — the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of restless notebooks, Mrs. Jensen’s chalky scrawl at the board. It stands apart, singular, and for a heartbeat it’s enough to shrink the whole room into this quiet thread between us.
Words scatter in my head, too quick and too clumsy to catch. I manage only a nod, my own tentative smile tugging weakly at the corners of my mouth as I clutch the syllabus tighter, like an anchor. It steadies me, but the echo of his voice lingers, soft against the static of Algebra.
The rest of the period drags, a blur of equations and scrawled notes that my eyes skim but never hold. Every number seems to slip away before I can pin it down. I promise myself not to glance sideways — not to give in to the pull — but my heart betrays me, sneaking glances when my mind insists on focus.
Through the edge of my vision, I catch him again. Jungwon sits forward, brow furrowed in the dim light, though his attention drifts. It always drifts. His gaze slides toward Amy-Jane in the front row, her careful notes lined up like soldiers, her laugh quiet but precise. Heeseung elbows him, says something with a grin too obvious to be harmless, and Jungwon only shrugs — sheepish, tired — before his pen scratches against the page again.
The exchange twists inside me sharper than I expect. Not just jealousy, but the reminder of where I stand: orbiting their sun, unnoticed, the quiet star that never burns bright enough to pull anyone close.
I press my pencil harder to the paper, the lead breaking faintly against the sheet. Numbers blur into shapes, into static, until they don’t look like anything at all. Math is supposed to be clean, orderly. But my chest feels like the opposite — messy, tangled, impossible to solve.
The bell cracks the tension open like a whip. Relief floods the room as backpacks zip and chairs scrape. I linger in my seat, pretending to fuss with the tabs of my planner, waiting until the noise thins, until Jungwon’s laughter drifts out with the rest of them. Only then do I stand, stretching time as far as it will let me.
—
The library is quieter than I’ve ever seen it. Tall shelves tower like sentries, their spines worn and varied, carrying stories that hum beneath the dust. Round lights float across the ceiling, dim and golden, casting a glow that makes the dust motes drift like slow galaxies.
I slide into a corner table wedged between history and literature, far from the main aisle. Sunlight slants low through the wide windows, carving warm streaks across the wood. When I finally tug my ponytail loose, my hair falls heavy across my shoulders, strands catching light in soft waves. For the first time all day, my chest eases.
The chair creaks under me as I dig through my bag, pulling free my sketchbook. The cover is worn soft at the edges, the paper inside bent and creased from being carried everywhere. I flip through the pages, and a reluctant smile pulls at me. The faces I’ve drawn, the fragments of places — they look more alive than they did months ago. The lines are cleaner, the shadows deeper.
My pencil hovers above the blank page, and for a moment, I just breathe.
I dig out my pencil from its usual slot in my bag — short, whittled down by endless sharpening, but still the one that feels right in my hand. It rests against my fingers like muscle memory. Leaning back against the chair, I let my mind slip to the one image that won’t leave me alone: Jungwon’s smile from earlier. A quick thing, soft and reassuring, but stubborn enough to replay itself over and over, smoothing out the edges of my embarrassment in Algebra.
My hand moves almost before I decide to start. The pencil traces the barest outline of a face — his face — tentative at first, then bolder. The tilt of his mouth, the faint crinkle at his eyes when he laughed. It’s not perfect, never perfect, but there’s something in the lines that keeps me chasing it. Each attempt is part study, part confession, my own way of trying to pin down what I shouldn’t be dwelling on.
The library fades around me as I sketch. The hushed whispers of students, the low thrum of pages turning — all of it slips to the background until it’s just me, the page, and that smile taking shape beneath my hand. My heart does a small, ridiculous flutter at the thought, but it only makes me press harder, pushing graphite deeper into the page, layering shadow where his cheek curves, where light might catch.
I’m still fussing with the line of his jaw when the fire alarm shrieks. A piercing, metallic wail, so sudden it rips through the quiet like glass shattering. Chairs scrape, books thud closed, voices spike sharp with alarm. My head jerks up along with everyone else’s, the half-finished sketch still stark on the page.
Mrs. Finch, the librarian, transforms in an instant. Gone is her usual quiet, watchful calm — her voice is clipped and steady now, commanding authority. “Books down. Let’s move quickly and calmly, everyone.”
My hands fumble, clumsy in the rush. The pencil rolls across the desk, my sketchbook nearly slipping before I jam it back into my bag. The alarm screams so loud it makes my chest vibrate, each beat of my heart struggling to keep pace with it. Shouldering my backpack, I glance at the faces around me — tense, pale, all business — and it sinks in that this doesn’t feel like a drill.
