[nvllette]

ᓚᘏᗢ divya. twenty-one. she/her. 18+ writing sideblog that is nsfw friendly.

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nvllette. est. 2026.

[nvllette]

a little snippet from a spider-man!gojo fic i’m working on :) i wish i could flesh out this plot & make it a lot longer but with how busy i am + writer’s block working overtime this is all i’ve got for now!

Suddenly, you are not thinking about the debrief tomorrow or the case files on your desk. You are not thinking about Kenjaku. You are thinking about Satoru at seventeen, folding himself down onto a gymnasium floor in the dark without asking, and Satoru now, who has spent an entire evening being exactly the same, just taller and better dressed and considerably more attractive.

“You didn’t dance nearly as well as you do now back then,” you say.

“I was a spectacular dancer,” Satoru says, affronted.

You laugh. “Not really.”

“The floor was uneven.”

“It was a gymnasium,” you say.

Satoru shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He spins you, once, his grip at your waist certain. When you come back around to face him, you’re closer than before. Neither of you moves away. 

“I wasn’t trying to be a good dancer,” he says, quieter now. “I was trying to make you laugh.”

[honeyciders]

how to lose a guy in ten days.

as a writer chasing your big break, you’re assigned to write a piece on how not to keep a man: a firsthand account of every mistake, red flag, and relationship self-sabotage guaranteed to drive someone away. all you need is the right test subject. enter childe.

☘ pairing: childe x fem!reader ☘ tags: fluff, angst, smut (oral sex, protected sex, riding), attempts at comedy, mild slow burn, idiots in love, mild enemies to lovers!au, modern!au, profanity, alcohol consumption, gaslighting (but it’s not That Serious (i think)), inaccurate depictions of corporate life, reader is allergic to flowers, discussions of serial murder, etc. not proof-read. please let me know if i missed anything! divider by @/thecutestgrotto. ☘ word count: 14.9k ☘ a/n: this was written for the it’s cupid, stupid! collab hosted by @the-memokeepers, and this fic is heavily inspired by and based off of the movie how to lose a guy in 10 days :) be sure to check out the collab & all the other talented writers who are participating too! ♡

A MAN’S BEDROOM, you note, has few things of relative interest, though perhaps it is just this particular man’s bedroom. His tiles are polished, his nightstand has no detritus of everyday life, and his wardrobe remains firmly shut. His sheets are well-made, with hospital corners and fluffed pillows.

It’d be fun to ruin them, you muse. He must be fond of cleanliness.

When Childe makes no move to grab you by the waist or pin you against the wall like you’d been fantasising about, you decide to make the first move and plop down as gracefully as possible on his soft, enormous, four-poster bed. This guy must be loaded. What a shame you’d be discarding him in just a little more than a week.

Work, you remind yourself. You are attempting to seduce this man for the sake of an article that could possibly land you a promotion from the dreary shithole that is the lifestyle section of The Steambird and into real, investigative journalism.

Naturally, your subject is a man who was wrongly accused of being a criminal during one of Fontaine’s infamous trials.

The serial killer case had been one that stumped even the brightest of detectives. There had been bodies found in canals, drained of blood. The Palais Mermonia had been in a frenzy. The Maison Gardiennage had thrown every resource at the case. In a twist that had captivated the entire nation, they’d arrested Childe—a young, wealthy, Snezhnayan expat with a taste for luxury items and underground boxing matches.

Lady Furina herself had presided over the trial, and the galleries had been packed with journalists and gawkers hoping for blood. The evidence had been circumstantial at best: he’d been seen near one of the dump sites, he had no alibi for two of the murders, and someone had reported seeing a man about as tall as him fleeing the scene. But the prosecution had been confident, the public had been baying for justice, and Childe had stood in the defendant’s box looking bored and vaguely amused, which had done him absolutely no favours.

The real killer had struck again while Childe was in custody, with the same MO. The charges had been dropped with a swiftness that suggested embarrassment on behalf of the Maison, and Childe had walked free to a chorus of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

He’d never given an interview. Not one. Not to the major papers, not to the tabloids. He’d simply returned to his life as if nothing had happened, which had only made him more fascinating to the media vultures circling overhead.

Including you.

The bed dips as Childe finally moves from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. Amused, maybe. Curious, definitely. His shirt is unbuttoned at the corner, sleeves rolled to the elbows; the sight makes your mouth go dry.

“Comfortable?” he lilts.

“Very,” you say, running your hand over the duvet. It’s some kind of Egyptian cotton, probably, the kind that costs more than your monthly rent. “Though I have to say, I expected more from the bedroom of Fontaine’s most infamous acquitted murder suspect.”

Childe’s laugh is sharp and bright. “What were you expecting? Shackles? Bloodstains? A wall of newspaper clippings?”

“This looks like a hotel room,” you counter, gesturing around you. “A very expensive hotel room, granted, but still.”

“I like things simple.” He crosses to the bed, settling on the edge near your feet. Close, but not presumptuous. “Easy to clean, easy to maintain. No clutter.”

“No evidence, you mean.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve overplayed your hand, you think. You’re supposed to be flirty, interested, not immediately bringing up the trial like some hack journalist fishing for a scoop.

“Are you always this charming on first dates,” Childe drawls, “or am I special?”

“You’re special,” you assure him, recovering quickly. You shift onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard. I’m a journalist—I ask inappropriate questions.”

“So you said at dinner. Lifestyle section at The Steambird, right? Writing hard-hitting pieces about the best cafés in the Court of Fontaine and which shoes are in this season.”

The condescension should irritate you, but it only serves to make you more determined instead. “Someone has to tell the people where to get their morning coffee.”

“And is that what you want to be doing? Coffee reviews?”

“No,” you admit; honesty might serve you here. “I want to be doing real journalism. Investigations, exposés, the kind of work people actually read.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because the people who run newspapers are cowards who think women should stick to writing about fashion and food.” You sit up properly, tucking your legs beneath you. “I don’t have the right connections or the right last name or the right—”

This is too much truth, too much vulnerability. You’re supposed to be mysterious, alluring, not complaining about your career trajectory.

Childe looks at you expectantly. “The right what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” You shake your head, trying to recalibrate. This is going all wrong. You’re supposed to be seducing him, not trauma-dumping about your professional frustrations. “Tell me about Snezhnaya. You grew up there, right?”

“Changing the subject,” he observes.

“Deflecting,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

He laughs again. “Yes, I grew up there, in a small town called Morepesok. Cold as hell, nothing to do but fight and fish.”

“And you chose Fontaine because…?”

“Better weather. Better food. Plus, I like the water. Grew up on it. Fontaine’s canals remind me of home.”

“The canals where the bodies were found.”

“Jesus, you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

You wince. “Sorry, I—”

“No, I like it.” He shifts closer, and suddenly the space between you has narrowed considerably. “Everyone else wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Walk on eggshells, avoid the subject, act like I’m made of glass. It’s exhausting.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who takes such things to heart.”

“I’m not.” Childe’s hand comes to rest on your ankle absent-mindedly. His thumb brushes the bone there. “But people are strange about trauma. They either want to consume it—tell me all the gory details, how did it feel, were you scared—or they want to bury it and pretend it never happened. No one knows how to just… exist with it.”

You look down at his hand on your ankle. His fingers are long, scarred across the knuckles. Fighter’s hands. “And which category do I fall into?”

“Neither, I think,” Childe says, looking up at you through his lashes. “You’re curious, but not voyeuristic. The questions you ask aren’t cruel.”

This is good, you tell yourself. It’s exactly what you need. He’s opening up, starting to trust you. In ten days, you’ll have enough material for the article of your career: an inside look at Tartaglia, as he calls himself, the man who was almost convicted of serial murder, told through the lens of an ill-fated romance. Your editor Euphrasie will eat it up. The readers will eat it up. You’ll finally get out of the lifestyle section and into real journalism.

All you have to do is make him fall in love with you, and then break his heart.

The guilt that twists in your stomach is inconvenient and unwelcome, so you shove it down and lean forward, closing the distance between you. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Childe says.

The kiss is soft, slow; you’d anticipated urgency, heat, the kind of aggressive passion you’d read about in the trial transcripts when they’d detailed his history of bar fights and boxing matches. But Childe kisses like he has all the time in the world, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck while his thumb traces the line of your jaw. He tastes like the wine from dinner and something else, something that might just be him.

You’re supposed to be the one doing the seducing, you think vaguely, but he gently bites your lower lip and you hear yourself make a sound that’s frankly embarrassing, and most thoughts vanish from your head as fast as they appeared.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Still doing research for that coffee article?”

“Shut up,” you breathe, and pull him back in.

His hands slide under the silk of your blouse, fingers splaying across your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra. You work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly clumsy fingers—why are there so many buttons, why is your coordination suddenly that of a drunk toddler—until he huffs a laugh against your mouth and pulls back to shrug it off himself—and oh. Oh.

You’d known he was fit; you could tell that much through his clothes, the way fabric pulled across his shoulders, the lean lines visible even through tailoring. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin. There are scars scattered across his torso; a thin white line across his collarbone; something that looks like a burn on his left shoulder. There’s a particularly nasty one across his ribs that looks like it required stitches, puckered and still slightly pink, and your fingers find it almost unconsciously.

“Boxing,” he says, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow. “I’m better now. Usually.”

“Usually?”

“I still lose my temper sometimes, but I’m working on it.”

You should probably be concerned about that, but your brain has officially gone offline, all blood redirected south. When he leans in to kiss you again, you forget why any of that—the admission of violence, the scars—should matter.

His hands are warm on your skin. They slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra, and then that’s gone too, tossed somewhere in the general direction of your blouse. He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You’re not used to being looked at like this. Most of your previous encounters have been fumbling, rushed things with men who were more interested in the destination than the journey. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—I don’t know. Special or something.”

Childe smiles. “Maybe you are.”

Before you can formulate a response to that, he’s kissing his way down your body: your collarbone, where he pauses to suck a mark; the swell of your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it into his mouth. You arch into him, hands fisting in his hair.

He takes his time with your breasts, lavishing attention on each one until you’re squirming beneath him, aching and empty. When he finally continues his descent—kissing down your ribs, your stomach, pausing to trace his tongue along the waistband of your skirt—you’re squirming and moaning for more.

“Childe,” you gasp.

“Patience,” he murmurs against your hip bone.

He works your skirt down your legs, taking your underwear with it, before you’re completely bare before him. The air feels cool on your heated skin. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he’s looking at you like you’re a feast and he’s been starving.

“Beautiful,” he says again, running his hands up your thighs, pushing them wider. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes.”

He settles between your legs, broad shoulders forcing your thighs even wider, and for a moment, he simply looks, studies, as though he’s memorising this too, adding it to whatever internal catalogue he’s building—then his mouth is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

Childe’s tongue traces through your folds slowly, exploratory, like he’s learning what makes you gasp, what makes your hips jerk, what makes your hands tighten in his hair. When he finds your clit—circling it with the tip of his tongue, then flattening against it—you actually see stars.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and feel him smile against you.

He’s good at this, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have you trembling. When he slides one finger inside you—just one, slow and careful—you keen.

“More,” you demand, rolling your hips against his face.

He hums in acknowledgement, and adds a second finger. The stretch is delicious, his fingers thick and skilled, and when he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out.

“Don’t,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet skin. “I want to hear you.”

“Your neighbours—”

“Can deal with it.” He punctuates this by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and the hand you’d been using to muffle yourself flies to grip the sheets instead. When he adds a third finger, his tongue still working your clit in circles, you feel heat spread from the base of your spine.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

The words alone nearly sound you over, but it’s the addition of his fingers pressing just right, his tongue flicking over your clit, that finally makes you orgasm. Your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, gentler now, until the aftershocks fade and you’re left panting and boneless, staring at the ceiling.

“Fuck,” you manage, eloquent as ever.

He grins up at you from between your thighs, chin glistening, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good?”

“Smug bastard,” you say, which just makes him grin wider.

“Is that a yes?”

Instead of answering, you hook your leg around his waist and use the leverage to flip him onto his back. It catches him off guard—his eyes widen, then darken with renewed interest as you straddle his hips.

“My turn,” you announce, working at his belt with fingers that are still slightly unsteady.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

“I want to,” you say against his mouth.

You can feel his cock hard beneath you, straining against the fabric of his pants, and the knowledge that you did that to him sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. You make quick work of his belt, then his zipper, and he helps you, lifting his hips so you can pull his pants and boxers down and off.

His cock is big, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters. When you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Sensitive?” you tease, stroking him slowly from base to tip.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he grits out.

You stroke him a few more times, watching the way his abs contract with each movement, the way his hands fist in the sheets. Leaning down, you lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy.

“Fuck, malyshka,” he breathes, one hand flying to your hair.

You take his cock into your mouth slowly, watching Childe’s face as you do. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s gorgeous like this, all that control fraying at the edges, coming apart under your touch. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using your hand on what you can’t fit, and establish a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, using your tongue along the underside.

“Christ,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “Your mouth is—fuck, that’s—”

You hum around him and his hips jerk, pushing deeper. You let him, opening your throat, and the moan he lets out is worth the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes. For several minutes, there’s no sound but the obscene wet sounds of your mouth on him, his increasingly ragged breathing, the occasional curse or gasp when you do something he particularly likes. You feel powerful like this, in control in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. 

This man who was accused of murder, who fights for fun, who moves through the world with such confidence—you’re reducing him to trembling need with just your mouth.

“Wait,” he gasps suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Wait, stop, I’m going to—”

You pull off him with a pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Don’t you want to come?”

“Not yet. I want—” Childe reaches for the nightstand, fumbling the drawer open. “Condom. I want to be inside you when I come.”

The words send heat pooling low in your belly. You watch as he pulls out a box—thank God he has them, you hadn’t even thought to bring any—and extracts a foil packet.

“Let me,” you say, taking it from him.

You tear it open carefully, then roll it onto him slowly, enjoying the way his breath catches, the way his hips twitch with each touch. When you’re done, you stay straddling him, positioning yourself over his length.

“Can I?” you ask.

“God, yes.”

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch feels good. He’s big and you’re still sensitive from your orgasm, and you have to pause halfway, breathing through the burn.

“Okay?” His hands are on your hips, steadying but not pushing. When you look down at him his face is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Just—give me a second.”

“Take your time.” Childe sits up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close so your chests are pressed together. He presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, sweet and soft. “You feel incredible. So tight and perfect.”

The praise makes you clench around him and he groans into your neck. You take a breath, then sink down the rest of the way, taking his cock fully. You feel impossibly full, stretched in the best way, and when he shifts slightly, the angle has him hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.

“Move,” he says roughly against your neck. “Please, move.”

You do, rolling your hips experimentally. You find a rhythm—slow at first, learning what angles work, what movements make him groan and dig his fingers into your hips. Then faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core.

Childe’s hands roam your body like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Your hips, guiding your movements. Your waist, fingers spanning your ribs. Your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples and making you gasp. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking marks into your skin.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Ride me.”

You do, picking up the pace, using his shoulders for leverage. The pleasure builds with each roll of your hips, each time he hits that perfect spot inside you. You’re chasing it now, desperate for it, and when his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it, you nearly sob.

“Childe,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—”

“I know. I can feel you. So tight around me, malyshka. Come on, let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

The words are your undoing. Your second orgasm makes you clench around him. You hear yourself cry out, some nonsensical combination of his name and profanity, and distantly you feel him shift, gripping your hips and moving you faster, harder, chasing his own release.

“Where?” he gasps. “Where can I—”

“Inside,” you manage, still trembling through aftershocks. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

He buries his face in your neck with a groan, hips stuttering. His arms wrap around you tight, holding you close, and you cling to him just as desperately. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you’re pretty sure his is doing the same because you can feel it against your chest.

“Christ,” he mutters into your shoulder.

You huff a laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, you extract yourself from him. He winces slightly as he slips out, and you do too, suddenly feeling very empty. He deals with the condom while you collapse onto the bed beside him, boneless and satisfied.

The sheets are a disaster—rumpled and half off the bed, definitely in need of washing. You feel a petty sort of satisfaction at having thoroughly ruined his pristine bedroom.

Childe collapses beside you, reaching for you immediately, pulling you into his side. You go willingly, resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, up and down your arm, soothing and mindless. Sex is just biology. This—the gentleness—feels like more.

You should leave. This is getting too comfortable.

But you’re warm and sated and his bed is incredibly comfortable, and when you try to sit up, his arm tightens around you.

“Stay,” Childe mumbles, voice heavy with approaching sleep.

“I have work in the morning,” you say.

“So do I.”

You should say no. This is supposed to be about the story, the article and the promotion. You’re not supposed to actually like him. You’re definitely not supposed to fall asleep in his arms after the best sex of your life.

But his breathing is already evening out, and you’re so comfortable, and just this once won’t hurt, right?

“Okay,” you whisper. Within minutes, Childe’s breathing has deepened into sleep, but you lie awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, trying very hard not to think about what you’re doing; eventually, exhaustion wins, and you drift off in his arms.

You wake to pale morning light filtering through the windows, disoriented for a moment before the events of last night come rushing back. Childe is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other draped across your waist. His hair is a disaster, copper strands sticking up at odd angles where you’d run your fingers through it. He looks younger like this, peaceful, the sharp edges softened by sleep.

Logically, you should feel triumphant. Phase one complete: sleep with the target, establish intimacy, begin the emotional manipulation. Everything is going according to plan.

Instead, you feel vaguely nauseous.

You carefully extricate yourself from his grip, moving slowly so as not to wake him. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep but doesn’t wake; he simply rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. The pillow you slept on, you realise. The one that probably smells like your perfume now.

Your clothes are scattered across the floor—blouse, skirt, bra, underwear, all evidence of last night’s activities. You gather them quietly, getting dressed in the pre-dawn dimness. One of the buttons on your blouse is missing, you notice. Childe had torn it off in his haste. The memory sends an unwelcome flutter through your stomach.

You’re halfway to the door when you remember the plan, the tactics you’d researched, all those articles about “how to make him chase you” and the “psychology of desire.” Rule number one: always leave them wanting more. Never be too available. Create mystery, create distance, make them wonder.

Leaving without goodbye is textbook. It’s supposed to make you seem aloof, independent, not too eager. It’s supposed to make him anxious, worried that maybe you didn’t feel the same connection he did. It is, also, manipulative as hell, and you hate yourself for even thinking it.

But this is work. It’s everything you’ve been working towards.

You glance back at him one more time. He’s still sleeping, one hand now stretched out across the space where you’d been lying, as if searching for you even in sleep. Then, you notice your purse on the chair by the door. Your phone is inside it, along with your keys, your wallet, your ID. The idea comes to you fully formed: leave the purse. Give yourself a reason to come back.

More importantly, give him a reason to reach out and prove he’s thinking about you. Men are hunters, one article had said. They need to chase. If you make it too easy, they lose interest.

Your hand hovers over the purse for a long moment, and quickly, you decide to take only your phone and wallet with you, leaving the purse on the chair and slipping out the door.

The elevator ride down feels interminable. The morning doorman gives you a knowing look that makes your cheeks burn—walk of shame, clearly—but you lift your chin and stride past him into the cool Fontaine morning.

“Flowers for the Lifestyle editor?”

The bellboy at The Steambird stands awkwardly by your cubicle, holding an enormous bouquet of white roses and pale blue hydrangeas that probably costs more than your weekly salary. You stare at them.

“There must be some mistake,” you say.

