(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
The sidewalk echoed under our feet—Jinx on my left, Lux on my right. Their arms brushed mine occasionally, more by instinct than intent. The city breathed softly around us, lights flickering like lullabies. Calm, even if nothing underneath was.
I let it breathe for a minute longer.
Then I exhaled and dropped it.
"Neeko's alive. Like I've mentioned before."
Jinx halted.
Lux nearly stumbled.
I kept walking. "She's safe. At my other apartment. She'll come meet everyone when she wakes up."
The silence that followed was like glass. Thin, stretched, ready to snap.
"...She's fine?" Lux asked, her voice too steady. That kind of steadiness only came from someone trying not to scream.
"And she's... at your place?" Jinx echoed. Her tone wasn't calm—it was explosive velvet, soft and volatile.
I nodded. "She needed rest. Her recovery's been slow. Physical and emotional trauma. She was hunted for years. Zoe really did a number on her."
Neither of them moved for a heartbeat.
Then Lux stepped in front of me.
"So—what?" she asked. "You saved her... and what, just kept her?"
"She didn't want to be alone," I said, gaze level. "And I didn't want her dead."
"That's not what she's asking," Jinx snarled, stepping in beside Lux. "She's asking if you've been with her. Like you've been with us."
I said nothing at first.
Then: "Yes."
It was like a bullet between the eyes.
Lux blinked. Jinx twitched. The air thickened.
"So we're—what?" Jinx said, laughing hollowly. "Your emotional support harem? You just collect girls with trauma like baseball cards now?"
"You think I planned this?" I replied, quiet. Controlled. "I was sent to save her. That was the mission."
Lux's voice cracked. "You kissed me—told me I was different."
"You were," I said. "You still are."
"And Jinx?" Lux said, gesturing sharply. "Is she different too? And Neeko? Is this your idea of love, Peter?"
I sighed. "My idea of survival, Lux."
That stopped her. Not completely—but enough for me to press forward.
"You think I wanted this?" I said, the edge creeping in now. "That I liked playing puppeteer? You think I wanted to be needed this badly?"
Jinx's fingers flexed. "You could've told us."
"I could've," I said. "But I didn't. Because I needed you focused. Not jealous. Not fighting each other. Focused."
"You lied to us," Lux whispered.
"No," I said. "I omitted. There's a difference."
Jinx scoffed. "Wow. That's so manipulative it almost sounds reasonable."
I stepped closer, towering between them. The black sheen of the symbiote suit rippled at my collarbone.
"Do you know what I've done this past month?" I said, voice quiet but shaking the air. "I've erased two timelines. I tanked a Tera Flare at point-blank range. I fought people whose names you can't even pronounce. I came back alive. You don't get to question how I survived. You just get to be happy I did."
My Guardian Aura pulsed—subtle, but overwhelming.
Lux's pupils dilated.
Jinx's breath caught.
The ground seemed to tilt slightly toward me, reality accommodating my center of gravity.
"You want to talk betrayal?" I said. "I could've died. But I didn't. Because the plot won't let me. Because I'm necessary. And all I ask in return... is loyalty."
They didn't move.
I reached out—hand resting gently under Lux's chin.
"You were the first to believe in me," I said. "You've always been mine."
She shivered.
Then I turned to Jinx.
"And you were the one who saw through the lies. You know the world's messed up. That's why you need someone stronger to hold it together."
She stared back—daring me to be wrong.
I wasn't.
They didn't speak. Didn't protest.
Didn't walk away.
"I don't want drama," I said finally. "Not from you two. Not when we've come this far."
Lux nodded slowly. "...You're right."
Jinx muttered, "This still sucks."
"It does," I said. "But you'll live."
She huffed. "Barely."
Still, she followed when I stepped off the curb again. Lux, too. Silent. But still there.
They always came back.
That's the thing about being who I am. The plot doesn't work against me. It bends. Rewrites. Accommodates. If there's a thread to pull, I find it. If there's a line to cross, I step over it.
And if someone fights it? The narrative fights back harder.
A minute later, the apartment complex came into view—Ahri's team's place.
Jinx stared at the building like it offended her personally.
Lux looked down at her shoes.
Neither spoke.
Good.
We reached the front step.
Two knocks. Sharp. Measured.
I waited exactly five seconds. Just long enough to feel the weight of presence—mine—pressing into the building's foundation like a shadow at noon.
The door creaked open.
Ezreal.
Blond hair tousled like he hadn't slept, eyes wide the moment he saw me.
"Nope," he whispered.
And immediately tried to slam the door in my face.
My hand moved without thought, catching the door mid-swing. Not hard—just enough to stop it cold. The hinges groaned under the pressure.
"Ezreal," I said, calmly. "What the fuck are you doing?"
His body leaned into the door again with all the strength of a terrified raccoon trying to hold off a truck. His sneakers slid across the tile. Pathetic.
"You can't just come here!" he hissed through the crack. "You don't live here!"
"And yet," I said, pushing the door open with two fingers, "here I am."
He stumbled back, almost tripping over his own ego.
I stepped inside.
Lux and Jinx followed like shadows, quiet and obedient. Ezreal's gaze darted between them—he had expected resistance. Instead, he got something much worse.
Acceptance.
"You let him—?" he started, voice cracking at Lux.
She didn't even answer. Neither did Jinx. They just stared.
Ezreal flinched and stepped back into the hallway, muttering like a glitching NPC.
The living room was just as I remembered it. Clean but cold. Too much order. Not enough life.
A bedroom door opened.
Syndra stepped out, her long hair falling in sharp lines around her face. Elegant. Dangerous. Perceptive.
Her eyes narrowed at the scene—Ezreal halfway on the floor, Lux and Jinx stoic behind me, the door swinging closed with finality.
"Well," she said, gaze cool. "This is dramatic."
Ezreal pointed at me frantically. "He just forced himself in!"
"I knocked," I said.
Syndra didn't look particularly surprised. "Could've waited for an answer."
"I did," I said. "He tried to body-check the door into my nose."
Ezreal opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked to Syndra, desperate for backup.
But she just raised a brow. "You really tried to keep him out?"
"I—he—he's dangerous!"
That hung in the air.
Syndra didn't deny it.
Instead, she turned to me. "Well, you're here now. I assume you're not just here to steal our snacks?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said. "Ahri home?"
"She went to get snacks, actually. Figured you might show up soon. Intuition, I guess."
