✦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: This story was originally written as a Spider-Mark AU. Due to recent events with Mark and involving racist imagery and the harm attached to it, I no longer feel comfortable continuing the fic in that form. Going forward, this will be an ENHYPEN Jungwon Spider-Man AU instead. The story, plot, dynamics, and overall direction will remain the same, but the NCT member names will be changed to ENHYPEN members. Thank you for understanding.
⟢𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : Spider-Man's heroic identity stems from a fateful choice, yet a haunting mistake from his past returns to shake the foundation of his heroism. As he navigates the city's skyline, a ghostly reminder challenges his principles, putting his heroic façade to the ultimate test. Confronted with the consequences of an old error, he's pushed to redefine what it truly means to be a hero.
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losing control — teaser! ⇝@bambisgirl
not all that glitters is gold: mlist ♛⇝@the7thcrow
The day after something terrible happens, the city does not know how to be quiet about it.
It wakes up hungry.
By the time I come downstairs Wednesday morning, Dad is already standing in the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced against the counter like it is the only thing keeping him from walking through a wall. The coffee machine spits and gurgles behind him. The smell of it is too sharp in the room, bitter enough to scrape the back of my throat.
The Sentinel sits unopened on the table.
Not folded halfway this time. Not flattened under Dad’s palm. Just there, sealed in its plastic sleeve, rainwater still clinging to the edges from where he must have grabbed it off the porch and then thought better of it.
He hasn’t read it yet.
“No,” he says into the phone.
A pause.
His eyes close, but his voice stays level. “No, Victor. My answer didn’t change overnight.”
I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Dad’s shoulders are tight beneath his dress shirt. He must have gotten ready for work by habit, but he looks like he has no intention of going anywhere. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the knot half-formed and forgotten. On the counter beside him, his camera bag sits open with nothing inside but the lens cloth, folded neatly like a surrender.
He listens for another few seconds.
Then his jaw shifts.
“She is not giving a statement,” he says. “Not to you. Not to The Sentinel. Not to any affiliate who thinks calling me from a different number makes the question new.”
I grip the banister.
The house feels too still around his voice. Upstairs, the bathroom fan hums faintly because I forgot to turn it off. Outside, a car rolls over wet pavement, tires whispering past the curb. Ordinary sounds. Indifferent ones.
Dad’s voice drops lower.
“No, I’m not refusing because I have something to hide. I’m refusing because my daughter is not a prop in your argument.” He goes quiet as Victor speaks over him. I can tell he is speaking over him by the way Dad’s mouth flattens, the way his free hand curls against the countertop. “I don’t care which side you think you’re helping. You’re not using her to condemn Spider-Man or twist what happened into something it wasn’t.”
A faint buzzing comes from the phone. Victor’s voice is muffled, sharp, impossible to make out.
Dad laughs once.
There is no humor in it.
“You printed my photos under captions I didn’t write,” he says. “So don’t talk to me about trust.”
The silence after that is immediate.
I wonder if Victor hung up first or if Dad did. It doesn’t matter. Dad lowers the phone slowly, staring at the screen like he might still be able to see the man through it.
I shift my weight.
The floorboard gives a small complaint beneath my foot.
Dad turns.
For one second, his face is still the one he used on the phone: hard, cold, older than it should be. Then he sees me, and something in him rearranges itself too quickly. The anger doesn’t disappear. It only gets pushed behind the place where he keeps me.
“Morning,” he says.
I let go of the banister. “Morning.”
He looks past me toward the stairs, as if checking whether I have all my limbs despite having slept in my own room. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The word comes out automatic.
Dad’s expression tells me he hates it as much as I do.
I cross the kitchen and pull out the chair across from the newspaper. The plastic sleeve catches the gray morning light, making the headline underneath unreadable. I stare at it anyway.
“Was that work?” I ask.
Dad sets his phone facedown on the counter. “Technically.”
“That means Victor.”
“That means Victor.”
I nod once.
The coffee machine stops with a final wet hiss. Dad reaches for a mug and pours without drinking any of it. His movements are careful. Too careful. He has been up for a while. Maybe all night. His eyes have the red, dry look of someone who tried sleeping and lost.
“They want to interview me?” I ask.
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
I look at him.
Dad exhales. “Yes. But the answer is no.”
“I wasn’t saying I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say no like I was about to sign a contract?”
He looks down into his coffee. “Because people are very good at making young women feel rude for protecting themselves.”
The sentence lands quietly.
I don’t know what to do with it, so I look back at the paper.
“They have videos,” I say.
“They have too many.”
“Of me?”
Dad doesn’t answer right away.
My stomach tightens.
“Dad.”
“There are clips from different angles,” he says carefully. “Most of them are focused on the bus and Spider-Man. Some show you near the doors.”
“Near the doors,” I repeat.
He hears the accusation in it and closes his eyes for half a second. “Helping the boy down.”
I sit back.
My hands are cold, though the kitchen is warm. I remember the weight of Milo’s coat in my hands, the hard pull in my shoulders when he slid from the step, the awful certainty that if I didn’t keep my voice steady, he would look back at the street and freeze all over again.
The memory had felt private last night, somehow. Not secret. Just mine.
Now the city has it.
Dad picks up the paper, still in the sleeve, and moves it away from me.
That makes me look at him.
“I’m not five.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
“Then don’t move things like I can’t handle them.”
He flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to regret the edge in my voice as soon as it leaves me.
He sets the paper back down.
“There’s a difference between handling something and being forced to swallow it,” he says.
I look away first.
“I don’t hate him,” Dad says.
I glance back.
His eyes are on the table now, not on me. “Spider-Man.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
He wraps both hands around his mug but still doesn’t drink. “I’m grateful to him. I don’t know how not to be. Whatever else is true, he has kept you alive more than once, and I have to live with the fact that a stranger in a mask has been able to reach you faster than I have.”
The honesty in that sits between us, heavier than the newspaper.
“But gratitude doesn’t mean I trust everything around him,” Dad continues. “The police, the mayor, Kane, the people online turning him into either a saint or a disease. Once they decide you mean something, they stop seeing you as a person. I won’t let them do that to you.”
My throat tightens.
There are easier things to argue with than love that knows exactly what it is afraid of.
“I didn’t mean for anyone to film me.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to be part of anything.”
“I know that too.”
“But it doesn’t matter.”
Dad finally lifts his coffee and takes a sip. His face tightens like it tastes worse than expected. “No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”
That is the first honest thing either of us says all morning.
The rules come after.
Not all at once. Dad tries to make them sound practical, which somehow makes them worse. I go straight to school. I keep my phone on. I do not talk to anyone with a camera, a microphone, a badge, a blog, or a sentence that starts with “just between us.” I come home immediately after last period. No art club. No library after hours. No stopping at The Literary Nook with Jenna. No walking home.
“I have free period at the end of the day,” I remind him.
“You spend it on campus.”
“That is what free period means.”
He gives me a look.
I hold up my hands. “I’m not arguing. I’m clarifying.”
“You are doing both.”
“Efficiently.”
His mouth twitches, but the almost-smile dies before it can become anything useful. “I’ll pick you up at dismissal.”
“You have work.”
“I have sick time.”
“You’re not sick.”
“I have stress,” he says flatly. “Plenty of it.”
I lower my gaze to the table.
The Sentinel waits between us, untouched.
“Are you going to get in trouble?” I ask.
“For refusing Victor?”
“For refusing everyone.”
Dad’s hand tightens around the mug. “Probably.”
The answer makes something twist behind my ribs. “Dad.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I hate that. I hate the calm in it more. The way adults can say they will deal with things when what they mean is they have already chosen what damage they are willing to take.
The drive to Daylight Academy is worse than the kitchen.
At least in the kitchen, the fear had walls.
Outside, the city has already started building its version of yesterday.
Two news vans idle across from the front gates when Dad pulls up. Their satellite masts rise into the gray sky like insects’ legs. A reporter in a beige coat stands near the curb with a paper coffee cup in one hand, speaking to a cameraman who keeps glancing toward the school entrance. Police tape still blocks part of the drop-off lane. The broken streetlight is gone, but the pavement where it fell is scraped raw, pale scars cutting through the dark asphalt.
The bus is gone too.
The webbing is not.
Not all of it. Thin white remnants cling to the stone pillars and the edge of the curb, torn where workers must have cut the lines loose. They look strange in daylight. Less miraculous. More like evidence.
Dad parks farther down the block than usual.
Neither of us moves.
Students walk past in clusters, heads bent together, voices low and bright with the nervous energy people get after being close to danger but not close enough to be permanently changed by it. Some look toward the news vans. Some take pictures. A few point at the damaged curb.
One girl lifts her phone toward the entrance, filming.
A teacher steps in front of her and lowers it with one look.
Dad watches all of it through the windshield.
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he says.
“I know.”
“If someone corners you—”
“I find a teacher.”
“If a reporter approaches you—”
“I don’t answer.”
“If a student records you—”
“Dad.”
He stops.
His fingers flex around the steering wheel, then loosen. “Sorry.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “You don’t have to apologize for being worried.”
“I do if it starts turning you into an inmate.”
I look at him then.
He keeps his eyes forward, jaw set, like he regrets the sentence but not enough to take it back.
For a moment, I see him the way he must have been before my mother died. Younger. Still serious, probably, but not this sharpened by loss. Not always braced for the world to collect what he loves.
“I’ll text you,” I say.
He nods. “Please.”
I get out before either of us can make the goodbye heavier than it already is.
The morning air smells like wet stone and exhaust. I cross toward the entrance with my bag tight against one shoulder, aware of every phone in every hand even when none are pointed at me. The school looks almost normal from the outside, which feels insulting. Same brick. Same windows. Same banners announcing fall clubs and senior meetings. Only the police tape and the scratched pavement admit anything happened.
Halfway up the steps, Jenna appears from behind one of the columns.
She has her camera bag across her chest, but the camera itself is not out. That is how I know she is worried.
“You made it,” she says.
“Barely. My dad almost installed a tracking device in my spine.”
Jenna’s eyes flick toward the news vans. “Give him a day. He may still shop around.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He is exactly that bad with better vocabulary.”
I breathe out, not quite laughing.
Jenna studies my face more carefully than she wants me to notice. Her curls are loose today, falling around her shoulders instead of pinned back, and there is a faint crease between her brows that makes her look older. She glances once toward the reporters, then steps closer so her voice doesn’t carry.
“People are talking.”
“I assumed.”
“Not everyone. But enough.”
“About the bus?”
“About everything.” She hesitates. “About Spider-Man talking to you after.”
My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag.
The image comes back before I can stop it: the burn mark along his side, the tremor in his hand, the careful distance he kept between us. The way he asked if I was okay like the answer mattered more than the police closing in behind him.
“He asked about the kid,” I say.
“I know.”
I look at her.
Jenna’s mouth presses into a thin line. “There’s video.”
Of course there is.
The words settle without surprise. I think that makes them worse.
“Can you hear us?” I ask.
“No. Not really. Too much noise.” Her gaze moves over my face. “But people don’t need sound to make up dialogue.”
A group of juniors passes us on the steps, lowering their voices too late. One of them looks at me, then away. Another whispers something that makes the others go quiet.
Jenna turns her head slowly.
They walk faster.
“Don’t do that all day,” I murmur.
“Do what?”
“Look at people like you’re judging them.”
“Because I am.”
“Jenna.”
Her expression softens, but only a little. “I’m serious. Don’t answer questions. Not because you did anything wrong. Because people aren’t asking so they can understand. They’re asking so they can repeat it worse.”
The sentence lands too close to something Dad would say, but from Jenna it sounds less like a locked door and more like a hand at my back.
“Okay,” I say.
She nods once, satisfied enough for now. “Good. We have English first. Erikson will either handle this gracefully or turn it into a lesson about public narratives.”
“He would.”
“He absolutely would.”
Inside, Daylight Academy smells like rain-damp uniforms, floor polish, and the burnt dust of old radiators being forced back to life too early in the season. The hallway noise is wrong. Not quieter exactly, but uneven. Conversations stop as we pass and then restart behind us with the careful softness of people pretending they were never talking about us in the first place.
By the time we reach AP English, I feel peeled open.
Mr. Erikson is already at the board, writing the date in his thin, slanted handwriting. Wednesday. September 10th. Beneath it, he has written one sentence:
WHO OWNS A STORY ONCE IT BECOMES PUBLIC?
Jenna sees it and gives me a look.
I stare at the board.
Of course.
Mr. Erikson turns when the warning bell chimes, marker still in hand. His eyes pass over the room, pausing briefly on me. Not long enough to make a spectacle. Long enough to say he knows exactly what he is doing.
“Before anyone decides to test my patience this morning,” he says, setting the marker down, “we are not using this class to interrogate classmates.”
A few people shift in their seats.
My face heats anyway.
“We are, however,” he continues, “going to discuss the difference between witnessing an event and consuming it. Those are not the same action, despite what half the city seems determined to prove.”
Jenna leans closer without looking at me. “Graceful and lesson. He found a way.”
I keep my eyes on my notebook.
The class does not talk about me directly.
That is almost worse.
They talk around me. Around Spider-Man. Around the bus. Around headlines and public safety and whether fear makes people more honest or more useful. Mr. Erikson keeps the conversation sharp but contained, redirecting anyone who gets too close to turning the room into a comment section.
Amy-Jane sits two rows ahead of me.
Her hair is pulled back with a dark ribbon today, simple and neat, the kind of detail that makes her look like she belongs in the warm light of a painting. She listens more than she speaks at first, pen resting between her fingers. When someone near the windows says the media has a responsibility to show every angle, she finally turns.
“Showing every angle isn’t the same as using every angle responsibly,” she says.
The room quiets slightly.
She does not look at me.
“A person can be visible in something and still not belong to the public,” she continues. “Being filmed doesn’t mean someone consented to become evidence.”
Mr. Erikson watches her with the faintest lift of his brow.
The boy by the window shrugs. “But if it happened in public, people are allowed to talk about it.”
“Allowed doesn’t mean careful,” Amy-Jane says. Her voice stays even. Not defensive. Not eager to win. “And careful matters when people are scared.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Jenna is very still beside me.
I lower my gaze to my notebook and draw a line down the margin, then another. The pencil leaves dark marks against the paper. I tell myself Amy-Jane could be talking about anyone. Spider-Man. The bus driver. The man with the electrical brace. The city. Maybe she is.
Maybe that is why it matters.
Because she does not need to know everything to be kind.
After class, people gather their things slower than usual. Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Conversations restart in careful fragments.
Jenna waits for me by the door, but Amy-Jane reaches my desk first.
She does not crowd me. She stops at a reasonable distance, books held against her chest, eyes steady but not prying.
“Liya?”
I slide my notebook into my bag. “Yeah?”
“I saw one of the pictures from yesterday.”
My stomach drops before I can stop it.
Amy-Jane notices. Her expression shifts immediately. “Not the one people keep sharing of Spider-Man. The other one. Near the bus doors.”
I look down at my bag zipper. “Oh.”
“I just wanted to say…” She pauses, searching for the right words instead of grabbing the easiest ones. “I thought what you did was cool. Not in the way people online mean it. I mean it was brave, but quiet.”
“I didn’t really do anything,” I say.
Amy-Jane’s mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “That’s what people say when they did something.”
I don’t know how to answer that.
Jenna steps beside me, not interrupting, but making her presence known. Amy-Jane glances at her and gives a small nod.
“I’m not trying to make it weird,” Amy-Jane says. “I just thought you should hear it from someone who isn’t asking for details.”
That is what makes me look at her.
She means it.
There is no angle in her face. No hunger. No little flicker of wanting a secret she can carry back to someone else. She is only standing there, being decent in a way that makes my jealousy feel childish even though I know it is not.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
Amy-Jane nods again, then shifts her books in her arms. “I’ll see you in Art.”
“Yeah.”
She leaves with the same composed ease she seems to bring everywhere.
Jenna watches her go.
After a moment, she says, “That was inconveniently nice.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah.”
“I hate when people make it hard to dislike them.”
“I don’t dislike her.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
We both start walking.
The hallway has grown crowded between periods, bodies moving in both directions, lockers clanging open, teachers calling for people not to block the stairs. A few students look at me with open curiosity. Most try to be subtle and fail.
At the far end of the hall, near the corridor that cuts toward the cafeteria and back gym entrance, I see Jungwon.
My steps slow before I can stop them.
He stands with Jay, Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Ni-ki clustered close enough to form a wall without looking like they mean to. Jungwon’s backpack hangs off one shoulder. His posture is almost normal, but only almost. He holds himself too carefully on the left side.
The sight of him in uniform after yesterday feels wrong.
Jenna follows my gaze, then exhales quietly.
“I’m gonna head to class,” she says. “Text me if anything weird happens.”
“I will.”
She gives me a quick look—checking, not pushing—then slips into the crowd and disappears.
I stay.
We are too far away to hear at first. Students pass between us, breaking the view into pieces: Heeseung’s serious profile, Jay’s hand moving as he talks, Sunoo’s worried expression, Jungwon looking down instead of at any of them.
Then the crowd thins.
Jay’s voice reaches me, low but sharp. “You could barely stand yesterday.”