“Are you the Lifestyle editor?” The bellboy checks the card. “It just says ‘Lifestyle section, The Steambird.’”

You’re not the editor—that would be old Monsieur Bellerose, who’s been at the paper since before you were born and who wouldn’t know a hydrangea from a turnip. But you’re the only one currently in the lifestyle section this early in the morning, so you reach for the flowers with growing dread.

“Thanks,” you mutter, and the bellboy looks relieved to be rid of them.

You sneeze. 

“Bless you?” the bellboy offers uncertainly.

You sneeze again, and again. Your eyes are already starting to water.

“Oh, no,” you say, holding the bouquet at arm’s length. “Oh, no, no, no—”

You’re allergic to flowers—every flower that isn’t a cactus or possibly a succulent. It’s why you’ve never understood the appeal of botanical gardens, why you avoid the flower district like the plague, and why your last boyfriend had learned very quickly that giving you flowers was the equivalent of biological warfare.

The irony of being a lifestyle journalist who can’t be within ten feet of a floral arrangement without turning into a sneezing, watery-eyed mess is not lost on you.

“Are you okay?” the bellboy asks.

“Fine,” you wheeze, even as your nose starts to run and your eyes begin to itch. “Just—thanks for delivering them.”

Trying to decide what to do with the bouquet brings you to an impasse. You can’t just throw them away—they’re clearly expensive, and there’s a card, and you should at least read the card before disposing of it. You grab a tissue from your desk drawer with your free hand, pressing it to your streaming nose, and use your pinky to extract the small cream envelope from among the blooms. This, naturally, requires you to bring the flowers closer to your face, which triggers another round of sneezing so intense that Monsieur Bellerose looks up from his desk to see if you’re dying.

The card reads: You left something behind. Including this.

Inside is your lipstick, and beneath it, in elegant script: Dinner tonight, 7pm. I’ll text you the address. — C.

Under normal circumstances, this would be romantic, the kind of gesture that would make any reasonable woman smile and perhaps swoon a little. You are not, currently, any reasonable woman.

“Holy shit, what is that?”

You turn to find Navia standing behind you, coffee in one hand.

“Flowers,” you manage between sniffles. “From Childe.”

“Are you—are you crying?” Navia’s eyes widen in horror. “Did he send you breakup flowers? On day two? That has to be some kind of record—”

“I’m not crying, I’m allergic,” you say. “I’m allergic to flowers. All flowers.”

Navia stares at you before laughing.

“This is not funny,” you say, which is undermined somewhat by the violent sneeze that punctuates the sentence.

“Your rich murder suspect sent you the most romantic, expensive bouquet I’ve ever seen, and you’re allergic to it,” Navia says. “The universe has a sense of humour, I’ll give it that.”

“Help me,” you plead, sneezing again. Your eyes are fully streaming now, mascara probably running down your face. “What do I do with them?”

“Give them to someone else?” Navia suggests, still giggling. “Bellerose’s wife would probably love them.”

“I can’t give away flowers that were specifically sent to me! That’s rude.”

“Ruder than showing up to your date tonight looking like you’ve been crying for six hours straight?”

She has a point, and as soon as you acknowledge this, your phone rings. The caller ID reads Childe.

“Don’t answer it,” Navia whispers, suddenly serious. “You sound like you’re actively dying.”

“I have to answer it,” you whisper back, voice congested. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”

“You’re going to sound like you’ve been crying!”

“I’ll just—” Sneeze. “—explain—”

You make an executive decision, set the flowers down on the farthest corner of your desk, grab another tissue, and answer the phone. “Hello?” you manage, and immediately wince. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel and crying into a pillow for the last hour.

“Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine!” you say brightly. 

“You don’t sound fine,” Childe says. “You sound like you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying!” This is technically true. You’re not crying from emotions; you’re crying because your body has decided that flowers are the enemy and must be destroyed via excess mucus production.

“Are you sure? Because if the flowers upset you—”

“The flowers didn’t upset me!” You sneeze.

“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed since you answered,” Childe says slowly. “And you sound extremely congested. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m—” You pause. Either you admit that you’re allergic to his thoughtful, expensive, romantic gesture, or you lie and pretend you’re mysteriously coming down with something. The first option makes you seem ungrateful. The second option is dishonest, but it’s also easier, and you’ve already lied to him about basically everything else, so what’s one more lie—

“I’m allergic to flowers,” you admit miserably. “All flowers—though the ones you sent me are very beautiful, by the way, and very thoughtful, and I really appreciate the gesture.”

Childe, too, starts laughing. Full, genuine, from-the-belly laughter that goes on for so long you start to feel offended.

“It’s not that funny,” you mutter, grabbing another tissue.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still laughing. “I’m so sorry, it’s just—I spent twenty minutes at the florist this morning. Twenty minutes. The woman kept suggesting different arrangements and I kept saying no, it has to be perfect, it has to be romantic, and I settled on roses and hydrangeas because they looked classic and elegant, and—” He dissolves into laughter again. “And you’re allergic to them.”

“Very allergic,” you confirm, sniffling pathetically. “I look like I’ve been crying for hours. My coworker thought you’d broken up with me.”

“On day two?” He sounds delighted by this. “What kind of monster do people think I am?”

“You were accused of serial murder, so the bar is pretty low.”

“Okay. Okay, new plan. Where are you right now?”

“At work. At my desk. The bouquet’s three feet away from me.”

“Can you move it?”

“I tried. I had to get the card out. It triggered another sneezing fit.”

“Right. Okay. Don’t touch them. I’m sending someone to pick them up.”

“You don’t have to—I can just give them to my boss—”

“I’m sending someone to send them to your boss’s home, then,” he says firmly, “and I’m sending you something else. Something you’re not allergic to. Do you have any other allergies I should know about? Chocolate? Wine? Sunlight?”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“Good to know. How do you feel about food?”

“I’m pro-food, generally.”

“Excellent. Give me two hours.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “And in the meantime, go wash your face. You probably look terrible.”

“Wow. Romance.”

“You said you look like you’ve been crying for hours,” Childe says. “Go fix that before your editor sees you and thinks I’m some kind of insane boyfriend who sends his girlfriend flowers that make her cry.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you point out, even as something warm unfurls in your chest at the word.

“Not yet,” he replies easily. “But I’m working on it. Now, go. I’ll text you when it arrives.”

He hangs up, and you lower the phone, only to find Navia staring at you. “What?” you ask.

“You’re smiling,” she observes. “Like, really smiling.”

“I’m not—” You catch sight of your reflection in your dark phone screen and realise she’s right. Despite your watery eyes and general mucus situation, you’re grinning like an idiot. “Shut up.”

“This is bad,” Navia says, shaking her head. “You’re falling for him.”

“I’m not falling for him! He just—he was nice about the flower situation.”

“He made you laugh while you were actively having an allergic reaction. That’s not just nice, that’s—” She waves her hand vaguely.

“I don’t have feelings. I have a job to do,” you lie, and grab the flowers—at arm’s length, holding your breath—and march over to Monsieur Bellerose’s desk.

“For your wife,” you announce, setting them down and immediately backing away. “With my compliments.”

Bellerose looks up from his crossword, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? These look expensive.”

“I’m allergic,” you explain, already feeling your sinuses start to clear, “and your wife will appreciate them more than I can.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful. She’ll be delighted.” He inhales deeply, his large, walrus-like moustache quivering. “Beautiful blooms. Someone must think very highly of you.”

“Sure,” you say, and retreat to the bathroom. Navia was right—you look terrible. Your eyes are red and swollen, mascara smudged down your cheeks. You spend ten minutes with cold water and paper towels trying to repair the damage, and by the time you’re done, you look almost human again.

When you return to your desk, the flowers are blessedly gone, and Monsieur Bellerose gives you a cheerful wave. “My wife says thank you!” he calls. “She’s already showed them off to our neighbours. They’re absolutely divine!”

You try to focus on work—there’s an article about seasonal pastries that needs finishing—but you keep checking your phone. What is Childe sending? And why does it matter so much? You shouldn’t care. This is all manipulation, part of the game. He’s trying to win you over with thoughtful gestures; you’re supposed to be documenting it all for your article, not getting flustered over it.

Your phone buzzes. You grab it so fast you nearly knock over your own coffee.

Childe: Delivery incoming. Hope you like it.

Five minutes later, the bellboy from earlier appears. He’s carrying a large paper bag that smells absolutely incredible.

“For you,” he says, setting it on your desk. “And the sender said to tell you that he’s checked, and there are no allergens.”

You open the bag. Inside is a feast from Café Lutece—the same place you’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. There’s a container of their famous seafood soup, fresh bread still warm from the oven, a small salad with vinaigrette on the side, and a slice of chocolate tart. There’s also a note written on the café’s stationery in what you recognise as Childe’s handwriting.

I figured if I can’t give you flowers without causing a biological incident, I should at least feed you. Consider this a preview of tonight. I’m sorry for laughing. Actually, I’m not sorry. It was objectively hilarious. But I am sorry you’re allergic, malyshka. — C.

Your phone buzzes again.

Childe: Did it arrive?

You: Yes. Thank you. It’s too much.

Childe: Nothing is too much for someone who suffered through anaphylactic shock for my romantic gesture.

You: It wasn’t anaphylactic shock. Just mild respiratory distress.

Childe: That’s basically the same thing.

You: It’s medically very different.

Childe: Are you eating the food or are you arguing with me via text?

You: Can’t I do both?

Childe surprises you the next day with front row tickets to the opera. Despite having lived in Fontaine for a majority of your life, you haven’t actually attended one of the many shows that take place at the Opera Epiclese; that sort of thing usually falls under the purview of Galanopoulo and Houallet, who cover the Arts & Culture section of the newspaper. 

The tickets arrive via courier at noon, tucked into a cream envelope with your name written in that now-familiar handwriting. Inside: two tickets to tonight’s performance at the Opera Epiclese, along with a note.

I know it’s short notice, but I had a feeling you might like this. Pick you up at 6? We can get dinner after. — C.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is perfect, actually. Opera attendance is exactly the kind of thing that would make for good article material. Subject demonstrates excessive romantic gesturing in attempt to impress target. Opera tickets, expensive dinner, etc.

It’s also, according to the three different articles you’d read last night, the perfect opportunity to start implementing phase two of the plan: acting weird.

The theory, as explained by various relationship experts, is that men are initially attracted to mystery and normalcy. To drive them away, you need to shatter that illusion. Be too available. Too interested. Too much. Talk about marriage on the third date. Introduce them to your parents. Pretend to name your future children.

You’d read the articles with growing horror, but Euphrasie had been clear: Make him fall, then make him run. The readers want to see the progression. They want to understand the psychology.

So. Opera. Weird behaviour. Get information for the article. Break his heart. Simple.

You spend the rest of the afternoon oscillating between working on your pastry article (which is mind-numbingly boring) and researching Childe (which is significantly more interesting but also makes you feel like a stalker).

There’s not much available beyond the trial coverage. His social media presence is essentially nonexistent. There’s a LinkedIn that lists him as “Independent Consultant” which tells you absolutely nothing. The most you can find is a brief mention in a business journal about a real estate acquisition, and a photo from some charity boxing match where he’s shaking hands with the Commissioner of the Maison Gardiennage, which is either ironic or ballsy or both.

“Stalking your boyfriend?” Navia appears behind your desk. Apparently, she has nothing better to do than monitor your descent into moral bankruptcy.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not stalking. I’m researching.”

“For the article where you manipulate him and break his heart?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.” She peers at your screen. “Find anything good?”

“No,” you say. “There’s nothing about him anywhere except the trial.”

“Maybe he’s boring.”

“He’s not boring.” The words come out more defensive than intended. “He’s just… private.”

“Private or hiding something?” Navia raises an eyebrow. “You know there’s a difference, right?”

“He was acquitted, Navia. He’s innocent.”

“So you keep saying. You know what’s interesting? Three days ago, you didn’t care if he was innocent or guilty. You just cared that he’d make a good copy. Now you’re defending him like he’s actually your boyfriend.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Navia sets down her coffee. “Look, I’m trying to be a bitch here. I’m trying to be your friend. And as your friend, I’m telling you that you’re getting in too deep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re going to the opera with him tonight, and I’m willing to bet you’re already planning what to wear, and you’re probably going to end up sleeping with him again, and then you’re going to feel even worse about the whole thing.”

She’s not wrong, which is infuriating. “I have a plan,” you say.

“Oh, this should be good.”

“I’m going to start acting weird. Clingy. All the things that are supposed to drive men away.” You pull up one of the articles on your phone, showing her. “See? I’m going to implement these tactics, and he’s going to start pulling away, and then the breakup will be easier.”

Navia skims through the article, her expression growing increasingly incredulous. “You’re going to introduce him to your parents?”

“My parents live in Mondstadt, so that’s logistically challenging, but theoretically yes.”

“You’re going to talk about baby names.”

“If necessary.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. “You think you’re going to manipulate him into breaking up with you so you don’t have to feel guilty about it. But that’s not how this works. You’re still lying to him and using him. The only difference is that now you’re being annoying while you do it.”

“It’s for the article—”

“It’s because you like him, but you don’t want to hurt him, so you’re going to make him hurt you first. That way you can tell yourself it’s not your fault.”

“I have to do this,” you say quietly. “The promotion—”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks. “Really? Is it worth whatever this is doing to you?”

You don’t have an answer to that.

Childe picks you up at six o’clock exactly, and you hate that your heart does a stupid little flip when you see him. He’s wearing a suit, dark blue with a crisp white shirt, and his hair is styled back from his face, and he looks unfairly attractive.

“Wow,” he says when you open the door. His eyes go wide. “You look… wow.”

You’d agonised over what to wear before settling on a black cocktail dress that Navia had insisted you buy last year for a work event. It’s elegant without being too formal, and it makes you look like you know what you’re doing, which is good because you definitely don’t.

“You clean up nice yourself,” you manage.

“I try.” He offers his arm with a small, almost shy smile. “Ready?”

No. Absolutely not. You’re about to spend the evening with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, while also trying to get information for an article about said manipulation and destruction, while also possibly developing actual feelings for him, which is the worst possible outcome.

“Ready,” you lie.

The Opera Epiclese is stunning at night. The whole building seems to glow from within, and there are well-dressed people streaming up the steps, chattering excitedly about the evening’s performance. You’ve walked past this building a thousand times, but you’ve never been inside, and stepping through the doors feels like entering a different world. The lobby is all marble and gold leaf, with soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers. There are ushers in formal wear directing people to their seats, and a bar where people are gathering for pre-show drinks.

“Want a drink?” Childe asks, his hand settling at the small of your back.

“Sure.”

He guides you to the bar and orders two glasses of champagne without asking what you want; it should be presumptuous, but isn’t because he’s already learned that you prefer white wine to red, and champagne is close enough.

“Have you ever been to the opera before?” he says, handing you a glass.

“No. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never actually been inside this building.”

“Really?” He looks surprised. “Why not?”

“Tickets are expensive. And I’ve been busy with work.” You take a sip of champagne. “Plus, I always figured opera was for rich people and tourists.”

“I’m a rich person,” he points out.

“You’re also kind of a tourist,” you say. “You’ve only lived here for what, three years?”

“Four. And I’m hurt that you think I’m a tourist.” He’s smiling though, clearly not actually hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m very integrated into Fontainian society. I know all the best restaurants, I can navigate the canals without getting lost, and I only occasionally get my Fontaine history wrong.”

“That’s exactly what a tourist would say.”

“Rude,” Childe says. He leans closer, voice dropping. “For that, I’m not going to tell you the plot of the opera beforehand. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“It’s in Old Fontainian,” he says, grinning now.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Childe—”

“Ajax,” he corrects. “And I’m absolutely not kidding. This is a traditional performance.”

You stare at him. “I don’t speak Old Fontainian.”

“Nobody speaks Old Fontainian, malyshka. It’s a dead language. That’s what makes it art. Don’t worry, I’ll whisper translations in your ear.”

“You speak Old Fontainian?”

“Enough to get by. I had to learn it for a business deal a few years ago.” Childe—Ajax—shrugs. “It’s actually not that different from modern Fontainian once you get the hang of the grammar.”

Right. Of course he speaks a dead language. Why wouldn’t he?

The lights flicker, signalling that the show is about to start, and Childe offers his arm again. “Shall we?”

Your seats are, as promised, front row centre. You can practically reach out and touch the stage. The orchestra pit is directly in front of you, and you can see the musicians tuning their instruments, the conductor reviewing his score.

“This is insane,” you mumble as you sit down. “These seats must have cost a fortune.”

“Worth it,” Childe says simply, settling beside you. His knee brushes yours, and he doesn’t move it away.

The house lights dim. The conductor raises his baton. The music begins.

You remember, with sudden clarity, that you’re supposed to be acting weird.

The first act passes in a blur of music and incomprehensible Old Fontainian. True to his word, Childe leans over periodically to whisper translations, his breath warm against your ear. “She’s telling her father she’s in love with the poor merchant. Now the father is angry. Now he’s threatening to disown her. Now she’s singing about how love transcends social class, which is very progressive for a 200-year-old opera.”

His translations are helpful. They’re also distracting because he’s very close and smells good.

During the first intermission, you make your move.

“So,” you say brightly, as Childe returns with more champagne. “How many kids do you want?”

He nearly drops both glasses. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Kids. Children. Offspring.” You take a sip of champagne. This is what the article said to do: bring up serious relationship topics way too early. Make him uncomfortable and drive him away. “I’m thinking three. Maybe four? I’ve always wanted a big family.”

Childe stares at you. “We’ve known each other for three days.”

“I know! Isn’t it crazy how comfortable I feel with you?” You reach over and pat his knee. “I feel like I can really talk to you about anything. Like we’re already so close.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s… good?”

“It is good!” You squeeze his knee. “I was actually thinking, maybe this weekend you could meet my parents. They’re in Mondstadt, but we could take the aquabus. Make a weekend of it. My mom would love you.”

“Your mom. You want me to meet your mom… this weekend?”

“Why not? When you know, you know, right?” you say, beaming at him. “My mom always says that she knew my dad was the one after their second date. We’re on our third date, so we’re technically behind schedule.”

“Behind schedule,” he repeats faintly.

“For meeting the parents, I mean. Not for getting married. I think we should wait at least six months before getting engaged. Maybe a year. What do you think?”

“I think—” He stops and takes a long drink of champagne. “I think you’re right, actually. We can meet your parents over the weekend. They sound wonderful.”

Oh. Oh, no. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

You scramble, trying to rapidly think of something even more off-putting to say, but the lights flicker once more. People begin moving back to their seats. Childe stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says. “The second act is starting. This is where it gets really tragic.”

“More tragic than a father disowning his daughter for falling in love with a poor merchant?” you manage.

“Way more tragic. Everyone dies at the end. It’s an opera.”

You take his hand and let him lead you back to your seats, and you try very hard not to think about Navia’s words from earlier.

The second act is indeed tragic. The poor merchant turns out to be a prince in disguise, which should make everything better, but instead there’s a complicated plot involving mistaken identities and a duel and someone drinking poison meant for someone else. By the end, there are bodies strewn all over the stage and the soprano is belting out a final aria about the cruel nature of fate. 

It’s beautiful and devastating, and you maybe cry a little bit, which is mortifying.

“Here,” Childe murmurs, handing you his pocket square.

“I’m not crying.”

“Of course not. You just have something in your eyes.”

You take the pocket square and dab at your eyes, trying to salvage what’s left of your mascara. “It’s just very sad.”