Jinx giggled softly. "Or prophecy."
"Or fate," Lux added with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Syndra watched them both with a subtle crease of the brow.
"And the rest?" I asked, arms crossed.
"Sarah's in her room. Processing, I think. She's been... tense."
"Understandable."
"Janna and Soraka haven't been home. They left a few hours ago. I don't know where they are."
My jaw tightened just slightly.
Avoiding me, then.
Interesting.
Unfortunate.
But not unexpected.
Janna and Soraka were likely together.
Of course they were.
They hadn't reached out. Hadn't answered my messages. Hadn't even pinged the Nexus since I returned. Like I wouldn't notice.
But I did.
And I will.
Because leaving them to wander now—when the tremors still echo, when the Darks breathe at the edge of this reality—would be suicide.
And I won't let them die.
Even if it means caging them in with the rest.
Even if they hate me for it.
Obedience is survival. Disobedience is extinction. That's not cruelty.
That's math.
That's narrative.
I'm not the villain. I'm the author's scalpel.
And this story doesn't need bleeding hearts.
It needs closure.
Ezreal hovered awkwardly on the edge of the group, still glaring at me like I'd walked in holding a severed Voidling head. He wanted to say something—some last desperate insult or accusation—but Lux and Jinx hadn't stopped staring at him.
Not once.
It was Jinx who cracked her neck and stepped forward, half a smile curling up.
"You got something to say, pretty boy?"
Ezreal stiffened.
Lux chimed in with a quiet, "We're all just trying to relax here. Maybe you should do the same."
Ezreal turned ghost-white. "I—fine."
And just like that, he retreated.
He shuffled past Syndra like a scolded child and vanished into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Coward.
Syndra watched the door with mild annoyance before glancing back at me. "You really do bring chaos with you."
"I prefer clarity," I said. "People reveal themselves when I'm around."
"That they do," she murmured.
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head.
"So. Is this a visit or an inspection?"
"Depends on how you see it," I said. "But I needed to check in. After the patrols, tensions, and... certain conversations."
Her eyes glinted. "With Janna?"
I didn't answer. But the smile on my face said enough.
Syndra gave a single nod, mostly to herself. "I figured."
I turned toward the living room, letting my hands slide into my pockets as I took it all in. Something about this place always felt sterile. Like no one actually lived here—just occupied space until it was time to be a Guardian again.
I could feel the static of emotions radiating from the walls.
Sarah's grief.
Ezreal's fear.
Ahri's regret.
Syndra's questions.
And now... my presence, threading into every breath of the place. Binding. Anchoring.
Jinx wandered toward the kitchen without a word. Lux sat herself on the couch like a queen returning to her throne.
I stayed standing.
"What are you really here for, Peter?" Syndra asked after a beat. "You don't just drop by."
I looked at her.
And, for a moment, told the truth.
"To make sure no one's slipping."
Her mouth twitched. "That a threat?"
"It's a concern."
She didn't break eye contact. "You think I'm going to turn on you?"
"I think trust is fragile," I said. "Especially when people start asking the right questions."
She smiled at that.
Sharp.
Knowing.
"But you like questions," she said. "Don't you?"
"I like answers more."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Finally, Syndra looked away, sighing. "Well, you've got half your answers. The rest of us will be back eventually. And Neeko?"
"She's safe," I said. "She'll meet with you all soon. I figured Ahri and Sarah should hear it face-to-face."
Syndra nodded slowly. "They'll appreciate that. Even if they won't say it out loud."
"I'm not doing this for appreciation," I said.
"No," she replied, "you're doing it for control."
I smiled. "You're learning."
The apartment's quiet hum barely masked the tension in the air.
Jinx leaned against the armrest of the couch, absently spinning a screwdriver she'd swiped from from the kitchen cabinets Lux sat beside her, back straight, legs crossed, forcing poise—but her fingers wouldn't stop twitching. Syndra stood, arms still folded, hovering like a moon around a gravity she hadn't fully named.
I remained standing.
I always did.
"You want to know what happened," I said flatly, breaking the silence like glass underfoot.
"I want the truth," Syndra replied. "Or at least... a version that isn't dipped in riddles and power plays."
I chuckled. "You're asking for clarity from someone existence favors. That's like asking a prism to lie flat."
She didn't laugh.
Fine. No metaphor, then.
"I fought two dimensional threats," I said. "Riku and Aqua. Not from this world. Strong—almost comically so. Tethered to other laws, other gods, other mechanics."
"You make them sound like glitches," Syndra murmured.
"Not far off. They came looking for something I wouldn't give. What followed was... unpleasant."
Lux frowned. "You said you were only gone for a few days."
I nodded without hesitation. "I was."
"But you look like hell," Jinx muttered.
I tilted my head, voice low. "Looks can be deceiving. You know that better than anyone."
Syndra's gaze narrowed.
"And how much of what you've said is true?" she asked. "You're good at acting composed. You always were."
"The fight happened. The enemies were real. And yes," I said calmly, "Neeko was saved. That's what matters."
Jinx's gaze drifted down to the floor.
Lux blinked too fast.
Syndra, though, only tilted her head further.
"There was a tremor," she said. "Felt like the world cracked. That was...?"
"Tera Flare," I confirmed. "Point blank."
Silence.
Even the fridge stopped humming.
Syndra's eyes widened just a fraction. "You tanked an attack that caused dimensional tremors?"
I tapped the side of my head.
"Suit took most of it. Symbiote did the rest. Nanobots wove itself around my organs. Internal bleeding slowed to a crawl. Regeneration kicked in five seconds too late. I was ash, then shape, then... me again."
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Not insane," I said. "Prepared."
Lux clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.
"You didn't tell us any of this," she said quietly.
"Because you didn't need to know."
"You were almost dead."
"Almost doesn't count," I replied coldly. "I'm still standing. That's what matters."
Jinx's face twisted with something unreadable. Anger? Worry? Shame?
"Peter," she started.
I waved her off. "I've survived worse."
But even I didn't believe that. Even if it was true.
Syndra POV
He stood like a god trying to play mortal.
His words weren't prideful. They weren't even arrogant. They were... exhausted. Hardened truths pressed into his bones like scars he didn't show.
There was power in that. Not the flashy kind that Ezreal worshipped. Not the pure, radiant strength that Ahri tried to wield.
This was something darker. Grayer. Necessary.
She hated that it fascinated her.
"You let them believe you were gone," Syndra said slowly. "For a month, they thought you might've died."
