jisung pulls up in front of your apartment and puts the car in park.
“hey…” you say quietly, voice rough from crying. “can i take a walk?”
“right now?” naomi asks immediately.
you nod, picking at the skin on your arm.
“just like—ten minutes. i need air. i promise i won’t go far.”
jaemin leans forward from the passenger seat, brows knit.
“and you’ve had, like, five shots minimum,” chenle adds.
“i’m fine,” you mumble. “i just need to clear my head right now.”
“mimi, please,” you say softer. “i’ll stay close. i swear.”
“you’re not even wearing proper shoes.”
you glance down at your feet.
“no, they don’t,” jaemin says immediately.
“also,” jisung adds from the driver’s seat, “this is how people end up in true crime podcasts on youtube.”
“oh my god,” you groan. “i’m not gonna get kidnapped or murdered in ten minutes.”
they all just stare at you, as you sigh.
“fine. i’ll grab my bag. i have pepper spray in there. i’ll put on a hoodie and sneaks too.”
that makes them pause, naomi narrows her eyes at you. you make your way out of the car, unlocking your apartment door and quickly changing and grabbing your bag.
jaemin exchanges a look with naomi, everyone hesitates before agreeing.
“ten minutes,” naomi says firmly. “and if you’re not back—”
“you’re calling the cops,” you finish for her.
“we just want you safe.” she pleads.
you huff out a small, tired laugh.
jaemin points at you, seriously,“ten minutes. not eleven.”
“we’re dead serious,” jisung adds.
chenle leans towards you, showing you his phone. “see i’ve already got 911 typed out.”
you snort softly, but you can’t help but feel your heart soften at your friends concern for you.
“and you’re walking alone at night after a breakdown,” naomi shoots back. “so who’s really the insane one?”
you lift your hands in surrender.
“okay, okay. ten minutes.”
naomi softens just a little.
“text me if you change streets.”
you hold onto your bag tight, and make your way down the street.
back at the house, the party is over. the only thing left is sticky floors, a big mess, and a table cracked clean in half. in the aftermath of the chaos, haechan takes the liberty of sweeping glass into a pile with a paper plate, quietly mumbling to himself as he glances between jeno—who’s leaning against the fridge with dried blood on his face, his own or mark’s, who knows! and johnny, who’s pacing like if he stops moving for even a second, he might self-destruct.
“mark’s gone,” haechan says finally, glancing at his phone. “not answering. probably halfway across the city by now.”
“shocker,” jeno mutters. “classic mark lee move. disappears when things explode.”
johnny stops pacing and slowly turns.
“don’t put this all on him.”
jeno lifts a brow, unfazed. “i’m not putting anything on him. i’m just saying the guy’s got a pattern.”
“no,” johnny snaps, stepping closer, “you don’t get to do that. this—” he gestures sharply around the destroyed kitchen, at the broken table, the glass, the tension still hanging thick in the air, “—this is your fault.”
jeno pushes off the fridge now, standing up straighter despite the blood, despite the ache settling into his shoulders. “my fault?” he scoffs. “last i checked, he’s the one who threw the first punch.”
“okay—yeah—nope, we’re not doing this again.”
haechan suddenly straightens up, dropping the paper plate with a soft slap against the counter as he steps between them, looking from one to the other.
“can you two just shut up for like five seconds?” he says, exasperated, running a hand through his hair. “seriously. i mean it. shut the fuck up.”
they both go quiet—more out of surprise that haechan is being the voice of reason. he exhales, gesturing vaguely toward the door, the empty house, the mess, the everything.
“think about the bigger picture right now,” he continues, voice a little steadier but still sharp. “mark’s gone. y/n left upset. the house looks like a fucking crime scene. and here you two are still arguing about whose fault it is like that’s gonna magically fix anything.”
he shakes his head, softer now.“just get it together. please.” he points at johnny.“you’re angry, fine. be angry.” then he turns to jeno “and yeah, you’re an idiot.” jeno huffs quietly.“but don’t stand there acting like you wouldn’t have lost your mind even if it wasn’t jeno. johnny’s voice cracks a bit.
“because she’s my little sister.” he tried to interject.
“and she’s a grown-ass woman and can make her own choices,” haechan fires back.
the words hang there for a bit.
“maybe,” he adds, softer now, “you should’ve trusted her to make her own decisions before aiding in turning this place into a war zone.”
no one speaks for a bit, johnny slinks onto a stool, dragging his hands down his face.