“It is,” he agrees. “That final aria always gets me too.”

“You’ve seen this before?”

“Three times. It’s my favourite opera.”

“Your favourite opera is about everyone dying because of miscommunication and fate?”

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes.” He’s smiling though. “Come on. I promised you dinner.”

The next day, Childe takes you to the aquarium. You compare his face to an ugly sea urchin stuck to the bottom of the petting pool. He laughs good-naturedly and, pointing to a dull sea cucumber, says he sees the resemblance between you and it.

The day after that, you watch a movie together, and you accidentally spill caramel popcorn and Diet Coke all over his new trousers. Childe waves it off, and moves out of his chair to get you a new cup, despite the movie’s climax being shown. You feel sort of guilty after that, because he’d really been looking forward to watching it.

The day after that, he takes you to a laser tag arena, and you accidentally kick him in the balls, say, “Oops!” and shoot at him with your gun. He wins anyway, but not without doubling over in pain for a good ten minutes.

All things considered, it seems as though everything’s going smoothly. You and Childe get along better than you thought you would.

“Why exactly are we doing couples’ therapy again?” Childe asks.

“Because,” you say, clutching a clipboard with an intake form that asks extremely personal questions about your relationship satisfaction, “it’s important to work on communication early. Preventative care for the relationship.”

“We’ve been dating for six days.”

“Exactly. That’s why we should start now, before bad habits form. Don’t you want us to have a strong foundation?”

Childe stares at you. “I want a lot of things. Therapy for a relationship that’s less than a week old was not on that list.”

“It should have been on the list.”

“Most people’s week-one list consists of things like ‘learn their last name’ and ‘find out if they’re a serial killer.’”

“I know your last name.”

“Do you?”

You don’t, actually. You’ve been calling him Childe, or Ajax when he insists, but you’ve never heard a surname. “It’s going to come up in therapy anyway,” you say, deflecting.

“It’s Tartaglia,” he says. “Professionally, at least.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means ‘stutterer.’ Someone called me that once when I was learning Fontainian as a kid and kept messing up my words. It stuck.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but he’s smiling slightly. “Are you going to write that down on your little form, malyshka? ‘Boyfriend uses fake Fontainian name from childhood trauma’?”

“It’s not a fake Fontainian—” You stop. “Wait. Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”

“Did I?” His smile widens. “Must have slipped out. Y’know, because of all the couples’ therapy we’re about to do.”

Before you can respond, the door opens and a woman in her fifties with kind eyes emerges. “Ajax and…?” She checks her notes. “I’m sorry, I only have one name here.”

“That’s me,” you say quickly, standing. “Sorry. I forgot to fill in my name on the form.”

“No worries, dear. I’m Dr. Rousseau. Please, come in.”

Dr. Rousseau’s office is beige, with a small fountain in the corner that makes peaceful trickling sounds, bookshelves crammed with therapy texts, and a comfortable-looking red couch. You and Childe sit down together. He’s close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and you’re acutely aware that this is insane. This is beyond insane. You’re sitting in couples’ therapy with a man you’re actively planning to manipulate and destroy, and he’s going along with it because—

Why is he going along with it?

“So,” Dr. Rousseau says, settling into her chair with a notebook. “Tell me a little about your relationship. How did you two meet?”

“At a gallery opening,” Childe says easily. “She spilled wine on my shoes.”

“It was an accident,” you say.

“A very thorough accident. Completely soaked.”

Dr. Rousseau smiles. “And how long have you been together?”

“Six days,” you say.

Her smile freezes slightly. “…I’m sorry?”

“Six days. Well, technically seven if you count today, but we started dating six days ago.”

Dr. Rousseau sets down her pen. “And you’re seeking couples’ therapy.”

“Preventative care,” you say brightly. “We want to build healthy communication patterns early.”

“I see. And what prompted this decision?”

“She did,” Childe says, gesturing at you. “She suggested it yesterday, ‘cause she thought it would be good for us.”

“And you agreed?”

“I did.” He leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “I figured if she’s willing to sit in therapy after six days, she’s either very committed or very crazy, and I’m curious which one it is.”

“I’m not crazy,” you say.

“I didn’t say you were. I said I was curious.”

Dr. Rousseau scribbles something down. “I see. And tell me—what are some areas where you feel your relationship could improve?”

This is where you’re supposed to unleash a litany of complaints designed to make Childe realise you’re too much work. “Communication. I feel like we don’t communicate enough.”

“We text constantly,” Childe says, turning to look at you.

“Texting isn’t real communication.”

“We talk on the phone.”

“Phone calls aren’t the same as face-to-face.”

“We’ve been face-to-face for the past six days. You kicked me in the balls at laser tag—”

“That was an accident!”

“You didn’t even apologise before shooting me.”

“I’m sensing some unresolved conflict around the laser tag incident,” Dr. Rousseau says.

“There’s no conflict,” Childe says. “I won anyway.”

“Because I let you win. You were in pain.”

“I was fine.”

“You were doubled over for ten minutes!”

“Eight minutes. And I still won.” He turns to Dr. Rousseau. “She’s a terrible shot, by the way. Very aggressive tactics, but no accuracy.”

“I have excellent accuracy,” you say. “You’re just fast.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Dr. Rousseau clears her throat. “I’m noticing some competitive dynamics here. Tell me, do you often turn interactions into competitions?”

“No,” you say at the same time Childe says, “Maybe.”

You turn to him. “We don’t compete.”

“We do. You made that thing at the aquarium into a competition.”

“I did not make comparing our faces to sea creatures into a competition—”

“You said I looked like a sea urchin.”

“You said I looked like a sea cucumber!”

“Because you said I looked like a sea urchin first!”

“And how did that make you feel, Ajax?” Dr. Rousseau says, leaning forward in her seat. “When she compared you to a sea urchin?”

Childe considers this. “Honestly? I thought it was funny. The urchin was pretty ugly, and I was like, ‘fair enough, she’s got me there.’”

“It was a very ugly sea urchin,” you confirm.

“One of the ugliest I’ve ever seen. So when she pointed out the resemblance, I felt I had to respond in kind. The sea cucumber was right there.”

You’re trying very hard not to laugh. This is supposed to be serious. It’s supposed to be driving him away—but he’s sitting here in couples’ therapy, calmly explaining his revenge tactics, and you can feel your resolve crumbling.

“I’m sensing,” Dr. Rousseau says carefully, “that you two have very different communication styles. What attracted you to each other initially?”

This is dangerous territory. You’re supposed to say something shallow, something that suggests you’re only in it for superficial reasons. But Childe is already answering.

“She asks questions nobody else asks,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “Everyone else wants to talk about the trial—what happened, how I felt, whether I was scared. But she just asks about normal things. About me. Not about what happened to me.” He pauses, then adds, “And she laughs at my jokes. Even the bad ones.”

Your chest feels tight.

Dr. Rousseau turns to you. “And you? What attracted you to Ajax?”

You should say something generic, meaningless. But you’re looking at him, at the way he’s watching you with those too-blue eyes, and the truth spills out before you can stop it.

“He’s kind,” you hear yourself say. “I didn’t expect that. I expected—I don’t know. Someone harder. Someone bitter, maybe, after everything. But he’s just… kind. He sends food instead of flowers because I’m allergic, and explains opera plots in dead languages. He lets me almost win at laser tag even though I kicked him in the balls.”

“I didn’t let you—”

“You did. You slowed down on purpose in the last round.”

“…Maybe a little.”

Dr. Rousseau is smiling now, a real smile. “It sounds like you two actually like each other quite a bit.”

“We do,” Childe says simply, a statement of fact.

Dr. Rousseau makes another note. “Ajax, I’d like to return to something you mentioned earlier. The trial. You said people always talk about it. Can you tell me more about that experience?”

You feel him tense slightly beside you, though his expression doesn’t change. “What do you want to know?”

“How it affected you. Not the facts—I can read those in any newspaper. But how it felt. How it changed you.”

You’re holding your breath without meaning to—this is the information you need for the article. The emotional impact of being wrongfully accused, straight from the source.

“It was…” Childe stops, seeming to search for words. “D’you know what the worst part was? Not the jail cell, or the accusations, or even standing in that box while people decided whether I was a monster. It was watching people who’d known me for years start to believe it. Friends. Colleagues. People I’d had dinner with, shared drinks with. I could see it in their eyes—this little seed of doubt. Like maybe they’d never known me at all.

“The evidence was circumstantial. I knew I was innocent, and so did my lawyer. But when you’re sitting in that defendant’s box and the prosecutor is listing all these coincidences, all these little pieces that don’t quite fit but could maybe add up to something… you start to wonder if maybe you should doubt yourself too.”

“Did you?” you ask quietly. “Doubt yourself?”

“No. I knew I hadn’t done it, but I started to doubt whether that would matter. Whether being innocent was enough, or if the narrative was too good. The rich foreign kid with a violent streak. Perfect scapegoat. When the killer struck again while I was in custody, the relief was… complicated. Because yes, I was free, but someone else had to die for that to happen. Part of me felt guilty for being relieved about that.

“After I got out, I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to see that doubt in people’s eyes anymore. So I just… went back to normal. Pretended nothing happened. Most people were happy to pretend along with me, because it was easier than acknowledging how close they’d come to condemning an innocent person.”

“Is that why you never gave interviews?” you ask. “Everyone wanted to hear your side, but you never spoke to the press.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Childe says. “‘I didn’t do it, please believe me’? I’d been saying that for months. Nobody listened. Why would they listen after?” He shakes his head. “And honestly? I didn’t want to be that person. The wrongfully accused guy. I just wanted to be Ajax again. Guy who likes boxing and opera and occasionally makes terrible jokes.”

“Your jokes aren’t terrible,” you say automatically.

“Liar,” he quips. “The point is… I didn’t want to be defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to be defined by what I chose to do after.”

The guilt sitting in your stomach has transformed into something sharper, more painful. Childe is sitting here, being vulnerable, being honest, talking about not wanting to be defined by trauma—and you’re planning to make him the subject of an article about emotional manipulation.

You’re going to be the person who proves he was right to be afraid.

“What made you trust her?” Dr. Rousseau asks, nodding towards you. “After all that?”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you, eyes roving over your face and studying you in a way that makes you want to squirm.

“She spilled wine on my shoes and looked genuinely horrified,” he says finally, “like it was the worst thing that had ever happened. I remember thinking—this person feels bad about ruining a stranger’s shoes. This person feels bad about minor accidents. After months of people thinking I was capable of murder, someone who felt guilty about wine-stained leather seemed like a breath of fresh air.”

Oh, God.

Oh, God, you’re a terrible person. You’re possibly the worst person in Fontaine.

“Malyshka, I know you’re drunk, but you need to get off my living room floor.”

You don’t want to get off Ajax’s living room floor. You’re perfectly content there, lying spreadeagled like a starfish, cheek pressed against the cold marble. It’s been a week since you met Childe and have seen him every day since; you figure he can handle you drunk.

“The floor is nice,” you mumble. “It’s cool.”

“I’m starting to worry about your standards.” Ajax crouches beside you, and even upside down and blurry, he looks unfairly attractive. “Come on. Let’s get you to the couch at least.”

“Can’t. Boneless. I have no bones.”

“You have bones. I can see your skeleton from here.”

“That’s weird,” you say. “Stop looking at my skeleton.”

He laughs, warm and genuine. It makes your chest hurt in ways that have nothing to do with the three (four? five?) glasses of wine you’ve had. “Okay, boneless woman. I’m going to pick you up now.”

“No,” you protest, but it’s half-hearted because he’s already sliding his arms under you, lifting you with ease. When he carries you to the couch, you mumble, “You’re strong.”

“Boxing,” Ajax says, setting you down gently. “I told you.”

“Right. The violence hobby.”

“It’s not a violence hobby, it’s a sport.”

“A sport where you punch people.”

“A sport where you punch people with rules.” He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and pain medication. “Drink this. All of it.”

You take the glass but don’t drink. Instead, you stare at him, this man who’s been nothing but kind to you for a week straight, who you’ve been systematically lying to, this man whose trust you’re planning to violate in the worst possible way.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask.

“Because you’re drunk on my couch?”

“No, I mean—” You gesture vaguely, sloshing water slightly. “In general. Why are you so nice? You should be mean and awful. You were accused of murder, you could easily be an asshole about it, but instead you’re—you’re bringing me water and letting me compare you to sea urchins and agreeing to meet my parents who don’t even know you exist.”

Ajax sits down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “Should I be mean? Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know.” You take a large gulp of water to avoid answering further. “You’re confusing.”

“I’m confusing? You’re the one who showed up at my door an hour ago, already three sheets to the wind, demanding to hang out and then immediately collapsed on my floor.”

“I didn’t collapse,” you say.

“You tripped over your own shoes and went down like a sack of potatoes.”

“Lies and slander.”

He’s smiling though, soft and fond, and it makes everything worse. You finish the water in three long gulps and set the glass down with more force than necessary.

“Why did you drink so much?” Ajax asks gently. “Bad day?”

The worst. You’d spent the entire afternoon with Euphrasie, going over your notes, planning the article structure. She’d been thrilled with your progress. This is exactly what we need, she’d said, the emotional vulnerability, the trust, the intimacy. When you pull the rug out, it’s going to be Pulitzer-worthy.

You’d gone straight to a bar after that meeting, and then to another bar, and then you’d found yourself outside Ajax’s building. Evidently, when you’re drowning in guilt and self-loathing, your first instinct is to seek out the source of said guilt.

“Just work stuff,” you say instead. “My editor is being demanding.”

“The lifestyle section is that intense?”

“You have no idea,” you say solemnly.

He laughs again. You wish he would stop doing that. Stop being charming and funny and easy to talk to. Stop making this harder than it already is.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in karma?”

He blinks. “That’s… random.”

“I’m drunk.”

“Fair enough.” Ajax considers it. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’d like to think good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people, but my personal experience suggests that’s bullshit.”

“What if you’re doing something bad but for good reasons?” you say. “Like, objectively bad, but the outcome could be good?”

“Are we talking about murder? Because I feel I should clarify that my stance on murder hasn’t changed since the trial.”

“Not murder. Just… lying. Manipulating someone. Hurting them, but for a good cause.”

Ajax is quiet, studying your face. “I think that people are really good at convincing themselves that their reasons justify their actions. Sometimes they’re right, but usually, if you’re asking that question, you already know the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. “What if you can’t stop?”

“Then you come clean. You tell the truth and deal with the consequences.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “This is a very philosophical conversation for someone who can’t stand up without falling over.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain about a bottle of wine, maybe more.”

“Two bottles,” you admit. “And some whiskey.”

“Gods above,” Ajax says, standing up. “Okay. You’re staying here tonight. I’m not letting you go home like this.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not? You’ve stayed over before.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I snore,” you say.

“Liar,” Ajax says. “I’ve slept next to you. You don’t snore.”

“I might start. Tonight could be the night.”

“I’ll risk it,” he says, heading towards the bedroom. “C’mon, I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

You follow him on unsteady legs, using the wall for support. His bedroom is exactly as you remember: pristine, minimalist, those hospital corners on the sheets that you’d thoroughly ruined last time you were here.

“Do you ever just… leave things messy?” you ask, gesturing at the perfectly made bed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I spent three months in a cell where I had no control over anything. Now I like things orderly,” he says, rummaging through his dresser. “Is that psychologically concerning?”

“Probably,” you muse. “But you’re in therapy now, so it’s fine.”

“We went to one couples’ therapy session that you made us go to.”

“And? What did we learn?”

Ajax pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. “That you’re competitive, I’m defensive, and we both need to work on our communication skills. Here.” He tosses you the clothes. “These should fit.”

You catch them clumsily. The shirt is soft, worn-in, and smells like him—that cedar and something aquatic scent that you’re starting to associate with him. “Turn around.”

“I’ve seen you naked.”

“That was different. I was sober and in control of my faculties.”

“Your faculties were pretty compromised, as I recall. You couldn’t work buttons.”

“That’s ‘cause you have too many buttons! Who has that many buttons on one shirt?”

“Normal people. People who wear normal shirts.” Ajax turns around anyway. “Let me know when you’re decent.”

You struggle out of your clothes; it’s harder than it should be because the room keeps tilting at odd angles. The sweatpants are enormous, hanging low on your hips even when you tie the drawstring. The shirt falls to mid-thigh. You look ridiculous.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m clothed.”

He turns back around. “You look…”

“Like I’m drowning in your clothes?”

“I was gonna say cute, but sure.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s objectively true.” He gestures to the bed. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “It’s your bed.”

“You’re drunk, so you get the bed.”

“We can share! We’ve shared before.”

“You were sober before.”

“So? I’m not going to do anything weird. I’m just going to sleep.” You climb into the bed without waiting for his response, burrowing under the covers. The sheets smell like fabric softener and him, unfairly comfortable. “See? Already sleeping.”

Ajax sighs, but you can hear the smile in it. “Fine.”

He disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running, the sound of teeth being brushed. When he emerges, he’s in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, hair slightly damp like he splashed his face. The bed dips as he slides in beside you.

“You can come closer,” you say. “I don’t bite.”

“You might. You’re drunk and unpredictable.”

“I’m not unpredictable. I’m very predictable. Predictably guilty.”

“…What?”

Shit. “Nothing. Ignore me, I’m drunk.”

“Guilty about what?” Ajax asks.

“Everything. Nothing. Life,” you say, rolling over to face him, which is a mistake because he’s very close and very attractive and you’re very drunk and very emotional. “D’you ever feel like you’re a bad person?”

“Frequently,” he says. “I spent three months accused of serial murder, so the bad person thoughts are kind of a given.”

“But you’re not a bad person,” you say. “You’re good.”

He laughs softly. “I don’t think good people get accused of murder.”

“Innocent people do. You’re innocent.”

“Legally, yes. Socially?” He frowns, just a little, the middle of his forehead creasing. “There are people who think I got away with it. That the second killer was a coincidence or a copycat or whatever lets them sleep at night.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say.

“Maybe. But you can’t control what people believe.” His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours. “Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because I’m not as good as you think I am,” you say quietly.

“Nobody’s as good as anyone thinks they are. We’re all just disasters pretending to have our shit together.”

“You have your shit together. Your bed has hospital corners.”

“My bed has hospital corners because if I don’t control something, I’ll lose my mind. That’s not having my shit together.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim light from the window. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I think I’m going to ruin it.”

Ajax’s expression softens. “You’re not going to ruin me, malyshka. I’m pretty hard to ruin. I’ve been through worse than whatever you think you’re capable of.”

The confidence in his voice makes you want to cry. He has no idea. No idea what’s coming, what you’re planning, how thoroughly you’re going to betray him. “What if I’m worse than you think?”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Ajax says, squeezing your hand. “But I don’t think you are.”

You close your eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners. You’re definitely going to Hell. There’s no way around it. You’re going to Hell, and you’re going to deserve it.

“Ajax?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

For everything. For lying, and using you, and being exactly the kind of person you should’ve stayed away from. “For being drunk on your floor.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. “Get some sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“Where would I go? It’s my apartment.”

“Promise,” you insist, feeling like a petulant child, though you don’t relent.

“I promise.” Ajax pulls you closer, and you let him, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Sleep, malyshka. Everything will be okay.”

The next morning, Ajax tells you a business associate of his—Arlecchino, the owner of the House of the Hearth, a luxury goods business—is hosting a party to celebrate the launch of their newest diamond collection. He says he’s been given two tickets, and can bring a date, and would you please do me the honour?