"They survived."
"But they hurt."
Peter's eyes flicked to Lux and Jinx—then back to Syndra.
"I needed them to."
It wasn't cruel. It was calculated. As if pain was just another tool in his arsenal.
And the worst part?
It worked.
Lux hadn't left his side. Jinx watched him like a tether. Even now, they said nothing—just listened. Absorbed. Accepted.
Syndra felt something twist in her chest.
"Why Neeko?" she asked.
Peter tilted his head.
"You brought her back. Fought those monsters. Got burned alive and stitched yourself together. Why?"
"She needed help."
"And you just helped out of the kindness of your heart?"
"No," he said. "I helped because someone had to. And I'm the only one the reality listens to."
That answer wasn't satisfying.
But it was honest.
Ezreal peeked out from the hallway. His eyes darted to Peter and flinched, like looking into a storm that hadn't decided which direction to break in.
Peter didn't even glance his way. He didn't have to.
Ezreal retreated again.
A door clicked shut.
Locked.
Peter Parker POV
I watched Syndra more than I let on.
Smart. Always calculating. She had been watching me since I first arrived in that camping trip like I'd broken her telescope's lens and forced her to see through smoke.
She hadn't trusted me.
Still didn't.
But now... there was respect. Hesitation.
Something new.
A crack in the armor.
She studied me.
I let her.
"Neeko?" she asked finally, softly. "Did you... really save her?"
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"Safehouse. Sleeping."
"You're sure she's okay?"
"I wouldn't be here if she wasn't."
A long silence followed.
Syndra hadn't spoken in over a minute.
Jinx tapped her boot against the table in an erratic rhythm. Lux had grown quiet, her stare distant, lips slightly parted as if caught between thoughts she couldn't name aloud.
And then Syndra broke the silence.
"I owe you a thank you."
I turned to her, brow raised. "That's new."
She didn't flinch at the sarcasm. "I'm not saying it because you earned it. I'm saying it because... for once, you did something that spared this team from another permanent scar."
That made me pause.
Syndra's arms folded again, but her gaze didn't waver.
"You might not understand what that means—what it costs—to carry something like what Ahri and Sarah have carried. They abandoned a friend to a fate worse than death. They've woken up every day for the past few years believing they helped kill her."
I said nothing.
"They'll get emotional when they see you," she continued. "They'll expect answers. They'll expect you to have Neeko. Or to give them time to prepare before she shows up. And you did that. At the very least... you gave them that mercy."
Her voice sharpened. "That matters, Peter. Especially from you."
Jinx looked between us, silently chewing. Lux leaned slightly forward, visibly listening.
Syndra's eyes didn't leave mine. "You've done things—twisted things. Things I know we haven't even begun to understand. But in the middle of all that? You chose to bring someone home. You chose to spare them from one more fracture."
I shifted slightly, my fingers brushing the edge of the table.
"That doesn't make you a saint," she added, tone cool but not cruel. "But it makes this moment bearable. That's enough for now."
I let out a breath, something unreadable tightening in my chest.
Maybe that was all I ever really wanted—some acknowledgment that the extremes I resorted to weren't entirely for nothing. That my methods, while ruthless, served a purpose beyond control or fear.
I wasn't just saving Neeko.
I was preserving the people she belonged to.
"They're important," I said quietly. "Ahri. Sarah. All of you. The Darks I fight don't care how emotionally fragile their victims are. And if I let this team break from within before the war even starts, we all die meaningless deaths."
Syndra stared. "So this is you being merciful?"
"This is me being strategic," I said. "Mercy is a luxury. I only get one shot at fixing this corrupted narrative before it spirals. So yeah, I'll take the blame for the way I operate. But if Neeko's return buys this team one less trauma? I'll take that too."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't argue either.
That was enough.
Then—
Knock. Click.
The door creaked open.
"I'm back," came the familiar voice—cheerful on the surface, but undercut with a tension only we could hear.
Ahri entered with both arms full—bags of snacks, sparkling drinks, a few fresh fruits spilling from the edge of a woven tote she nearly dropped.
Her eyes swept the room.
They landed on me—and this time, she didn't freeze.
Not outwardly.
But I saw it.
The stiff pull in her shoulders. The slight delay in her blink. The tiny exhale through her nose, like she'd braced for this moment before even turning the knob.
Her smile came a beat too late.
"Peter," she said, casual enough. "Guess Ezreal couldn't keep you out."
I shrugged, glancing toward the hallway. "He tried. Failed."
Ahri didn't bother commenting on that. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Jinx—already mid-chocolate bar—and Lux, who had moved to help with the bags. Her eyes lingered on them longer than necessary.
She placed the fruit bowl on the table a bit too carefully, as if avoiding the chance her hands might tremble.
Then she faced me again.
"I got your message," she said. Quiet. "Saw the picture, too."
"Yeah," I replied, voice even. "Thought it'd be better if you heard it from me before the others."
A faint scoff. "Better? Or just easier to dodge Lux and Jinx?"
Jinx smirked at that. Lux didn't respond.
"Maybe both," I admitted. "But it's real. She's safe."
Ahri nodded once, jaw flexing.
"I know," she said. "I want to believe it."
"She'll be here soon," I added. "Resting now. When she's ready, I'll bring her."
Another pause.
Ahri looked down at her hands, then folded her arms loosely, hugging her own elbows.
"She looked... happy," she said.
There was no sarcasm in her voice—just something distant. Unsure.
"She is," I said. "But you'll see. For yourself. Soon."
Silence stretched.
Lux and Jinx hovered on either side of me like shadows, watching Ahri carefully. Syndra leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her eyes following every subtle shift in body language like a predator watching for weakness.
Ahri's voice came again, quieter now.
"Does Sarah know?"
"Not yet. I figured you'd want to call her yourself," I said. "Give her time. She's going to need it."
Ahri's throat bobbed. She nodded slowly.
"Yeah... yeah, I will."
Her voice trembled at the edges, but she held herself together.
And in that moment, I saw it—beneath the leadership, the discipline, the pain she'd worn like armor for years. A glimpse of the girl who once believed she could save everyone.
A friend who had once failed Neeko.
Now, maybe... she could forgive herself. Or at least start.
She turned toward the kitchen, murmuring something about putting the drinks in the fridge. Lux moved to help her. Jinx stayed at my side. Watching. Possessive.
Syndra gave me a nod—small, but not cold.