Jungwon answers quietly. “I’m fine now.”
“That’s not the point,” Heeseung says.
Sunghoon leans back against the lockers, arms crossed. “You disappeared for almost an hour.”
“I had to make sure no one followed.”
“And you came back looking like shit,” Jay says. “Don’t act like that’s normal.”
Jungwon’s jaw tightens. “I handled it.”
Ni-ki looks at him. “That’s not what we’re arguing about.”
No one laughs.
Jungwon looks down at the floor.
Sunoo steps closer, voice softer. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t have helped.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Jay asks.
Jake nudges him lightly, but Jay doesn’t back off.
Jungwon looks up, tired in a way he doesn’t usually let show. “There were people stuck. What was I supposed to do?”
“We know,” Heeseung says. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just worn out.
Heeseung takes a second. “You don’t tell us anything.”
Jungwon looks away.
“You don’t ask for help,” Heeseung continues. “You don’t even give us a heads-up. You just disappear and expect us to cover for you after.”
Jungwon’s voice drops. “I’m not asking you to cover for me.”
Jay lets out a short breath. “Yeah, you are. Every time you vanish, we’re the ones standing there making excuses.”
“I’m not dragging you into it.”
“You already did,” Jay says. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
Jungwon’s shoulders tense. “It’s better if you’re not involved.”
Sunghoon pushes off the lockers. “You don’t get to decide that for everyone.”
Jungwon looks at him, something tight passing between them. “What then?” he says, voice low but edged now. “Do you want me to let you help out Spider-Man and get yourselves killed? I’m still figuring this out—it’s only been six months—”
Before anyone can say anything else, a voice cuts in.
“Jungwon?”
Everyone turns.
Amy-Jane stands a few feet away with a black notebook in her hands.
The shift is immediate.
Jay straightens. Sunoo steps back. Jake looks away. Heeseung’s expression smooths out. Sunghoon pulls his phone out like he’s been checking it the whole time. Ni-ki glances at Jungwon, then looks down.
Jungwon straightens too quickly.
I see the flicker of pain before he hides it.
Amy-Jane notices something.
Her brows draw together.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing at the group. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Jungwon says.
Too fast.
Jay looks away.
Sunoo presses his lips together.
Amy-Jane steps closer and holds out the notebook. “You left this in Algebra yesterday. Mrs. Jensen gave it to me.”
Jungwon takes it.
Their fingers brush.
It’s quick.
But not nothing.
“I spoke with the teacher after the bell rang,” she adds. “She gave me some helpful tips I thought you might want to know.”
Jungwon looks down at the notebook, then back at her. His expression softens, just a little.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You looked like you needed it.”
The boys go quiet.
Jungwon doesn’t answer right away.
Amy-Jane studies him more closely this time, her gaze lingering in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She tilts her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You say that a lot.”
His eyes flick toward the others, then back to her too quickly, like he didn’t mean to return his attention so fast.
Sunoo looks down, hiding a knowing smile.
Jay’s expression goes blank, but his brows lift just slightly.
“I’m just tired,” Jungwon says, quieter now.
Amy-Jane hums softly, unconvinced. She shifts her weight, stepping just a little closer than necessary. “Then eat something,” she says, her voice gentler but more certain. “You forget when you’re tired.”
She says it like it’s not a guess.
Like she’s noticed.
Jungwon blinks, caught off guard in a way that shows more than he probably wants. “I won’t.”
“You will,” she replies, a hint of teasing slipping into her tone.
For a second, he just looks at her.
Really looks.
His shoulders loosen a fraction, something soft breaking through the careful control he’s been holding all morning. “Maybe,” he admits, almost under his breath.
That almost makes him smile.
Not fully.
But enough that it lingers a second longer than it should.
I look away.
The hallway noise fills back in around them, like nothing happened.
I start walking again before I can stand there any longer.
The crowd closes in, and they disappear behind it.
For the rest of the morning, I feel like I am carrying something fragile under my ribs.
P.E. is held inside the gym, even though the doors to the outdoor track and football field stand open at the far end. Coach Thompson has apparently decided none of us need “additional opportunities to act stupid near vehicles,” which is how he phrases trauma when he does not want to use the word, so he keeps us away from the entrance that leads back toward the drop-off lane.
We spend the period under the harsh white lights, doing half-hearted stretches and a short set of laps around the court instead of heading outside. No one complains as much as usual. Even the people who normally treat P.E. like state-sanctioned suffering seem relieved to stay contained somewhere with walls.
Jungwon runs three lanes ahead of me.
He keeps pace for the first two laps. On the third, his steps shorten. On the fourth, his left hand presses briefly against his side before he drops it again.
No one else seems to notice.
That is not true.
Sunghoon notices from the bleachers, even though he is pretending to tie his shoe. Jake notices from the far side of the court. Jenna notices because she notices me noticing.
Coach Thompson blows his whistle. “Walk it out. Nobody needs to prove anything to me today.”
Jungwon slows with everyone else, face calm, breath carefully measured. He does not look at me.
I am grateful for that.
I hate that I am grateful for that.
After P.E., Art feels almost indecently peaceful.
The room smells like paint water, graphite, and clay dust. Rainlight presses softly through the high windows, turning the tables silver at the edges. Ms. Hartman has pinned a new sheet of instructions to the board, but most of the class ignores it until she taps the paper twice and gives us the look that means she can outwait anyone.
“Don’t turn your mural into a memorial unless you actually have a reason for it,” she says. “The city isn’t just what scared you yesterday. It’s also everything you noticed before and after.”
A few students glance at me.
Ms. Hartman does not.
That is why I like her.
I take my usual seat near the windows. Amy-Jane sits two tables over at first, but after Ms. Hartman finishes explaining the day’s work, she brings her sketchbook and moves to the empty stool across from mine.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She sets her things down carefully. Her sketchbook is already open, full of clean lines and small notes written in the margins. I catch glimpses of buildings threaded with vines, a cracked road, flowers growing through places flowers should not survive.
I look away before it becomes staring.
For a while, we work in quiet.
It is not uncomfortable, exactly. It is strange because it could be comfortable if I let it, and I don’t know what to do with that. Amy-Jane does not force conversation. She shades the corner of a building with the side of her pencil, slow and patient. I darken the windows on my own sketch until they begin to look like eyes.
Eventually, she says, “People are being weird with you.”
I pause. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
“That’s generous.”
She smiles faintly. “Very.”
I look down at my page. “It’ll pass.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe not. But it also kind of doesn’t matter as much as it feels like it does right now. We’re graduating this year. In a few months, most people are going to be too busy worrying about college or their grades to care about any of this. And after that… I probably won’t even see most of them again.”
Amy-Jane nods slowly. “That’s true,” she says. “People move on faster than they think they will.”
Then she adds, “But I think people also like patterns. And you’ve been near Spider-Man more than once.”
The pencil stills in my hand.
Amy-Jane’s expression changes when she realizes how it sounds. “I’m not saying that like I think you did something wrong.”
“I know.”
“I just mean people notice repetition before they understand context.”
That sounds like something Mr. Erikson would appreciate too much.
I resume shading, though the lines come out heavier now. “There isn’t much context.”
Amy-Jane does not answer immediately.
When she does, her voice is careful. “Maybe not one you can explain.”
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes on her sketch, but there is nothing absent about her. She is paying attention. Maybe she always is. Maybe that is the problem.
“You sound like you know something,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head slightly. “I just know people don’t always get to explain themselves.”
That should comfort me.
Instead, I think of Jungwon in the hallway with the boys around him—the way they closed in without meaning to, the way every word carried more weight than it should have. How he stood there, trying to hold two versions of himself apart with nothing but willpower, even as they pressed against each other. He never asked them to understand everything, but they did anyway, and it only made things harder.
And he never asks me either.
But I see it. The effort it takes for him to keep those worlds separate, to carry what he does without letting it spill into everything else. I understand, even if he doesn’t say it out loud, that it isn’t my place to step into that space or try to untangle it for him. Whatever he’s dealing with, whatever he’s protecting—it’s heavier than anything I could fix.
All I can do is respect it.
And maybe, in some small way, make things easier by not asking for more than he can give.
Amy-Jane looks up then. “I really did mean what I said earlier. About yesterday.”
My throat tightens with a tired kind of embarrassment. “You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“I know.” She taps her pencil lightly against the edge of her sketchbook. “I’m not trying to make you into a hero. I just think people sometimes deserve to know when they acted like a decent person in a situation where decency wasn’t convenient.”
The words are too kind to resent.
“Thanks,” I say.
Amy-Jane nods and looks back at her sketch.
For a few minutes, there is only the soft drag of pencils and Ms. Hartman moving between tables. Someone near the sink drops a brush and swears under their breath. Ms. Hartman says their name without looking up.
Amy-Jane’s pencil slows.
“Was Jungwon there when it happened?” she asks.
I keep my face still.
The question is simple. Normal. It should not feel like a hand closing around my wrist.
“At the front?” I ask.
“Yeah. I thought I saw him in one of the videos before things got bad, but it was blurry.”
My pulse moves into my throat.
I shade the edge of a rooftop too dark. “A lot of people were outside.”
“Right.” She nods, but her gaze drifts to the rain-streaked windows. “He seemed strange today.”
I say nothing.
Amy-Jane presses her lips together, then gives a small, self-conscious laugh that does not really sound like her. “Sorry. That came out like I was asking you to explain him.”
“I don’t think anyone can explain him.”
Her smile turns soft before she can hide it.
There it is.
Not dramatic at first—then it is. A faint flush rises along her cheeks, soft but unmistakable, blooming before she can hide it. It lingers there, betraying her in a way words never could.
Oh.
“No,” she says quietly. “Probably not.”
I look back at my sketch.
There are things a person can know without being told.
Amy-Jane likes him.
I don’t blame her for it. I’ve liked him long enough to understand how easily it happens, how quietly it settles in without asking permission. There’s something about him that draws people in—not loudly, not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that makes you want to stay, to notice, to care. And standing here, watching her, I can’t help but feel the difference between us. She fits into his world in a way that feels natural, like she belongs in the spaces he lets people see. I don’t know if I ever have.
She is already closer than I want her to be.
And worse, she deserves to be.
By Free Period, the school has settled into a strange, brittle rhythm.
The hallways are normal if you don’t look too closely. Students still complain about homework. Someone still drops a water bottle down the stairs. Two juniors argue outside the vending machines about whether a band’s second album is underrated or just bad. Life insists on returning to itself, even when the shape of it has changed.
I go to the library because there is nowhere else to go.
Dad has already texted twice.
Dad: Still picking you up at dismissal.
Dad: Stay inside until I get there.
I send back a thumbs-up, then delete it because he hates those when he is worried.
Me: I will.
The library is fuller than usual. Rainy days do that, but so does fear. People gather in quiet places after loud things happen. They pretend it is for homework.
I take the corner table near history and literature.
Jungwon does not come.
I tell myself I did not expect him to.
That is almost true.
Jenna joins me halfway through the period with a granola bar and the expression of someone carrying information she has decided I deserve but may not enjoy.
“I heard two freshmen say you’re Spider-Man’s civilian contact,” she says, sitting across from me.
I stare at her.
She unwraps the granola bar. “I’m not repeating it because I think it’s funny.”
“Civilian contact?”
“I know.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means they watched a couple videos and started making stuff up.”
I rub my forehead. “Great.”
“They also said he saved you from a falling helicopter last year, so I wouldn’t take their research seriously.”
“There wasn’t a helicopter.”
“I assumed.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin.
Jenna sets the granola bar down between us. “Eat half.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I, but I’m annoying myself less when I chew.”
I take half because refusing would become a larger conversation.
For a while, we sit in silence. Jenna opens her laptop and pretends to work. I pretend to sketch. The granola bar tastes like cardboard and chocolate chips trying their best.
Eventually, Jenna says, “Your dad still picking you up?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you mad?”
“At him?”
“At being watched.”
I think about it.
The easy answer is yes. The truer answer is harder to hold.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I hate feeling trapped. But I know why he’s doing it.”
Jenna nods. “That makes it worse sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
“Because then you can’t even enjoy being mad.”
The bell rings before I have to answer.
At dismissal, I follow Dad’s instructions exactly.
I stay inside until his car pulls up. I do not linger near the reporters. I do not answer the sophomore who asks what really happened on the bus. I do not look toward the old science wing, even though part of me expects to see a red-and-blue figure vanish behind it again.
Dad is parked at the curb with the hazard lights on.
I slide into the passenger seat, and he looks me over before I even shut the door.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to with your face.”
He pulls away from the school. “My face has been through a lot.”
“Clearly.”
A small silence follows, not tense, not easy either, until Dad lets out a quiet chuckle like he actually found what I said funny.
He glances at me once we pass the news vans. “Did anyone bother you?”
“No reporters.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I lean my head against the seat. “People stared. Some asked things. Jenna handled most of it by making eye contact.”
“That sounds like something Jenna would do.”
“It is one of her public services.”
This time, Dad does smile, but it fades quickly.
At the next light, his phone starts ringing through the car speakers.
The screen on the dashboard shows The Sentinel.
Dad’s mouth hardens.
He declines the call.
Thirty seconds later, it rings again.
He declines it again.
When it starts a third time, he shuts the sound off completely.
I look out the window.
“I can answer questions if it makes things easier for you,” I say.
“No.”
“I don’t mean on camera. Just to your boss, or whoever needs—”
“No, Liya.”
The firmness in his voice shuts the sentence down.
I turn back to him.
His eyes stay on the road. “You don’t make yourself smaller to make my job easier.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were offering because you feel guilty.”
The words hit too close.
Dad exhales. “I know what that looks like. I’ve done it for most of my life.”
The light turns green.
We move forward.
For a while, the car holds only the muted thrum of traffic and rain beginning again, soft at first, then harder against the windshield. Dad turns the wipers on. They drag across the glass with a tired rhythm.
“I’m not angry that you helped the boy,” he says after several blocks.
I look at him.
“I’m angry that you were close enough to have to,” he continues. “Those are different things. I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and his voice strains around it like the words hurt. “I am. I wish I wasn’t so scared that it gets tangled up in everything else.”
The ache in my chest comes back.
I stare down at my hands.
The cut across my knuckle has started to close already, a thin red line beneath the skin.
“I don’t want to be a headline,” I say.
“I know.”
At home, Dad makes another pot of coffee, which feels medically unwise but emotionally predictable. I go upstairs before he can change his mind and add new rules to the existing ones.
My room is dim and gray with rainlight. I drop my bag by the desk and sit on the floor instead of the bed, back against the side of the mattress, knees drawn up. The mural sketch lies where I left it, half-tucked beneath a stack of books. The city in it looks more crowded than before, buildings leaning toward each other as if trying to overhear their own future.
My phone buzzes.
Jenna: alive?
Me: physically
Jenna: emotionally?
Me: under review
Jenna: acceptable
Jenna: eat something later or I’m telling your dad you looked pale
Me: you’re abusing your access to authority figures
Jenna: yes
I set the phone down, then pick it up again when it buzzes a minute later.
This time, it is Jungwon.
Jungwon: did your dad let you keep your phone
I stare at the message.
Something soft and foolish turns over in my chest.
Me: barely
Me: I think he considered mailing me to a safer state
The reply comes faster than I expect.
Jungwon: which state is safer
Me: none
Me: that was probably the issue
A pause.
Jungwon: makes sense
It is nothing.
I hold the phone with both hands and watch the bubbles appear, disappear, then appear again.
Jungwon: school was weird today
I lean my head back against the mattress.
Me: yeah
Jungwon: people kept talking about yesterday like they were reviewing a movie
The sentence sits on the screen.
I read it twice.
There is too much in it. Not enough to prove anything, but enough to feel like he has placed a hand against a door without opening it.
Me: I think people do that when something scares them
I wait, then add:
Me: turning it into a story makes it easier to deal with it
The bubbles appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Jungwon: maybe
I can almost see him on the other side of it. Sitting somewhere quiet. Maybe his room. Maybe some rooftop he should not be on with a healing burn hidden beneath his shirt. Maybe surrounded by friends who want too much from him, reaching for me because he thinks I don't know about his secret identity. I can settle with that as a fact.
Jungwon: did people bother you a lot
Me: not a lot
Me: Jenna scared most of them away
Jungwon: she can do that?
Me: she considers it community service
There is a pause long enough for me to hear Dad downstairs answer the house phone.
His voice rises through the floorboards, low and controlled.
“No. She isn’t available.”
My stomach tightens.
I look toward my closed door.
Dad continues, each word clipped clean. “You can tell Victor that calling the house crosses a line I’m happy to make very unpleasant for him.”
Silence.
Then: “Do not call here again.”
The phone clicks back into its cradle.
I stare at my bedroom door for a while.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Jungwon: you still there?
Me: yeah
Me: my dad’s downstairs arguing with reporters like it’s his full-time job
Jungwon: isn’t he a journalist
Me: that’s why it’s complicated
For a moment, the conversation feels almost normal.
Then Jungwon sends:
Jungwon: he’s right to keep them away from you
I stop.
The room seems to quiet around the message.
Me: you think so?
Jungwon: yeah
Another message follows.