“she looked so hurt,” he mutters. “like i wasn’t protecting her.”his voice drops. “like i was making her feel small.”
jeno doesn’t respond, because for once in the whole night he can’t find the words. because he saw it too, the look on your face. how hurt you looked, and now it won’t leave.
you fish a cigarette out of your bag, slipping your camera around your neck. it’s quiet and damp, the kind of silence that makes every flick of your lighter echo down the alley.
the cigarette trembles between your fingers as you take a long drag, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl into the cold fall air like a ghost. your camera rests against your chest, your eyes half-lidded. you’re still too buzzed to think clearly, but not enough to stop the way your stomach keeps turning.
you lift your camera and click.
a blurry lamppost. then another click, someone’s forgotten shoes on a curb. one more—a streetlight flickering, fighting off the dark.
it’s soothing, almost. framing something small and broken and pretending it’s art. kinda like how you feel right now.
you flick your ash, lifting your lens again—and that’s when you pause. on the rooftop across the street, there’s a silhouette. dark. still. watching. then, just for a second, it moves. not walking. not climbing. it looks to be leaping? no, swinging! gone in almost a blink.
you lower your camera, eyes wide, you can hear your heart in your ears.. the smoke between your lips curls upward.
you’re running before you can think twice, adrenaline cutting through the lingering haze of alcohol. your breath catches as you round the corner. there he is. another swing as a blur of red and blue lands above a streetlight.
he glances back mid-swing, and for a second, your eyes lock. you swear his whole body stutters, as he misses his next anchor point.
“shit,” he mutters you swear you hear it. you know you do.
he lands clumsily on a lower rooftop and disappears again. you don’t stop, as you cross an empty intersection. past a closed flower shop. down an alley that smells like cheap ramyeon and motor oil. your lungs are burning, your steps slip, but something in you refuses to quit.
you haul yourself onto a rooftop, breathless. he’s still there, almost like he was waiting for you.
spider-man stands maybe five feet away, half-hidden in the shadow of a billboard frame, arms crossed like he had something better to do.
you grip your camera tighter, the strap digging into your neck.
“okay,” you breathe, voice shaky. “hi.”
he doesn’t move, you slowly approach him like he’s a kitten you’re trying not to scare,
“i’m not gonna scream or ask for an autograph.”
he still says nothing, which starts to make you look a little crazy.
“i just… needed to see you up close, i guess.”
he tilts his head slightly.
you continue speaking “…i’m a journalism and photo student, so i guess i started… chasing it. chasing you. sorry if that’s weird.”
“you’re not the first,” he says, voice deeper than you expect,like he’s trying a little too hard to sound like someone he’s not. but you don’t really seem to notice as you’re too busy slightly fangirling.
“you’re kind of a mystery,” you admit. “a guy in a mask saving strangers in a city that paints you as a nuisance. it’s really poetic and messy. kind of beautiful, honestly.”
“poetic?” he echoes, voice dry.
you shrug a little. “i’m an emotionally unstable woman with a film camera of course i think it’s poetic.”
to your surprise that gets a small reaction—a quiet snort, more air than sound, but to you it counts. you decide sit on the edge of the rooftop, legs swinging slightly over the side, camera resting in your lap.
“can i be honest with you?” you ask, softer now. “like… really honest?”
he doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t leave either. so of course you take that as a yes.
“i had the worst night of my life,” you admit, staring out at the city lights. “found out my almost-hookup was using me after being warned about him. my brother told me to shut up in front of a room full of people.
you let out a hollow laugh.
“oh and this guy i’ve been slighly romanticizing? yeah. he bailed on me as always. classic.”
the words hang there, heavier than you meant them to be.
“so now i’m out here like an idiot,” you continue, quieter, “chasing shadows and chain-smoking and hoping maybe if i take the right photo, everything will just… click back into place for me.”
he’s silent for a moment, letting out a huff of air.
“that’s a lot,” he says finally, voice softer than before.
you huff a small breath. “yeah. sorry. i tend to trauma dump to strangers when im anxious.”
“it’s okay,” he says. “i’ve heard worse.”
you glance over at him, squinting slightly. “you always this talkative?”
you hesitate for a second, then tilt your head, studying him.
“you ever wonder what it’s like for everything to be normal?”
his breath catches and he shifts slightly, like he might actually answer this time. like something real is about to come out.
“aww, now isn’t this precious.”
you both spin around, at the voice.
a jagged streak of purple light tears across the rooftop, exploding just a few feet away. smoke curls upward and out of it steps—
“pulse,” spider-man groans. “great. just what i needed.
“wow,” pulse grins, electricity snapping between his fingers. “spidey brought a date tonight? i’m honored.”
“yeah? i’m not,” spider-man shoots back. “don’t you have a power grid to overload or something?”
“interrupting something?” pulse tilts his head, mock-innocent. “because from where i’m standing, this looks like a moment. should i come back with popcorn?”
“i’d settle for you leaving,” spider-man says. “forever. like, permanently. i can help with that.”
pulse laughs,then throws a bolt of energy before either of you can react.
you instinctively duck, as spider-man shoves you behind him, rolling out of the blast radius. “stay back!” he snaps. pulse lands lightly, already charging up again.
“come on, spidey, don’t be like that,” he taunts.
“i saw you flirting it up with her, you know i really thought this was a team-up. you handle the flirting, i handle the fireworks.”