I stepped back, breathing in the strange stillness.
It wouldn't last.
But right now?
Right now, it was enough.
A few minutes later...
Ahri POV
The door clicked shut behind me, muffling the sound of Peter's voice as he continued talking with Syndra, Lux, and Jinx in the living room.
I let out a slow breath.
There was a heaviness to the apartment now, like the air itself was waiting for something—someone.
I found Syndra standing in the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the wall outside her room. She looked calm, but her eyes flicked toward me with quiet awareness. Still riding the storm Peter always left behind.
I stopped beside her. "Where's Sarah?"
Syndra's expression softened just slightly. "In her room. Processing."
I blinked. "Processing?"
"Peter's arrival. What it means." She tilted her head toward the closed door near the end of the hallway. "She's been quiet since he walked in. Didn't want to see him yet. I think she's... preparing herself. Just in case he actually brought Neeko."
The name hit like a pressure drop in my chest. The thought of seeing Neeko again, alive, breathing, smiling—after so long—still didn't feel real.
I nodded once. "Thanks."
I made my way down the hallway, each step echoing faintly across the floor. When I reached the door, I hesitated. The wood felt warmer than it should've been. Like it was pulsing with something unspoken—fear, maybe. Or hope too fragile to name.
I knocked twice, gently.
A pause.
Then Sarah's voice, muffled but steady. "Come in."
I pushed the door open.
The curtains were half drawn, dimming the early evening light into something soft and melancholic. Sarah sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly between her knees. Her crimson hair was tied back, but messy—like she'd been pacing before I arrived and finally ran out of places to go.
Her eyes met mine the second I stepped in. Wide. Raw.
She didn't ask how I was.
"Did he bring her back?"
Just like that. Her voice cracked on the last word. No lead-up. No pretense. Just the question that had been clawing at her chest for hours, maybe days.
I nodded.
A sharp breath escaped her. Her body folded forward like someone had cut her strings.
And then the tears came—hot, unfiltered, wrenching. She pressed a hand to her mouth, like she was trying to stifle the sound, but her shoulders shook violently under the weight of it all.
I stepped forward without thinking and sat beside her.
She didn't stop crying.
She didn't apologize for crying.
She just let it all out.
"...I thought she was dead," Sarah choked out between gasps. "All this time... I thought... and I didn't go back. I didn't try. I let myself believe she was gone so I wouldn't have to face the chance that she wasn't."
I didn't speak.
Not yet.
"...What if she hates me, Ahri?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, guttural and terrified. "What if she looks at me and all she sees is someone who left her behind to rot in the dark with Zoe?"
"She won't," I said softly.
"How do you know?"
I swallowed.
I didn't.
But Peter said she was fine. Said she was happy.
And for whatever else Peter was—guardian, manipulator, walking contradiction—he didn't lie about that.
So I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and showed her the photo Peter had sent me earlier.
Sarah stared.
Her hands trembled as she wiped her tears, her breath coming in uneven shudders. The photo was still clutched to her chest—my phone, forgotten in her grip—as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace she was trying to hold onto.
"I keep thinking it's not real," she said, her voice raw. "Like I'll blink and the illusion will fall apart."
I didn't say anything. There wasn't much to say. Not yet.
She slowly looked down at the photo again—Neeko's radiant smile, tail curled around Peter's arm, both of them lit by the glow of a fading sunset.
Sarah let out a shaky laugh. "I hated him, you know. Not... hated, hated. But I didn't trust him. I thought he was too good at everything. Too quiet. Too in control. Like he was playing some game we weren't invited to."
I nodded slowly, watching her speak more to herself than to me.
"And maybe he is." Her fingers traced Neeko's face again. "Maybe he is playing some long game none of us see. But even so... he brought her back. Alive. Happy. Healing." She looked at me with glassy, vulnerable eyes. "And I'm grateful. Eternally."
There was no sarcasm in her voice. No edge. Just truth, raw and clear.
That alone was enough to make my heart skip.
Because this was Sarah. Miss Fortune. The hardened, jaded second-in-command who once held every wall like a shield. Who had spent years masking her regrets behind snide remarks and violent distractions. And now she sat here, eyes swollen from crying, thanking the very person she'd once sworn not to let close.
I didn't hide my reaction. "You really mean that?"
She gave a small, broken smile. "I wouldn't be sitting here crying if I didn't."
I looked down, uncertain. Something in my chest shifted, twisted—like a lock turning.
Because I knew what she meant. I felt it too.
That relief. That sense of having something impossible returned to you. And with it came a creeping feeling I hadn't wanted to confront.
Peter didn't just bring Neeko back.
He brought trust with her. Loyalty. From all of us. Piece by piece.
And that terrified me.
Was this his plan?
To save her, not just for her sake—but for ours?
To win us over through a gesture so monumental that we couldn't question him anymore?
Because if that was true...
Then it worked.
The beach photo burned in my mind again—Peter's smirk, the way Neeko leaned into him like she belonged there. It was too natural. Too... clean. Like a scene staged perfectly to soothe our hearts.
And Peter knew us well enough to make it land.
I felt my throat tighten.
"Do you think..." I hesitated, unsure if I should speak the thought aloud. "Do you think this is why he did it? To make us trust him?"
Sarah glanced at me, surprised. "Maybe," she admitted. "But if that's what it took to make me believe in him... I'm okay with it."
I blinked.
She smiled bitterly. "I've done worse things for far less noble reasons. If this was a move to earn our faith, then—fine. He earned it. And I'll give it to him."
That kind of conviction from her was unsettling. Comforting. Dangerous.
Because I believed her.
Sarah wasn't easily swayed. She had every reason to doubt. Every reason to harden again. But Peter had cracked something open in her—something deep. And if he could do that to Sarah, what about the rest of us?
What about me?
My gaze dropped to the floor as I felt a cold bead of doubt trickle down the back of my thoughts. I remembered his message—the casual tone beneath the photo he sent me:
She's safe. Took a while to recover after... well, you felt it, right? That tremor was a Tera Flare from the enemy. Not fun. But we're both alright now. Just needed rest.
Wanted you to be the first to know, since... I figure I'll be dodging Lux and Jinx's fury when I show up again.
Beach days are nice. She's healing.
I remembered staring at the image. Peter, shirtless. Arm slung around Neeko like they'd known each other for years. Her face buried into his side. Her smile pure, eyes closed in bliss.
Too perfect.
And his expression?
Not relief.