Jungwon: people kinda decide what they want someone to be
Jungwon: and then get mad when they don’t fit it
I read it until the words stop looking like words.
The ache in them is not hidden well enough.
Me: is that about me or just everything?
The bubbles appear immediately.
Then disappear.
I regret sending it.
Not because it is cruel. It isn’t. But because it steps too close to the place we keep pretending not to see.
A full minute passes.
Jungwon: both, I guess
I let out a slow breath.
Both.
Not a confession. Not a slip. Nothing I can hold up to the light and name.
Still, something.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I could push. I could ask what he means. I could make him choose between the truth and another lie, and maybe some impatient part of me wants to, because wanting someone who keeps half of himself hidden begins to feel like waiting for someone who might not come back.
But then I remember the hallway.
The boys around him. Heeseung’s quiet anger. Jay’s fear disguised as frustration. Amy-Jane’s hand brushing his when she returned his notebook. The way Jungwon softened when she told him not to forget to eat.
He already has people asking for pieces of him.
So I give him something easier.
Me: for what it’s worth
Me: I think people are bad at letting anyone be just a person
The reply comes after a few seconds.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: you’re good at making depressing things sound reasonable
I look at the message.
A small laugh escapes me, tired but real.
Me: that might be my only skill
Jungwon: not your only one
My fingers still.
Me: what else am I good at then?
The bubbles appear.
Disappear.
For once, he takes so long that I start to think he won’t answer.
Then:
Jungwon: staying calm when people need someone calm
I stare at the screen.
The room blurs slightly at the edges.
I think of Milo’s raincoat in my fists. The freshman girl’s hand clamped around my sleeve. Dad’s voice on the phone. Spider-Man’s mask turned toward me through the rain.
Me: I didn’t feel calm
Jungwon: that doesn’t always matter
The sentence sits there, quiet and sure.
I do not know what to do with being seen by him in a way he should not be able to explain.
Downstairs, a cabinet closes. Dad moves through the kitchen, probably cleaning things that are already clean because he can’t sit still. Rain taps against my window. The whole house feels held between one breath and another.
Jungwon texts again before I can answer.
Jungwon: did you work on your mural today?
The shift is obvious.
Me: a little
Jungwon: still depressing but not pointless?
My chest tightens around the memory of the library, of his tired face bent over my sketch, of him seeing the crowded city before he saw the hidden figure.
Me: that’s the goal
Jungwon: did you hide the hopeful part somewhere small?
I look toward my desk.
The mural sketch waits beneath my books, unfinished, with its rooftops, bridge, windows, and the small figure on the roof who might change the picture or might only be another shadow. I get up and pull the page free, and for a while I stand over it with my phone in one hand, studying the city I have drawn. My pencil lies beside the paper, and I pick it up, drawing in the narrow space between two buildings, almost too small to notice, a window with a light on—not bright, not enough to save the whole city.
Just there.
Then I take a picture and send it before I can think better of it.
Me: maybe
He reads it almost immediately.
No response comes for a while.
I sit back on the edge of my bed, phone balanced in my palm, listening to rain and the low murmur of Dad’s voice downstairs as another call comes in and gets refused. The city keeps reaching for us through wires, screens, headlines, other people’s mouths.
Then Jungwon replies.
Jungwon: yeah
Jungwon: that works
It is not much.
Still, I hold the phone to my chest for one weak second before setting it facedown beside me.
Because I know how this goes.
Amy-Jane will return more notebooks. She will notice when he looks tired. She will say the right thing at the right time, not because she is trying to win something, but because kindness comes naturally to her in a way that makes people lean closer without realizing they have moved.
Jungwon will soften.
The boys will see it first. Maybe they already have.
My phone buzzes once more.
I reach for it too quickly.
Jungwon: rest tonight
I stare at the words until the screen dims.
Then I type back.
Me: you too
He does not answer again.
That is okay.
It has to be.
I set the phone down and return to the mural. Outside, rain drags silver lines down the glass. Downstairs, Dad tells someone from The Sentinel that no means no, his voice steady enough to sound like a locked door.
No thunder. No citywide sirens before breakfast. No headline loud enough to shake the kitchen windows. Just a thin, colorless morning pressing itself against the glass, light leaking through the curtains in tired strips while Dad stands at the counter with his coffee untouched and his phone balanced between his shoulder and ear.
I sit at the table with toast I have no real interest in eating, watching butter melt into the surface until it turns glossy and uneven. The house smells like burnt bread and old coffee, like every morning we have tried to pretend is normal.
Dad has The Sentinel open beside him. Not fully. Folded halfway, the way people fold things they don’t want to look at directly but can’t bring themselves to put away. Victor Kane’s name sits at the top of the page in sharp black print, attached to another opinion column about public safety and accountability. Spider-Man isn’t in the headline this time, but he is there anyway, buried between the lines like an infection.
Dad hasn’t said anything about it. That is how I know it’s bad.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone, voice flat. “I saw it.”
A pause.
His jaw tightens.
“No, I’m not giving you a quote for that.” He reaches for his coffee, forgets why, and sets his hand back down on the counter empty. “Because she's my daughter, and I’m not helping anyone make it worse.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
I pick at the corner of my toast, tearing off a piece and rolling it between my fingers until it turns soft and useless.
Dad’s eyes flick toward me. The irritation in his face shifts immediately into something quieter, careful. He lowers his voice, but not enough for me to miss the edge in it. “I have to take my daughter to school. We can talk later.”
He hangs up before whoever is on the other end can answer.
For a moment, the kitchen settles into the kind of silence that makes ordinary sounds feel staged: the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking above the doorway, the dull scrape of Dad’s thumb against the side of his phone. He looks older in the morning light, the gray threaded at his temples catching pale and harsh.
“You don’t have to read it,” I say.
His gaze drops to the paper. “I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Because not knowing doesn’t make it go away.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
He folds the paper the rest of the way and sets it aside, flattening his palm over the page like he can hold the words down by force. “You’re staying after today?”
The question catches in my chest for half a second.
“Maybe,” I say, too quickly. “Free period. Library. I might work on the mural.”
Dad looks at me the way he does when he knows there is more underneath a sentence than I’ve given him, but he doesn’t dig. Not this morning. Maybe he’s too tired. Maybe we both are.
“Text me before you leave campus.”
“I will.”
“And if anything feels strange—”
“Dad.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Let me finish.”
I stop.
His voice softens, but the worry stays. “If anything feels strange, you call me. Not after you decide whether or not it matters. Not after you think you can handle it. Right away.”
The toast sits heavy in my stomach, though I’ve barely eaten any. I nod because arguing would only make him repeat himself, and because some part of me understands the shape of his fear even when it frustrates me. He lost my mother to something he couldn’t chase, couldn’t photograph, couldn’t expose in a paper and force into the light. I think that ruined something in him. I think now, every danger looks like it might be the one that takes what’s left.
“I’ll call,” I say.
He studies me for another second, then nods once. That is the closest we get to peace before school.
The drive to Daylight Academy is quiet, broken only by the radio whispering traffic reports and Dad drumming two fingers against the steering wheel. Graystone moves past my window in damp pieces: storefronts still opening, sidewalks darkened from last night’s rain, people in coats they don’t need yet but wear anyway because September has started threatening autumn. The city looks ordinary from inside the car.
When Dad pulls up near the school, he doesn’t immediately unlock the doors. Students stream past us in loose clusters, laughing, yawning, stepping around puddles with practiced annoyance. A group of freshmen nearly collide with a teacher carrying too many papers.
Dad glances at the entrance, then back at me. “You have your phone?”
I lift it from my pocket.
“Charged?”
“Eighty-two percent.”
“Good.” His hand taps once against the wheel. “Have a normal day.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek before he can say anything else. “You too.”
He huffs softly. “Not likely.”
I step out into the morning and shut the door behind me. Dad waits, as always, until I’m halfway up the steps before pulling away. I don’t look back because I know if I do, he’ll still be watching, and I don’t want to carry that expression into the building with me.
Inside, Daylight Academy has its usual smell of floor polish, damp jackets, and cheap perfume. The hallway noise gathers around me immediately, familiar and uneven, lockers slamming in sharp bursts, sneakers squeaking against tile, voices rising and falling like small weather systems. I move through it with my backpack tight against one shoulder, careful not to scan too obviously for anyone.
Which means, naturally, I find him almost at once.
Jungwon stands near the Chemistry hall with Sunoo and Jake, his hair still slightly damp at the ends, hoodie unzipped over his uniform shirt. He looks rested in the superficial way people can after not sleeping enough: eyes open, posture upright, face arranged into something close to normal. Sunoo is talking with both hands, leaning into whatever story he’s telling, while Jake listens with an expression caught between amusement and exhaustion.
Jungwon’s attention isn’t really on either of them.
I notice that before I can stop myself. The way his gaze keeps shifting toward the front entrance, toward passing students, toward the windows where the gray morning presses itself against the glass. It isn’t nervousness exactly. More like listening with his whole body. Waiting for a sound nobody else knows to hear.
Then his eyes find mine.
It lasts less than a breath. A small acknowledgement, nothing that would mean anything to anyone watching. He doesn’t smile, but something in his face eases by a fraction, and I hate how quickly I notice that too.
Jenna appears at my side before I can think too hard about it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says, falling into step beside me.
I keep walking. “Good morning to you too.”
“It is morning. Whether it’s good is still under review.”
I glance at her. Her curls are pinned back today with two silver clips that don’t quite hold, and her camera bag bounces against her hip as she walks. She looks awake in a way that feels personally offensive.
“What thing?” I ask, though I know better.
“The quiet observation thing.”
“That’s just my face.”
We make it to Chemistry right as Mrs. Henderson starts writing on the board, her handwriting narrow and severe enough to make even warm-up questions feel like a migraine. The day folds itself into routine after that, at least on the surface. Chemistry, then AP English, then History. Teachers talk. Students answer. Notes fill pages. The building breathes around us, old and heavy, pretending the outside world has no claim here.
By lunch, the sky has darkened from tired gray into something flatter, more metallic. Rain threatens without falling. The cafeteria buzzes under fluorescent lights, trays scraping against tables, chairs dragging, people complaining about food they will still finish because hunger makes hypocrites of everyone.
Jenna and I sit near the windows again. She has fries, a yogurt, and two cookies she swears she did not steal from someone else’s tray. I have a turkey sandwich Dad wrapped so tightly in wax paper that opening it feels like disarming a small package.
Across the cafeteria, the old corner table remains mostly empty.
That has become its own kind of statement.
Sunoo sits with Jake and two girls from student council today, his voice lower than usual, though his hands still move when he talks. Heeseung is nowhere in sight. Sunghoon and Ni-ki pass through once, not stopping, both of them carrying bottled drinks and the same contained tension I’ve started recognizing too easily. Jay stands near the vending machines with his phone in one hand, expression blank, then leaves without buying anything.
Jungwon doesn’t come in until almost halfway through lunch.
He enters with Amy-Jane.
They are not walking close enough to be anything, but they are walking together. That is enough for my stomach to tighten before I can reason with it. Amy-Jane is speaking, one hand curled around the strap of her bag, her expression thoughtful. Jungwon listens with his head slightly bent toward her, not smiling exactly, but present in a way that looks careful.
Jenna’s gaze flicks to me. For once, she says nothing.
Amy-Jane stops near her table. Jungwon says something I can’t hear. She smiles, small and grateful, then touches his sleeve lightly before walking away.
It is nothing.
It is absolutely nothing.
His eyes follow her for a moment, and the part of me that wants to be reasonable takes notes like a dutiful student. Of course he looks at her. Of course he does. Amy-Jane is kind in a way that doesn’t feel performed. She has clean handwriting, steady opinions, a family name people recognize, and the ability to say the right thing without making it sound rehearsed. She can defend Spider-Man in a classroom without knowing him, without knowing what it costs him to be spoken about at all.
Jungwon turns, scanning the cafeteria, and his gaze catches on me.
The moment is brief. Almost accidental. Still, I feel the shift of it, the small uncomfortable knowledge that both things are true. He can soften for her. He can look for me.
I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite because I need something to do with my face.
Jenna waits until I swallow before she speaks, her voice gentler than I expect. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t see that.”
I look down at my tray. “I’m not pretending.”
“You are, but I’m not going to make you talk about it.”
“That’s new for you.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
I almost smile. It fades before it becomes anything useful. “There’s nothing to talk about. They’re friends.”
Jenna looks across the cafeteria, then back at me. “Maybe.”
“That was not supportive.”
“It was honest.”
I fold the wax paper into a small square. “Honesty is overrated.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s just inconvenient.”
That sounds like something Mr. Erikson would write on the board and expect us to spend forty minutes discussing. I don’t say that, though. I only push the rest of my sandwich around the paper and try not to look over again.
By the time free period comes, I have talked myself into a version of calm that feels convincing only if no one touches it.
The library is quieter than usual. Rain has finally started, not hard enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to blur the view of the courtyard into silver streaks and dark stone. Students sit scattered between tables with laptops open and headphones in, everyone softened by the weather into a shared reluctance to speak too loudly. The lamps along the shelves cast warm pools of light over the wood, turning the dust in the air into something almost gentle.
I take my usual corner near history and literature.
My mural sketch is already in my bag, edges softened from being handled too much. I lay it flat and smooth my palms over the paper. The city is there in layered lines: the bridge, the rooftops, the narrow streets, the windows watching from every direction. The small figure on the roof remains half-hidden in the upper corner, more suggestion than subject. Anyone else might miss it.
My phone sits facedown beside my pencil.
Three minutes pass. Then six. Then nine.
I tell myself I am not waiting. I am working. There is a difference, even if my body does not seem to know it.
At eleven minutes, a shadow falls across the table.
“Is this seat taken?”
I look up too quickly.
Jungwon stands on the other side of the table with one hand on the back of the chair, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks a little damp from the rain, small droplets caught in his hair and along the seam of his hoodie. Up close, the tiredness is more visible than it was from across the cafeteria. Not dramatic. Not alarming. Just there, faintly bruised under his eyes, threaded through the set of his mouth.
I shake my head. “No.”
He sits, careful not to jostle the table. For a moment, neither of us says anything. He pulls a notebook from his bag, then a pen, then sets both down without opening them. His gaze drifts to my sketch.
“That’s the mural?”
“Concept for it. Maybe. Ms. Hartman wants the truth of the city, which sounds simple until you try to draw it.”
He leans forward slightly, studying the page without touching it. I expect him to look at the hidden figure first. He doesn’t. His eyes move across the bridge, the uneven rooftops, the crowded windows. He takes his time with it.
“It feels crowded,” he says.
My fingers tighten around the pencil. “In a bad way?”
“No.” He glances up at me. “In a real way. Like everyone’s living close to each other but still not really looking.”
The answer settles in a place I don’t expect. I look back down at the sketch, suddenly less embarrassed by it.
“That’s kind of what I was trying to do.”
“I can tell.”
He says it simply. No performance, no easy compliment. It makes it harder to dismiss.
I nudge the corner of the page. “Ms. Hartman might say it’s too heavy.”
“Maybe heavy isn’t bad.”
“Committees usually prefer hopeful.”
Jungwon’s mouth curves faintly, though it doesn’t quite become a smile. “You could hide the hopeful part somewhere small.”
I glance at the tiny figure on the roof before I can stop myself. Jungwon follows my gaze. The air changes in that barely perceptible way I’ve started feeling around him, a tightening under the skin, a silence with too much inside it.
He sees it.
Of course he sees it.
He does not ask if it is Spider-Man.
Instead, he says, “Small things can still change the whole picture.”
My throat feels dry. “That sounds like something you say when you don’t want to admit the sketch is depressing.”
“It is depressing,” he says, and then, before I can decide whether to be offended, adds, “but not in a pointless way.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. Quiet, short, more breath than sound. His eyes lift at it, and the tiredness in his face softens.
“Sorry,” he says. “That sounded better in my head.”
“No, it’s fine. Depressing but not pointless is probably the closest anyone’s gotten to understanding my art.”
He looks down, turning his pen slowly between his fingers. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“I know.”
The conversation settles after that, not awkwardly, but in the way some silences become part of the table. Rain trails down the windows in thin, wavering lines. Somewhere near the front desk, Mrs. Finch stamps a book with a soft, repetitive thud. Jungwon opens his notebook at last, but he doesn’t write. I keep shading a line of buildings that already has enough shadow.
After a while, he says, “Amy-Jane said your concept was good.”
My hand pauses.
I make myself keep the pencil moving. “She has good taste,”I say half jokingly.
“She said you have a way of making buildings feel like people.”
That is too specific to be a casual mention. It is also too kind.
I stare at the page. “That’s nice of her.”
“She's really good at art, so she knows what she's talking about.”
“I know.”
He looks at me then, maybe hearing something in my voice I didn’t mean to leave there. I keep my eyes on the sketch. The pencil makes a faint scratch against the paper, too loud in the quiet.
Jungwon shifts slightly. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t.”
A pause.
“I think I did.”
I exhale, not quite a sigh. “It’s not weird. She’s good at art. And she’s… nice.”
“She is.”
The agreement lands softly, but it lands.
I nod once, because that is what normal people do when they are having normal conversations about normal things. “She defended Spider-Man in English yesterday. It seems you have another fan to talk about Spider-Man with, maybe make a club.”