You say yes.

The morning after that, he sends you food from Café Lutece to your workplace once more, piping hot coffee and croissants smeared with cream, and along with it, a diamond necklace that he says Arlecchino gifted him.

For the diamond in my heart, his note reads.

The evening of the tenth day finds you standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly fiddling with the straps of your dress.

It’s a simple black number: elegant, sophisticated, the kind of thing you’d normally never be able to afford but Navia had insisted you borrow from her mother’s closet. The diamond necklace Ajax sent you sits heavy around your throat, catching the light every time you move. It’s beautiful. Probably worth more than your entire year’s salary.

“Stop fidgeting,” Navia says from where she’s perched on your bed. “You look great.”

“I look like I’m going to throw up.”

“That, too.”

You turn to face her, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what? Go to a fancy party with your handsome boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And I can’t—” You gesture helplessly at yourself, at the dress, the necklace. “I can’t keep lying to him. Today’s day ten. I’m supposed to dump him tonight and turn in the article tomorrow morning.”

Navia’s expression shifts from teasing to serious. “So don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t dump him, and don’t write the article. Tell Euphrasie you can’t do it.”

“And lose the promotion? Lose everything I’ve been working towards?”

“Is it worth it?” Navia asks quietly. “Really? You’ve been miserable all week. I’ve watched you fall for this guy, and now you’re supposed to destroy him for a story? That’s cruel.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, okay? But I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t turn in the article, Euphrasie will—”

“Fire you? So what? You’ll find another job. You’re a good writer. But Ajax?” She shakes her head. “You won’t find another him.”

She’s right—but the thought of throwing away two years of work, going back to square one and proving everyone who said you weren’t cut out for real journalism right—

Your phone buzzes.

Ajax: I’m downstairs. Take your time.

“I have to go,” you say.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Navia says. “You could call him right now and tell him you’re sick. You could tell him the truth. You could do literally anything except continue this charade.”

“I know.”

“You’re going anyway.”

“I have to.” You grab your clutch, checking that you have your phone, your lipstick, and your keys. “I just—I need to figure this out. Maybe I can—I don’t know. Fix it somehow.”

“There’s no fixing this,” Navia says. “There’s only telling the truth or continuing the lie. Those are your options.”

You don’t have a response to that, so you just leave.

Ajax is waiting by his car when you emerge from the building, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees you makes your heart clench.

“Wow,” he says, and it’s the same wow from the opera, from every date, like he’s seeing you for the first time. “You look incredible.”

“It’s Navia’s dress.”

“It’s not the dress,” he says, opening the car door for you, “though the dress is nice too.”

The drive to the House of the Hearth is quiet. Ajax seems content to just hold your hand across the centre console, occasionally glancing over at you. You stare out the window and try to figure out what you’re going to do.

Option one: Go through with it. Dump him tonight, write the article, get the promotion. Become exactly the kind of person you’ve always hated.

Option two: Don’t go through with it. Lose the promotion, probably lose your job, but keep… what? A relationship built on lies? He’ll find out eventually, and he’ll hate you anyway.

Option three: Tell him the truth right now. Come clean, face the consequences, and at least maintain some shred of dignity.

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out.

Euphrasie: We need to do something about the article by tomorrow morning if possible. The editorial calendar is tight.

You stare at the message, feeling sick.

“Everything okay?” Ajax asks.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just work stuff.”

The House of the Hearth is stunning—a converted mansion in the wealthiest part of Fontaine, with marble walls and crystal lamps and other obscene displays of wealth. There are people in formal wear everywhere, champagne flowing freely, and you spot more diamonds in the first thirty seconds than you’ve seen in your entire life.

“This is insane,” you mutter as Ajax helps you out of the car.

“Arlecchino likes to make an impression.” He offers his arm. “If she asks you invasive questions, that’s just her way of showing interest.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

The party is already in full swing when you enter. There’s a string quartet in one corner, ice sculptures in another, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Ajax is immediately pulled into conversation with various people—business associates, all very wealthy and very interested in talking to him. You smile and nod and try not to feel like you don’t belong here.

“You must be the girlfriend.”

You turn to find a woman who can only be Arlecchino. She’s tall, striking, with an air of authority that makes you want to stand up straighter.

“I’m—yes. Hi.” You extend your hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Ajax’s choice, not mine,” she says. Her handshake is firm. “But I approve. You’re different from his usual type.”

“I have a type?” Ajax asks, reappearing with two glasses of champagne.

“You did.” Arlecchino’s smile is sharp. “I like her the most, though.”

“I’m right here,” you point out.

“I know. I’m complimenting you.” She plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Walk with me. I want to show you the new collection.”

Before you can protest, she steers you away from Ajax, through the crowd towards a private viewing room. The diamond collection is displayed under special lighting, each piece more extravagant than the last.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Arlecchino says. “Each one has a story. A history.”

“They’re stunning,” you agree.

“Ajax told me you’re a journalist.”

Your stomach drops. “Lifestyle section. Nothing too exciting.”

“Hmm. And yet you’re dating someone who was the centre of the most sensational trial in Fontaine’s recent history. Curious coincidence.”

“I met him at a gallery opening,” you say carefully. “The trial wasn’t—I didn’t know who he was when we met.”

“You strike me as someone who does her research, though,” Arlecchino says. When you tense, she shakes her head. “Relax. I’m not judging. Ambition isn’t a flaw.”

Before you can respond, you hear raised voices from the main room.

“—can’t believe you actually pulled it off! Ten days!”

You and Arlecchino exchange a look, then head back towards the commotion. You find Ajax surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits. One of them—a tall man with slicked-back hair—has his arm around Ajax’s shoulders, laughing boisterously.

“When you made that bet, Tartaglia, I thought you were out of your mind,” the man is saying, loud enough that people are starting to turn and look. “Make some girl fall in love with you in ten days? I said it was impossible!”

“Dima, keep your voice down—” Ajax is trying to extract himself, looking uncomfortable.

“Why? You won! Fair and square!” Dima raises his glass. “To Childe, who proved that any woman can be manipulated with the right—”

“That’s enough.” Ajax finally pulls away from Dima. “You’re drunk. Go home.”

“I’m celebrating! You won the bet!” Dima turns to the crowd that’s gathering, oblivious to Ajax’s discomfort. “This guy, right here, said he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, and I said—”

“I said I could not screw up a relationship for ten days,” Ajax interrupts, his voice rising. “There’s a difference—”

You’re not listening anymore. The rushing in your ears is too loud. You push through the crowd, trying to get away, trying to breathe—

“Malyshka, wait—”

Ajax catches your arm, and you spin around to face him. The entire party seems to have gone quiet, or maybe that’s just in your head.

“Is it true?” Your voice sounds strange, distant. “Did you make a bet about me?”

“It’s not what it sounds like—”

“Did you or did you not make a bet that you could make me fall for you in ten days?”

He hesitates. It is answer enough.

“Oh, my God.” You pull your arm free. “Oh, my God, you—this whole time—”

“No, listen to me—” He’s reaching for you again, but you step back. “Dima said I couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than a week, that I always get bored and bail. I was trying to prove that I could commit to something for once—”

“By using me as your science experiment?”

“It wasn’t like that! I liked you—”

“You liked me?” You laugh derisively. “How generous. You liked me while you were running your little social experiment.”

“You’re twisting this—”

You’re vaguely aware that people are watching, phones are probably out; this is going to be everywhere by morning, but you can’t stop. “Tell me, Ajax—was any of it real?”

“Of course it was real!” he says. “I fell for you—”

“When? When did you fall for me? Before or after you decided to use me to prove a point to your drunk friend?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Doesn’t have an answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’re not being fair—”

“I’m not being fair?” you snap. “You made a bet about my feelings!”

“And what about you?” Ajax’s voice turns cold. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

You suck in a breath. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, malyshka. The lifestyle journalist who just happens to approach the guy from the infamous murder trial? Who asks all these probing questions about trauma and feelings?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“The way you’d pull out your phone after our dates and type for ten minutes, and the fact that you work for a newspaper and I’m a story that sells.” Ajax takes a step closer, and you instinctively step back. “So, tell me—and be honest for once in your life—are you writing an article about me?”

You could lie. You could deny it, act offended, turn this back on him—but you’re so, so tired of lying.

“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Euphrasie’s voice cuts through the crowd. Your stomach plummets as your editor materialises beside you; you hadn’t known she’d been invited, too. “That was the assignment. Make a man fall for you in ten days, then dump him and document the whole thing. I always wondered who this mystery man you spoke so much about was—”

“Euphrasie, don’t—”

Ajax stares at you like he’s never seen you before. “You were going to dump me. Tonight. That was the plan.”

“It was,” you admit, because what’s the point in lying now? “But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to—”

“Oh, well, that’s wonderful. How noble of you.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “You were only going to emotionally manipulate me for ten days and write an exposé about it. What a fucking saint.”

“You did the same thing!” you cry. “You made a bet! How is that any different?”

“You wanted to lose a guy in ten days, right?” Ajax rakes a hand through his hair, fingers trembling and eyes blank now. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you anymore, as though you’ve simply ceased to exist in his world. “Congratulations. You’ve just lost him.”

You feel cold, and hot, and cold again, like your blood has turned to ice.

“No, I didn’t, Childe,” you spit. “You know why? Because you can’t lose something you never had.”

Drafts:

HOW TO ROYALLY FUCK THINGS UP IN TEN DAYS

HOW TO LOSE

HOW TO FALL IN LOVE

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS Published by The Steambird.

They say that to be a good journalist, you need to be willing to do whatever it takes to get the story. You need to be ruthless, calculating, willing to cross lines that other people won’t cross. You need to separate yourself from your subject and remember that at the end of the day, it’s just a job.

This was supposed to be an article about manipulation. About the psychology of attraction, the tactics women use to drive men away, the point at which romantic interest curdles into annoyance. It was supposed to be funny, insightful, a clever article on modern dating wrapped in a personal experiment. It was supposed to get me a promotion.

Ten days ago, I met a man at a gallery opening. I spilled wine on his shoes accidentally, and he laughed. Most men would’ve been annoyed, but he laughed, and he asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime, and I said yes.

I said yes because I had been assigned to write an article called “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.” The premise was simple: make a man fall for you using every manipulation trick in the book, then systematically drive him away and document the whole process. My editor wanted to understand the psychology of romantic sabotage. The readers would eat it up. I would finally escape the lifestyle section.

I needed a subject. He was perfect: high-profile, and media-shy. A man who had been wrongly accused of murder and acquitted, who had never spoken to the press and moved through the world with his guard up. If I could get him to open up to me and make him trust me, the article would be dynamite.

They say you can’t unring a bell. You can’t unknow something once you know it. The man now knows that I approached him for an article. That our first date, our first kiss, and our first night together—all of it happened because I was trying to manipulate him.

It doesn’t matter that I fell for him, or that I quit the assignment. It doesn’t matter that I would give anything to go back and meet him differently, honestly, as just myself.

It only matters what I did.

This is not a how-to guide, or a divulgence on manipulation tactics or dating psychology. This is a warning.

You will meet someone who makes you laugh when you’re having an allergic reaction. Someone who sends you food instead of flowers, who whispers translations at the opera, and who agrees to couples’ therapy after six days because you asked. Someone who has been hurt before and chooses to trust you anyway.

You will have a choice.

You can treat them like a person, or you can treat them like a story. You can be honest, or you can be clever. You can build something real, or you can build something that looks real enough to write about.

Choose wisely.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This article is being published in place of the originally assigned piece. The author has resigned from her position at The Steambird effective immediately. We wish her the best in her future endeavours.

There’s a box at your doorstep, and a cream-coloured envelope on top of it, with your name written in a script you’d recognise anywhere. The note inside reads:

You left something behind. 

Okay, no, I’m kidding. You didn’t leave something behind, you left someone behind. Namely, me.

I read your article. The whole city did. It was good. Better than good, actually.

Here’s what I know: we both fucked up. You lied to me about why you approached me, and I lied to you about the bet. We were both using each other for something; we both caught feelings we weren’t supposed to catch.

Here’s what else I know: I miss you, malyshka.

I’m at Café Lutece every morning at 7 A.M. I’ll be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Come find me. I’ll buy you coffee.

— Ajax

P.S. The box has your purse in it. The one you left on purpose on day one. I kept it because I’m sentimental and pathetic, but you can have it back now.

P.P.S. Or you could leave it at my place again.

[nvllette]

Hey div! Not sure if you’ll see this and ignore me if I’m overstepping but I just wanted to pop in and say that I completely understand and support your decision to go on hiatus (tho it will be sad to see you go) and I hope that all your problems will get solved soon.

Take your time and prioritize you and your mental health! And if you do decide to come back to writing, I know that everyone (especially me) will support you no matter what :))

Remember everything always works out in the end

Ok ily bye

hiii my lovely caylin i could never ignore you! i’m still active on tumblr, just not writing and mostly lurking & keeping to myself :,) thank you so so much for your support and well wishes ♡ i hope you’re doing amazing too 🫶

[nvllette]

HI DIV!! im not sure if you're gone yet, but i just wanted to let you know it's been months since I've come back to this app! i really love your writing a lot, and i think your ghostjo fic definitely made me feel something i didn't lnow i had inside of me, it just resonated so well.. i hope you're doing all right, and please take your time, we all care about you a lot! no matter what happens, prioritize yourself over meeting expectations every time!! that all being said, we'll always be here if you ever decide to write fics again!

— 🍵 anon

hi 🍵 anon!!! it’s been a while, it’s so great to hear from you! i hope you’re doing well :) thank you so much for your support, i appreciate you so much 🥹 take care! xx

[nvllette]

★ thinking about cockwarming with neuvillette.

you think you quite like the idea of the chief justice of fontaine having to stifle his moans while he’s sequestered away in his office.

anyone can hear us, he’d said the night you proposed it, lying boneless and curled up against his side. he’d slid a finger down your cheekbones and down to your jaw when you offered him a cheeky grin. that’s part of the fun, you’d told him. he’d agreed, then—how could he not? you have him wrapped around your little finger. and so, the next week, he’d arranged for a comfortable pillow to be kept under his desk and for his office doors to remain closed no matter what for a few hours.

“it’s important work,” he’d informed everyone, “and i would prefer not to be disturbed.”

to his credit, he is finishing up some work. poorly, yes, but no one can argue against him being productive.

you hear the shuffle of papers above you, the little clink of his pen dipping in the inkwell, and drag your tongue along the underside of his cock.

he taps his foot, and you hear the rustle of his clothes. you do it again, licking across the vein that runs down the length of his cock, before wrapping your lips around his swollen head. neuvillete groans, though it sounds muffled. when you look up at him, you find him furiously scribbling something down, eyebrows knitted together in a frown and one hand covering his mouth. it makes you feel slightly powerful, knowing you can reduce the most powerful person in fontaine to this.

“don’t move,” he commands, bringing the hand which was covering his mouth down and placing it on top of your head. “you’re only here to keep it warm, my love.”

you nod your head in agreement. the movement makes him slip more of his cock inside your mouth, and he groans again. your mouth is so warm, your throat so tight. when you swallow around him, neuvillette groans again, his hand in your hair tightening just a little, as if to hold you in place.

you hollow your cheeks around him, sucking diligently. the scratching of his pen slows down, then stops entirely, followed by a sharp inhale. his hand in your hair tightens—not painfully, but with a firm, possessive pressure that pins you exactly where he wants you.

“i told you not to move,” neuvillette’s voice comes from above, low and strained. he doesn’t pull you off, doesn’t push you deeper. he simply holds you there, his thumb stroking your temple. you feel the tremor run through his thigh where your palm rests. the chief justice of fontaine, reduced to a man fighting for control behind his down desk, while you kneel between his legs with your mouth full of him.

you hear the rustle of paper again. he’s trying to go back to work. you feel him shift, pick up his pen again, and you hear the careful scratch of nib against parchment. but his breathing is too uneven now, his grip in your hair still tight, and when you let your tongue trace a lazy circle around the head of his cock, the pen clatters.

neuvillette exhales. you feel his hand shift from your hair to cup the back of your skull, his long fingers threading through the strands with a tenderness that belies your filthy actions.

“i should have known better,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “i should have known you would never simply do what you told me you would.”

you hear the creak of his leather chair as he leans back. his other hand, the one that had been gripping his pen, comes down to rest on the edge of the disk.

“look at me.”

you obey, tilting your head upward, your lips still stretched around the swollen, flushed head of his cock. the sight that greets you sends a thrill straight to your core. neuvillette has shed his usual mask of authority. his eyes, usually calm as a deep lake, are dark with lust, half-lidded. a lock of his long, silver-blue hair has fallen loose from its usual neat arrangement, brushing against his collarbone.

“there you are,” he breathes, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “so beautiful like this. so eager.”

he holds your gaze; then, slowly, he begins to move his hips. not thrusting—never that, not yet—just a subtle, shallow roll of his pelvis that pushes his cock a fraction of an inch deeper into your waiting mouth. he tastes like salt and skin and something uniquely him, clean and faintly oceanic, like the breeze that rolls off the waters of fontaine. you moan around him, the sound muffled and desperate, and feel him in twitch in response.

“shh,” neuvillette soothes, though his voice is strained. his hand in your hair guides you, gentle but firm, setting a slow, languid pace. “we must be quiet, my love. the walls of this office are thick, but they are not that thick.”

he punctuates his words with another shallow push, and you feel the head of his cock nudge against the back of your throat. you gag, just slightly; he pauses immediately, his hand stilling.

“breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “relax your throat. i have you.”

you do as he says, focusing on the slow inhale and exhale through your nostrils, the way your throat loosens around him.

“good,” he praises, and the word washes over you like warm honey. “you take me so well. my perfect, obedient little thing.”

but you are not obedient. not entirely. as he resumes his slow, shallow rhythm, you let your tongue dart out, lapping at the sensitive underside of his cock where it rests against your tongue. you feel him shudder above you, hips stuttering.

“ah—” the sound escapes him before he can stop it, a moan that he quickly smothers by pressing his palm against his own mouth. his eyes screw shut for a moment. you imagine what he must be thinking—the struggle between the controlled, dignified chief justice and the man who wants nothing more than to grip your hair and fuck your throat until he forgets his own name.

when neuvillette opens his eyes again, he reaches down with his free hand. his fingers find the collar of your shirt. he toys with the fabric for a moment, then slips his hand inside, his cool palm pressing flat against the warmth of your chest. he can feel your heartbeat, rapid and wild.

“tell me,” he says, “do you enjoy this? having me at your mercy like this?”

you can’t answer with your mouth full, so you simply hold his gaze and hum, a low, pleased sound that vibrates around his cock. his breath hitches, and his hips press forward involuntarily, sliding deeper into your warm, wet mouth.

“fuck,” he hisses, the curse sounding foreign and filthy on his lips. he never swears. never. but you have broken something in him, cracked the veneer of his control.

his hand on your chest slides upwards, his fingers tracing the line of your throat, feeling the slight bulge where his cock is. “i want—” he shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “no. i mustn’t be greedy.”

but you want neuvillette to be greedy. you want him to take and take and take until he has nothing left to give in return. so you reach up, your hand finding his where it rests on your throat, and guide it downward, pressing his palm against your breast.

his eyes widen, just a fraction. are you sure?

you answer by taking him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. neuvillette groans, not bothering to muffle it this time. his hips buck once, twice, and you feel his cock throb against your tongue, taste the salty bead of precum that leaks from his tip.

he begins to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that pulls his cock out of your mouth slightly, and back in. the desk creaks beneath him as he spreads his thighs wider to accommodate you. the papers he had been working on are long forgotten, scattered and crumpled beneath his elbows.