Not warmth.
Just... amusement. Like he knew what that photo would do to us.
To me.
A faint shiver went down my spine.
But I pushed it aside. Buried it.
Because it didn't matter.
Peter had brought her back. And he hadn't asked for praise. Or recognition. He just did it. Quietly. With purpose.
So maybe it was okay to trust him.
Even if I never fully understood him.
I looked up at Sarah again. "Tomorrow," I said gently, "he's bringing her here. When she's ready."
Sarah's face tensed. Her lip trembled again, but she held herself upright this time.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"You should be ready too," I added. "Neeko might not remember everything. But Peter said she's doing better. A lot better."
Sarah nodded slowly. "I'll be okay." She exhaled shakily. "No matter what she says... even if she hates me... I need to see her."
I squeezed her shoulder. "She won't hate you."
"I would," she whispered. "If it were me, I'd hate me."
"But Neeko isn't you," I said. "She's better."
Sarah gave a faint, watery laugh. "Yeah... yeah, she always was."
She slowly laid down the phone, the photo of Neeko still glowing gently on the screen.
She didn't let it leave her side.
I stood, sensing the moment settle into quiet.
As I turned toward the door, Sarah spoke one last time.
"Ahri?"
I paused.
"I'll support him," she said. "No matter what he needs. After what he did... I owe him that much."
I looked back, heart clenching.
She meant it.
And something about that loyalty—so freely given—unnerved me more than Peter's smirk ever had.
Because I realized right then:
This wasn't just about Neeko anymore.
Peter was shifting everything.
Our trust.
Our bonds.
Our center.
And none of us could stop it.
I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, but it felt like something unspoken had already passed between us. Something final.
Something that would change everything.
Forever.
The Next Day
The sun was warm that morning, but not enough to comfort the cold sinking in my stomach. Sarah and I sat quietly in the back of the private hover-taxi, the hum of its engine the only sound between us. Neither of us had spoken much since we left the apartment. We didn't need to. The silence said enough.
Peter had sent the message early.
"Private reservation. No noise. No press. Just you three."Location pinned.Time: 2:30 PM."She's ready to see you."
I still remembered how my fingers trembled reading it.
He even reserved the restaurant himself. Of course he did. Everything Peter did felt... calculated. Measured. Like he already knew how we'd feel before we felt it. But that didn't change what today was. It didn't change what it meant.
We were about to see Neeko again.
The thought alone made my chest tighten, and when I glanced to the side, I saw Sarah's fists clenched in her lap. She'd tied her hair back neatly—pristine, polished, the face of a team leader—but her knuckles were white. She looked like she was preparing for a funeral.
Maybe we both were.
The hover-taxi touched down in front of the secluded building. It was tucked away behind a wall of blooming rose trees and noise-canceling panels. Discreet. Private. No cameras, no reporters. Only the staff knew we were coming, and they'd been paid well to keep their mouths shut. Peter spared no detail.
We stepped out and stood in front of the entrance.
"She might hate us," Sarah said quietly, just above a whisper.
I hesitated. "Or she might not."
Sarah didn't reply. She just nodded once and walked ahead. I followed.
The inside of the restaurant was beautiful. Glass walls let soft sunlight filter in, casting patterns on the floor. The décor was clean—white cloth tables, minimal lighting, not a single other patron in sight. Just quiet. That made it worse.
Each step toward the private room felt heavier than the last. My shoes were silent against the wood floor, but my heartbeat wasn't. I could feel it in my ears. Sarah's too. I could almost hear hers—loud, shaking, like a war drum before battle.
We reached the door. The sign read:
PRIVATE EVENT – GUESTS ONLY
I raised my hand, let it hover for a moment... then pushed.
The door creaked open.
There they were.
Peter sat at the head of the long circular table, clad in black. His eyes flicked to us immediately—calm, unreadable. Beside him sat Lux and Jinx, each on opposite sides, both chewing quietly on appetizers. And seated directly between them, smiling faintly mid-bite, was—
Neeko.
She looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
Then Sarah's.
Then back to mine.
And everything stopped.
The sounds of the restaurant vanished. No cutlery, no whispers, not even Peter's breath. Just silence.
The only thing I could hear was the pounding in my chest.
And I knew, without needing to ask, that it was the same for the others.
Neeko didn't move. Neither did we. For ten seconds—maybe more—we just stood there, staring at each other like ghosts across a battlefield. And even though she was right there, even though her smile had faded, she still didn't feel real. She hadn't for years.
In that moment, the shame nearly crushed me.
I had let her go. When Zoe tore our world apart and broke us... I ran. I told myself it was to protect the others. But I ran. And even after things settled, even after we were safe again—I didn't look for her.
Neither of us did.
Neeko stood up slowly.
She didn't say anything. She didn't even look at Peter. She just placed her hands on the table, pushed herself up, and stepped around her seat. Lux shifted slightly. Jinx's chewing stopped. Peter didn't blink.
I saw her eyes clearly now—no longer wide and chaotic like in the old days. There was depth there. Pain. Age. She had seen things... and survived them.
Her footsteps were soft as she walked toward us.
Sarah shifted beside me, one foot moving back, ready to bolt. Her eyes were glassy, and her mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Not even breath.
I wanted to say something too. Anything. But the lump in my throat refused to budge.
And Neeko just kept walking.
Three steps away.
Two.
One.
She stopped in front of us—barely a foot away—and tilted her head.
That same old Neeko motion.
But there was no childlike innocence in it now.
Only patience.
Only pain.
And still—she smiled.
But didn't speak.
And neither did we.
Neeko stood before us, her posture relaxed, but her eyes brimming with a softness that hurt more than any blade.
And then, finally—
"I missed you," she said quietly, her voice like starlight catching on cracked glass. "I'm glad you're still here."
Something inside me shattered.
Sarah let out a sound between a sob and a gasp, like she'd been holding her breath for years and finally remembered how to breathe. I felt the tears welling before I could stop them, hot and immediate.
Neeko reached out her arms slowly, like she was offering the most delicate kind of mercy. And we—broken, ashamed, barely able to look her in the eye—we stepped forward into that forgiveness like children seeking shelter from a storm.
We embraced.
Neeko's arms wrapped around us both. Sarah buried her face into Neeko's shoulder, and I pressed against her from the other side. For a moment, the three of us held each other so tightly it felt like the air itself paused to give us space.
No words.
Just breathing.
Just trembling.