We pour into the hallway in one long stream. Teachers flank the flow of bodies, arms raised, herding us toward the exits with clipped words and pointed fingers. Their faces are serious, their movements sharp. The noise is overwhelming: sneakers squeaking, the cough of someone ahead, the alarm blaring its relentless pulse against the walls. I duck my head, following the tide, every nerve on edge.
And then — movement that doesn’t fit.
Near the senior literature rooms, I catch sight of Heeseung and Jungwon. Their expressions aren’t frazzled like everyone else’s. They’re alert. Focused. Their eyes scan the crowd too intently, like they’re searching for something — or bracing for it. The rest of their group gathers around them in quick succession: Ni-ki, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Jay, and finally Jake. Together, they cut through the current of students like they know exactly where they’re going. Purpose radiates off them, too sharp, too precise for an evacuation.
Curiosity prickles through me. They’re trying to blend in, but it’s like watching actors slip their lines on stage — something about it rings false.
And then it happens. By the auditorium doors, Jake collides with Jungwon, hard enough that they both go down. Too hard, too deliberate. The others crowd in fast, covering them, their movements loud and clumsy, drawing attention away from whatever’s really happening.
For a flicker of a second, I see it. Jungwon slipping out from the tangle, quick as a shadow, vanishing into the auditorium. The others rise, dusting themselves off, playing it casual. To anyone else, it looks like a stupid accident in the middle of chaos. To me, it looks rehearsed.
Outside, the lawn is already filling with clusters of students, teachers barking instructions, keeping everyone corralled away from the street. The whole scene feels like some makeshift outdoor assembly — chaotic, but contained.
Jungwon’s friends stick close together, whispering in low bursts, glancing back at the school with too much intent. My stomach knots. What the hell are they doing? If there’s danger inside, if there’s really a fire, why would they just let him go back?
Before I realize it, my feet are moving. I drift toward their group, pulled by equal parts fear and restless curiosity. But halfway there, a snap of panic grips me. What am I doing? The thought beats in my chest like a bird slamming against a cage. Turn back. Just walk away. Pretend none of this has anything to do with me.
But it’s too late.
Jake sees me. His eyes flick from sharp focus to startled confusion in an instant, and then narrow, calculating. He elbows the guy beside him, nodding in my direction.
My pulse spikes, loud in my ears, drowning out the alarm that still bleeds faintly through the building walls. I freeze mid-step, caught in the open, no excuse ready.
Retreat would look worse.
So I keep walking, chin set, trying to summon a nonchalance I don’t feel. Each step closer makes me wish the grass would swallow me whole. But Jake’s gaze stays locked, waiting, like he’s daring me to explain myself.
And I know I’ll have to say something.
Each step toward them feels like dragging my feet through wet cement, thick and resistant. I rehearse lines in my head, trying to make them sound casual. Hey, just thought you should know your friend slipped into a building that might be on fire. Not nosy. Just concerned. But the logic that makes sense inside my head feels flimsy, absurd, once I imagine saying it out loud.
By the time I stop in front of them, every one of their eyes is on me. Curious. Suspicious. Their stares are like locked doors, daring me to knock. We’ve never spoken before, not really, and to them I’m probably background noise — that girl who sits alone, that girl who paints walls. Not someone who suddenly inserts herself into their orbit.
Heeseung breaks the silence. He leans back against the brick wall like he’s got all the time in the world, one eyebrow arched, his tone light but edged. “Hi?” The single syllable stretches into a question, like he’s still trying to figure out why I’m here.
“Hi,” I answer, my voice cracking higher than I meant. Heat rushes up my neck. I clear my throat and try again, words tumbling over each other. “I—um—I saw what happened. With Jungwon. In the hall.”
Their gazes sharpen instantly, curiosity tightening into something more guarded. The weight of it presses against me, hot and uncomfortable.
“Jungwon?” Jake asks, clipped and cautious, his narrowed eyes darting across my face as if testing how much I actually know.
“Yeah,” I push out, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “When the alarm went off. I saw him… go into the auditorium. It looked on purpose. Like he meant to. And I just thought—” My throat catches. “Well, it’s dangerous, isn’t it? If there’s actually a fire?”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I can almost hear the quiet grind of gears in their heads, working fast, calculating. My heart pounds so hard I swear it shakes my ribs.
Finally, Heeseung shifts, peeling himself off the wall. His easy slouch is gone, his smile faint but sharp. “Thanks for letting us know,” he says smoothly, but there’s a bite under the words, his eyes flicking with unspoken warning. “We’ll… handle it.”
The dismissal is clear. My body reacts before my brain does — I nod, mumble something like okay, and start to back away, desperate to slip free of the tension clinging to the air.