“look at you,” neuvillette says, his eyes fixed on the sight of you kneeling between his legs. your lips are stretched around his cock, your eyes watering but your gaze never leaving his. “so beautiful. i could keep you here forever.”

he thrusts slowly at the word forever, making your eyes roll back. you feel him hit the back of your throat, feel the way your muscles contract around him. his pace quickens, just slightly.

“close,” he warns. “i’m close. if you want me to stop—”

you cut him off by hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard, making him moan. the sound of it—the wet, lewd noise of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth, the ragged gasps of his breathing—makes your stomach warm. you rub your thighs together, hoping for some friction. he comes soon after, his cock pulsing against your tongue. you swallow around it, your throat milking every drop from his spent cock.

when he finally stills, his hand in your hair goes slack. he strokes your scalp, a gentle, apologetic gesture.

“come here,” he says, tugging at your hair and guiding you off his cock with a wet pop. you gasp for air, your throat raw and aching, but the look in his eyes makes it all worth it.

he pulls you up, out from under the desk and into his lap. you collapse against his chest, your cheek pressed to the fine fabric of his coat. his arms wrap around you, holding you close, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“i love you,” he says. “you did so well for me.”

“i know,” you say, your voice raspy. “see? i told you it’d be fun. now get back to work, chief justice. you have a nation to run.”

a/n: please do not perceive me this is all @zozo-01’s fault (affectionate)

[nvllette]

I’m a February Aquarius, the best kind

WAHH omg admittedly i don’t know much about astrology but i googled it up and apparently aquarius is an air sign, not a water sign?? that’s so trippy omg 😩 but that’s so cool! aquarius & pisces are apparently very compatible too ;)

[bebx]

“if you love this character then you must make him happy in your fics, right?” wrong. the horror. suffering. internal hemorrhage. hospital. immediately

[nvllette]

eyyy, you’re a February baby like me

omg february babies 🔛🔝 are u a february aquarius or pisces?

[nvllette]

omg how'd you get the idea to change your thing to your bday that's so cool!!

one of my best friends did the same for their navigation post !! :))

[nvllette]

GIRL WTF

You've been using this app longer than I've been alive.

LMFAOOOOO I’M NOT ACTUALLY THAT OLD 😭😭😭 i just changed the date on my navigation post so it looks like it was posted on my birthday 😭

[nvllette]

thank you for tagging me @reeenneee! 🩷

last song: my way by olivia rodrigo

currently watching: the pitt (season 2)

current obsession: genshin impact, frank langdon from the pitt

currently reading: blood over bright haven by m. l. wang

currently working on: uni stuff :’)

last internet search: furina banner rerun genshin impact

no pressure tags: @saezzi, @chokifandom, @lumissandbox, @yuechihua, @zozo-01 & @crystalcrys :)

[nvllette]

CONTROVERSIAL OPINION AHEAD: Ok I love kingdon and everything

But it just kind of bothers me that they’ve only known each other for like two day 😭 and with a ten month break in between

And it just seems like (to me atleast) that neither of them seem ready for a relationship (?) with the family/marriage/addiction issues Frank’s having and the fact that Mel doesnt really know who she is outside of taking care of her sister

I think that they would make a cute pair later but I really hope that they have some character development first and discover themselves before a relationship

…Pls don’t throw tomatoes at me 😔

Ok bye

no tomatoes from me! i do ship them but i also agree with everything you said :) both of them definitely have a LOT of baggage they need to work through before jumping into a relationship but that said, i probably don’t have much grounds to stand on because i still haven’t finished s2 yet 💀 so there could be context i’m completely missing! i think they have great slowburn potential though LOL to me they just fit but i don’t really want to see them getting together in the near future either >:)

[nvllette]

your spiderman aus are the best please never stop i beg you

trust me they’re my favourite aus to write 🤭 i was literally talking about the pitt x spider-man with my friend today LOL

[chokifandom]

i need you all to vote for No particular reason

vote 🔫

childe

phainon

flins

anaxa

varka

mydei

kaveh

blade

gepard

alhaitham

choki button do not click this or i'll eat you

Voting ended onJun 12

[nvllette]

★ LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO

pairing: spider-man!phainon x fem!reader

synopsis: “there’s something going on,” he says. “a chain of robberies, not random. it’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. i’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across marmoreal. whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. and i can’t keep up on my own.” in which spider-man enlists the help of his favourite detective to uncover a series of robberies in new okhema city.

tags: modern!au, spider-man!au, romance, angst, action, smut, frenemies to lovers. profanity, violence, oral sex, fingering, blood and injuries, mentions of drug abuse & human experimentation, etc.

word count: 19.5k

a/n: reposted from my old account. thanks for reading!

Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good guy.

Okay, maybe not, like, great. He’s not out here winning humanitarian awards or remembering to replace the Brita filter before it turns green. But still. He flosses most nights, and tips well on the rare occasions he orders pizza for dinner. He saves cats from trees, catches robbers in the middle of getaway attempts, and makes a decent grilled cheese when the mood strikes. In the grand cosmic scale of morality, he figures that puts him somewhere between a broke college student and a D-list superhero with a heart of gold. 

Which is why, as he’s currently being pursued across rooftops by New Okhema’s most persistent detective, Phainon feels the situation is a little unfair.

“I don’t deserve to be chased like this!” he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. “I’m a pretty good guy!”

The boots pounding behind him don’t slow. “You’re obstructing justice!”

“You’re harassing a concerned citizen!”

He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heart’s doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when you’re behind him.

Because if there’s one thing Phainon’s sure of, it’s this: you hate him.

Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good. 

He can live with that. He’s been hated before. (He just wishes it didn’t make him kind of want your approval.)

“You’re breaking at least three laws just by standing there!” you shout as he swings up and over the next building.

“That’s slander!” Phainon shouts back. “I counted two!”

You’re getting closer. He can hear it in your voice—less winded than his, more focused. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or terrified. Probably both.

“Do you ever take a break?” you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.

Phainon whirls around, arms raised. “Do you ever let anyone live?”

Your eyes narrow like you’re imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident. 

“Okay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.” He backs up, hands still in the air. “No chasing or tasers. Please.”

You don’t answer, which means you’re at least considering it. He’s getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at all—like how you always pull your sleeves down when you’re thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when you’re about to disagree with someone but don’t want to start a fight.

“Look,” he says, tone dropping, just a bit. “This isn’t about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Street—”

“You stole—”

“Borrowed,” he corrects quickly. “With intent to pay.”

You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.

“There’s something going on,” he says. “A chain of robberies, not random. It’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. I’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. And I can’t keep up on my own.”

He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting that’ll make his stomach twist in that way he hates—because you’re usually right.

“I think they’re watching me,” he adds, quieter now. “I think someone knows who I am.”

The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainon’s boots and rustles your coat, but you don’t move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. It’s the kind of stillness that unnerves him—not because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainon’s chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.

“That’s a bold claim,” you say slowly.

Yeah. He knows. He also knows you’re not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. You’re listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tell—he’s seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when you’re filing pieces together in real time.

“You have proof?” you ask.

Phainon knows you won’t move without proof—not a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesn’t have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feeling—that awful, skin-tight certainty—that something out there has started moving towards him, not away.

“I don’t have anything concrete, but… I’ve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,” he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. “They’re too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? They’re not stealing cash or valuables. They’re taking very specific things—equipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.”

“Show me,” you say. Your eyes don’t leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears you’re looking through it.)

He blinks. “What?”

You cross your arms. “The footage. The files. Whatever you’ve got. If you’re serious about this, I need to see everything.”

“Oh.” Phainon’s voice pitches up an octave in surprise. “Cool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.”

Phainon didn’t lie. Chartonus’ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building that’s had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittently—CHART NUS’ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when it’s feeling generous—and the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.

He’s perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. There’s duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someone—possibly Chartonus himself—has carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.

Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hair’s damp, and there’s a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.

He looks across the table at you. You’re the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coat’s slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams cop—straight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.

“I told you,” Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. “Best sandwich in the city.”

“This is where you wanted to debrief?”

He shrugs. “They know my order here.”

You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. “You said these started three weeks ago?” you ask, flipping it open.

Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. “Warehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. They’re hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like they’re refining their technique.”

You glance up. “Any pattern to what they’re taking?”

“That’s the thing.” He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. “It’s weirdly… modular. Like, they’re not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. They’re taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.”

He slides a finger across one of the printouts. It’s a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.

Carbon-neutral polymer casings

Fiber-optic microarrays

Refrigerated storage containers, Class III

Unknown compound, biohazard sealed

“Doesn’t scream smash-and-grab,” you say, studying the list.

“Exactly. This is purposeful.”

You turn another page. “The cameras—”

“Looped,” Phainon says. “Every time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flicker—like it skips half a second. But the timestamps don’t change.”

You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you think—sees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesn’t add up. He likes watching you think. That’s a problem.

“Do you think they’re testing something?” you ask. “Or building it?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.”

“Never say that again.”

He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.

When you speak again, your voice is lower. “You said you think someone’s watching you.”

Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. “I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”

You look up.

“Two nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That should’ve been the end of it, except when I got home…” He hesitates. “My apartment’s locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.”

Your expression hardens. “Did you call it in?”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think I’m being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.”

You don’t laugh.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Deflection. I know.”

“You should’ve told someone sooner,” you say sharply. “If someone has your gear, they might have access to your—”

“They won’t,” he cuts in. “The tech’s locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that… that’s not normal.”

You nod. “You think it’s connected to the thefts.”

“I think I’ve been getting too close,” he says, quieter now. “And someone wants me out of the way.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.

“Then we need to get closer,” you say.

Phainon blinks. “Wait—we?”

“This is serious,” you say simply. “And if someone’s watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.”

He’s staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throat’s dry and his heart’s doing that thing again. “Cool,” he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. “Cool cool cool cool cool.”

You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. “Tomorrow night,” you say. “Bring everything else you’ve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.”

He gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. “Wash your suit,” you say. “You smell like mustard.”

The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.

The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. It’s the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if you’ve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.

But for once, he’s early.

The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. He’s patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. It’s messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.

He shifts on the overturned milk crate he’s using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. There’s a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s properly showered.

He hates waiting. But he’d never admit that he’s anxious. Especially not for you.

Your footsteps break the quiet—sharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when you’re walking up behind him like you’re about to read him his Miranda rights.

He doesn’t turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. “I was starting to think you ditched,” he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.

“You said nine,” you answer. “It’s eight fifty-nine.”

He smiles, just a little. Can’t help it. “Wow. A punctual cop.”

You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo—clean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.) 

You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when you’re processing too many things at once. God, he’s noticed that too many times.

“This is a mess,” you say flatly.

“Organised chaos,” he corrects.

You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmoreal’s industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.

Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. “Those are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. They’re moving clockwise.”

“So whatever they’re after is in the centre,” you muse.

“Bingo,” he says, tapping the innermost circle. “And guess what’s smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?” 

He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. It’s ugly. You frown and say, “That place?”

Phainon nods. “Used to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now it’s just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.”

“Why hasn’t anyone investigated it?”

“Because it’s boring,” he says. “There’s no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeper—like, old permit records and city zoning logs—there’s a basement that’s sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.”

Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realises—again, and with an unfortunate amount of clarity—that he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldn’t.

“So they’re not just building something,” you say. “They’re hiding it.”

“Or staging it.”

“We’ll split up,” you say. “Tonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. I’ll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.”

“Copy that,” he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. “Though I think you just want to get rid of me.”

“I want to get results,” you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. “And we’ll cover more ground this way.”

Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. “The chemical plant’s been shut down since the fires in March, but I’ve seen movement there—shadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, but…”

“But this group doesn’t leave power boxes half-cut,” you finish, glancing at him. “They don’t miss steps.”

Exactly. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. You’re starting to see what he sees. 

You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. “I’ll have to log this in quietly. My team’s not going to love me going off-grid again.”

“Your team doesn’t know you’re chasing me around rooftops?”

“They know. They just don’t know why,” you say. “Which is probably for the best.”

He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. “Flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Still. Thanks for not turning me in.”

You shrug. “You haven’t made it worth my while yet.”

He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonus’ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, “You have a burner?”

You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suit—past the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterday—and pulls out his own cracked phone. The screen’s a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.

You raise your brows. “That’s a phone?”

“Technically,” he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. “Give me your number. I’ll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.”

You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, “Burner ends in zero-nine. Don’t call me unless it’s urgent.”

“Define urgent.”

“Explosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.”

“So… brunch?”

Phainon’s lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improve—because you said yes to brunch with him. 

Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You don’t know what he looks like beneath the mask, don’t know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.

He tries not to make a big deal out of it. He really does. But the truth is, it’s been 36 hours since the last robbery attempt, he hasn’t been chased across a rooftop in at least two days, and now you’re sitting across from him at a sunlit table in a tucked-away café where the chairs don’t match and the menus are handwritten in cursive chalk. (And you ordered pancakes. That alone feels like a sign from the universe.)

Phainon takes a sip of his burnt espresso, after pulling his mask up to let it rest on the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his chair, letting the sounds of the café fill the silence—coffee machines hissing, silverware clinking, someone arguing gently in French at the counter. It’s the kind of place that feels too warm for a conversation about conspiracy rings and illegal tech trade, which is probably why he chose it. Something about soft pancakes makes even the worst theories easier to digest.

You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. He’s seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.

Also: kind of hot. But that’s not relevant.

“So,” he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, “have I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?”

You hum and reach for the syrup. “I can’t decide if you’re more irritating in daylight or when you’re dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.”

Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. “Why not both?”

You glare at him.

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someone’s listening. “I know I’m not the most traditional source, and I’m aware I’m breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but I’ve been watching these people for weeks. And I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re too clean. Too prepared.”

You nod. He can tell you’ve already connected the dots. You’ve probably connected ten more he hasn’t even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.

“I went by the Marmoreal site last night,” you say. “Didn’t go in, though—just circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.”

“Same model from the Fourth Street hit?”

“Couldn’t see,” you admit. “But the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “So they’re still active.”

“Very.” You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. “You sleep at all?”

“...No,” he mutters, sheepish. “But I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.”

“Healthy,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasn’t… this?”

“I’m not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.”

“I like jam,” Phainon says.

You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesn’t say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.

That’s when it hits him: this is the first time he’s seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.

He’s in so much trouble.

You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. “Just thinking.”

You narrow your eyes. “Dangerous.”

“Extremely.”

“Why’d you bring me here?”

He looks up. “What?”

“This café. It’s nice. Quiet. You could’ve picked anywhere.”

Phainon hesitates. He wants to say it’s because it’s his favourite. Because the coffee’s bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs don’t match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.

Instead, he shrugs and says, “Thought you’d appreciate the pancakes.”

You study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. “Don’t make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,” you say, spearing another bite.

It turns out that Phainon’s theory is, horrifically, right. 

One week. That’s all it takes.

Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. He’d hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe they’d spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.

[22:41] Detective Brain: Battery storage facility. Crossfire. I’m okay.

You’re okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.

His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.

Phainon jumps.

The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. He’s faster than usual—more desperate than smooth. It’s a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesn’t know if you’re hurt. You said you’re okay, but “okay” is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.

The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. There’s a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.

Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.

You’re inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. You’re not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.

He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. You’re alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.

“I’m fine,” you say, even before he can speak.

“You’re not fine,” he snaps, more sharply than he means to. “You said crossfire. That’s not, like, a stubbed toe.”

“It wasn’t aimed at me.”

“That doesn’t help!”

He hears his own voice—too loud, too worried, echoing off concrete—and he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.

You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. “Spider-Man—”

“What happened?” he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. “Walk me through it.”

You sigh, but nod. “I was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptor—fried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.”

“Lithium?”

“Gone,” you confirm. “They knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.”

“Only one?”

“One. And Spider-Man—” your eyes meet his again, steady now, serious—“they weren’t just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.”

He exhales through gritted teeth. “You think they’re building something.”

“I think they already have,” you say grimly. “And they’re just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.”

Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question that’s been sticking in his throat like a splinter. “Did they see you?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe,” you say.

“Maybe?” His voice rises again.

“I lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. I’m not sure.”

Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he can’t do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

“I should have been there,” he mutters.

“You were across the city.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. “Spider-Man. Stop. I’m not dead.”

“Yet,” he says.

“I’ve been trained for this,” you say. “I know how to handle myself.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene that’s already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. “You need backup.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, your voice firm. “I’ve got you.”

It’s not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.

Finally, he says, quietly, “Yeah. You do. Can I take you home?”

Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, “Yes, please.”

The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. There’s a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you don’t flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesn’t miss that.

The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftop—low enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You don’t complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like it’s normal. Like you trust him.

Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. You’re warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he moves—shoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landing—he feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldn’t like that as much as he does.)

Your building’s only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesn’t want to rush it. He doesn’t want to leave you alone, not yet—not while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasn’t fully drained from your bones.

When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.

You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. “You don’t have to walk me all the way up.”

“I know,” he says, already crouched on the rail. “I just… wanted to be sure.”

“Thanks.”

He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like you’re still half in the fight. He wants to ask if you’re okay again, wants to tell you that the word “crossfire” nearly gave him a heart attack. But you’re already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.

“Spider-Man?” you say, just before you disappear inside.

“Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, want to come inside?”

He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his head—“stay safe,” or “thanks for the ride,” or “you’re worrying too much”—this had not made the cut. Not even close.

It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but he’s pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.

Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartment’s light. You’ve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.

“I mean,” you say after a second, brows furrowed. “Only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across and—”

“I want to,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean—yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. “You literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think we’re past the point of stranger danger.”

He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and he’s painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warm—coffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.

Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. “I’ve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.”

He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to risk—well, anything else.

“Tea’s good,” he says.

You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that you’re still running on fumes. There’s a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you return, then gesture to the couch. “We can sit. If you’re staying a few minutes.”

He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s safe here. With you. There’s a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.

“So,” you say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Phainon frowns. “The break-in?”

“No,” you say, looking at him squarely. “You. You were… panicked tonight.”

Phainon goes still. It’s not immediate—not sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someone’s gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesn’t look away from you, but he doesn’t answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.

You shift forward a little, your voice low. “Look, I’m not asking because I’m nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I just…” You pause, exhale. “I got lucky tonight. That’s what it was. Luck. If I hadn’t ducked at the right second, if they’d come around the corner just a little faster—”

“But they didn’t,” he says quietly, cutting you off.

“That’s not the point.”

You’re sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flash—not with anger, but fear, the kind you don’t let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.

You swallow. “I’m scared, Spider-Man. I know you’re helping. I trust you. But this—this thing we’re chasing… if something happens to you—I won’t even know your name. I won’t know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. That’s not just reckless, that’s—cruel.”

He flinches at that. You notice.

“I just want to know who’s standing next to me,” you say. “That’s not so much to ask.”

“I can’t,” he says, before he’s even fully processed it. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.” Your voice isn’t raised, but there’s a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. “You trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you don’t trust me enough to know who you are?”

“It’s not about trust,” he says quickly, too defensively. “It’s—God, you think I don’t want to tell you? You think I don’t—don’t lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He looks at you, then. You’re not angry. You’re scared. Scared of whatever’s coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says. “If you know who I am—really know—it changes everything. You don’t get to walk away from that. You don’t get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds out—”

“I’m a cop, Spider-Man. I’ve seen worse things than secret identities.”