Just the sound of three souls trying to stitch together the years that never should've happened.
"I'm so sorry," Sarah whispered, her voice cracking completely. "Neeko... I'm so—so sorry. We should've come for you. We should've—"
"You didn't know," Neeko said gently, pulling her closer. "None of us knew what to do after Zoe. We all just tried to survive. That's okay."
"No, it's not," Sarah choked. "You were our teammate. Our friend. We left you."
Neeko didn't flinch. "We where inexperienced. And I ran, remember? You didn't leave me—I left too. We all made choices to stay alive."
I pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes, the guilt hitting harder now that she was being so... kind. "Neeko," I said, voice shaking, "I wanted to look for you. Every day. I told myself I would. But I kept freezing. I kept thinking I wasn't good enough to face what I'd lost."
Her eyes softened even more—if that was possible. "I know."
"I was scared," I admitted. "Scared of what I'd see. That you'd be gone. Or worse... hate me."
Neeko smiled, but there was something haunted behind it. "I was scared of the same thing. That you'd all moved on. That I wasn't needed anymore."
"You were never not needed," Sarah said fiercely, gripping her hand now. "We just didn't know how to reach you. We didn't even know where to start."
"I didn't either," Neeko said, then turned her head slightly, eyes trailing toward the far end of the room.
Peter hadn't moved. He sat quietly, elbow on the table, chin resting on his knuckles as he watched us. Not intruding. Not smirking. Just... present.
"He found me," Neeko said quietly. "Not just physically. He found me here," she tapped her chest. "Inside the part of me that I thought was dead."
Sarah turned her head to look at him too, lips parted. "Did he...?"
"He didn't rush me," Neeko continued. "He didn't force it. He just... listened. He waited. And when I couldn't speak, he let me sit in silence until I could. Every day, a little more. And then one day... I realized I wasn't afraid anymore."
"You forgave us," I said softly.
"I forgave myself first," Neeko whispered. "I had to."
There was silence again, but this one felt different.
It wasn't empty.
It was full of understanding. Of wounds exposed and held gently instead of hidden away.
"I ran from Zoe. I ran from Xayah and Rakan too," Neeko said. "They needed me and I couldn't do it. So I ran. For years. I thought if I stayed hidden, the guilt would go away, but it only grew stronger. It ate everything."
I reached for her hand, squeezing it. "But you made it through."
Neeko nodded. "Because someone believed I could."
She looked back at Peter then. "He didn't just rescue me. He helped me see myself again."
Sarah stepped back slightly, her face still wet with tears. "I don't even know how to thank him..."
Lux cleared her throat at the table and gave a small smile. "Honestly, he's kind of impossible to thank."
Jinx smirked. "He makes it a game."
I saw the way Lux and Jinx looked at Peter. It wasn't just admiration. It was faith. Devotion. A kind of loyalty that only came from being saved in a way no one else ever had. And I felt it too, creeping into the edges of my heart like ink in water.
We returned to the table together, the three of us. Peter didn't move until we sat, didn't say a word as we slid back into the space he'd given us.
Peter Parker POV
They sat across from me now—Ahri, Sarah, and Neeko—reunited, fragile, but whole again.
Jinx leaned into my side without a word. Lux reached for my hand beneath the table. I let her take it.
And I watched the scene unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a director seeing the final act play out as scripted.
Because it worked.
It always does, when the pieces fall in place.
Neeko was whole again. Ahri and Sarah now saw me as more than just a manipulator, more than the questions Syndra kept whispering. They saw the outcome. The victory. The salvation.
Their salvation.
And all it took was a month of carefully measured effort. Pacing. Patience. Soft words and starlit silence. Letting Neeko rediscover herself while slowly steering her back to the shore.
It wasn't easy.
But plot rarely is.
Still... I smiled faintly as I watched Neeko reach across the table and laugh quietly with Sarah.
I didn't need their praise.
I just needed their loyalty.
And now?
Now I had it.
The clinking of silverware returned.
Slow at first. Cautious.
Neeko sat beside Ahri and Sarah now, her tail gently curling around her own chair instead of someone else's. Still, she leaned in with a lightness that hadn't been there weeks ago. Sarah passed her a small basket of bread. Ahri poured her a drink, quietly, like they'd never forgotten how to care for her.
It was surreal.
It was perfect.
Lux leaned against my arm again. She didn't say anything—just placed her head against my shoulder with quiet trust, her food forgotten.
Jinx sat to my left, spinning her fork between two fingers, watching the reunion with a strangely calm look. Her eyes flicked to me briefly. I gave her a slow nod. She returned it. No words needed.
Across the table, Neeko smiled—really smiled—and took a bite of her food. Her eyes closed, tail twitching.
"Still obsessed with shrimp tempura?" Ahri teased, her voice light for the first time since I entered the picture.
Neeko nodded mid-chew. "Neeko would marry it if it could walk."
Sarah chuckled softly. "It's nice to see some things never change."
They all laughed together. Awkward at first, but real. Like the laughter of a campfire long extinguished suddenly flickering again.
Ahri relaxed into her chair. Sarah looked ten pounds lighter, like the weight on her chest had finally begun to lift. Lux grinned and tucked her knees up in her seat, and even Jinx cracked a crooked smile before shoveling food into her mouth like a raccoon raiding a festival.
I watched it all unfold from my corner.
And I breathed in the silence beneath it.
That silence—the kind that comes after a battle is won, but before anyone realizes the war has changed.
Because this wasn't just healing.
It was groundwork.
It was connection reforged not with magic or force, but with trust. Pain softened. Memories rewritten through kindness and patience.
And I had nudged each step of it.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Was the forgiveness genuine?
Absolutely.
But it had help.
A whisper here. A long silence there. Letting Neeko speak, or cry, or sit in the dark without pushing. I didn't force her to see Ahri or Sarah in a better light. I simply reminded her that love doesn't always come clean.
And when she asked if she should forgive them?
I never told her yes.
I just said, "They would've come. One day. If I hadn't, Ahri would've."
It was enough.
And now, watching the scene in front of me, I knew I'd done what had to be done. What no one else could.
Because they—Ahri, Sarah, even Lux and Jinx—couldn't carry this wound anymore. And Neeko... she needed to stop running.
So I gave them each what they couldn't give themselves.
Across the table, Neeko wiped her mouth, then glanced at everyone.
"I used to wake up thinking I was still being chased," she said. "Some nights, I didn't sleep at all. I kept dreaming about Zoe. About Xayah. Rakan. The screams."