But halfway turned, the thought slams into me like ice water. They’re acting clueless. Playing dumb. But I saw them — Heeseung covering, Jake’s shove, the whole group pretending to trip just to give Jungwon cover. My pulse spikes, anger curling hot through my embarrassment. I can’t just let them brush me off.
I turn back around, cheeks flushed, resolve braced even if it feels like cardboard under my skin. “You know what? No.” My voice comes out sharper than I expected, but it steadies with each word. “You helped him. You let him go in there. And what if he gets hurt? What if there is a fire? What then?”
The words scatter among them like stones against glass. Their faces shift — a mix of irritation, faint amusement, and something colder beneath.
Jay steps forward, taller up close than I realized, his expression darkening as he looms into my space. He doesn’t touch me, but his finger hovers near my shoulder, enough to make the threat clear. “You saw nothing.” His voice is low, deliberate, as if each syllable is meant to sink into me. Then, almost mockingly, he softens the edge. “Jungwon can take care of himself. But hey—” a crooked half-smile, “I’ll let him know you were worried.”
The flare of frustration burns hotter than fear, words ready on my tongue—
And then the ground shakes.
A deafening boom erupts from the school, rattling windows and vibrating up through my sneakers. The crowd explodes into screams and shouts as students stumble back, teachers yelling orders that vanish into the chaos. Down the street, brakes squeal, horns blare, cars skid to sudden halts.
Police sirens wail closer and closer, swelling into the mess. Officers spill onto the scene, their voices sharp commands, pushing students further away from the building.
I stand frozen, air caught tight in my chest. The only thought that breaks through the noise is a brutal one: Jungwon is still in there.
My stomach knots so hard it hurts.
Behind me, a group of students mutter nervously, half-joking, half-serious. “Think this is one of those Spiderman situations?” someone says, too loud, too hopeful.
I roll my eyes, bitterness rising with my panic. Spiderman? Really? As if waiting around for a hero is going to help Jungwon now.
Driven by a mix of fear and determination, I mutter to myself, "Fine, I'll do it myself." The words are barely a whisper, a breath lost in the wind, but they seal my decision. I drop my bag with a thud on the grass and start sprinting towards the school entrance. Calls of "Stop!" chase after me—some from the boys, some from other students, and sharply from the police trying to maintain order. But I don't look back. My legs pump harder, each step fueled by the urgent need to make sure Jungwon is safe, to not just be a bystander.
I can hear my name being yelled, a distant echo that I push from my mind as I focus on the school doors ahead, the heavy double doors that might just lead me to Jungwon—or into something way over my head. But right now, none of that matters. Only one thought propels me forward: I have to find him.
𝗦𝗽𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿-𝗠𝗮𝗻: 𝗔 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗗𝗮𝘄𝗻
✦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: This story was originally written as a Spider-Mark AU. Due to recent events with Mark and involving racist imagery and the harm attached to it, I no longer feel comfortable continuing the fic in that form. Going forward, this will be an ENHYPEN Jungwon Spider-Man AU instead. The story, plot, dynamics, and overall direction will remain the same, but the NCT member names will be changed to ENHYPEN members. Thank you for understanding.
✦𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: low fantasy, romance, fanfic, superhero(spiderman).
✦𝐩𝐨𝐯: Liya | first pov
✦𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: blood; violence; death; verbal/physical abuse; fighting; foul language.
✦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: writing
⟢𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : Spider-Man's heroic identity stems from a fateful choice, yet a haunting mistake from his past returns to shake the foundation of his heroism. As he navigates the city's skyline, a ghostly reminder challenges his principles, putting his heroic façade to the ultimate test. Confronted with the consequences of an old error, he's pushed to redefine what it truly means to be a hero.
✦playlist
𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐵𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝐼𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒
𝑆𝑜 𝑊𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑊𝑎𝑠 𝐴𝑛 𝐼𝑑𝑖𝑜𝑡?
𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑇𝒉𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝐴 𝐵𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝐴𝑡 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑠𝒉
𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑇𝒉𝑖𝑠 𝐼𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑊𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑
𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝐴𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑
𝑅𝑒𝑑 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑇𝒉𝑒 𝑆𝒉𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠
𝑇𝒉𝑒 𝑉𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑚𝑒 𝑂𝑓 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒
𝑇𝑜𝑜 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑆𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑐𝒉𝑒𝑠, 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝐸𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉 𝐴𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠
𝐻𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐹𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠
𝑊𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛
𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑆𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑇𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠
𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑇𝒉𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑠
𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑙𝑜𝑤
Im having to go through my nine chapters of Spider-Mark to change it into an enhypen fanfic. Lord does the universe play with me.
The mark situation is crazy to be happening right after I just got started on writing my spidermark au. Fuck. I took a hiatus and came back to this.