“you’re not even good at fireworks,” spider-man fires back, dodging another blast. “seen better at a middle school science fair.”
pulse grins, eyes flashing. “keep talking. i love it when you pretend you’re not sweating.”
spider-man swings forward, flipping over a bolt and landing a sharp kick to pulse’s side but he’s off by just a little, slower than he should be. almost like he’s distracted.
your stomach drops, as you duck behind an ac unit. he looks as if he’s going to get hurts and then another voice appears.
it’s cool and arrogant as hell. something about it rings familiar to your ears.
a figure drops from above, landing in a low crouch like gravity barely touched him. sleek black and silver suit. a red v-slit visor slicing through the dark. you blink up. today could really not get any crazier.
spider-man straightens slightly. “wow. my night just keeps getting better.”
“hey,” the voice says, rolling his shoulders. “try not to sound so excited.”
“wasn’t expecting to see you here,” spider-man mutters.
“yeah, well,” he shrugs, “you looked like you could use the help.”
“you’re the last person i’d call.”
“good thing you didn’t,” he shoots back. “i hate answering.”
pulse groans loudly. “oh, come on. nightstrike too? what is this, a crossover episode?”
“quiet, spark plug,” nightstrike snaps, flexing his hands. “adults are talking.”
the villain groans annoyed, as they move like they’ve done this a hundred times, but still refuse to sync up.
spider-man swings wide, webbing pulse’s legs as nightstrike ricochets off a vent, redirecting a blast with his gauntlet and somehow they’re still arguing.
“next time, lead with the right hook!”
“next time, don’t let him monologue!”
you peak from behind the ac unit, clutching your camera, heart pounding out of you chest, but you’re watching.
finally, pulse hits the ground hard. webbed to a satellite dish, sparks fizzling out as he mutters something incoherent before going still.
nightstrike stands over him, arms crossed.
“embarrassing,” he mutters.
spider-man lands beside him. “took you long enough.”
they both glance back at you.
“…so,” you say slowly, “what was his deal?”
“he’s nobody,” spider-man answers flatly.
“a real charmer,” nightstrike mutters. then, to you, “nice camera. you shoot often?”
“only when i’m not almost dying.”
“rookie numbers,” he says, already turning away.
you watch him leap onto a water tower, as spider-man exhales sharply. “that guy…”
“…you sound like you know him pretty well .”
he doesn’t answer. instead, he walks toward you, holding out a gloved hand.
“come on. let’s get you home.”
your legs still feel like jelly as he guides you toward the fire escape, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.
nightstrike, the way he moved. the way he talked. something about it pulls at you—familiar in a way you can’t place. you adjust your camera strap, lifting it just slightly.
he’s still there, on a on the water tower. just before he disappears. click, the shutter snaps quietly.
you hold on tightly, giving spider-man soft directions to where your live, when you finally arrive. spider-man sets you down gently, like you might break. his hands linger at your waist for half a second too long before he pulls away.
“don’t chase me again,” he mutters. “next time, i might not be fast enough.”
“…doesn’t mean i always will be.”
you nod, looking up at him.
“for your sake let’s hope not.”
and just like that, he leaps and he’s gone.
you stand there for a few seconds longer, staring at the skyline like he might swing back for one more line of banter. but nada you sigh, shoulders dropping, and turn, just in time to see the front door yank open.
naomi comes sprinting toward you, barefoot, mascara smudged,
“are you okay? are you bleeding? you said ten minutes! do you know how long ten minutes is? i watched a full episode of criminal minds waiting for you!”
“fine?” she cuts in, grabbing your arms and scanning your face like she’s conducting a full investigation. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost?? why is your camera cracked.”
you look down, you hadn’t noticed it must i’ve gotten damaged during the fight.
johnny’s standing behind her in a t-shirt and sweats, arms crossed, face completely unreadable. your stomach drops.
“yes, i called your brother,” naomi snaps. “because you took fourty-one minutes and your location went blank for ten. i thought you got kidnapped!”
you try to slip past them into the apartment. johnny steps forward. blocks the door.
“where were you?” he demands
“that’s not an answer.” he sighs.
“neither is looming like a bouncer,” you shoot back. he doesn’t move. just stares you down.
“naomi said you went for a walk.”
“then why does you look like you rolled around in a chimney?” he asks, voice low. “and why does your camera smell like something caught fire?”
you hesitate. just for a second.
“can i just take a shower first?” you mutter, shoulders sagging.
naomi steps in again, softer this time but no less intense.
“y/n… did something happen?”
and like any emotionally unstable girl with a secret superhero photo sitting in her camera roll you mutter a soft-
you slip past them and shut the door behind you before either of them can push further. a few momenets later, you’re sitting on your bed, hair damp, a towel around your neck, your cracked camera resting in your lap. your room feels too quiet after everything that’s gone down.
you grab you camera and flip through the photos. blurry lamppost, empty street, shoes, spider-man and then—you stop. you had gotten a great strike of nightstrike. one clean beautiful shot.
mid-leap, body cut sharp against the skyline, mask catching the moonlight just enough to make the lines of it visible. half-shadowed, but unmistakable. your fingers hover as you zoom in slowly. something odd twists in your chest. you squint your eyes.
“why… do i feel like i know you?” you whisper to yourself.
your phone buzzes, you groan, flopping back against your pillows and dragging your phone into view, one eye barely open. notifications stacked on notifications.