Ahri stiffened.
Sarah looked down.
"But after Peter found me..." Neeko smiled faintly. "It didn't all go away. But it changed. He didn't push. Just sat with me. Said the beach was boring when I was quiet."
I smirked at that. "To be fair, I did have to entertain myself by poking jellyfish until you spoke again."
She snorted. "And they stung you, which was deserved."
More laughter. Jinx even clapped her hands once, cackling.
"And now?" Sarah asked, voice soft.
Neeko glanced at her. "Now I dream of sunsets."
It was such a simple sentence.
But it broke something in all of them.
I could feel it. The air shifted. The tension evaporated like mist under moonlight.
Even Ahri—so carefully composed—brought her hand to her chest like she was steadying her own heartbeat.
Neeko glanced toward me again. "You didn't have to do it, you know. Find me. Heal me."
"I did," I said simply.
"Why?"
I held her gaze.
"Because someone had to," I answered. "And because... I couldn't stand watching you suffer from afar. Not when I could help."
There were no flashy theatrics. No cryptic riddles or manipulative tangents. Just honesty—quiet, cold, effective.
I didn't need them to love me.
But trust? Trust is more powerful than any emotion. Because it persists.
Lux shifted against me, resting her head fully now.
Sarah looked at me then. Really looked. And I saw it in her eyes:
Gratitude. Not just for what I'd done for Neeko—but for what I'd given back to them.
Ahri followed suit. She didn't speak, but the way her shoulders eased told me what I needed to know.
Jinx tapped her foot rhythmically under the table, sharp eyes flicking from face to face, like a predator watching prey too stunned to run. But even she smiled slightly when Neeko cracked another joke about shrimp tempura marrying her in a dream wedding officiated by a crab.
I let it all soak in.
The sound of their laughter.
The glow of their warmth.
And the silence of their surrender.
They wouldn't forget this.
They wouldn't forget why they had this moment. This peace. This return of a friend thought lost, soul thought broken.
They wouldn't forget who brought it all back.
And they'd never forget who made them whole.
I leaned back in my chair, arms resting lazily behind my head, eyes scanning the room with practiced ease.
The mission?
Half way complete.
The laughter at the table felt far away. Not fake—just... distant. A sound meant for people still tethered to the moment. Neeko was smiling, Jinx was teasing Lux about something childish, and even Sarah had leaned back into her seat, breathing lighter for the first time in what probably felt like decades.
It was good. This was good.
And yet I couldn't stop staring at my untouched plate.
Because even as warmth filled the room, I could feel it again.
The shaking.
Not literal—not the kind people could see. This wasn't seismic. It was deeper than that. Subtle. Cracks in a glass house, so fine you couldn't see them until the whole thing was already collapsing.
After Riku's Tera Flare, everything changed. And no one else here seems to realize it.
The blast didn't just tear the sky. It tore the fabric of this entire universe's story structure. That kind of power—uncalibrated, unfocused, unleashed across a reality not designed to hold it—it leaves... scars. Not just on the ground, but on narrative architecture.
And now?
Timelines are bleeding into each other.
Dimensional overlaps. Echoes from alternate versions of events. Things that should never exist in the same continuity bumping shoulders like they've always been here.
Earlier, before arriving to this reservation. A few events had happened behind the narrators back.
Lux, at one point, hummed a melody from a future that hasn't happened yet. Poppy tasted a pastry she swore was her favorite, only to spit it out in confusion—like some small historical note in her story had changed while no one was watching.
Neeko flinched earlier at Janna's passing glance. Just a second. But it didn't belong. It wasn't fear of Janna. It was fear of what Janna represented in another timeline. Another story.
None of them noticed it.
But I did.
Because I'm not really part of this story.
I wasn't written into it the way they were. And that's why I can see the rot setting in.
That's why the whole thing is starting to come apart.
It's like watching a corrupted video file try to play itself clean. Stuttering. Repeating. Glitching in places that shouldn't glitch.
I'm not just seeing cracks anymore.
I'm seeing loops.
Events duplicating. Dialogue repeating. Memories rewriting themselves without anyone realizing. Reset triggers buried inside the narrative itself, quietly rolling the dice to see if this version of the story turns out better.
And it's driving me insane.
Because I know exactly what this means.
It means something's gone fundamentally wrong.
And I'm trapped in the middle of it.
I've tried escaping. Tried breaching the edges. I thought it'd be simple—just another fractured narrative, another infected canon to fix. Three times I tried.
The first? I locked onto a nearby shard—an alternate Earth—just to test the waters. I blinked and reappeared here with half my memory cache blanked out.
The second? I aimed for Seraphine's world. I made it halfway into the leap before the universe buckled and rewrote itself mid-jump, slamming me back like I'd never left.
The third?
I tried brute force.
I ended up back in my room, four days in the past. Time rewound itself.
It didn't even bother hiding the glitch.
I just woke up, staring at the ceiling, and I knew: I was inside a loop.
Not a normal one.
Not a natural one.
Someone—something—wants me here. Pinned in place. Caged.
And I hate cages.
The worst part?
I know who I want to blame.
But I can't see their face.
Every time I try to remember who did this—who ripped me out of my life, who rewrote my memories, who made me forget everything that mattered—I get the same damn thing.
The migraine.
It hits like a hammer to the brainstem. Not just pain—denial. A system-level block. A failsafe. Like someone built a firewall around the very idea of this thing, and I'm the virus trying to look it up.
And after the pain...
That laughter.
Piercing. Distorted. Not Zoe's. Hers is chaos wrapped in sugar. This one? It's worse. Ancient. Cruel. Like reality itself snickering through broken teeth.
I know what Zoe is. I know what the Darks are.
This isn't them.
This is something else. Something that shouldn't be.
Not a character.
Not a boss fight.
Not even a plot twist.
Something outside.
And it's watching me. Still watching. Always watching.
I glance at the girls.
They laugh at something Neeko says. Lux leans her head on my shoulder. Sarah's eating again. Ahri's smiling—not her fake, team-leader smile, but something real.
They're healing.
Because I helped them.
Because I made sure Neeko forgave them. Because I gave them something they couldn't give themselves: closure. A second chance.
They trust me now. All of them. Even the ones who don't say it.
It's nice.
It's also not enough.
Because I'm still stuck. Still locked inside this single corner of the League multiverse.