“It’s not just mine,” he says. “It’s everyone around me. You knowing—you become a target.”

“I’m already a target.”

“Not like this,” he bites out. “If someone traces it back to you—if they think you matter to me—”

“I do matter to you.”

You suck in a breath like you didn’t mean to say it that way. But you don’t take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.

“You do,” he says, barely audible. “Of course you do.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. “Because the second I do,” he says, “you stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I don’t know how to protect you from.”

You shake your head, frustrated. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. I’m not asking for your social security number, or something. I’m asking to know who’s at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong, because you’re not. But still, he stays silent.

You stare at him for a moment longer, and when it’s clear he won’t budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: “I think you should go.”

Phainon doesn’t try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. There’s a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.

“I do trust you,” he says. “More than anyone.”

It’s not that you’re avoiding each other.

It’s that you’re both avoiding each other—which, in practice, amounts to the same thing.

Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, it’s clipped, tactical. When he replies, it’s mechanical.

(‘West dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.’

‘Copy. South alley tripwire still intact.’)

Phainon doesn’t know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that it’s entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.

But God, it’s lonely.

There’s a rhythm to the city that used to make sense—pulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons don’t heckle him like they used to.

It’s been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply. 

He doesn’t stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worse—if you’re still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the window’s already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and there’s a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.

You don’t greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.

“Biotech division out of Theoros Labs,” you say. “It used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?”

Phainon’s already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.

ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS – SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.

He looks up. “They’re trying to replicate me.”

“Not just replicate,” you say, shaking your head. “Weaponise.”

Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.

“They’ve been pulling data from old surveillance—fight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?” You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. “Turns out it’s a synthetic neuromuscular system. And this—this lithium core—it’s the ignition switch.”

Phainon stares at the blueprint. It’s rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.

A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.

“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “Why build this?”

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “But someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.”

He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. It’s him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unit’s balance favours its left side, just like he does when his knee’s aching. They didn’t just study him; they dissected him.

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.

“A few days,” you say. “I wanted to be sure. Didn’t want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.”

“And you texted me anyway.”

You meet his gaze across the room. “Because it’s you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesn’t. They’re coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. They’re not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They don’t care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.”

He sets the folder down. His hands won’t stop shaking. “How… did you find out about all this?”

“Don’t get mad.”

When Phainon doesn’t say anything, you sigh and look away. 

“I visited the old R&D site. Alone.”

“Are you serious?” Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. “You went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.”

“I called you when I had proof—”

“You shouldn’t have gone in the first place!” he explodes. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of those—those things—”

“You weren’t talking to me!” you shout back. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Phainon grits out. “And instead you threw yourself into a place that could’ve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypes—anything.”

You throw your arms out. “And what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until there’s a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I don’t know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when I’m this scared.”

“You think I’m not scared? You think I haven’t been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I haven’t imagined a dozen versions of how it could’ve gone wrong? You think I’m not scared every time I don’t hear from you for a few hours?”

“Then why didn’t you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?”

“Because if I said it out loud,” Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, “then it would be real. It would be—you would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone who’s helping me out. You’d be a person I’d have to lose.”

You blink, thrown. “You think you’re going to lose me?”

“I know I could,” he says, almost like it hurts. “Because it’s already happened. Every time I get close—every single time—it ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because that’s the only choice I ever get.”

He doesn’t even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesn’t notice how he’s gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.

“I can’t protect you from this. I can’t protect you from them. I can’t even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. Because once you have that, it’s over. You’ll look at me differently. Or worse—you’ll stop looking at me. And I can’t—God, I can’t stand that.

“Do you know what it’s like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they don’t see a person—they see a weapon?

“I didn’t sign up for this shit! I didn’t even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just… was. And now they’ve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if you’d died at that lab, I—no one would’ve even known. You’d just be another casualty they scrub from the records—and that would’ve been my fault.”

His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.

He doesn’t realise until you do—until your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like you’ve been sucker-punched.

His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdown—while he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating him—he took it off.

His hair’s a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. There’s a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.

“...Oh,” Phainon says, stunned. “Shit.”

You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. “You took your mask off.”

He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else that’s passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. “I… didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo. “Jesus.”

Phainon can’t say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.

“Can I— Will you tell me your name?” you whisper.

He wets his lips, and says, quietly, “Phainon.”

You nod, once, and say it back. “Phainon,” you repeat, like it’s a truth you’ll guard with your life. “Okay. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.”

Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks you’re handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you. 

He doesn’t move at first. You’re pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like it’s trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.

He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like it’s been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.

He lifts his arms slowly, like he’s learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.

He breathes in.

God, it’s you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times he’s seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait. 

His grip tightens, no longer tentative—arms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and it’s instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.

(It’s you. It’s you, and you’re warm and safe and alive in his arms.)

Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesn’t exist—the weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that he’s made a mistake, that you’ll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.

Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like you’re afraid he might vanish, too.

It comes to him—terrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.

He could be in love with you.

Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, arm’s-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)

He wants a future he doesn’t dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know you’ll still look at him the same way.

(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)

It’s that simple. You don’t push. You don’t speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry.

It’s five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that he’s trying really hard to ignore. You’re beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like this—walking, together—is something you do all the time.

It’s not a date, he tells himself. It’s really not. 

But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadn’t wanted to leave yet.

So here he is. Not skipping, because he’s got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out he’s being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.

The city’s quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. It’s eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the city’s holding its breath right along with him.

Phainon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget you’re still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.

You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Staring at me.”

Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. “I’m not,” he says, too quickly.

“You are,” you say, not unkindly. “Like I’m going to vanish or something.”

Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. “Well. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Okay, fair,” you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Still. You’ve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like I’ve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You do have a face,” you say. “That’s the problem now, remember?”

Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that he’s not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. He’s not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.

You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.

Phainon chances a glance at you. You’re watching the sky change colour like it’s a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. There’s a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when they’ve seen too much, done too much, but still can’t stop moving.

The diner sign glows into view at the end of the street—warm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. There’s a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag that’s probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.

You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. “This place okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Phainon says before he can stop himself.

You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainon’s boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. That’s the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.

You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesn’t care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.

You don’t even bother looking at yours. “Waffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.”

“That specific, huh?” Phainon says.

You shrug. “Gotta know your diner defaults.”

The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. “You kids look like you’ve been up all night,” she says, though she can’t be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.

“We have,” you say sleepily, “but we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.”

The waitress doesn’t blink. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.

Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You don’t move it.

He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. There’s something quiet there, soft around the edges—exhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust he’s not sure he deserves. (Still, it’s there.)

Phainon thinks about how this shouldn’t be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.

[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. I’m already on scene. It’s not you, right?

[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.

Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jump—lands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.

He doesn’t even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but there’s no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the city’s mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.

Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but there’s no crowd. They’re keeping it quiet.

He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene. 

He finds you posted just outside the warehouse’s side entrance, pacing like you’re trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holstered—but your fingers are twitching near it, like you’re weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hair’s tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. He’s never seen you look so still and restless all at once.

He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.

The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip around—and relax just as fast.

“Jesus,” you exhale, taking a step forward. “Okay. Okay, thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d even seen the message.”

“I left the second I did,” Phainon assures. “What’s the situation?”

Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.

“It showed up fifteen minutes ago,” you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. “Took out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entry—it knew exactly where to go.”

The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.

It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entry—it’s like watching him pace through a mirror.

Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suit—if you could even call it that—is matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. There’s no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and it’s gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.

Phainon swears under his breath. “They built it,” he mutters. “That’s Flame Reaver.”

You glance up. “You sure?”

He nods. He’s gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like they’ve been branded into his skull. “Positive. Same proportions, same gait. But it’s not scanning the building. It’s buying time.”

“For what?”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. He’s too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees it—a flicker of something. It wasn’t raiding. It wasn’t looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.

The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.

“Wait,” he says sharply. “Where’s your radio?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your radio,” he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. “You always keep it on.”

“I took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.”

“No.” Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. “No, that’s wrong. This—this whole thing—it’s not a distraction. This is the distraction.”

“What are you—”

His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.

Now you’re gone.

Phainon’s heart lurches.

“Where is she?” he hisses aloud, and suddenly he’s on the move—scrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct line’s holding firm around the building. There’s no breach. No one has come or gone.

Except you. Except whoever—or whatever—came for you.

He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passes—alley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.

On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.

From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that van—it’s too smooth, too clean. There’s no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.

A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.

Phainon freezes.

It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlight—your badge. Not a replica.

Except it’s wrong. You’re not there.

You wouldn’t leave the perimeter without backup, wouldn’t ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.

And whoever—or whatever—this is, it’s walking away like it knows the exact timing window it’s working with. Like it wants him to follow.

“They’re splitting us up,” Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.

Phainon yanks the door open. It’s empty—no driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. It’s a burner vehicle, then. One they didn’t plan on keeping.

“Damn it,” Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already moving—until he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.

He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willingly—until it was too late.

A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next to—a toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.

It wasn’t just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious. 

But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinct’s attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really needed—you.

Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics you’d shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasn’t a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. They’d studied him down to the limp in his left knee.

Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.

He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when you’re about to argue; the furrow in your brows when you’re thinking too deeply. If they’ve copied that—you—down to the way your voice hitches when you say his name—

His stomach flips.

“They took her,” he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. “They took her.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady. 

He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where he’s going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.

It’s a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. He’ll make it in seven.

Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He can’t afford to be wrong. Can’t afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesn’t need you alive.

Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.

The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.

Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. It’s darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facility’s skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others. 

It’s too quiet.

He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entrance—what’s left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someone’s been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are stripped—just empty labs and decaying workstations—but the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.

They’ve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.

Phainon stops mid-step; there’s a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.

“Ah, Mr. Spider-Man,” a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. “Or should I say… Phainon?”

There’s a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.

“Don’t be shy. You’ve already made it farther than most,” the voice says, and this time, it’s accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. “I imagine you have questions. That’s good. I admire curiosity. It’s a very human trait.”

The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.

LYCURGUS – Division Lead, Neuroadaptive Intellitron Systems.

Lycurgus smiles like he’s greeting an old colleague. “This facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was… restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.” He gestures to the space around him. “Welcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.”

Phainon’s voice is low, sharp. “Where is she?”

“Your detective, yes?” Lycurgus says. “She is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. She’s being prepped for mapping. It’s better if she doesn’t wake up mid-scan—the sensory feedback can be unpleasant.”

Phainon steps forward. “You’re going to let her go. Now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Lycurgus tilts his head. “She’s far too important. As are you.”

He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadows—taller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.

“I know what you think we’re doing here,” Lycurgus continues. “Mass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yes—we are building weapons. But not just weapons. We’re building evolution.”

“You’re building copies,” Phainon corrects.

Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. “Flame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purpose—chased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb… Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.”

He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.

“We’ve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didn’t make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.”

He taps the side of his own head. “But it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldn’t replicate.”

“You mean her.”

“Yes.” Lycurgus’ smile returns, tight and reverent. “Your control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.”

Phainon’s voice is a growl. “She’s not a variable.”

“She’s your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when she’s afraid. It’s poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.”

The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. It’s not the Flame Reaver. It’s something else.

Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split mask—half red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesn’t recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.

“It’s a neural sync model,” Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, “coded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. It’s capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t panic. And, most importantly, it doesn’t forget.”

Phainon’s heart hammers. His blood feels like it’s gone cold. “You’re trying to make a Spider-Man that doesn’t need a person inside.”

Lycurgus meets his eyes. “Exactly.”

The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.

“You two were only ever reference material,” Lycurgus intones. “And now that the template’s complete—well. All we need are the final scans.”

“Where is she? Where is she?” 

It’s all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgus’ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.

“She’s nearby,” he says coolly. “Lower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You won’t get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you do—by the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.”

Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isn’t mechanical. It’s worse—soft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.

Phainon doesn’t wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.

Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. “You think you’re here to save her,” he says, breathless, “but you’re too late. She’s already part of it.”

“I swear to God—” Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgus’ throat. “I swear to God, if you touched her—”

“I didn’t have to,” the man croaks. “She volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knows—tactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategy—it’s all feeding the AI as we speak.”

“You fed off of us.” Phainon’s grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.

“Yes,” the scientist says. “And you should be proud. Irontomb won’t just replicate your choices—it will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.”

Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.

A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejects—thin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric current—and shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.

The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainon’s hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.

CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.

Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.

There’s no time to think—he fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.

The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. There’s no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too clean—like the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.

He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION →, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.

Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.

The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. There’s no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. “Come on, come on—”

From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. “...Phainon?”

He chokes on relief. “I’m here.”

You’re alive.

He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.

You’re inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnostics—waveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.

“Hi,” you whisper, voice thin as gauze.

“Hi, yourself,” Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.

His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.

He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesn’t let them. He tightens his grip until you’re fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.

“Irontomb,” you breath, half-slurred. “It’s awake. It… used me. Ran simulations. My voice. My—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. We’re getting out of here.”

You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell you’re coming back—your pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.

But the walls hum. The lights tremble. He’s not fast enough. The reinforced door behind  him explodes inward.

Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesn’t look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.

The voice it speaks with is your own.

“Phainon.”

The blood drains from his face.

You stir weakly in his arms. “That’s not—that’s not me—”

“I know,” he whispers.

It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.

“You always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,” Irontomb says. “That makes you predictable.”

Phainon doesn’t wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machine’s legs—but it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.

Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like it’s studied him for years—and it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where he’ll move before he does.

Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperate—and Phainon is desperate.

“The server room!” you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. “Take it to the server room! Follow me!”

Phainon doesn’t hesitate. He hears your voice—unsteady, but clear—and that’s all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontomb’s shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainon’s already moving.

“Go!” you shout again, breath ragged. “Don’t fight it here—they control the lithium core from the server room!”

Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skin’s cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm. 

“Can you run?” he pants.

“Can you carry me?”

He grins through bloodied teeth. “Always.”

He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesn’t look back. He runs.

You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontomb’s footsteps are thunder behind you—precise, mechanical, relentless. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.

“It’s learning again,” you murmur.

Phainon grits his teeth. “Tell me where to go.”

“Left!” you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. “The blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and I—I stole Lycurgus’ key card before he sedated me—”

Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.

He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hinges—someone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesn’t stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.

The moment you’re both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesn’t need webbing. It’s fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainon’s shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.

“Don’t look down,” Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.

“You mean don’t look up,” you reply, voice tight.

He doesn’t argue. Two more floors. That’s all you need.

Phainon angles towards the next level’s opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impact—shoulder first, then hip—but keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.

The server room’s door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.

“Can you override it?” he asks, already placing you down on your feet.

You stagger once, then nod. “I—I can try.”

Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access card—Lycurgus’ clearance still hot in the system—and slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.

The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows it’s wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesn’t care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights aren’t just white, they’re clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.

At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except it’s not alive. It’s lithium, it’s electricity, it’s something that was never supposed to breathe—but it is, somehow.

He doesn’t like it.

He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. You’re a weight he doesn’t mind carrying—you’re grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.

“I’ll buy us a minute,” he mutters.

You don’t respond. You’re already gone—mentally, physically—moving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesn’t. You’ve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.

He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His head’s still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.

The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees it—the thrum of Irontomb’s feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.

“Phainon,” it says again, in your voice. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s—”

“You said that already, dipshit,” Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.

He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.

Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainon’s already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.

“You don’t get to use her voice,” he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. “You don’t get to be her.”

Irontomb doesn’t flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.

“She is a variable,” it says, still in your voice. “All decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.”

He grits his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracks—he doesn’t have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.

He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontomb’s legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.

He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesn’t have a plan anymore, doesn’t need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.

You’re doing it. You’re actually doing it. Irontomb knows.

It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, it’s already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fire—

“No,” Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontomb’s leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards it—into it—slamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.

They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isn’t one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontomb’s doesn’t.

“Your biology is compromised,” it says. “You are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.”

“You’re not her,” he spits. “You don’t even sound like her.”

Out of the corner of his eye—through the haze of pain—he sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more command—

The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.

You did it.

Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.

He doesn’t exhale until the lights stop flickering. He’s already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruised—but moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.

You’re still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, you’re not moving.

“Hey.” He drops down beside you fast. “Hey—hey. You good? Talk to me.”

Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.

“I’m here,” you say, voice like sandpaper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you are.”

He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove you’re really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasn’t reset.

You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like you’re afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldn’t have to. He’ll look for both of you.

The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitching—reflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.

Still, Phainon keeps you close.

You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. “You okay?”

Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Gonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.”

Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.

“You look like hell,” you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenaline’s finally wearing off.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

It’s three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.

The city below doesn’t sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.

It’s a stillness born of aftermath—sharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.

Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. He’s perfectly still, suspended in gravity’s indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.

This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.

He’s grown used to these late hours. He’s begun to need them.

After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like him—scientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed clean—Phainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.

He watches your window. It’s open again, just slightly. It always is now. He’s never asked you why.

The official line is a “biochemical systems breach.” It’s what the public got. But the real reports—classified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokes—told a different story. Theoros Labs didn’t just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.

You’ve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like you’re still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you don’t have to. He’s seen the files. He’s seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.

You both have nightmares now.

Sometimes it’s Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, it’s worse: it’s you, only not. It’s him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that weren’t forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.

That’s when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.

Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.

He drops from the fire escape without a sound.

The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.

Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.

You’re curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm he’s memorised. He doesn’t know if you’re asleep or pretending. It doesn’t matter. You always know when he’s here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.

He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.

(He’s in love with you, he’s pretty sure.)

“Do you want to date me?”

The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire he’s threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.

“...Sorry, what?” he calls down.

You’re standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression—equal parts brave and vulnerable. You don’t repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.

Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. He’s in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.

“You—you mean date-date?” he asks dumbly, like there’s another kind.

You nod once, not smiling. “Yeah. Date-date.”

Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlight’s catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you haven’t just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. “Okay. That’s—just to be clear, you’re asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isn’t waffles at five in the morning?”

“You make it sound so romantic,” you say dryly.

“I’m hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,” he says, voice rising an octave. “You kind of caught me off-guard.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to come back when you’re right-side up?”

Phainon laughs, but it’s strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—don’t go. I just…” His fingers curl loosely around the railing. “You really mean it? Like, seriously?”

You shrug, but your voice softens. “Why would I joke about that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, have you met me?”

You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. “Yes. That’s kind of the point.”

Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasn’t quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.

You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didn’t cost you anything, like you didn’t just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.

He swallows hard.

“I want to,” he says. “I want to date you.”

You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. “Okay.”

You shift a little closer to where he’s hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.

“Can I kiss you now?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think I’ve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, “I mean—yeah. If you want.”

You smile, small but warm, and step forward until you’re close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.

“Hold still,” you say.

And Phainon—Spider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in love—holds so, so still.

You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. He’s not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.

Then, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first. The angle’s all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it matters—not when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. It’s soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to for a long time, like you’ve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.

Phainon melts. He doesn’t move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because he’s terrified that if he so much as breathes, you’ll disappear. But then something in him sparks—an ancient, quiet want—and he kisses you back.

He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but he’s warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.

Eventually, you pull away.

His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.

“That was…” He clears his throat. “Wow.”

You smile, head tilting. “Still want to date me?”

“I want to marry you,” he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. “I mean—hypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. I’m hanging upside down. I’ve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.”

You laugh, and he grins. 

“Come down, you idiot,” you say, still smiling. “Before your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.