Jungwon’s pen stops turning.
I don’t look at him. “Not in a dramatic way. People were talking about the article, and she said the headline wasn’t neutral. That people were reacting to the framing instead of the facts.”
The silence stretches.
When Jungwon answers, his voice is lower than before. “She said that?”
“Yeah.”
He leans back, eyes moving toward the rain-dark window. For a second, he looks older than he is. Or maybe just worn down enough that the mask of being fine slips at the edges.
“She’s right,” he says.
I study his profile, the careful line of his jaw, the way his hand rests loose on the table except for the thumb pressed hard against the side of his pen. “A lot of people probably know she’s right.”
“That doesn’t always matter.”
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
His gaze returns to me. There is something searching in it, something almost startled by the fact that I understand. I wonder, not for the first time, how lonely it must be to hear people debate whether you are good while you sit three desks away pretending to care about algebra.
He looks away first.
“I’m tired of everyone sounding so sure,” he says after a moment. “Not just about Spider-Man. About everything. People decide what something is, and then they only look for proof that keeps it that way.”
The words are too honest. He seems to realize it after they leave his mouth, because his shoulders tighten.
I pretend not to notice. “My dad says people like boxes because they make fear easier to carry.”
Jungwon’s expression shifts. “Your dad said that?”
“Not exactly. He uses more newspaper words.”
That almost gets a smile from him. “He seems intense.”
“He is.”
“In a bad way?”
I think about Dad’s hand flattening The Sentinel on the kitchen counter, his voice on the phone, his insistence that I call if anything feels wrong. I think about the way he photographs disaster because still images are the only way he knows to fight time.
“No,” I say slowly. “Not bad. Just scared. And stubborn. And convinced those are different things.”
Jungwon nods like he understands too well.
For a while, we actually work. He asks about the algebra problems Amy-Jane didn’t finish, and I help in the limited way someone can help when they barely trust her own answers. He catches one of my mistakes without making a show of it. I fix one of his signs before he notices. It is quiet, ordinary, almost comfortable. The kind of hour that would mean nothing if I didn’t know what his hands could do with webbing and concrete and the weight of a collapsing world.
The bell rings too soon.
Not the full end-of-day bell. Just the warning that free period is nearly done, a soft chime through the speakers that makes a few students groan and begin gathering their things. Jungwon closes his notebook slowly, like he doesn’t want to move yet. I slide my sketch into my folder and tuck my pencil into the elastic loop.
“You staying for art club?” he asks.
“Not today. Ms. Hartman moved the meeting to Thursday.”
“Oh.”
“I’m waiting for Dad. He said he’d be late, but probably not that late.”
Jungwon nods. “I can wait with you for a bit.”
The offer is quiet. Not grand enough to refuse without making it strange. Still, my first instinct is to look for the trap in it, the hidden reason, the angle where I become pathetic for wanting to say yes.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know.”
That is all. No pressure. No explanation.
I zip my bag. “Okay.”
Outside, the rain has slowed into a mist that hangs in the air rather than falling cleanly. The courtyard stones shine dark beneath our feet, reflecting the old arches of Daylight Academy in broken pieces. Most students rush toward cars or buses with their shoulders hunched, jackets pulled over their heads. Others linger under the covered walkway, complaining about the weather as if it has personally wronged them.
Jungwon walks beside me with his hands in his hoodie pockets, his pace careful enough to match mine without making it obvious. For a few minutes, we don’t talk. The silence is not empty, but it isn’t heavy either. It feels like the quiet in the library followed us outside and learned how to breathe.
Near the front steps, Sunoo spots us from under the overhang. His gaze moves from Jungwon to me with open curiosity before Jake says something to him and pulls his attention away. Heeseung stands a little farther back, leaning against one of the stone columns with his phone in hand, but he isn’t looking at the screen. His eyes track Jungwon for a second, then shift away.
Jungwon sees him. I can tell by the way his shoulders change.
“You need to go?” I ask.
He glances at me. “No.”
“You looked like you did.”
“It’s fine.”
I don’t push. That feels like a small mercy, and maybe he knows it, because the tension around his mouth eases after a moment.
We reach the edge of the drop-off lane. Cars slide past in slow, impatient lines, windshield wipers ticking back and forth. The school shuttle idles near the curb, half-full of students who live farther out toward the east side. A city bus follows behind it, delayed by the mess of school traffic, its windows fogged lightly from the inside. People crowd along the sidewalk: students waiting for rides, parents leaning across passenger seats to shout names, a cyclist ringing his bell at nobody in particular.
My phone buzzes.
Dad:
Running fifteen late. Stay by the front.
I type back that I will. Jungwon watches the traffic, eyes narrowed slightly against the mist.
“Dad’s late,” I say.
“I can stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn't offer otherwise.”
The words come out plain, but my chest reacts anyway, stupid and soft. I look down at my phone because it is safer than looking at him.
Then the city makes a sound that doesn’t belong to rain or traffic.
A metallic shriek cuts across the afternoon, long and violent, followed by the deep, sickening crunch of something heavy hitting something that refuses to move. The conversations around us break apart. Heads turn. A few people scream before anyone knows why.
The city bus lurches sideways at the far end of the lane.
For a second, it looks almost slow, impossible in its weight, front wheels jumping the curb as if lifted by an invisible hand. Sparks spit from beneath it in bright, frantic bursts. The driver fights the wheel, but the bus keeps skidding, slamming into a streetlight hard enough to bend the pole halfway toward the ground. Glass cracks. Metal groans. The back end swings out, clipping the corner of the shuttle and sending students inside shouting against the windows.
Everything happens too fast after that.
Brakes squeal. A car horn sticks, blaring one long note. People surge backward toward the school steps, pushing, stumbling, dragging each other out of the lane. The city bus tilts at a sharp angle where one side has mounted the curb, its front trapped against the bent streetlight. Blue-white electricity flickers along something clamped near the front wheel, crawling over the metal like living veins.
A man stands in the street in front of it.
At first, my brain refuses to understand him. He wears a dark raincoat with the hood up, but beneath it, wires coil around his torso in uneven loops, connected to a box strapped against his chest. One arm is covered in a metal brace from wrist to elbow, ugly and improvised, the fingers tipped with copper points. A pulse of light travels from the box to his hand and snaps outward into the wet street, making everyone nearby scream and scatter.
“Stay back,” he shouts.
His voice is amplified somehow, distorted through a speaker clipped near his throat. It buzzes at the edges, mechanical and thin.
Someone near me whispers, “Is that a bomb?”
A teacher yells for everyone to get inside. Another shouts for the buses to unload, but the city bus doors don’t open. The driver pounds at the controls from inside, face pale behind the cracked windshield. Students on the school shuttle scramble out through the rear emergency door, coughing and crying as Coach Thompson and another teacher wave them toward the building.
The man in the street raises his braced hand. Electricity snaps from his fingers to the front of the city bus, and the whole vehicle jolts. People inside scream. The doors shudder but stay sealed.
“Call the police,” someone yells.
Half the crowd already has their phones out.
Jungwon has gone very still beside me.
I don’t look at him right away. I can’t. I feel the change before I see it: the air around him tightening, his breathing going quiet, his attention narrowing until nothing exists except the bus, the man, the trapped people, the angle of the streetlight bent against the windshield. He is not panicking. That is worse. Panic would look human.
This is calculation.
His hand slips out of his pocket.
The knuckles are white.
I turn my head just enough to see his face. His eyes move over the scene with a speed that makes my skin prickle. Bus. Wires. Driver. Crowd. Roofline. Alley beyond the gym. Camera angles. Teachers. Heeseung under the columns, already moving toward Sunoo and Jake. Sunghoon and Ni-ki near the side entrance, both looking at Jungwon without looking like they are looking.
He needs to leave.
The realization arrives cleanly, with no drama attached to it. He needs to leave, and I am standing right beside him, the one person who could make that difficult by asking the obvious question or staring too long or forcing him to make some terrible excuse.
So I give him one.
“I need to call my dad,” I say, my voice louder than it needs to be but steady enough. “He’ll hear about this on the scanner and lose his mind if I don’t answer.”
Jungwon looks at me.
For one brief second, all the noise thins around us. His expression doesn’t change much, but his eyes do. Something startled moves through them. Something grateful, though he would never name it that here.
“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”
I step away from him, turning my back before he can hesitate. I lift my phone to my ear even though I haven’t called anyone, staring toward the school doors as if reception requires my full attention. My heart beats so hard that the phone trembles against my cheek.
Behind me, there is the softest shift of movement.
Not a footstep exactly. Not enough for anyone else to notice under the chaos. Just the absence of him, sudden as a door closing.
I count to five before I look.
Jungwon is gone.
The space beside me is empty.
For half a second, I just stare at it.
The mist drifts through the spot where Jungwon had been standing, soft and useless, as if the air itself is trying to cover for him. Around me, everything keeps moving too fast: students shoving toward the front doors, teachers shouting over each other, car horns blaring from the lane, someone crying hard enough that the sound breaks apart in their throat.
Then the bus jolts again.
The whole front of it rocks against the bent streetlight, metal screaming against metal. The driver’s hands slam against the steering wheel from inside, but the doors still don’t open. Faces crowd the fogged windows, palms smacking against glass. A woman near the middle presses a little boy behind her, shielding him with her body even though there is nowhere to go.
I lift my phone to my ear with shaking fingers.
Dad answers on the third ring.
“Liya?”
“I’m at the front,” I say quickly, forcing the words out before he can hear the chaos and start filling in the blanks himself. “There’s an incident with a bus. I’m okay. I’m still on campus.”
“What do you mean an incident?”
His voice changes immediately. The tiredness is gone, scraped clean by fear.
“Dad, I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
The man in the street raises his braced arm again. Blue-white electricity snaps from the copper tips of his fingers and hits the side of the bus with a crack loud enough to punch through every sound around it. The vehicle shudders. A few students scream and run harder for the doors.
“Get inside,” Dad says. “Right now.”
“I’m going,” I lie.
“Liya.”
“I am.”
“Put a teacher on the phone.”
“I can’t—there’s too much—”
“Liya, listen to me.”
His voice almost disappears beneath a new sound: a web snapping taut.
It cuts through the air above us, thin and bright against the gray afternoon. My head jerks up. A red-and-blue figure swings low over the drop-off lane, coming from the direction of the gym roof. He releases the web at the last second and lands on top of the city bus near the rear, far from the front wheel where the electricity keeps crawling.
The roof dents beneath him.
The crowd erupts.
Spider-Man rises into a crouch, one hand braced against the metal, head angled toward the man in the street. Even from here, I can see how quickly he reads the scene. He looks first at the people, then at the bus, then at the sparking device clamped near the front wheel. Not the villain. Not the cameras. The people.
“Liya!” Dad’s voice snaps through the phone. “Was that—?”
“I have to go,” I say.
“No, you do not hang up on me—”
“I’m going inside. I’ll call you right back.”
I end the call before the guilt can stop me.
The lie tastes awful, but keeping the phone to my ear while the world tears open feels worse. I shove it into my pocket and move with the crowd toward the steps, not because I want to leave, but because the teachers are right about one thing: standing in the open lane is stupid.
Spider-Man points toward the school without looking away from the man in the street. “Everybody back! Inside or behind the columns. Now.”
His voice is loud enough to carry but not panicked. That helps more than I want it to. People obey faster when someone sounds like they believe there is still a way out.
The man in the raincoat turns toward him, his hood slipping back just enough to reveal a gaunt face, rain plastering pale hair to his forehead. The metal box strapped to his chest pulses faintly beneath the wet fabric, wires feeding from it into the brace around his arm and down toward the street. One thick cable trails behind him, snaking across the pavement to the device clamped to the bus’s front wheel.
That is what has it trapped.
Not a bomb. Not exactly.
A lock.
The thought comes clear and sudden. The clamp is holding the wheel and feeding current through the frame, enough to keep the doors sealed and anyone inside too terrified to touch anything metal.
Spider-Man sees it too.
He shifts his weight on the roof of the bus, keeping low. “Okay,” he calls down, voice tilted into something almost conversational. “So I’m guessing this isn’t part of the normal afternoon route.”
The man’s head snaps up. “Stay away from me.”
“Would love to. Really. But you parked a bus on a school sidewalk, and that's kind of hard to ignore.”
The man throws his braced arm forward.
A bolt of electricity snaps toward the roof.
Spider-Man dives sideways, rolling clean across the bus and dropping over the far edge. The bolt hits the roof where he was a breath ago, bursting in a sharp flash. The people inside scream as light flickers through the windows.
He doesn’t stay hidden. A web shoots from below the bus’s side and sticks to the man’s wrist. Spider-Man yanks.
The man stumbles forward, boots scraping against wet pavement, but he slams his other hand against the brace and the web begins to smoke. The strands blacken and snap apart.
Spider-Man lands on the curb between the bus and the school steps, putting himself between the crowd and the man. His back is to us now, shoulders squared, body balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Noted,” he says. “Web-resistant. Annoying, but noted.”
The man laughs once, harsh and humorless. “You think this is about you?”
Spider-Man tilts his head. “And here I thought you were trying to impress the only hero in town.”
The man’s face twists. “It’s about what people ignore. The ones who are actually in trouble—no one looks twice.” He jabs his braced hand toward the school, toward the phones, toward the windows full of faces. “So now they get to feel it. What it’s like to be scared and helpless while everyone just watches.”
The words land strangely, too rehearsed and too raw at once. Like he has been saying them to himself for days.
Spider-Man doesn’t answer immediately.
Then his voice drops, all the sharpness leaving it. “There are kids on that bus.”
The man’s jaw tightens. “Then they’ll learn early.”
He lifts his arm again.
Spider-Man moves first.
He fires two webs at once: one to the man’s ankle, the other snapping tight around the metal pole of the bus stop sign. Using it as an anchor, he yanks hard, redirecting the man’s momentum sideways instead of straight toward the bus. The sudden pull throws off his aim. The blast meant for the windows shoots wide and strikes the wet asphalt. Electricity skitters over the ground in a jagged fan.
Everyone on the steps surges backward.
A freshman girl slips beside me, her shoes sliding on the rain-slick stone. She falls hard, landing on one elbow with a cry that gets swallowed by the crowd. For a second, no one sees her. People are too busy watching Spider-Man, too busy trying not to be the next person to fall.
I reach down without thinking.
“Hey—come on.” I hook my hands under her arms and pull her upright, dragging her toward the inside edge of the column. “Move with me. Don’t stop here.”
Her face is wet, not just from rain. “My brother’s on the shuttle.”
I glance toward the school shuttle clipped near the rear of the city bus. Its back emergency door is open now, and Coach Thompson is lifting students down one at a time, his face red with effort. The shuttle is damaged, but not trapped. Kids are getting out.
“What does he look like?”
“Blue backpack,” she chokes out. “He’s little. Sixth grade. He—he was visiting from the middle school program—”
“I’ll look,” I say, though I don’t know if I can.
Her fingers clamp around my sleeve. “Please.”
I turn toward the shuttle, scanning the students being herded toward the gym doors. Blue backpack. Blue backpack. There are too many bags, too many uniforms, too much motion.
Then I see him.
Small, shaking, standing near the open emergency door with one shoe untied and a blue backpack hanging off one shoulder. He refuses to jump down. Coach Thompson has one hand extended, but the boy keeps looking toward the trapped city bus, frozen by the screams.
“There,” I say, pointing. “Is that him?”
The girl makes a broken sound. “Eli!”
The boy’s head snaps toward us.
Coach Thompson follows the sound, sees us, and waves the boy down with a sharper urgency. “Move, kid. Now.”
Eli finally jumps. Coach catches him badly, more of a grab than a catch, but it gets him on the ground. The girl beside me tries to run for him. I catch her sleeve before she can dart back into the open lane.
“No. Let them bring him.”
She fights me for one panicked second. “That’s my brother.”
“I know. But if you run, someone else has to go after you.”
That makes her stop.
Across the lane, Coach Thompson pushes Eli toward another teacher, who rushes him along the safer path behind the parked cars. The boy reaches us a few seconds later, crying so hard he can barely breathe. His sister grabs him, folding around him with both arms.
I step back, breath shaking.
That was nothing. Barely anything.
But my hands tremble like I’ve lifted something heavier than a person.
A crash yanks my attention back to the bus.
Spider-Man hits the side of the school shuttle, shoulder-first, hard enough to rock it on its tires. A dent blooms in the metal behind him. He drops to one knee but pushes up immediately, shaking one hand like it has gone numb.
The man in the raincoat advances, the chest box glowing brighter now. The cable between him and the bus clamp pulls taut across the street.
Spider-Man glances at it.
The cable. The clamp. The people still trapped inside.
Then he runs.
Not at the man.
At the cable.
He sprints low across the wet pavement, dodging another bolt that tears through the mist where his head had been. His feet hit the curb, then a car hood, then the side mirror of an abandoned sedan. He launches off it and fires a web at the cable, wrapping it once, twice, three times.
The man realizes too late.
Spider-Man lands on the opposite side of the cable and yanks with his whole body.
The cable tears free from the chest box in a burst of sparks.
The clamp on the bus flickers.
For one beautiful second, the blue-white veins along the bus frame vanish.
“Doors!” Spider-Man shouts. “Try the doors!”
The driver slams his hand against the controls. The front doors gasp open halfway, jerking against damage from the crash. A sound goes through the trapped passengers—not relief exactly, but the first breath after drowning.
The man screams.
He slams his braced hand into the torn port on his chest box, rerouting power through the remaining wires. The box flashes hot. The bus clamp sparks back to life, weaker this time, but enough to make the doors freeze again before anyone can get out.
Spider-Man’s head turns sharply toward the bus.
One passenger has made it halfway through the front doors.
A woman, maybe in her thirties, one leg caught between the folding panels as they lock around her. She cries out, hands clawing at the rubber edges.
Spider-Man fires a web toward the door and pulls, muscles straining. The panels give an inch. Then another. Not enough.
The man raises his braced arm toward Spider-Man’s exposed back.
I see it before anyone else seems to.
“Behind you!” I shout.
Spider-Man drops instantly.
The bolt passes over him and hits the bus stop sign instead, blowing it apart in a shower of metal and sparks. The woman trapped in the door screams. Spider-Man rolls under the next blast, comes up beside the bus, and jams both hands into the narrow gap of the doors.
He pulls.
The doors groan open.
“Out,” he tells the woman. “Step toward the sidewalk. Don’t touch the frame.”
She stumbles free. A police officer, finally close enough to be useful, grabs her under the arms and drags her away from the bus. Spider-Man steps back, but the movement is too slow. The man’s next blast clips him in the side.
The sound he makes is small.
I almost don’t hear it.
His body twists with the hit, electricity crawling over the suit in a sharp blue flash. He slams into the curb, catches himself on one hand, and stays there for half a second too long.
The man laughs.
The crowd’s cheers die.
Spider-Man lifts his head.
Something about the motion is wrong. Too careful. Too human.
My stomach turns over.
He pushes himself up anyway.
“You know,” he says, voice rougher now, “for someone who wants to be heard, you’re making a pretty bad argument.”
The man snarls and fires again.
This time Spider-Man doesn’t dodge away. He jumps up.
The bolt hits the ground beneath him as he fires a web toward one of the stone columns at the school entrance. He swings in a tight arc, low enough that his feet skim the roof of a stalled car. At the highest point, he releases and flips over the man’s head, landing behind him near the torn cable.
For the first time, the man has to turn his back on the bus.
That is what Spider-Man wanted.
I see it as it happens. He is not trying to beat him yet. He is pulling him away from the people.
Step by step.
Blast by blast.
Every time the man aims toward the bus, Spider-Man gets in the way. Every time he aims toward Spider-Man, Spider-Man moves farther into the open street, away from the school steps, away from the shuttle, away from the trapped passengers. It is messy and dangerous and nothing like the clean videos people post online with music underneath. His foot slips once. A web burns through before it can hold. He catches the edge of a blast against his shoulder and staggers but keeps moving.
The fight is not a dance.
It is a series of choices made too quickly to admire.
Behind him, the driver forces the bus doors open again by hand. This time, with the clamp weakened and Spider-Man keeping the man’s attention away, the passengers begin to spill out.
One by one.
An older man first, then a teenager with blood on his forehead, then a mother carrying a toddler bundled against her chest. Teachers rush them toward the school. Police try to form a line, but they’re slow, confused by the electricity, too cautious about where to stand.
A little boy appears at the bus doors and freezes.
Young. Maybe seven or eight, with a red raincoat and one hand pressed to the doorframe he has clearly been told not to touch. His eyes are wide and empty with fear.
“Don’t touch the metal,” the driver snaps, panic making his voice sharp.
The boy flinches and starts crying harder.
No adult reaches him immediately. The nearest officer is helping the bleeding teenager. The driver is still half-trapped behind the wheel. The boy stands at the open bus doors, shaking, too scared to step down and too scared to go back.
I move before I decide to.
Not into the street. Not past the police line. Just to the edge of the curb closest to the school side, where the front doors of the bus angle toward the sidewalk. There are still several yards between me and the man, and Spider-Man has dragged him farther down the lane, but my heartbeat doesn’t care about distance.
“Hey,” I call, trying to make my voice steady. “Red coat.”
The boy looks at me.
The bus steps are high from where the front has jumped the curb. Too high for him to climb down without help.
I crouch, palms open. “You’re okay. Don’t touch the sides. Keep your hands to yourself and look at me.”
He sobs. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” My voice comes out firmer than I feel. “One step. Just one. Sit down on the step.”
He shakes his head.
Behind him, a woman inside the bus whispers something, trying to coax him forward, but the boy’s eyes stay locked on me.
I point to the floor of the bus. “Sit first. Like you’re going down stairs on a playground.”
That seems to reach him. His knees bend. He sits, stiff and terrified, hands curled in his lap.
“Good,” I say. “That’s good. Now scoot forward. Slow.”
A blast cracks somewhere down the lane.
I don’t look.
The boy does. His face crumples.
“Look at me,” I say quickly. “Not there. Me.”
His wet eyes snap back.
“What’s your name?”
“Milo.”
“Okay, Milo. I’m Liya. You’re going to slide down, and I’m going to catch your coat. Not your hands. Your coat. Okay?”
He nods once, tiny and miserable.
I reach up, gripping the front of his raincoat as he slides off the last step. He drops harder than I expect, his weight yanking my shoulders forward, but I keep hold of him and pull him against me before he can stumble backward. He is warm and shaking and very, very real.
The second his shoes hit the sidewalk, a teacher rushes in and takes him from me.
“Go,” I tell him, though I don’t know if he hears me.
The teacher carries him toward the doors.
I step back, breathless.
And then I feel it.
Not a hand. Not a touch.
A look.
I turn before I can stop myself.
Spider-Man is across the lane, half-crouched on top of a car, one hand pressed to the roof for balance. The man in the raincoat is several yards beyond him now, closer to the street than the school, electricity gathering around his brace in a frantic, unstable glow.
Spider-Man’s head turns in my direction.
Not for long. Less than a second. But enough to make it feel like he might have noticed me.
Then the man charges him.
Spider-Man turns back just in time.
The man swings his braced arm like a club. Spider-Man ducks beneath it, pivots, and webs the man’s elbow from behind. He pulls, using the man’s momentum against him. The brace slams into the hood of the car with a metallic crack, denting it deep.
Sparks burst from the copper fingers.
The man screams and rips free, but the movement tears more wires from the chest box. The glow flickers unevenly now, pulsing too bright, then too dim.
Spider-Man notices.
He backs up one step, then another, leading him farther from the bus. His left arm hangs slightly lower than his right. The hit to his side is catching up with him.
The man doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He lifts both hands to the chest box, forcing power into the damaged brace. The copper fingertips flare white.
The air changes.
Every hair along my arms lifts.
Spider-Man’s head snaps toward the bus, then toward the crowd.
He knows before the rest of us do.
The chest box gives a high, rising whine.
“Down!” Spider-Man shouts.
This time, nobody hesitates.
I drop behind the stone planter at the edge of the steps, arms over my head. Around me, people hit the ground in a messy wave. The blast goes off a heartbeat later, not a clean bolt but a wide burst of electrical force that ripples across the wet pavement and blows out the windows of the nearest parked cars. Glass scatters like hard rain.
The sound leaves my ears ringing.
For a moment, I can’t tell what happened.
Then I lift my head.
The man is on one knee in the street, chest box smoking, brace sparking wildly. Spider-Man is still standing.
Barely.
He had webbed himself between two street poles, one line from each hand, and used the tension to pull himself above the worst of the blast. He hangs there for a second, suspended over the lane like a torn flag, then drops onto the asphalt in a rough landing that makes him stumble.
The crowd is silent.
The man tries to lift his arm again.
Nothing happens.
Just sparks.
Spider-Man straightens slowly.
“Yeah,” he says, voice strained enough that the humor barely holds. “That sounded expensive.”
The man lunges at him with his unbraced hand.
Spider-Man meets him halfway.
The last part of the fight is ugly and fast.
Spider-Man steps inside the swing, catches the man’s wrist, and turns under it, twisting his arm behind his back. The man tries to slam the sparking brace into Spider-Man’s ribs, but Spider-Man hooks a foot behind his ankle and knocks him off balance. They both go down hard. Spider-Man rolls with it, ends up on top, and fires webbing in quick, precise bursts: wrists first, then ankles, then the damaged brace, cocooning it until the sparks die beneath layers of white.
The man thrashes once.
Spider-Man presses him down with one knee between his shoulder blades.
“Stay,” he says, breathing hard.
Police rush in all at once, as if the end of the fight gives them permission to exist again. Two officers pull the man’s arms behind him. Another shouts for a bomb squad, even though the box is already smoking itself into silence. Someone calls for paramedics. Someone else calls for more units. Radios crackle. Shoes splash through puddles.
Spider-Man backs away from the officers before they can decide whether to thank him or arrest him.
The bus is almost empty now. The driver is helped out last, limping badly but conscious. The bent streetlight groans above the hood, its base cracked, the bus still pressed against it at a dangerous angle.
Spider-Man sees that too.
Of course he does.
He moves toward the bus again, slower this time. No one cheers. Maybe because everyone can see the way he favors one side now. Maybe because the danger hasn’t fully ended.
The streetlight gives another metallic moan.
The bus shifts.
Only an inch, but enough.
“Back!” an officer yells. “Get back!”
Spider-Man fires two webs to the front of the bus, then two more to the stone pillars at the school entrance. He pulls until the lines go taut, anchoring the bus in place. The streetlight finally snaps at the base and drops away from the hood with a heavy crash. Without it, the bus tries to roll forward off the curb.
Spider-Man digs his heels into the wet pavement.
For one terrible second, it looks like the bus will drag him with it.
Then the web lines catch.
The bus jolts and holds.
Teachers and officers shout. A tow truck will need to come. Firefighters. Someone official with equipment and a vest and the right words for the news.
But for now, it holds.
Spider-Man keeps the tension for another few breaths, making sure, then releases one hand at a time. The webbing remains stretched between the bus and pillars, humming faintly under the strain.
He steps back.
His shoulders rise and fall once.
Twice.
Then his head turns slightly toward the school steps.
Toward me.
I don’t move.
Around us, the world slowly remembers how to be loud. People stand. Someone starts crying. Someone else laughs in a shocked, broken way. Teachers count students, voices shaking as they call names. The police drag the man in the raincoat toward a squad car while the smoking chest box hangs useless against his torso.
Spider-Man crosses the lane, not directly to me, but close enough.
Close enough that I can see the burn mark along his side where the electricity hit. The suit is darkened there, the fabric scorched. His left hand flexes once, then curls into a fist as if to hide the tremor.
He stops near the stone planter, a careful distance away.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Impossible to hear unless you are me.
I nod. My throat feels too tight for anything else.
His mask tilts toward the front doors, where Milo is clinging to the teacher who carried him inside. “The kid?”
“He’s okay,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “Scared. But okay.”
Spider-Man nods once.
He looks like he wants to say more. Or maybe he looks like he wants to leave and can’t figure out how to do it without making that obvious. Police are beginning to look his way now. So are students. Phones are raised again. Somewhere, a news van is probably already speeding through traffic, my father maybe right behind it, furious and terrified and carrying both like weapons.
Spider-Man’s hand twitches toward his side.
He is hurt.
Not badly enough to fall over. Not badly enough for anyone else to understand the shape of it. But I know what I saw. The blast. The stumble. The way he keeps his breathing measured, like too much of it would cost him.
I could ask.
Are you hurt? Are you going to be okay? Where do you go after this? Who checks on you when the city stops watching?
I don’t.
Because the answer to all of those questions would trap him here.
So I glance past him, toward the edge of the lane where the police are starting to shift closer, their formation tightening, hands hovering near their belts. More people are lifting their phones now, stepping forward despite the warnings, drawn in by the aftermath like it’s something they’re allowed to touch.
“They’re coming toward you,” I say quietly. “And people are starting to crowd again.”
Spider-Man follows my gaze for a split second.
I don’t give him time to brush it off.
“You should go,” I add, a little firmer. “Before they decide you’re part of the problem.”
He looks back at me.
The white eyes of the mask give nothing away, but something in the angle of his head shifts—like he’s weighing it, like he already knows I’m right and just doesn’t want to leave yet.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he exhales, barely audible.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably a good idea.”
I nod once, even though my chest tightens at the thought of him disappearing again.
He lingers for half a heartbeat longer, then shifts his weight, already preparing to move.
I turn away first.
It is harder than I expect.
I stare out at the rain-dark courtyard, letting the noise of the crowd fill the space behind me, my pulse beating hard in my throat as I count silently, the way I did before.
One.
Two.
Three.
A web shoots.
I don’t look.
Four.
Five.
The air shifts.
When I finally turn, he is already above the gym roof, a red-and-blue blur cutting through the mist. He swings once, low and uneven, then catches the next building and disappears behind the old science wing like the rain has swallowed him whole.
Only then do I actually call my dad.
He answers immediately.
“Liya.”
“I’m okay,” I say first, because it is the only way to keep him from breaking apart through the phone. “I’m okay. I’m by the front steps.”
“What happened? I heard something over the scanner. A bus, some lunatic with electrical—are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you inside?”
I look at the shattered glass glittering across the street, the bus anchored in white webbing, the teachers still counting students with pale faces.
“Not exactly.”
Dad swears under his breath. Not at me. Not fully. At the world, maybe. At himself for being fifteen minutes late. At every awful thing that keeps finding its way to my school.
“I’m three blocks away,” he says. “Do not move.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
The line stays open even after neither of us speaks. I hear his car engine, the sharp tick of his blinker, his breath coming too fast. I stay where I am, one hand pressed around my phone, the other curled into my sleeve to hide how badly it shakes.
Jenna finds me before Dad does.
She comes from inside the building, hair half-fallen from its clips, camera bag twisted across her chest. Her face is pale, eyes too wide, and when she reaches me she doesn’t ask if I am okay. She just grabs my wrist and holds on.
“What the hell was that?” she whispers.
“I don’t know.”
That is the safest answer. Maybe even the truest one.
Her gaze moves over me quickly, checking for blood, bruises, evidence. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Not really,” I add.
“That means you did something.”
I look toward the front doors, where Milo sits on the floor with his red raincoat pooled around him, a counselor crouched in front of him. His hands are wrapped around a paper cup of water. He is still crying, but less now.
Jenna follows my gaze.
Her grip on my wrist loosens. “You helped him?”
“He was stuck at the door.”
“Liya.”
“I didn’t go into the street.”
She just stares at me.
“I didn’t.”
She studies me for a moment, then exhales, shaky and annoyed and relieved all at once. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You think you’re regular difficult. You’re advanced difficult.”
That gets a laugh out of me. It comes out wrong, too close to a sob, but Jenna doesn’t point that out. She only squeezes my wrist once before letting go.
Dad’s car screeches into the lane a minute later.
He parks terribly, half over the curb, not even bothering to straighten the wheel. The second he gets out, I can see the camera bag on the passenger seat, abandoned. For once, he doesn’t reach for it.
He runs to me.
I barely have time to brace before his arms close around me. He hugs like he is trying to pull me back through every disaster I have ever stood too close to, one by one, until I am small enough to keep safe in his hands.
“I told you to go inside,” he says into my hair.
“I know.”
“You said you were going inside.”
“I know.”
His arms tighten, then loosen just enough for him to pull back and look at my face. His eyes scan me the way they always do now, searching for hidden damage. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
His gaze drops to my hands. I realize too late that there is a thin line of red across one knuckle, probably from the stone planter or Milo’s raincoat zipper. Dad sees it.
“That’s not nothing.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Liya.”
“I helped a kid get down from the bus door. That’s all.”
Dad’s expression shifts through fear, anger, and something more complicated. Something like pride that has nowhere safe to stand.
“You should’ve let the adults handle it.”
“There weren’t any adults close enough.”
He closes his eyes for a second.
When he opens them, the anger is still there, but exhausted. Wounded. “You are going to kill me before I’m forty-five.”
“You’re already forty-six.”
“Not helping.”
Jenna makes a small sound beside us that might be a laugh she wisely tries to bury.
Dad looks at her, then back at me. “We’re leaving.”
“Don’t you have to—” I gesture weakly toward the bus, the police, the scene already turning into a headline.
“No,” he says.
The answer is immediate.
I stare at him.
His jaw works once. “Someone else can photograph it.”
He guides me toward the car with one hand on my shoulder, still firm, still shaking a little. Jenna walks with us until the curb, where one of the teachers calls her name and waves her toward the student check-in area. She looks at me, reluctant.
“Text me,” she says.
“I will.”
“I mean actually.”
“I will actually text you.”
She gives Dad one cautious glance, then hurries back toward the school entrance.
The ride home is silent at first.
Not peaceful. Not angry either. Just full. Dad drives with both hands on the wheel, his knuckles pale, his camera bag sliding on the floorboard every time he brakes too sharply. The radio is off. The windshield wipers drag mist across the glass in slow, uneven sweeps.
I keep my hands in my lap and stare at the tiny cut on my knuckle.