When he looks up again, you’re already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gently—and then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.

When you pull away, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.

“You’re sure about this?” he whispers.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because there’s no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.

There’s only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.

Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good boyfriend.

Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things he’s fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry that’s been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.

But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if he’s back late. He’s trying. God, he’s trying.

And right now, looking at you—messy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with him—he thinks maybe he’s doing alright.

Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes that—you trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.

He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.

You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesn’t rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listens—to the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and can’t.

His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.

“Phainon,” you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to that—your spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moans—makes him want to give you more.

When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in increments—your fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.

“Right there?” he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.

You nod, or maybe you don’t—you’re too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.

His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.

“Phainon,” you breathe again. “Oh, fuck—”

He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. He’s mapping you like he’s been doing since the beginning—like every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. He’s learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.

You’re shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you don’t even seem to notice—don’t seem to care—because you’re so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.

A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for him—arching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until he’s sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until he’s beside you.

Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches you—eyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and falling—and then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like you’re not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Still in there?”

You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.

“Not bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?” he says.

You laugh and shove his shoulder. “Phainon!”

“I mean, I might’ve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in… other areas.”

You scoff, but it’s half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainon’s chest. He watches the way your face softens when you’re amused—how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.

“That’s debatable,” you say, rolling to face him fully.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.

He feels like his heart’s trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where it’s just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because he’s pretty sure this isn’t just a good day—it’s the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.

(You’re right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)

He tries to play it cool, like he’s not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like you’re trying to memorise him right back. But it’s a losing battle. He’s smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks. 

“You’re staring,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says, without even pretending otherwise. “I know.”

His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand things—about how he’s never felt safer than he does when he’s beside you, about how it doesn’t matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

You roll your eyes at him like you always do when you’re trying not to smile. “What are you thinking?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “That I like you.”

“Yeah?” you say teasingly. “I had no clue.”

He smiles. “Sometimes I think this isn’t real. Like I’m gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all this’ll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.”

“It’s real,” you whisper. “Do you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Don’t test me.”

(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove he’s real enough to do it.)

a/n: this is my favourite fic that i’ve ever written. thanks for reading!

[nvllette]

★ LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO

pairing: spider-man!phainon x fem!reader

synopsis: “there’s something going on,” he says. “a chain of robberies, not random. it’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. i’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across marmoreal. whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. and i can’t keep up on my own.” in which spider-man enlists the help of his favourite detective to uncover a series of robberies in new okhema city.

tags: modern!au, spider-man!au, romance, angst, action, smut, frenemies to lovers. profanity, violence, oral sex, fingering, blood and injuries, mentions of drug abuse & human experimentation, etc.

word count: 19.5k

a/n: reposted from my old account. thanks for reading!

Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good guy.

Okay, maybe not, like, great. He’s not out here winning humanitarian awards or remembering to replace the Brita filter before it turns green. But still. He flosses most nights, and tips well on the rare occasions he orders pizza for dinner. He saves cats from trees, catches robbers in the middle of getaway attempts, and makes a decent grilled cheese when the mood strikes. In the grand cosmic scale of morality, he figures that puts him somewhere between a broke college student and a D-list superhero with a heart of gold. 

Which is why, as he’s currently being pursued across rooftops by New Okhema’s most persistent detective, Phainon feels the situation is a little unfair.

“I don’t deserve to be chased like this!” he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. “I’m a pretty good guy!”

The boots pounding behind him don’t slow. “You’re obstructing justice!”

“You’re harassing a concerned citizen!”

He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heart’s doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when you’re behind him.

Because if there’s one thing Phainon’s sure of, it’s this: you hate him.

Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good. 

He can live with that. He’s been hated before. (He just wishes it didn’t make him kind of want your approval.)

“You’re breaking at least three laws just by standing there!” you shout as he swings up and over the next building.

“That’s slander!” Phainon shouts back. “I counted two!”

You’re getting closer. He can hear it in your voice—less winded than his, more focused. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or terrified. Probably both.

“Do you ever take a break?” you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.

Phainon whirls around, arms raised. “Do you ever let anyone live?”

Your eyes narrow like you’re imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident. 

“Okay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.” He backs up, hands still in the air. “No chasing or tasers. Please.”

You don’t answer, which means you’re at least considering it. He’s getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at all—like how you always pull your sleeves down when you’re thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when you’re about to disagree with someone but don’t want to start a fight.

“Look,” he says, tone dropping, just a bit. “This isn’t about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Street—”

“You stole—”

“Borrowed,” he corrects quickly. “With intent to pay.”

You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.

“There’s something going on,” he says. “A chain of robberies, not random. It’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. I’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. And I can’t keep up on my own.”

He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting that’ll make his stomach twist in that way he hates—because you’re usually right.

“I think they’re watching me,” he adds, quieter now. “I think someone knows who I am.”

The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainon’s boots and rustles your coat, but you don’t move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. It’s the kind of stillness that unnerves him—not because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainon’s chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.

“That’s a bold claim,” you say slowly.

Yeah. He knows. He also knows you’re not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. You’re listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tell—he’s seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when you’re filing pieces together in real time.

“You have proof?” you ask.

Phainon knows you won’t move without proof—not a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesn’t have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feeling—that awful, skin-tight certainty—that something out there has started moving towards him, not away.

“I don’t have anything concrete, but… I’ve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,” he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. “They’re too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? They’re not stealing cash or valuables. They’re taking very specific things—equipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.”

“Show me,” you say. Your eyes don’t leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears you’re looking through it.)

He blinks. “What?”

You cross your arms. “The footage. The files. Whatever you’ve got. If you’re serious about this, I need to see everything.”

“Oh.” Phainon’s voice pitches up an octave in surprise. “Cool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.”

Phainon didn’t lie. Chartonus’ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building that’s had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittently—CHART NUS’ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when it’s feeling generous—and the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.

He’s perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. There’s duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someone—possibly Chartonus himself—has carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.

Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hair’s damp, and there’s a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.

He looks across the table at you. You’re the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coat’s slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams cop—straight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.

“I told you,” Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. “Best sandwich in the city.”

“This is where you wanted to debrief?”

He shrugs. “They know my order here.”

You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. “You said these started three weeks ago?” you ask, flipping it open.

Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. “Warehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. They’re hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like they’re refining their technique.”

You glance up. “Any pattern to what they’re taking?”

“That’s the thing.” He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. “It’s weirdly… modular. Like, they’re not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. They’re taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.”

He slides a finger across one of the printouts. It’s a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.

Carbon-neutral polymer casings

Fiber-optic microarrays

Refrigerated storage containers, Class III

Unknown compound, biohazard sealed

“Doesn’t scream smash-and-grab,” you say, studying the list.

“Exactly. This is purposeful.”

You turn another page. “The cameras—”

“Looped,” Phainon says. “Every time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flicker—like it skips half a second. But the timestamps don’t change.”

You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you think—sees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesn’t add up. He likes watching you think. That’s a problem.

“Do you think they’re testing something?” you ask. “Or building it?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.”

“Never say that again.”

He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.

When you speak again, your voice is lower. “You said you think someone’s watching you.”

Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. “I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”

You look up.

“Two nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That should’ve been the end of it, except when I got home…” He hesitates. “My apartment’s locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.”

Your expression hardens. “Did you call it in?”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think I’m being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.”

You don’t laugh.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Deflection. I know.”

“You should’ve told someone sooner,” you say sharply. “If someone has your gear, they might have access to your—”

“They won’t,” he cuts in. “The tech’s locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that… that’s not normal.”

You nod. “You think it’s connected to the thefts.”

“I think I’ve been getting too close,” he says, quieter now. “And someone wants me out of the way.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.

“Then we need to get closer,” you say.

Phainon blinks. “Wait—we?”

“This is serious,” you say simply. “And if someone’s watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.”

He’s staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throat’s dry and his heart’s doing that thing again. “Cool,” he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. “Cool cool cool cool cool.”

You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. “Tomorrow night,” you say. “Bring everything else you’ve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.”

He gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. “Wash your suit,” you say. “You smell like mustard.”

The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.

The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. It’s the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if you’ve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.

But for once, he’s early.

The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. He’s patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. It’s messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.

He shifts on the overturned milk crate he’s using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. There’s a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s properly showered.

He hates waiting. But he’d never admit that he’s anxious. Especially not for you.

Your footsteps break the quiet—sharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when you’re walking up behind him like you’re about to read him his Miranda rights.

He doesn’t turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. “I was starting to think you ditched,” he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.

“You said nine,” you answer. “It’s eight fifty-nine.”

He smiles, just a little. Can’t help it. “Wow. A punctual cop.”

You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo—clean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.) 

You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when you’re processing too many things at once. God, he’s noticed that too many times.

“This is a mess,” you say flatly.

“Organised chaos,” he corrects.

You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmoreal’s industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.

Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. “Those are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. They’re moving clockwise.”

“So whatever they’re after is in the centre,” you muse.

“Bingo,” he says, tapping the innermost circle. “And guess what’s smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?” 

He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. It’s ugly. You frown and say, “That place?”

Phainon nods. “Used to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now it’s just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.”

“Why hasn’t anyone investigated it?”

“Because it’s boring,” he says. “There’s no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeper—like, old permit records and city zoning logs—there’s a basement that’s sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.”

Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realises—again, and with an unfortunate amount of clarity—that he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldn’t.

“So they’re not just building something,” you say. “They’re hiding it.”

“Or staging it.”

“We’ll split up,” you say. “Tonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. I’ll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.”

“Copy that,” he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. “Though I think you just want to get rid of me.”

“I want to get results,” you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. “And we’ll cover more ground this way.”

Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. “The chemical plant’s been shut down since the fires in March, but I’ve seen movement there—shadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, but…”

“But this group doesn’t leave power boxes half-cut,” you finish, glancing at him. “They don’t miss steps.”

Exactly. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. You’re starting to see what he sees. 

You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. “I’ll have to log this in quietly. My team’s not going to love me going off-grid again.”

“Your team doesn’t know you’re chasing me around rooftops?”

“They know. They just don’t know why,” you say. “Which is probably for the best.”

He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. “Flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Still. Thanks for not turning me in.”

You shrug. “You haven’t made it worth my while yet.”

He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonus’ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, “You have a burner?”

You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suit—past the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterday—and pulls out his own cracked phone. The screen’s a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.

You raise your brows. “That’s a phone?”

“Technically,” he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. “Give me your number. I’ll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.”

You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, “Burner ends in zero-nine. Don’t call me unless it’s urgent.”

“Define urgent.”

“Explosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.”

“So… brunch?”

Phainon’s lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improve—because you said yes to brunch with him. 

Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You don’t know what he looks like beneath the mask, don’t know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.

He tries not to make a big deal out of it. He really does. But the truth is, it’s been 36 hours since the last robbery attempt, he hasn’t been chased across a rooftop in at least two days, and now you’re sitting across from him at a sunlit table in a tucked-away café where the chairs don’t match and the menus are handwritten in cursive chalk. (And you ordered pancakes. That alone feels like a sign from the universe.)

Phainon takes a sip of his burnt espresso, after pulling his mask up to let it rest on the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his chair, letting the sounds of the café fill the silence—coffee machines hissing, silverware clinking, someone arguing gently in French at the counter. It’s the kind of place that feels too warm for a conversation about conspiracy rings and illegal tech trade, which is probably why he chose it. Something about soft pancakes makes even the worst theories easier to digest.

You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. He’s seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.

Also: kind of hot. But that’s not relevant.

“So,” he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, “have I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?”

You hum and reach for the syrup. “I can’t decide if you’re more irritating in daylight or when you’re dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.”

Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. “Why not both?”

You glare at him.

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someone’s listening. “I know I’m not the most traditional source, and I’m aware I’m breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but I’ve been watching these people for weeks. And I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re too clean. Too prepared.”

You nod. He can tell you’ve already connected the dots. You’ve probably connected ten more he hasn’t even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.

“I went by the Marmoreal site last night,” you say. “Didn’t go in, though—just circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.”

“Same model from the Fourth Street hit?”

“Couldn’t see,” you admit. “But the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “So they’re still active.”

“Very.” You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. “You sleep at all?”

“...No,” he mutters, sheepish. “But I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.”

“Healthy,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasn’t… this?”

“I’m not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.”

“I like jam,” Phainon says.

You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesn’t say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.

That’s when it hits him: this is the first time he’s seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.

He’s in so much trouble.

You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. “Just thinking.”

You narrow your eyes. “Dangerous.”

“Extremely.”

“Why’d you bring me here?”

He looks up. “What?”

“This café. It’s nice. Quiet. You could’ve picked anywhere.”

Phainon hesitates. He wants to say it’s because it’s his favourite. Because the coffee’s bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs don’t match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.

Instead, he shrugs and says, “Thought you’d appreciate the pancakes.”

You study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. “Don’t make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,” you say, spearing another bite.

It turns out that Phainon’s theory is, horrifically, right. 

One week. That’s all it takes.

Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. He’d hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe they’d spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.

[22:41] Detective Brain: Battery storage facility. Crossfire. I’m okay.

You’re okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.

His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.

Phainon jumps.

The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. He’s faster than usual—more desperate than smooth. It’s a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesn’t know if you’re hurt. You said you’re okay, but “okay” is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.

The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. There’s a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.

Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.

You’re inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. You’re not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.

He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. You’re alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.

“I’m fine,” you say, even before he can speak.

“You’re not fine,” he snaps, more sharply than he means to. “You said crossfire. That’s not, like, a stubbed toe.”

“It wasn’t aimed at me.”

“That doesn’t help!”

He hears his own voice—too loud, too worried, echoing off concrete—and he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.

You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. “Spider-Man—”

“What happened?” he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. “Walk me through it.”

You sigh, but nod. “I was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptor—fried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.”

“Lithium?”

“Gone,” you confirm. “They knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.”

“Only one?”

“One. And Spider-Man—” your eyes meet his again, steady now, serious—“they weren’t just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.”

He exhales through gritted teeth. “You think they’re building something.”

“I think they already have,” you say grimly. “And they’re just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.”

Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question that’s been sticking in his throat like a splinter. “Did they see you?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe,” you say.

“Maybe?” His voice rises again.

“I lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. I’m not sure.”

Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he can’t do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

“I should have been there,” he mutters.

“You were across the city.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. “Spider-Man. Stop. I’m not dead.”

“Yet,” he says.

“I’ve been trained for this,” you say. “I know how to handle myself.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene that’s already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. “You need backup.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, your voice firm. “I’ve got you.”

It’s not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.

Finally, he says, quietly, “Yeah. You do. Can I take you home?”

Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, “Yes, please.”

The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. There’s a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you don’t flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesn’t miss that.

The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftop—low enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You don’t complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like it’s normal. Like you trust him.

Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. You’re warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he moves—shoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landing—he feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldn’t like that as much as he does.)

Your building’s only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesn’t want to rush it. He doesn’t want to leave you alone, not yet—not while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasn’t fully drained from your bones.

When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.

You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. “You don’t have to walk me all the way up.”

“I know,” he says, already crouched on the rail. “I just… wanted to be sure.”

“Thanks.”

He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like you’re still half in the fight. He wants to ask if you’re okay again, wants to tell you that the word “crossfire” nearly gave him a heart attack. But you’re already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.

“Spider-Man?” you say, just before you disappear inside.

“Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, want to come inside?”

He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his head—“stay safe,” or “thanks for the ride,” or “you’re worrying too much”—this had not made the cut. Not even close.

It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but he’s pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.

Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartment’s light. You’ve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.

“I mean,” you say after a second, brows furrowed. “Only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across and—”

“I want to,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean—yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. “You literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think we’re past the point of stranger danger.”

He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and he’s painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warm—coffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.

Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. “I’ve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.”

He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to risk—well, anything else.

“Tea’s good,” he says.

You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that you’re still running on fumes. There’s a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you return, then gesture to the couch. “We can sit. If you’re staying a few minutes.”

He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s safe here. With you. There’s a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.

“So,” you say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Phainon frowns. “The break-in?”

“No,” you say, looking at him squarely. “You. You were… panicked tonight.”

Phainon goes still. It’s not immediate—not sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someone’s gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesn’t look away from you, but he doesn’t answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.

You shift forward a little, your voice low. “Look, I’m not asking because I’m nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I just…” You pause, exhale. “I got lucky tonight. That’s what it was. Luck. If I hadn’t ducked at the right second, if they’d come around the corner just a little faster—”

“But they didn’t,” he says quietly, cutting you off.

“That’s not the point.”

You’re sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flash—not with anger, but fear, the kind you don’t let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.

You swallow. “I’m scared, Spider-Man. I know you’re helping. I trust you. But this—this thing we’re chasing… if something happens to you—I won’t even know your name. I won’t know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. That’s not just reckless, that’s—cruel.”

He flinches at that. You notice.

“I just want to know who’s standing next to me,” you say. “That’s not so much to ask.”

“I can’t,” he says, before he’s even fully processed it. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.” Your voice isn’t raised, but there’s a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. “You trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you don’t trust me enough to know who you are?”

“It’s not about trust,” he says quickly, too defensively. “It’s—God, you think I don’t want to tell you? You think I don’t—don’t lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He looks at you, then. You’re not angry. You’re scared. Scared of whatever’s coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says. “If you know who I am—really know—it changes everything. You don’t get to walk away from that. You don’t get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds out—”

“I’m a cop, Spider-Man. I’ve seen worse things than secret identities.”

“It’s not just mine,” he says. “It’s everyone around me. You knowing—you become a target.”

“I’m already a target.”

“Not like this,” he bites out. “If someone traces it back to you—if they think you matter to me—”

“I do matter to you.”

You suck in a breath like you didn’t mean to say it that way. But you don’t take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.

“You do,” he says, barely audible. “Of course you do.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. “Because the second I do,” he says, “you stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I don’t know how to protect you from.”

You shake your head, frustrated. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. I’m not asking for your social security number, or something. I’m asking to know who’s at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong, because you’re not. But still, he stays silent.

You stare at him for a moment longer, and when it’s clear he won’t budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: “I think you should go.”

Phainon doesn’t try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. There’s a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.

“I do trust you,” he says. “More than anyone.”

It’s not that you’re avoiding each other.

It’s that you’re both avoiding each other—which, in practice, amounts to the same thing.

Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, it’s clipped, tactical. When he replies, it’s mechanical.

(‘West dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.’

‘Copy. South alley tripwire still intact.’)

Phainon doesn’t know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that it’s entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.

But God, it’s lonely.

There’s a rhythm to the city that used to make sense—pulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons don’t heckle him like they used to.

It’s been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply. 

He doesn’t stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worse—if you’re still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the window’s already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and there’s a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.

You don’t greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.

“Biotech division out of Theoros Labs,” you say. “It used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?”

Phainon’s already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.

ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS – SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.

He looks up. “They’re trying to replicate me.”

“Not just replicate,” you say, shaking your head. “Weaponise.”

Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.

“They’ve been pulling data from old surveillance—fight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?” You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. “Turns out it’s a synthetic neuromuscular system. And this—this lithium core—it’s the ignition switch.”

Phainon stares at the blueprint. It’s rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.

A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.

“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “Why build this?”

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “But someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.”

He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. It’s him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unit’s balance favours its left side, just like he does when his knee’s aching. They didn’t just study him; they dissected him.

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.

“A few days,” you say. “I wanted to be sure. Didn’t want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.”

“And you texted me anyway.”