The city outside looks different after something happens. Not because it changes, but because it doesn’t. Stores stay open. People cross streets. A man walks his dog under a black umbrella. The world continues with an almost offensive calm, dragging the disaster behind it like a shadow no one wants to look at directly.
Dad turns onto our street.
“You lied to me,” he says finally.
I swallow. “I know.”
“I need you to understand that I can’t protect you if you lie.”
“I know.”
“No, Liya. I don’t think you do.” His voice stays even, which is worse than yelling. “I don’t think you understand what it feels like to hear something over a police scanner and not know if my daughter is under it, beside it, inside it—”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
The words land hard because they are true.
I turn my head toward the window. Rain threads down the glass, turning the houses into wavering shapes. “There was a kid.”
Dad doesn’t answer.
“He was stuck at the bus door. Spider-Man had moved the guy away, and the teachers were helping other people, and he was just standing there. He couldn’t get down.” My voice thins despite my best efforts. “I didn’t run into the street. I didn’t go near the man. I just talked him down and caught his coat.”
Dad pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Then he leans back in his seat and presses both hands over his face. When he speaks, his voice is muffled. “You sound like your mother.”
I look at him.
He lowers his hands, eyes red around the edges. “That is not always comforting.”
The ache in my chest softens into something worse.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know.”
“I really am.”
“I know that too.”
The silence afterward is different. Not repaired. Not easy. But less sharp.
Inside, the house smells like morning because we left it too quickly: coffee gone stale, toast crumbs still on the table, The Sentinel folded beneath Dad’s palm print. He locks the front door behind us and stands there for a second, staring at the deadbolt like it has ever stopped anything that truly wanted to get in.
“Go upstairs,” he says.
“Am I grounded more?”
He gives me a tired look. “Do you want the official ruling now, or after I’ve had enough coffee not to sound insane?”
“After coffee.”
“Smart.”
I climb the stairs slowly.
My room is dim, the rain pressing gray light against the window. I drop my bag by the desk and sit on the edge of the bed without turning on the lamp. My body feels strange now that it has stopped moving. Hollow in some places. Too loud in others. The image of the bus keeps replaying in pieces: Milo’s red coat, Spider-Man’s burned side, the web lines holding the bus to the stone pillars like the city had been stitched together by force.
My phone buzzes.
For a second, I think it is Jenna.
It isn’t.
Jungwon: you got home?
I stare at the message until the screen begins to blur.
Of course. Of course he texts like he heard about it instead of lived it. Like he was never there. Like I hadn’t felt the space beside me go empty and watched Spider-Man appear less than a minute later.
I type back.
Me: yeah
The bubbles appear, vanish, appear again.
Jungwon: you’re okay?
Me: yeah
Me: just grounded in a more advanced way now probably
A pause.
Then—
Jungwon: sounds serious
Me: very
Me: might never see daylight again
I almost smile.
Me: both
The next pause is longer.
Rain taps softly against the glass. I glance toward the window, half-expecting to see a shape there, crouched on the ledge like the night itself has learned bad habits.
There is nothing.
My phone buzzes again.
Jungwon: one of the guys told me about what happened
Jungwon: that kid in the red coat
Jungwon: is he okay?
I stop breathing for a second.
There it is.
Small. Careless, maybe. Or not careless at all.
A thread left between us.
I look at the message for a long time, thumb hovering above the keyboard.
Me: yeah
Me: he was scared, but he got inside
Jungwon: good
One word.
Again.
But this one feels heavier than the last.
I should leave it there. That would be the safe thing. The normal thing. The thing people do when they are not standing at the edge of someone else’s secret, pretending not to notice the drop.
Instead, I type before I can lose the nerve.
Me: are you okay?
The bubbles appear immediately.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
A full minute passes before his answer comes through.
Jungwon: yeah
I stare at it.
Another message follows.
Jungwon: just tired
That, at least, sounds true.
I sit back against the wall, knees drawn up to my chest, phone balanced loosely in one hand. Outside, the rain keeps touching the window, soft and persistent, blurring the glass until my reflection looks like someone I almost recognize.
I stare at him, my pulse a staggering, uneven rhythm against my ribs. The world around us sharpens—air thick with the scent of damp grass, the distant metallic clang of the flagpole shuddering in the evening breeze, the faint hum of traffic beyond the school’s fences. But in front of me, Jungwon. Jungwon, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips parted like he’s about to say something but can’t quite shape the words.
A dozen thoughts collide in my head, none of them forming a full sentence.
Jungwon. Spider-Man. Jungwon is Spider-Man.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, as if a switch flips, he lets out a laugh—high-pitched, forced, completely unconvincing. “Wow,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands that were already a mess from the wind. “I—I can see how you’d think that, but uh… nope. Not me. Just a fan.” He gestures vaguely at the mask in my hand, like it's some cheap merch he forgot was there.
A fan.
My mouth parts, but I don’t say anything. I just watch as he fumbles with his backpack, shoving prints and sketches back inside with too much force, his movements jerky, rushed. His hands tremble slightly, and he clenches them into fists before shoving them into the front pocket of his hoodie. His foot taps against the pavement. The boy is vibrating with nerves.
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I say slowly, eyes narrowing. “A fan.” I roll the mask between my fingers. “You’re really committed, huh?”
Jungwon straightens up, a little too fast, and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, warm and firm. I blink, taken aback by the sudden contact.
“Liya, you—” He exhales sharply, his grip tightening like he’s bracing himself for something. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”
I tilt my head, meeting his frantic gaze. “You’re very passionate for a fan.”
His lips part, his face flickering between a dozen emotions before settling into some weak attempt at offense. “I just—Spider-Man’s reputation is very important to me,” he says, a little too fast, eyes darting to the side. “The city needs him to be, y’know, a symbol, and—”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because suddenly, I’m thinking about my bedroom window.
The open curtains. The cool night air. The figure perched on the ledge, his weight light enough to barely creak the wood. The way the lamplight caught the edge of red and blue, fabric stretching over muscle.
Jungwon was there.
Jungwon saw me.
In my pajamas. In my post-shower, half-dead exhaustion. Hair a mess, skin bare, expression as unfiltered as the chaotic state of my entire life.
Oh my God.
And—
The closet. The school. The fire. That argument. When I turned, face inches from his, breath caught between anger and something else. The realization pricks at the edges of my brain, slow, cruel, inescapable.
Jungwon has seen me at my worst.
Every single time.
I tune back in just as he’s saying, “—so really, it wouldn’t make sense for me to be Spider-Man, and I think—”
But I don’t hear the rest.
Because now, I’m very aware of how close he is.
And of his hands. Still on my shoulders.
And how my face is on fire. The mask is still in my hand, soft and warm from my grip, but my fingers feel numb. My heartbeat rattles inside my ears, too fast, too loud. Jungwon is right there, his hands solid and firm on my shoulders, his words still spilling from his lips in a frantic, breathless tumble—something about probability, logic, and why this is all just a coincidence.
I can’t hear a damn thing.
I feel the heat spreading up my neck, creeping across my cheeks, turning my entire face into a furnace. Not because I’m embarrassed. Not because of the absurdity of this situation. But because I am embarrassed.
Because he’s too close.
Because his fingers are still gripping me like I might sprint off screaming his secret into the sky. Because his voice is pitched high, like he’s pleading with the universe to swallow us both whole before I can actually say anything.
His hands tighten slightly, grounding me back into the moment. “Liya, seriously, you—”
I shove the mask at his chest. A little too hard.
He grunts, startled, fumbling to catch it before it drops into the dirt. His hands close around it fast, pulling it toward himself like I’ve just handed him a ticking bomb. His eyes dart to me, wary.
“I won’t say anything,” I say, my voice sharp, a little clipped, still too hot with the realization that he saw me that night. “About you being a fanboy.”
Jungwon exhales. A rush of relief flashes across his face, like he actually thinks that worked. Like he actually thinks I buy it. He nods fast, stuffing the mask back into his bag, already talking again, already spinning something—an explanation, an excuse, whatever it is.
But my brain is still racing.
The auditorium.
The explosion.
How he was right there—and then gone. And how Spiderman was just suddenly in his place.
The words swirl, connect, snap into place. A puzzle I hadn’t realized I was solving.
My stomach twists, a slow coil of something too tight, too much, squeezing at my ribs. It makes it hard to breathe, harder to focus, harder to be normal, which is already an impossible feat in front of him.
I want to be the version of myself that’s cool, composed, the one who doesn’t get caught in stupid situations like this. The one who wouldn’t be standing here, feet planted like lead, a thousand thoughts colliding at the speed of sound.
But I’m not that version.
I’m the one whose palms are clammy, whose heart is hammering a little too hard, whose brain is short-circuiting under the weight of everything. The one who’s been making a fool of herself in front of Yang Jungwon since—God, since forever.
And now, after everything, after the fire, after the bookstore, after the night on my window—this is how I find out.
The realization is too much.
“Liya?”
I blink, and his voice cuts through the haze, the static of my thoughts breaking just enough for me to focus. He’s still looking at me, still holding his bag close like I might lunge for it and rip the mask out again. His brows are drawn, concern laced into every inch of his face.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because no, I am not okay. I am so far from okay that I don’t even know where okay is.
I take a step back. Then another. The air feels too thick, too charged, like I might drown if I stay here a second longer.
Jungwon shifts, moving slightly forward, like he thinks I might faint or explode or do something. But I shake my head, quickly, forcing a breath into my lungs.
“I have to go.”
It’s rushed, too quick, barely a full sentence, but it’s the only thing I can get out before I turn, before I start walking. Fast. Away from him, away from this, away from the fact that my crush—the one I can barely function around on a normal day—is freaking Spiderman.
I can hear him call after me. Once. Then again. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just keep walking, my hands balled into fists, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
I just need to go home.
—
The front door creaks open under my weight, the wood groaning as if protesting my presence. Inside, the living room is dim, the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds in thin, golden lines. The scent of coffee lingers, mixing with the faint trace of ink and the sharper tang of developed film.
Dad is at the dining table, stacks of printed photos spread out like an unfinished puzzle, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He doesn’t look up immediately, too focused on sifting through the prints, but then his head lifts at the sound of my steps.
“Liya, that you?” His voice is easy, expectant.
I drop my bag by the couch, barely pausing. “Yeah,” I say, but it’s thin, lacking. The weight in my chest hasn’t eased—not with the distance, not with the air between me and him.
Dad hums, flipping through the pictures, not pressing. I can feel his eyes track me as I move toward the hallway, but I don’t turn, don’t offer more. My legs move on autopilot, carrying me up the stairs, past the walls lined with old photographs, past the slightly ajar door of the room that still smells like Mom’s perfume on quiet days.
I reach my door, push inside, and shut it behind me.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of my room closes in like a held breath. I don’t bother flipping the light switch. Twilight seeps through the window blinds, cutting the walls into uneven panels of pale gray and deep shadow. Everything looks off-kilter, unfamiliar—like someone rearranged my life while I wasn’t paying attention.
The pile of clothes on the chair, usually a harmless mess, now feels like evidence of some deeper failure. My half-made bed sits crooked, the comforter twisted like I’d fought it in my sleep. The corner of my sketchbook pokes out from under a hoodie, graphite smudges visible even in the low light.
I stand there, unmoving. Just breathing. Trying to get my heart to settle, to make my brain stop buzzing like a lightbulb about to burn out.
But the weight of the mask—that stupid, glaring red mask—lingers in my mind like an afterimage burned into my retinas. My feet drag across the carpet as I make my way to the bed, collapsing face-first into the mattress. The sheets smell like detergent and something faintly floral, but even that small comfort doesn’t help.
Jungwon.
Spiderman.
The same person. Probably. Definitely.
My eyes squeeze shut, and the memory hits me again like a freight train. The window. The fluttering curtains. The cool breeze threading through the night air. And him, perched there like it was the most normal thing in the world. I’d thrown a book at his head. Sherlock Holmes, hardcover, limited edition.
I groan, rolling onto my back and dragging a pillow over my face. “Oh my God,” I mumble into the fabric, voice muffled and pathetic. “I threw a book at Yang Jungwon.”
The pillow does nothing to block out the spiral of humiliation. He’d caught it, easy and fluid, like gravity was just a suggestion. And I’d stood there, wide-eyed, hair probably frizzed out like a dandelion, wearing pajamas with little stars on them. I slap my hands over my face, heat rushing up my neck. “Kill me now,” I whisper to the ceiling.
But—no. No, Jungwon said he wasn’t Spiderman. He’d babbled about being a fan, about collecting merch or whatever, like that explained the literal mask in his bag.
Maybe… maybe he really wasn’t. Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Maybe I’m being ridiculous.
I lower my hands, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, letting the quiet press in again. It could’ve been a coincidence. The auditorium thing. Him disappearing. Spiderman showing up. People wear replicas all the time, right? Right.
Except—God, how stupid do I have to be to even try convincing myself of that?
The mask. The bruises vanishing overnight. The way Spiderman had moved, had spoken to me in the closet, like he knew me. Like he wasn’t surprised to see me there at all.
I sit up fast, heart hammering in my chest, and grip the edge of the bed so hard my knuckles ache. Of course it’s him. It’s been him this whole time. How could I not have seen it?
I did see it.
I just didn’t want to.
The realization sinks in like a stone, heavy and sharp-edged, pressing against my ribs. I sit there, barely breathing, the silence stretching out until the faint hum of the house becomes deafening—the fridge cycling on in the kitchen, the tick of the hallway clock, the creak of the floorboards settling under invisible weight.
My hand drifts to my face, fingers curling into my hair, pulling at the roots like pain might ground me. It doesn’t. The truth doesn’t just sit there quietly; it crackles, electric and unbearable, sparking memories I’d shoved aside because they didn’t fit neatly into the narrative I wanted.
Spiderman, hanging awkwardly at my bedroom window like a stray cat. The low rasp of his voice when he’d told me to stay safe. The way he’d caught the book I’d chucked at his head without even glancing at it.
Jungwon. It was Jungwon.
I groan, slumping forward, elbows digging into my knees. Heat burns under my skin, the kind that makes my ears ring and my throat tighten. He saw me—really saw me. Disheveled. Barefaced. Wrapped in an oversized hoodie and existential dread. The version of myself I keep tightly contained outside these four walls.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter into my hands, voice fraying at the edges.
A sharp knock cuts through the moment, rattling the thin veneer of calm I was barely clinging to.
“Liya!” Dad’s voice, urgent and breathless, bleeds through the door. Another knock, quicker this time. “Open up, kiddo!”
I stumble to my feet, legs unsteady like I’ve been standing on a fault line. The floor is cold under my socks as I shuffle to the door, heart still racing for entirely different reasons now.
When I pull it open, Dad’s already halfway into his coat, the strap of his camera clamped between his teeth as he wrestles with the zipper. His hair sticks up in odd angles, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times.
“There’s a scene downtown,” he says around the strap, voice muffled. He spits it out, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other digs through his pockets. “Cops just called it in. Robbery, I think. Could be something bigger. Paper wants shots ASAP.”
I blink at him, still caught in the fog of my own spiraling thoughts. He moves like a storm, fast and chaotic, stuffing a spare lens into his shoulder bag while kicking aside a stray sneaker in the hallway.
“There’s lasagna in the fridge,” he adds, yanking the camera free from where it’s tangled in his jacket. “If you get hungry. And—God, where’s my press badge?—if you need anything, text me, okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage, stepping back as he barrels toward the stairs, half-dressed and fully panicked. “Got it.”
He pauses at the top step, turning back with the kind of sharp, parental focus that cuts through even his rush. “And you’re still grounded, Liya. No sneaking out. I mean it.”
I raise my hands in surrender, too drained to argue. “I know. I won’t.”
Satisfied, he spins on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, boots thudding against the wood. I trail after him slowly, lingering by the railing as he throws open the front door, the night air rushing in like a slap to the face.
The engine sputters, then roars to life. From my bedroom window, I watch the headlights carve long, pale streaks across the driveway as he backs out, tires crunching over loose gravel. The taillights flicker red before he disappears down the street, swallowed by the dusk.
I lean against the window frame, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. He’s heading straight for the chaos, camera in hand, ready to freeze someone else’s worst day into a perfect, marketable snapshot.
Maybe he’ll finally get his Spiderman shot.
The thought barely finishes forming before another crashes into it, colder, sharper, leaving my breath caught in my throat.
He’ll be there. Jungwon will be there.
I stay by the window, arms wrapped tight around myself, watching the empty street as if I might catch a flicker of movement, a shadow cutting across the pavement, a web stretching out between the rooftops. But there’s nothing. Just the hum of the neighbor’s porch light and the distant wail of sirens threading through the city, curling around my ribs like a hook dragging me forward.
I turn away too fast, stumbling back into my room, the air suddenly too thick. My hands hover uselessly before they land on the edge of my desk, gripping tight. This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.
But the thought keeps pressing, insistent, curling at the edges of my mind like smoke.
I could go.
I could see—see if he shows up, see if I’m really, actually right, see if Spiderman swings into the scene like he always does.
I push away from the desk, moving before I can stop myself. My closet door creaks as I yank it open. My fingers find the hem of my sweater, tugging it off the hanger in one sharp motion. I pull it over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves.
Then I stop.
What am I even doing?
If I go—then what? Corner him? Demand an answer I already know? And then what, again? What am I expecting? A confession? Some dramatic moment where he realizes I’ve figured it out?
My hands twitch at my sides. My pulse pounds against my skull.
This is ridiculous.
I tear the sweater off, tossing it onto my bed.
Then—hesitation.
A beat.
Then I grab it again.
Shove it back on.
Walk to the door, hand on the knob.
Stop.
Rip the sweater off again.
The fabric crumples in my grip, my frustration burning hot in my veins. What am I doing? Going means admitting this is real. That Jungwon is actually Spiderman, that he’s been lying, that everything I thought I knew about him—about who he is—has been something else entirely.
I drop onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms to my face.
The room is too small. Too tight. Too full of the weight of my own thoughts.
I exhale through my nose, slow, forceful. My hands drop from my face, fingers pressing against the bedspread, gripping, releasing. Then, without thinking—no, despite thinking—I reach for the sweater again.
The fabric slides over my arms, familiar, grounding. I shove my hands through the sleeves, tugging it down over my waist, the motion sharp and mechanical. My heartbeat is an insistent drum against my ribs as I push myself upright.
This is insane.
I’m insane.
I shake my head at myself, dragging my fingers through my hair as I move toward the door. Every step feels weighted, like I’m still fighting myself. But my feet keep going.
Down the hall.
Down the stairs.
Each creaky step a reminder that I am fully capable of making the worst decisions possible.
At the bottom, I hesitate. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of settling wood. The pictures on the wall blur as I pass them, my focus locked on the floor, on my hands, on the sheer absurdity of what I’m about to do.
I crouch down, fingers fumbling with the laces of my sneakers. My knee knocks against the leg of the entryway table as I tug them tight. The impact jolts through my bones, grounding me in the moment.
I don’t have to do this.
I could go back upstairs. Pretend none of this happened. Crawl under my blankets and let Jungwon—Spiderman—exist in some separate, untouchable reality.
But then what?
I stand up, reaching for the key ring on the hook by the door, fingers curling around the cold metal. The weight of it feels final.
The lock clicks softly behind me as I step outside, the night air sharp against my skin.
The street is quiet. Still. Shadows stretch long beneath the streetlights, painting the pavement in slashes of yellow and black. My breath ghosts out in thin curls as I tug my hood up, ducking my head.
I’ll be back before Dad gets home. That’s the rule I set for myself. The boundary. As long as I make it back first, everything will be fine.
Thursday dawns with a muted glow, the sun barely piercing through the thick curtains of my room. I’m jolted awake by the harsh blare of my alarm, the digital numbers glaring at me in accusation. 7:45. I was supposed to be up an hour ago. Panic surges through me, dispelling the last remnants of sleep. School starts in half an hour, and I’m nowhere near ready.
I leap out of bed, nearly tripping over the heap of clothes I discarded last night. Grabbing my favorite pair of jeans – the ones with the ripped knees and just the right amount of stretch – I yank them on, hopping on one foot as I try to balance. Next, I pull on a snug black turtleneck, the fabric warm and comforting against the morning chill. A quick glance in the mirror shows my hair in disarray, so I hastily run a brush through it, taming the wild strands into a half-decent ponytail.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my father, equally disheveled, rushing past my bedroom door. "Liya, are you up? We overslept!" he shouts, his voice tinged with the same urgency I feel. I hear the clatter of his camera equipment, the telltale sign that he’s scrambling to gather everything for his job at The Sentinel.
"Yeah, I’m up!" I call back, slipping on my sneakers and grabbing my backpack. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it waking me up further. I dab on some concealer over the bruise on my cheek, a fading reminder of the accident, and swipe on a quick layer of lip balm. There’s no time for anything more.
The house is a whirlwind of activity as we both race against the clock. My father is in the kitchen, shoving papers and his camera into his bag while trying to pour himself a coffee. He looks up as I enter, his eyes mirroring my own sense of frantic energy. "We’ve got to go, Liya. Grab a granola bar or something for the road."
I snatch a bar from the counter and stuff it into my pocket. "Got it. Let’s go."
We dash out the door, the cool morning air hitting us as we run to the car. My father fumbles with the keys, and we both slide into our seats, the engine roaring to life as he floors the gas pedal. The streets blur past us in a haze of buildings and trees, the city slowly waking up around us. My father glances at me, his expression serious. "Remember, safety first. I know you’re eager to get back to school, but no more running into burning buildings, okay?"
"Okay," I reply, trying to sound earnest even though I’m just anxious to get through this conversation. "I promise."
He nods, satisfied for the moment, and we drive the rest of the way in silence, the tension of the morning easing slightly. As we approach the school, he pulls over a block away, not wanting to get caught in the chaos of the drop-off zone.
I lean over and give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for the ride. See you later."
He reaches out, gently rubbing the bruise on my cheek with his thumb, his eyes soft with concern. "Take care, Liya. Be careful."
I offer him a reassuring smile, my voice soft. "I’m fine, Dad. Really."
As I walk towards the school entrance, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I'm not sure what to expect after the catastrophe that was Monday. Will things be back to normal? Will people be talking about what happened? About me?
I push open the heavy double doors and step inside, immediately struck by how... normal everything looks. The hallways are bustling with students, lockers slamming, and the din of chatter filling the air. It's as if nothing ever happened. As if the school hadn't been a war zone just a few days ago.
I make my way down the hallway, my eyes scanning the walls and floors for any sign of the destruction that had taken place. But the walls are pristine, the floors polished to a shine. It's almost eerie how thoroughly the cleanup crew has erased any trace of Monday's events.
But as I venture further into the school, the illusion of normalcy begins to crack. I notice the auditorium doors propped open, the sound of power tools and construction workers' voices spilling out into the hallway. I peer inside as I pass, catching a glimpse of the extensive repairs underway. The stage is a maze of scaffolding and tarps, the seats covered in plastic.
I continue down the hall, my unease growing with each step. And then I see it. The science classroom. Or rather, what's left of it. A massive white tarp covers the gaping hole where the wall used to be, the plastic rippling slightly in the breeze from the open windows. I can still picture the desks flying through the air, the sickening crunch as they collided with the wall.
As I draw closer, the sharp scent of fresh paint assaults my nostrils. I glance to my left and see a section of the wall that looks too bright, too clean compared to the rest. The wall where I had been thrown against during the fight, leaving a Liya-shaped dent in the drywall.
I quickly avert my gaze, my cheeks burning with shame and anger. I can feel the stares of my classmates boring into my back as I hurry past, their whispers following me like a swarm of insects. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the scuffed toes of my sneakers, wishing I could disappear.
I fumble with the zipper of my backpack, my fingers trembling slightly as I tug it open. I reach inside, rummaging past crumpled worksheets and stray pencils until I find what I'm looking for - the overly folded paper I'd shoved into the side pocket on Monday. I pull it out, the edges soft and worn from being handled too many times.
I smooth it out on my lap, my eyes scanning the schedule printed in neat rows. First period - AP English, Room 204, Mr. Erikson. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach as I navigate the crowded hallway.
The bell rings just as I step into the classroom, the shrill sound making me jump. I hesitate in the doorway, my eyes darting around the room as I search for an empty seat. Desks are arranged in tidy rows, students already settling into their chosen spots. Backpacks are slung over chairs, notebooks and pens scattered across desktops.
As I hover uncertainly, a flash of movement catches my eye. I turn to see Jenna waving at me from the back of the room, her curly hair bouncing with each enthusiastic gesture. She points to the empty desk beside her, a wide grin spreading across her face.
I feel a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I make my way towards her, weaving between the desks. Jenna's friendly demeanor is instantly comforting, her bright eyes and easy smile putting me at ease.
I slide into the seat beside her, setting my backpack on the floor. "Thanks," I whisper, giving her a grateful look.
"No problem," she whispers back, her voice warm. "I'm glad we have a class together."
I nod, feeling a flicker of warmth in my chest. It's nice to have a friendly face in the room, someone who doesn't look at me with suspicion or awe.
As I settle in, I take a moment to study the classroom. The walls are lined with posters of famous authors and literary quotes, the chalkboard already filled with Mr. Erikson's neat handwriting. Bookshelves overflow with worn paperbacks, their spines cracked and faded.
At the front of the room, Mr. Erikson leans against his desk, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He's young for a teacher, maybe in his early thirties, with tousled brown hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He surveys the room with a calm, patient expression, waiting for the chatter to die down.
"All right, everyone," he says, his voice carrying easily over the din. "Let's get started. I'm passing out the syllabus now. And let's hope we can have a proper school day without any more monster attacks or supernatural disasters, yeah?"
A nervous titter runs through the room, students exchanging uneasy glances. I feel my cheeks heat up, my fingers curling into fists on my lap. I know Mr. Erikson means well, but his casual joke hits a little too close to home.
As he begins to distribute the syllabus, I let my gaze drift around the room, taking in the faces of my classmates. Jenna leans over every so often, whispering comments and observations that make me smile despite myself.
And then my eyes land on a familiar figure hunched over his desk in the corner of the room. Jay. He looks tired and bored, his chin propped up on one hand as he doodles idly in the margins of his syllabus. Every so often, his gaze flicks up, scanning the room as if searching for a distraction.
I quickly look away, my heart doing a little flip in my chest. The memory of our last interaction—the harsh words, cold and threatening—is still too raw, enough to boil some anger in me.
But then another figure catches my eye, and I feel a different kind of ache in my chest. Amy-Jane. She sits near the front of the room, her glossy dark hair cascading down her back, her posture perfect. She's listening attentively to Mr. Erikson, her pen poised over her notebook.
I watch her for a moment, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the graceful arc of her neck. She's so effortlessly beautiful, so poised and put-together. Everything I'm not.
I feel a hot, prickly sensation in the pit of my stomach, a feeling I recognize all too well. Jealousy. I hate that I feel this way, hate the petty, ugly emotions that churn inside me. But I can't help it.
I tear my gaze away from Amy-Jane, focusing instead on the syllabus in front of me. But even as I try to concentrate on Mr. Erikson's words, my mind keeps drifting back to Jungwon and Amy-Jane, to the complicated tangle of emotions they stir up inside me.
Mr. Erikson's voice drones on, discussing the reading list for the semester. I try to focus, jotting down titles in my notebook - The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye. Classic high school fare. But even as my pen moves across the page, I find my thoughts wandering.
I glance at the clock, watching the minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. The room feels stuffy, the air thick and heavy. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable, but it's impossible. My skin prickles with restless energy, a desperate urge to be anywhere but here.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the bell rings. The shrill sound startles me out of my daze, and I blink, looking around in confusion. My classmates are already gathering their things, chattering excitedly as they head for the door.
I glance down at my schedule, my heart sinking as I see my next class: P.E. Just what I need, another hour of humiliation and self-consciousness. I can already picture it - the too-bright fluorescent lights of the gym, the stench of sweat and rubber, the annoyance as I stumble through whatever sadistic activity the teacher has planned.
I sigh, shoving my notebook into my backpack with a little more force than necessary. As I stand up, I feel a presence beside me and turn to see Jenna, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Hey, Liya! Looks like we have P.E. together next period," she says, grinning. "Walk with me?"
I force a smile, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. "Sure, sounds great," I lie, falling into step beside her as we head out into the bustling hallway.
As we walk, dodging elbows and backpacks, I can't help but feel a sense of dread settling in my stomach. P.E. has always been my least favorite class, a source of constant anxiety and self-doubt. I've never been particularly athletic, and the thought of putting my clumsy, uncoordinated body on display for all to see fills me with a sickening sense of fear.
But as we make our way through the crowded hallways, Jenna chatters away beside me, her voice bright and cheerful. And despite my nerves, I find myself feeling grateful for her presence, for the way she seems to radiate warmth and positivity.
—
My muscles ache and my lungs burn as I collapse onto the polished hardwood floor of the gymnasium, struggling to catch my breath. Around me, my classmates are in similar states of exhaustion, sprawled out in a loose circle around the blue gymnastics mat in the center of the room.
I let my gaze drift upwards, taking in the high ceilings and the metal rafters crisscrossing overhead. From the center of the mat, a thick rope dangles ominously, swaying slightly in the recycled air.
Coach Thompson stands at the edge of the mat, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. He's an intimidating figure, with close-cropped hair and a perpetual scowl etched onto his weathered face.
"Listen up," he barks, his voice echoing off the walls. "Your next evaluation will be the rope climb. You'll be timed and scored based on your speed and technique."
I feel my stomach drop at his words, a wave of dread washing over me. I've never been good at climbing, and the thought of hauling myself up that rope in front of everyone makes me want to disappear into the floor.
As Coach Thompson continues his instructions, I find my attention drifting, my gaze drawn to the far end of the gym. The double doors burst open, and a group of football players come storming in, their cleats clattering against the hardwood.
They're rowdy and boisterous, jostling each other and laughing as they make their way towards the locker rooms. Beside me, Jenna sits up straighter, her eyes widening.
"Oh my god, there's Jake," she whispers, her voice tinged with excitement. "He's so cute, don't you think?"
I nod absently, my attention caught by a familiar figure entering through the main doors. It's Jungwon, looking flustered and out of breath as he hurries into the gym.
I feel my breath catch in my throat as I watch him, memories of our encounter in the alleyway flooding back to me. The way he'd pulled my hood over my head, shielding me from the rain. The warmth of his hand on my arm.
"Mr. Yang, how nice of you to join us," Coach Thompson calls out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Care to explain your tardiness?"
Jungwon's face flushes red as he stammers out an apology, tripping over his words in his haste to explain. "I'm so sorry, Coach. I had to finish up a project for photography class and I lost track of time."
Coach Thompson holds up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. He scribbles something on his clipboard before tearing off the sheet and thrusting it towards Jungwon.
"I don't want to hear excuses," he says gruffly. "You'll do double the evaluations to make up for what you missed. And you'll do them right here, where I can keep an eye on you."
Jungwon nods meekly, taking the paper and glancing down at it. From across the room, I see Heeseung, Ni-ki, and Sunghoon snickering to themselves, exchanging knowing looks.
I feel a flicker of irritation at the sight of them, remembering their rudeness from earlier. But I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the task at hand.
Coach Thompson resumes calling out names, each student stepping up to the mat when summoned. They eye the rope warily before gripping it tightly, waiting for the signal to begin.
"Faster, Kim!" Coach barks at a petite girl struggling to hoist herself up. "You think an attacker is going to wait for you to climb to safety?"
The girl redoubles her efforts, her face reddening with exertion. Beside her, another student scurries up the rope like a squirrel, making it look effortless.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, nerves fluttering in my stomach as I await my turn. I've never been particularly athletic, and the thought of dangling in midair, with nothing but a rope to cling to, makes my palms sweat.
From the corner of my eye, I see Jungwon drop to the ground and begin a set of push-ups, his friends gathered around him. Heeseung counts out the reps, his voice carrying across the room.
"...eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Come on, Jungwon, is that all you've got?"
Jungwon ignores him, his jaw clenched with determination as he lowers himself down again. Sweat beads on his forehead, dampening his hair.
Sunghoon chimes in, his tone mocking. "Looks like someone skipped arm day. Maybe if you spent less time in the darkroom and more time in the gym..."
"Shut up," Jungwon grunts, not breaking his rhythm. "I can do this all day."
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, remembering how kind he was to me earlier. Part of me wants to speak up, to tell his friends to back off. But I remain silent, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
As if sensing my gaze, Jungwon glances up, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, I'm caught off guard by the intensity of his stare, the determination blazing in his eyes.
Then Coach Thompson's voice cuts through the air, jolting me back to the present.
"Liya! You're up."
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I step up to the mat. The rough fibers of the rope bite into my palms as I wrap my hands around it, bracing myself for the climb ahead.
From behind me, I hear Heeseung's voice, low and taunting. "This should be good. Ten bucks says she doesn't even make it halfway."
I grit my teeth, anger and determination surging through me. I'll show him. I'll show all of them.
With a deep breath, I hoist myself up, my arms straining with the effort. The rope sways beneath me, making my stomach lurch. But I force myself to keep going, hand over hand, inch by painstaking inch.
As I climb higher, the voices below fade away, replaced by the pounding of my own heart in my ears. The world narrows to the rope in my hands, the burn of my muscles, the single-minded focus of reaching the top.
At last, I reach the top, my arms shaking with exhaustion, my breath coming in ragged gasps. A surge of pride rushes through me as I cling to the rope, looking down at the distant ground below.
I did it. I actually made it to the top.
But my triumph is short-lived as I realize the daunting task that lies ahead: getting back down. My arms tremble, and my palms are slick with sweat. I try to tell myself that going down should be easier, but the thought does little to calm my racing heart.
I can't help but steal a glance at the faces below, at the mix of boredom and anticipation in their eyes. Some look as tired as I feel, while others seem to be waiting for something to happen, for me to make a mistake.
And then I see him. Jungwon. He's stopped what he was doing and is watching me intently, his gaze unwavering. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I quickly look away, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Hurry up, Liya!" Coach Thompson calls out, his voice impatient.