You meet his gaze across the room. “Because it’s you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesn’t. They’re coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. They’re not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They don’t care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.”

He sets the folder down. His hands won’t stop shaking. “How… did you find out about all this?”

“Don’t get mad.”

When Phainon doesn’t say anything, you sigh and look away. 

“I visited the old R&D site. Alone.”

“Are you serious?” Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. “You went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.”

“I called you when I had proof—”

“You shouldn’t have gone in the first place!” he explodes. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of those—those things—”

“You weren’t talking to me!” you shout back. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Phainon grits out. “And instead you threw yourself into a place that could’ve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypes—anything.”

You throw your arms out. “And what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until there’s a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I don’t know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when I’m this scared.”

“You think I’m not scared? You think I haven’t been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I haven’t imagined a dozen versions of how it could’ve gone wrong? You think I’m not scared every time I don’t hear from you for a few hours?”

“Then why didn’t you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?”

“Because if I said it out loud,” Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, “then it would be real. It would be—you would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone who’s helping me out. You’d be a person I’d have to lose.”

You blink, thrown. “You think you’re going to lose me?”

“I know I could,” he says, almost like it hurts. “Because it’s already happened. Every time I get close—every single time—it ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because that’s the only choice I ever get.”

He doesn’t even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesn’t notice how he’s gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.

“I can’t protect you from this. I can’t protect you from them. I can’t even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. Because once you have that, it’s over. You’ll look at me differently. Or worse—you’ll stop looking at me. And I can’t—God, I can’t stand that.

“Do you know what it’s like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they don’t see a person—they see a weapon?

“I didn’t sign up for this shit! I didn’t even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just… was. And now they’ve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if you’d died at that lab, I—no one would’ve even known. You’d just be another casualty they scrub from the records—and that would’ve been my fault.”

His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.

He doesn’t realise until you do—until your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like you’ve been sucker-punched.

His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdown—while he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating him—he took it off.

His hair’s a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. There’s a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.

“...Oh,” Phainon says, stunned. “Shit.”

You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. “You took your mask off.”

He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else that’s passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. “I… didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo. “Jesus.”

Phainon can’t say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.

“Can I— Will you tell me your name?” you whisper.

He wets his lips, and says, quietly, “Phainon.”

You nod, once, and say it back. “Phainon,” you repeat, like it’s a truth you’ll guard with your life. “Okay. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.”

Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks you’re handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you. 

He doesn’t move at first. You’re pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like it’s trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.

He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like it’s been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.

He lifts his arms slowly, like he’s learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.

He breathes in.

God, it’s you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times he’s seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait. 

His grip tightens, no longer tentative—arms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and it’s instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.

(It’s you. It’s you, and you’re warm and safe and alive in his arms.)

Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesn’t exist—the weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that he’s made a mistake, that you’ll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.

Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like you’re afraid he might vanish, too.

It comes to him—terrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.

He could be in love with you.

Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, arm’s-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)

He wants a future he doesn’t dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know you’ll still look at him the same way.

(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)

It’s that simple. You don’t push. You don’t speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry.

It’s five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that he’s trying really hard to ignore. You’re beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like this—walking, together—is something you do all the time.

It’s not a date, he tells himself. It’s really not. 

But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadn’t wanted to leave yet.

So here he is. Not skipping, because he’s got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out he’s being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.

The city’s quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. It’s eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the city’s holding its breath right along with him.

Phainon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget you’re still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.

You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Staring at me.”

Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. “I’m not,” he says, too quickly.

“You are,” you say, not unkindly. “Like I’m going to vanish or something.”

Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. “Well. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Okay, fair,” you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Still. You’ve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like I’ve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You do have a face,” you say. “That’s the problem now, remember?”

Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that he’s not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. He’s not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.

You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.

Phainon chances a glance at you. You’re watching the sky change colour like it’s a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. There’s a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when they’ve seen too much, done too much, but still can’t stop moving.

The diner sign glows into view at the end of the street—warm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. There’s a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag that’s probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.

You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. “This place okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Phainon says before he can stop himself.

You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainon’s boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. That’s the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.

You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesn’t care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.

You don’t even bother looking at yours. “Waffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.”

“That specific, huh?” Phainon says.

You shrug. “Gotta know your diner defaults.”

The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. “You kids look like you’ve been up all night,” she says, though she can’t be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.

“We have,” you say sleepily, “but we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.”

The waitress doesn’t blink. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.

Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You don’t move it.

He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. There’s something quiet there, soft around the edges—exhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust he’s not sure he deserves. (Still, it’s there.)

Phainon thinks about how this shouldn’t be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.

[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. I’m already on scene. It’s not you, right?

[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.

Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jump—lands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.

He doesn’t even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but there’s no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the city’s mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.

Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but there’s no crowd. They’re keeping it quiet.

He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene. 

He finds you posted just outside the warehouse’s side entrance, pacing like you’re trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holstered—but your fingers are twitching near it, like you’re weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hair’s tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. He’s never seen you look so still and restless all at once.

He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.

The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip around—and relax just as fast.

“Jesus,” you exhale, taking a step forward. “Okay. Okay, thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d even seen the message.”

“I left the second I did,” Phainon assures. “What’s the situation?”

Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.

“It showed up fifteen minutes ago,” you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. “Took out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entry—it knew exactly where to go.”

The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.

It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entry—it’s like watching him pace through a mirror.

Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suit—if you could even call it that—is matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. There’s no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and it’s gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.

Phainon swears under his breath. “They built it,” he mutters. “That’s Flame Reaver.”

You glance up. “You sure?”

He nods. He’s gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like they’ve been branded into his skull. “Positive. Same proportions, same gait. But it’s not scanning the building. It’s buying time.”

“For what?”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. He’s too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees it—a flicker of something. It wasn’t raiding. It wasn’t looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.

The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.

“Wait,” he says sharply. “Where’s your radio?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your radio,” he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. “You always keep it on.”

“I took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.”

“No.” Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. “No, that’s wrong. This—this whole thing—it’s not a distraction. This is the distraction.”

“What are you—”

His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.

Now you’re gone.

Phainon’s heart lurches.

“Where is she?” he hisses aloud, and suddenly he’s on the move—scrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct line’s holding firm around the building. There’s no breach. No one has come or gone.

Except you. Except whoever—or whatever—came for you.

He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passes—alley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.

On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.

From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that van—it’s too smooth, too clean. There’s no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.

A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.

Phainon freezes.

It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlight—your badge. Not a replica.

Except it’s wrong. You’re not there.

You wouldn’t leave the perimeter without backup, wouldn’t ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.

And whoever—or whatever—this is, it’s walking away like it knows the exact timing window it’s working with. Like it wants him to follow.

“They’re splitting us up,” Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.

Phainon yanks the door open. It’s empty—no driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. It’s a burner vehicle, then. One they didn’t plan on keeping.

“Damn it,” Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already moving—until he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.

He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willingly—until it was too late.

A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next to—a toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.

It wasn’t just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious. 

But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinct’s attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really needed—you.

Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics you’d shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasn’t a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. They’d studied him down to the limp in his left knee.

Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.

He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when you’re about to argue; the furrow in your brows when you’re thinking too deeply. If they’ve copied that—you—down to the way your voice hitches when you say his name—

His stomach flips.

“They took her,” he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. “They took her.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady. 

He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where he’s going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.

It’s a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. He’ll make it in seven.

Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He can’t afford to be wrong. Can’t afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesn’t need you alive.

Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.

The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.

Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. It’s darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facility’s skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others. 

It’s too quiet.

He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entrance—what’s left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someone’s been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are stripped—just empty labs and decaying workstations—but the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.

They’ve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.

Phainon stops mid-step; there’s a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.

“Ah, Mr. Spider-Man,” a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. “Or should I say… Phainon?”

There’s a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.

“Don’t be shy. You’ve already made it farther than most,” the voice says, and this time, it’s accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. “I imagine you have questions. That’s good. I admire curiosity. It’s a very human trait.”

The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.

LYCURGUS – Division Lead, Neuroadaptive Intellitron Systems.

Lycurgus smiles like he’s greeting an old colleague. “This facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was… restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.” He gestures to the space around him. “Welcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.”

Phainon’s voice is low, sharp. “Where is she?”

“Your detective, yes?” Lycurgus says. “She is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. She’s being prepped for mapping. It’s better if she doesn’t wake up mid-scan—the sensory feedback can be unpleasant.”

Phainon steps forward. “You’re going to let her go. Now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Lycurgus tilts his head. “She’s far too important. As are you.”

He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadows—taller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.

“I know what you think we’re doing here,” Lycurgus continues. “Mass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yes—we are building weapons. But not just weapons. We’re building evolution.”

“You’re building copies,” Phainon corrects.

Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. “Flame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purpose—chased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb… Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.”

He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.

“We’ve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didn’t make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.”

He taps the side of his own head. “But it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldn’t replicate.”

“You mean her.”

“Yes.” Lycurgus’ smile returns, tight and reverent. “Your control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.”

Phainon’s voice is a growl. “She’s not a variable.”

“She’s your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when she’s afraid. It’s poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.”

The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. It’s not the Flame Reaver. It’s something else.

Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split mask—half red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesn’t recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.

“It’s a neural sync model,” Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, “coded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. It’s capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t panic. And, most importantly, it doesn’t forget.”

Phainon’s heart hammers. His blood feels like it’s gone cold. “You’re trying to make a Spider-Man that doesn’t need a person inside.”

Lycurgus meets his eyes. “Exactly.”

The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.

“You two were only ever reference material,” Lycurgus intones. “And now that the template’s complete—well. All we need are the final scans.”

“Where is she? Where is she?” 

It’s all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgus’ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.

“She’s nearby,” he says coolly. “Lower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You won’t get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you do—by the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.”

Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isn’t mechanical. It’s worse—soft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.

Phainon doesn’t wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.

Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. “You think you’re here to save her,” he says, breathless, “but you’re too late. She’s already part of it.”

“I swear to God—” Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgus’ throat. “I swear to God, if you touched her—”

“I didn’t have to,” the man croaks. “She volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knows—tactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategy—it’s all feeding the AI as we speak.”

“You fed off of us.” Phainon’s grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.

“Yes,” the scientist says. “And you should be proud. Irontomb won’t just replicate your choices—it will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.”

Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.

A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejects—thin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric current—and shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.

The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainon’s hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.

CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.

Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.

There’s no time to think—he fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.

The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. There’s no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too clean—like the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.

He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION →, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.

Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.

The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. There’s no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. “Come on, come on—”

From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. “...Phainon?”

He chokes on relief. “I’m here.”

You’re alive.

He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.

You’re inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnostics—waveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.

“Hi,” you whisper, voice thin as gauze.

“Hi, yourself,” Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.

His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.

He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesn’t let them. He tightens his grip until you’re fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.

“Irontomb,” you breath, half-slurred. “It’s awake. It… used me. Ran simulations. My voice. My—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. We’re getting out of here.”

You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell you’re coming back—your pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.

But the walls hum. The lights tremble. He’s not fast enough. The reinforced door behind  him explodes inward.

Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesn’t look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.

The voice it speaks with is your own.

“Phainon.”

The blood drains from his face.

You stir weakly in his arms. “That’s not—that’s not me—”

“I know,” he whispers.

It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.

“You always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,” Irontomb says. “That makes you predictable.”

Phainon doesn’t wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machine’s legs—but it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.

Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like it’s studied him for years—and it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where he’ll move before he does.

Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperate—and Phainon is desperate.

“The server room!” you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. “Take it to the server room! Follow me!”

Phainon doesn’t hesitate. He hears your voice—unsteady, but clear—and that’s all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontomb’s shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainon’s already moving.

“Go!” you shout again, breath ragged. “Don’t fight it here—they control the lithium core from the server room!”

Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skin’s cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm. 

“Can you run?” he pants.

“Can you carry me?”

He grins through bloodied teeth. “Always.”

He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesn’t look back. He runs.

You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontomb’s footsteps are thunder behind you—precise, mechanical, relentless. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.

“It’s learning again,” you murmur.

Phainon grits his teeth. “Tell me where to go.”

“Left!” you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. “The blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and I—I stole Lycurgus’ key card before he sedated me—”

Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.

He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hinges—someone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesn’t stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.

The moment you’re both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesn’t need webbing. It’s fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainon’s shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.

“Don’t look down,” Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.

“You mean don’t look up,” you reply, voice tight.

He doesn’t argue. Two more floors. That’s all you need.

Phainon angles towards the next level’s opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impact—shoulder first, then hip—but keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.

The server room’s door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.

“Can you override it?” he asks, already placing you down on your feet.

You stagger once, then nod. “I—I can try.”

Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access card—Lycurgus’ clearance still hot in the system—and slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.

The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows it’s wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesn’t care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights aren’t just white, they’re clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.

At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except it’s not alive. It’s lithium, it’s electricity, it’s something that was never supposed to breathe—but it is, somehow.

He doesn’t like it.

He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. You’re a weight he doesn’t mind carrying—you’re grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.

“I’ll buy us a minute,” he mutters.

You don’t respond. You’re already gone—mentally, physically—moving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesn’t. You’ve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.

He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His head’s still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.

The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees it—the thrum of Irontomb’s feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.

“Phainon,” it says again, in your voice. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s—”

“You said that already, dipshit,” Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.

He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.

Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainon’s already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.

“You don’t get to use her voice,” he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. “You don’t get to be her.”

Irontomb doesn’t flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.

“She is a variable,” it says, still in your voice. “All decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.”

He grits his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracks—he doesn’t have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.

He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontomb’s legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.

He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesn’t have a plan anymore, doesn’t need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.

You’re doing it. You’re actually doing it. Irontomb knows.

It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, it’s already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fire—

“No,” Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontomb’s leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards it—into it—slamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.

They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isn’t one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontomb’s doesn’t.

“Your biology is compromised,” it says. “You are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.”

“You’re not her,” he spits. “You don’t even sound like her.”

Out of the corner of his eye—through the haze of pain—he sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more command—

The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.

You did it.

Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.

He doesn’t exhale until the lights stop flickering. He’s already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruised—but moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.

You’re still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, you’re not moving.

“Hey.” He drops down beside you fast. “Hey—hey. You good? Talk to me.”

Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.

“I’m here,” you say, voice like sandpaper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you are.”

He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove you’re really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasn’t reset.

You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like you’re afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldn’t have to. He’ll look for both of you.

The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitching—reflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.

Still, Phainon keeps you close.

You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. “You okay?”

Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Gonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.”

Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.

“You look like hell,” you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenaline’s finally wearing off.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

It’s three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.

The city below doesn’t sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.

It’s a stillness born of aftermath—sharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.

Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. He’s perfectly still, suspended in gravity’s indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.

This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.

He’s grown used to these late hours. He’s begun to need them.

After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like him—scientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed clean—Phainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.

He watches your window. It’s open again, just slightly. It always is now. He’s never asked you why.

The official line is a “biochemical systems breach.” It’s what the public got. But the real reports—classified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokes—told a different story. Theoros Labs didn’t just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.

You’ve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like you’re still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you don’t have to. He’s seen the files. He’s seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.

You both have nightmares now.

Sometimes it’s Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, it’s worse: it’s you, only not. It’s him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that weren’t forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.

That’s when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.

Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.

He drops from the fire escape without a sound.

The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.

Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.

You’re curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm he’s memorised. He doesn’t know if you’re asleep or pretending. It doesn’t matter. You always know when he’s here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.

He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.

(He’s in love with you, he’s pretty sure.)

“Do you want to date me?”

The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire he’s threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.

“...Sorry, what?” he calls down.

You’re standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression—equal parts brave and vulnerable. You don’t repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.

Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. He’s in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.

“You—you mean date-date?” he asks dumbly, like there’s another kind.

You nod once, not smiling. “Yeah. Date-date.”

Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlight’s catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you haven’t just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. “Okay. That’s—just to be clear, you’re asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isn’t waffles at five in the morning?”

“You make it sound so romantic,” you say dryly.

“I’m hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,” he says, voice rising an octave. “You kind of caught me off-guard.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to come back when you’re right-side up?”

Phainon laughs, but it’s strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—don’t go. I just…” His fingers curl loosely around the railing. “You really mean it? Like, seriously?”

You shrug, but your voice softens. “Why would I joke about that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, have you met me?”

You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. “Yes. That’s kind of the point.”

Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasn’t quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.

You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didn’t cost you anything, like you didn’t just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.

He swallows hard.

“I want to,” he says. “I want to date you.”

You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. “Okay.”

You shift a little closer to where he’s hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.

“Can I kiss you now?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think I’ve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, “I mean—yeah. If you want.”

You smile, small but warm, and step forward until you’re close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.

“Hold still,” you say.

And Phainon—Spider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in love—holds so, so still.

You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. He’s not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.

Then, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first. The angle’s all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it matters—not when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. It’s soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to for a long time, like you’ve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.

Phainon melts. He doesn’t move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because he’s terrified that if he so much as breathes, you’ll disappear. But then something in him sparks—an ancient, quiet want—and he kisses you back.

He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but he’s warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.

Eventually, you pull away.

His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.

“That was…” He clears his throat. “Wow.”

You smile, head tilting. “Still want to date me?”

“I want to marry you,” he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. “I mean—hypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. I’m hanging upside down. I’ve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.”

You laugh, and he grins. 

“Come down, you idiot,” you say, still smiling. “Before your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.

When he looks up again, you’re already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gently—and then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.

When you pull away, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.

“You’re sure about this?” he whispers.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because there’s no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.

There’s only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.

Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good boyfriend.

Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things he’s fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry that’s been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.

But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if he’s back late. He’s trying. God, he’s trying.

And right now, looking at you—messy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with him—he thinks maybe he’s doing alright.

Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes that—you trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.

He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.

You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesn’t rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listens—to the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and can’t.

His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.

“Phainon,” you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to that—your spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moans—makes him want to give you more.

When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in increments—your fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.

“Right there?” he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.

You nod, or maybe you don’t—you’re too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.

His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.

“Phainon,” you breathe again. “Oh, fuck—”

He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. He’s mapping you like he’s been doing since the beginning—like every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. He’s learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.

You’re shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you don’t even seem to notice—don’t seem to care—because you’re so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.

A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for him—arching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until he’s sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until he’s beside you.

Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches you—eyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and falling—and then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like you’re not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Still in there?”

You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.

“Not bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?” he says.

You laugh and shove his shoulder. “Phainon!”

“I mean, I might’ve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in… other areas.”

You scoff, but it’s half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainon’s chest. He watches the way your face softens when you’re amused—how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.

“That’s debatable,” you say, rolling to face him fully.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.

He feels like his heart’s trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where it’s just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because he’s pretty sure this isn’t just a good day—it’s the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.

(You’re right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)

He tries to play it cool, like he’s not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like you’re trying to memorise him right back. But it’s a losing battle. He’s smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks. 

“You’re staring,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says, without even pretending otherwise. “I know.”

His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand things—about how he’s never felt safer than he does when he’s beside you, about how it doesn’t matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

You roll your eyes at him like you always do when you’re trying not to smile. “What are you thinking?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “That I like you.”

“Yeah?” you say teasingly. “I had no clue.”

He smiles. “Sometimes I think this isn’t real. Like I’m gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all this’ll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.”

“It’s real,” you whisper. “Do you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Don’t test me.”

(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove he’s real enough to do it.)

a/n: this is my favourite fic that i’ve ever written. thanks for reading!