Taking a shaky breath, I begin my descent, my movements careful and deliberate. But after just two steps, I feel my hand slip, the rope burning against my skin. Pain shoots through my palm, and before I can stop myself, I let go.
Time seems to slow as I fall, the pit of my stomach dropping out from under me. The air rushes past my ears, and I brace myself for the impact, squeezing my eyes shut.
And then I hit the mat, hard. The breath is knocked from my lungs, and for a moment, I can only lie there, stunned. Around me, I hear the gasps and yelps of the other students, the echo of my fall reverberating through the gym.
Slowly, I open my eyes, blinking against the bright fluorescent lights. The world seems to spin, and I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I try to sit up, but my body refuses to cooperate, and I fall back against the mat with a groan.
"Liya! Are you okay?" Jenna's voice cuts through the haze, and I feel her hand on my shoulder, gentle but insistent.
I want to answer her, to tell her that I'm fine, but the words stick in my throat. All I can do is nod, even as pain throbs through my body.
Coach Thompson appears above me, his face etched with concern. "Liya, do you need to go to the nurse's office?"
I shake my head, despite the ache in my temples. The last thing I want is to draw more attention to myself, to be seen as weak or fragile.
"I need to hear you say it," Coach Thompson insists, his tone firm.
"No, I don't need to go," I manage to croak out, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
Coach Thompson hesitates for a moment, then nods. He turns to the rest of the class, clapping his hands together. "Alright, next up, Jungwon! Start your mile run, then join us for dodgeball."
At the mention of dodgeball, a few cheers erupt from the students, their earlier concern for me forgotten. I can't help but feel a twinge of relief at the distraction, even as my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Jenna helps me to my feet, her arm around my waist for support. I lean against her, grateful for the steadiness she provides. Together, we make our way to the bleachers, where I sink down heavily, my legs shaking beneath me.
As others come by the bleachers to get their water from the bottles that stand on the lowest step, I can't help but notice Heeseung approaching, with Sunghoon and Ni-ki following close behind. They sit on the bleacher below mine, and Heeseung looks up at me, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Impressive, Liya," he says, his tone both mocking and admiring. "Running into a building with a monster, and now taking a fall like that. You're something else."
Ni-ki chimes in, his eyes wide. "Yeah, you're like a ragdoll or something. Just bouncing right back up."
I take a long swig from my water bottle, rolling my eyes at their comments. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat, and I feel a renewed sense of determination coursing through me. I stand up, my legs still a bit shaky, but I refuse to let it show.
As I pass by the boys, I pause, looking down at them with a raised eyebrow. "At least I have guts, unlike some people," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
To my surprise, they don't laugh or mock me further. Instead, they nod, a hint of genuine respect in their eyes. They turn back to their own conversation, and I continue on my way, feeling a small sense of victory.
As I make my way towards the gym, I spot a familiar face among the crowd - a girl from the art club last year. She catches my eye and smiles, waving me over. I return the smile, and head over.
"Hey, Liya!" she greets me, her voice warm and enthusiastic. "Are you planning on coming to the first art club meeting after school today?"
I nod, feeling a small sense of excitement at the prospect of getting back into art projects. "Yeah, definitely. I wouldn't miss it."
Just then, the shrill sound of Coach Thompson's whistle pierces the air, cutting through the chatter and laughter of the students. "Alright, everyone!" he shouts, his voice booming across the gym. "Gather round, it's time for dodgeball!"
A mix of groans and cheers erupts from the class, and I feel a sense of dread wash over me. Dodgeball has never been my strong suit, and after the day I've had, I'm not sure I have the energy for it. But I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the game ahead, and join the throng of students making their way to the center of the gym.
Coach Thompson stands in the middle of the gym, his arms crossed and his face set in a stern expression. He surveys the class for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before he speaks again. "I'm going to pick two team captains," he says, his voice echoing off the walls. "And they'll choose their teams. Got it?"
There's a murmur of assent from the class, and Coach Thompson nods. "Alright then. Jessica, you're one captain. And..." he pauses, scanning the crowd, before his gaze settles on a tall, athletic-looking boy. "Jose, you're the other."
I watch as Jessica and Jose step forward, both of them looking confident and self-assured. They start picking their teams, calling out names one by one. I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, waiting to be chosen.
"Liya!" Jessica calls out, and I feel a small sense of relief wash over me. At least I won't be the last one picked. I make my way over to Jessica's side of the gym, taking my place among my teammates.
As I look around, I catch sight of Jungwon jogging over to our side of the gym, a small smile on his face. Coach Thompson must have told him to join our team. As he takes his place beside me, our eyes meet for a brief moment. He gives me a small, friendly smile, and I feel my cheeks flush. I quickly look away, giving him a shy nod in return.
Coach Thompson blows his whistle again, and the game begins. The other team surges forward, their arms cocked back, ready to throw. I brace myself, my heart pounding in my chest.
The first ball comes hurtling towards me, and I dive out of the way, feeling it whiz past my ear. Another one comes, and another, and I dodge and weave, trying to stay on my feet. The gym is a blur of motion, bodies twisting and turning, balls flying through the air.
I can hear the shouts and cheers of my teammates, urging each other on. I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world seems to slow down around me, every movement, every sound, every sensation heightened and intensified.
Suddenly, I hear a shout of warning from one of my teammates. I spin around, just in time to see a ball hurtling straight towards my face. My eyes widen in shock, and I instinctively raise my hands to protect myself, bracing for the impact.
But the impact never comes. Instead, I feel a whoosh of air, and hear the dull thud of the ball hitting something solid. I open my eyes, blinking in confusion, and see a hand holding the ball, just inches from my face.
I follow the hand up to its owner, and my eyes widen even further when I see who it is. Jungwon. He's standing right in front of me, his arm outstretched, the ball clutched firmly in his hand. He looks at me, a small, crooked smile on his face.
"Thanks," I manage to stammer out, my heart still racing from the close call.
"No problem," he replies, his voice warm and friendly. He tosses the ball back to the other team, then turns to say something to me.
But before he can get the words out, I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone on the other team has the ball, and they're aiming it right at us. Without thinking, I lunge forward, pushing Jungwon out of the way.
The ball slams into my shoulder with a sickening thud, sending a jolt of pain shooting down my arm. I stumble backwards, gritting my teeth against the ache. The whistle blows, sharp and shrill, signaling that I'm out.
I trudge over to the sidelines, rubbing my shoulder gingerly. I take a seat on the bleachers, my eyes drawn back to the game. Jungwon is still in, darting and weaving across the court with incredible speed and agility. I try not to stare, but it's hard not to be mesmerized by his movements.
He dodges a ball thrown by an opponent, twisting his body at the last second to avoid it. Then, in one fluid motion, he snatches a ball out of the air and sends it hurtling back towards the other team. It's like watching a dance, his every step perfectly choreographed.
I'm not the only one who's noticed his skills. Around me, I hear the murmurs of the other students who have been knocked out of the game. They're all talking about Jungwon, their voices tinged with awe and admiration. A group of girls a few feet away from me are practically swooning, their eyes glued to his every move.
But there's something about the way he moves that seems almost too perfect, too effortless. It's like he's not even trying, like this is all just a game to him. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about it doesn't sit right with me.
As if sensing my gaze, Jungwon turns his head and catches me staring. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and I feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. I quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in the game.
But then, out of nowhere, a ball comes flying towards him. He's so focused on me that he doesn't see it coming. It hits him square in the chest, and the whistle blows once more.
Jungwon jogs over to the sidelines, a good-natured grin on his face despite being knocked out. He plops down on the bleachers, leaving a couple of empty spaces between us. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the game, trying to act like I haven't been watching him this whole time.
"Liya?" His voice is soft, almost hesitant. I turn my head towards him, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
"Yes?" I say, wincing internally at how overly enthusiastic I sound.
He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was wondering if you'd like to sit with me and my friends at lunch today."
I blink at him, wondering if I've misheard. Jungwon, one of the most popular guys in school, wants me to sit with him at lunch? I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. My mind is reeling, trying to process this unexpected turn of events.
I nod slowly, a small smile spreading across my face. "Sure, that sounds great."
"Cool," he replies, his own grin widening. We sit there for a moment, an awkward silence settling between us. I fidget with the hem of my shirt, unsure of what to say next.
Jungwon is the first to break the silence. He points to his own cheek, gesturing towards me. "Your bruise seems to be healing well."
Instinctively, I reach up and touch my cheek, feeling the slight sting beneath my fingertips. It's not as bad as it was before, but the remnants of the injury still linger. I nod in response, my eyes drifting to his face. That's when I notice something strange - the bruises that had marred his skin just a day ago are now gone, as if they had never existed.
"How..." I breathe out, the question more to myself than to him. Before he can respond, the coach's whistle blares loudly, signaling the end of the game.
"Alright, everyone! Go get cleaned up before the bell rings!" the coach shouts, his voice echoing across the field.
Jungwon stands up, his friends already making their way towards him. He glances back at me, a soft smile on his lips. "I'll spot you at lunch, Liya."
I watch as he jogs away, my mind still trying to wrap around the mystery of his vanished bruises. Jenna appears beside me, her voice animated as she starts talking about the game. But like before, I find it hard to concentrate on her words. My thoughts keep drifting back to Jungwon and the inexplicable disappearance of his injuries.
As we make our way towards the locker rooms, I barely register my surroundings. The chatter of my classmates fades into the background, and the hallways blur together. All I can focus on is the image of Jungwon's unblemished face and the unspoken questions that hang in the air between us.
The fragrance of my shampoo wafts around me as Jenna and I walk side-by-side towards the cafeteria. My damp hair clings to the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Jenna's voice fills the air, her words tumbling out in an excited rush.
"I can't believe we're actually going to sit with them!" she gushes, her eyes wide with anticipation. "What should I say to Jake? Should I act cool and casual or should I be more direct?"
I nod along, trying to appear engaged, but my mind is elsewhere. This is my first time having someone actually wanting to be around my presence for this long. I've never had someone consistently around me before, not like this. It's uncharted territory, and I'm not sure how to navigate it.
As we step into the lunchroom, the buzz of conversation and the clatter of trays assault my senses. The room is alive with activity, students milling about, laughing and chatting with their friends. Jenna turns to me, an apologetic smile on her face.
"I'm going to grab some food. I'll meet you at the table, okay?" she says, already backing away towards the lunch line.
I nod, trying to ignore the rising tide of anxiety in my chest. I can feel eyes on me as I stand there, awkwardly scanning the room for any sign of Jungwon or his friends. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my homemade lunch clutched tightly in my hands.
Suddenly, I feel an arm drape across my shoulders, and I look up to see Sunoo grinning down at me. His presence is like a beacon of light in the crowded cafeteria, his charisma radiating off him in waves.
"I heard you're our special guest today," he says, his voice playful and warm.
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that I'm not anyone special, but he's already guiding me through the throng of students. We weave our way past the empty table where I usually sit, the one that has become a familiar sanctuary over the years. But today, I'm venturing into new territory.
As we approach the table where Jungwon and his friends are already seated, I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. These are guys I've never spoken to before, guys whose existence I was only vaguely aware of since I arrived at Daylight Academy. But here I am, about to sit down and have lunch with them.
I find an empty seat and set my lunch down, my movements stiff and uncertain. The guys continue their conversation, seemingly unfazed by my presence. It's as if I'm just another part of their group, as if my being here isn't strange at all.
Jungwon takes his seat across from me, sandwiched between Sunghoon and Ni-ki. He catches my eye and offers a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. I feel a rush of gratitude for the empty seats on either side of me, giving me a buffer of space in this unfamiliar situation.
I focus on unpacking my lunch, my fingers trembling slightly as I unwrap my sandwich. The conversation flows around me, the guys joking and laughing with an easy camaraderie. I listen intently, trying to pick up on the threads of their discussion, but I can't quite seem to find my place.
As I take a bite of my sandwich, I let my gaze wander around the table, taking in the faces of these boys who have suddenly become a part of my world.
As I chew my food, Jay's voice cuts through the chatter, his tone cool and nonchalant. "So, Liya, how did it feel being saved by Spider-Man?"
I swallow my bite and shrug, trying to match his casual demeanor. "I'm grateful, obviously. He seemed like a cool guy." The words feel inadequate, failing to capture the intensity of that moment, the rush of fear and relief that had coursed through me.
Sunghoon leans forward, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Did you see him fight Shadowlash inside the school?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I only caught a glimpse of him attacking before he told me to run." The memory flashes through my mind - the blur of red and blue, the urgency in Spider-Man's voice as he urged me to safety.
Throughout the conversation, I can't help but notice Jungwon's silence. He keeps his gaze fixed on his food, his expression unreadable. I wonder what's going through his mind, why he seems so distant compared to the others.
Suddenly, Jenna appears, sliding into the empty seat beside me. I feel a rush of relief at her presence, grateful for a friendly face. She flashes a smile at Jake as she settles in, and I can only imagine the somersaults her heart must be doing.
"What's up, guys?" Jenna asks breezily. "What are we talking about?"
Sunoo grins. "We were just discussing Liya's encounter with Spider-Man on Monday."
Jenna's eyes widen, and she turns to me, pointing excitedly. "Ooh, did you get to see who he was under the mask?"
Before I can answer, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. The boys' smiles fade, their postures stiffening. They stare at me intently, as if my response holds some great significance. The air feels charged with an unspoken tension.
I glance back at Jenna, trying to ignore the strange vibe. "No, I didn't see his face." My words hang in the air for a moment, and then, like a rubber band snapping back into place, the mood at the table shifts. The boys relax, their easy grins returning.
Jenna pouts, a look of disappointment crossing her features. "Well, that sucks."
I nod in agreement, but my mind is reeling. What was that all about? Why did the guys react so oddly to Jenna's question? I can't shake the feeling that there's something more going on here, something I'm not privy to.
The hours seemed to melt away in art class, my mind absorbed in the swirl of colors and textures on the canvas before me. I barely registered the passing of time until I glanced up and noticed Amy-Jane seated across the room, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked on her own masterpiece.
The art room was a sanctuary, a place where the outside world ceased to exist. The walls were adorned with vibrant student artwork, each piece telling a unique story. Shelves overflowed with supplies—paints, brushes, charcoal, and clay—beckoning us to explore and create.
Ms. Hartman, our art teacher and the head of the art club, moved through the room with an infectious energy. Her passion for art was evident in every word she spoke. As the final bell rang, she called out, "Liya, don't forget about the art club meeting after school. We'll be discussing upcoming projects!"
I nodded, excitement bubbling up inside me. As the other students filtered out, I lingered, watching as familiar faces from last year's club trickled in, joined by a handful of new members. Ms. Hartman passed out sheets detailing the various events and projects the art club would be involved in throughout the year. My eyes scanned the list: a community mural, a charity auction, a gallery showcase. Each opportunity sparked a flood of ideas in my mind.
As the meeting wound down, Ms. Hartman turned her attention to the seniors. "I've been working hard to compile your art portfolios," she said with a warm smile. "They'll be ready for you to take home by the end of the year. Keep creating, keep inspiring."
Time seemed to evaporate as we delved into discussions of color theory and composition. Before I knew it, the meeting had ended, and I found myself walking alone through the quiet halls. With the front entrance locked after hours, I made my way towards the east exit, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridors.
Pushing open the heavy metal door, I stepped out into the waning light of the afternoon. The football field stretched out before me, the bleachers casting long shadows across the manicured grass. I cut through the parking lot, my mind still lost in the world of art.
Suddenly, a rustling sound caught my attention, seeming to emanate from the edge of the field. Curiosity pulled me forward, my feet moving of their own accord. As I drew closer, a figure emerged from behind the bleachers, their back towards me. In a blink, we collided, tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and scattered papers.
I looked up, my heart skipping a beat as I realized who I had literally run into. Jungwon. His backpack had fallen open, spilling a mix of photo prints and sketches onto the asphalt. "I'm so sorry," I stammered, reaching out to gather the scattered pages. "I didn't see you there."
"No, no, it's my fault," Jungwon insisted, his own apologies tumbling out in a rush. "I should have been paying more attention."
We knelt there, both of us frantically trying to collect the fallen items. As I reached for his backpack, my hand brushed against something soft and textured. I pulled it out, my breath catching in my throat as I realized what I held. A red mask, unmistakably Spider-Man's.
I turned to Jungwon, the mask clutched in my hand, my eyes wide with shock. He froze, his gaze locked on the piece of fabric, a mixture of surprise and something akin to fear etched across his features.
Slowly, I extended my hand, offering the mask back to him. The words fell from my lips in a whisper, a truth I couldn’t believe. "You're Spider-Man."
✦𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬&𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬: death; change of power; facing darkness; family; desire to escape; disillusionment and dreams; faith versus doubt; fate and free will; moraly grey characters; illusion of power; greed as downfall; identity crisis; supernatural; inner versus outer strength; love and sacrifice; manipulation; devotion.
⟢𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Sora, tasked to take care of her ill grandmother, finds out her family line is more than what she'd imagine. One night, bringing down her entire world as she learns to manage the new one she's stepped into. And nothing is quite easy when the entire Nightworld is after her—blood for blood, cunning for cunning. Yet, with little faith and full desperation, Sora trades her safety to a group of Vampires, one she'd yet to determine friends or foes.