And I can feel the other shards. The other planets. The Guardians out there who don't even know I exist yet. Seraphine. Kai'Sa. Akali. Their names float just out of reach, like strings caught in fog.
Eventually I'll find them.
I'll have to.
Because the Darks aren't staying still.
Zoe, Xayah, and Rakan? They escaped during the battle with Riku and Aqua. Slipped through the cracks while the world was distracted by fire and terror.
And they weren't even using full Dark energy yet.
That's what scares me.
If they ever reach that point—if they become true viruses, embedded in the code of the story itself—then even the Star Guardians won't stand a chance. The actual canon characters will fall like paper dolls.
I could stop them. Easily.
Even at full power, they're not a threat to me.
But that's not the point.
The point is the story isn't ready. The Star Guardians aren't ready. Their arcs haven't matured, their trauma isn't processed, their friendships aren't stabilized.
If I jump the gun, I might break the story even worse.
And yet...
Every minute I spend here, the instability grows. More timelines bleeding. More corrupted lore leaking in. I've started seeing fragments of fanon in the background. References to content that was never canon. Ideas that don't belong. Characters speaking lines from Reddit threads.
It's disgusting.
It's dangerous.
And I need to get out.
I need to find the source of the infection. The thing that rewrote my memories. That locked me here. That broke the system and threw me into a corrupted version of someone else's fiction.
I need to interrogate the next Dark I find.
Hold them. Break them. Tear answers from their code if I have to. No more mercy. No more quick kills. This time, I want intel.
Because there's something bigger at play.
Something I haven't faced before.
Something that doesn't just corrupt stories.
It builds prisons.
And right now?
I'm in one.
Nighttime
The air outside the restaurant was cool and still, wrapped in the softness of nightfall. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting a warm gold over the sidewalk as the group filtered out through the double doors—slowly, like they didn't want to break the moment.
The reserved dinner was over. The long table where reunion turned to laughter, where Neeko smiled for the first time in years... it was empty now. But its echoes lingered.
They all stepped out together, but the paths were already diverging.
Ahri stood closest to Neeko, her hand hovering at her back like she wasn't quite ready to stop shielding her. Sarah stood nearby, silent but sturdy. Both women carried something softer in their eyes now—like the burden had shifted just enough to let them breathe.
Neeko, caught between them, looked less like a broken memory and more like herself. Still cautious. Still healing. But present.
The moment she turned toward Peter, her tail wrapped loosely around her own leg, he met her eyes and gave a subtle nod. No words. Just understanding.
Ahri stepped forward.
Her tone was quiet, careful. "She's coming with us."
Peter didn't blink. "I figured."
"She wants to go back. To the team." Ahri's voice faltered for a second. "To her place. With us."
Behind her, Sarah glanced over with a look that bordered on defensive, but softened as she looked at Peter.
"I think it'll help," she said. "Having her home again. With Ezreal. Soraka. Syndra."
Neeko didn't say much. She just nodded once, then looked down at her feet. Her expression held no conflict—just the quiet finality of someone making a choice they knew was right.
Ahri stepped closer to Peter. "You did something I didn't think was possible. You gave us our friend back."
He looked at her for a moment, then said, "You would've done the same. Eventually."
"Maybe," she replied. "But you didn't wait for 'maybe.' You acted. So... thank you. Really."
Peter didn't smile, but he let the silence between them settle like an agreement. No performance. No flare. Just two people acknowledging a debt paid.
Ahri lingered for a second longer, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in touch."
He gave a single nod. "Looking forward to it."
She turned away with quiet dignity, rejoining Sarah and Neeko as they crossed the street toward their transport. A few words passed between them. Neeko glanced back once, eyes wide under the moonlight, then followed the others without hesitation.
At the street corner, waiting just out of the restaurant's glow, Ezreal spotted them first.
He was leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed, half-asleep until Neeko came into view.
His posture shifted immediately—shoulders straightening, eyes blinking rapidly like he didn't believe it.
Then Soraka emerged from beside him, eyes shining. A soft gasp slipped from her mouth as she hurried forward and knelt to meet Neeko with arms wide open. The reunion was silent from across the street, but the expression said enough. Soraka embraced her like a sister returned from war.
Ezreal didn't move for a second, just watching them, mouth slightly agape. Then he ran a hand through his hair and laughed—relieved, cracked, bright. He stepped forward and offered a sheepish wave. Neeko laughed back and jumped into him, nearly knocking him over.
Behind them, Syndra stood still, arms folded across her chest. She didn't rush forward like the others. Her eyes were locked on Peter, even from across the way.
She didn't blink.
She didn't smile.
But after a moment, she gave the smallest nod—like an unwilling acknowledgment.
Then, just loud enough for her voice to carry, she said, "I was everything that happened... And I'll say it again."
Peter's eyes narrowed slightly, catching the way her jaw tightened.
"Thank you," Syndra added.
There was weight in it. Not sarcasm. Not resentment. Just honesty—strained and cautious.
Then she turned away and followed the others, her hair fluttering behind her like a black flag in retreat.
Peter watched the group disappear into the night. Their laughter faded into the hum of traffic, leaving only the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him.
"Okay," Jinx muttered beside him, cracking her neck. "So... are we just not gonna talk about the fact that was, like, peak anime reunion energy?"
Lux elbowed her lightly.
But she was smiling too.
They hadn't moved. Both of them had lingered at his side, eyes flicking between him and the fading shadows of Ahri's team.
Peter didn't look at them yet. He just exhaled quietly and let the night soak into his lungs.
Lux shifted beside him. "Are you... coming with us?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. There's something I need to check."
Jinx raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The tremors again?"
He tilted his head slightly, almost impressed. "That obvious?"
She scoffed. "Please. You've had that 'galactic hazard' look in your eye all night."
Lux frowned. "Is it serious?"
"Could be," Peter said. "Dimensional aftershocks. From the battle with Riku and Aqua."
They both tensed slightly at the names.
He didn't elaborate further. No need. The girls heard how bad that fight had been—how close everything came to breaking.
"So you're going alone?" Lux asked quietly.
"For now."
Jinx crossed her arms, lips twitching. "You always say that. And then you come back with blood on your suit."
Peter smirked. "I'll try to keep it to just one stain this time."
Lux stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him—quick, firm, and silent. She didn't say anything. She just held him, long enough to make sure he felt it.
Then she pulled back, brushing her hand over his chest before stepping away.
Jinx followed with her usual flair, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him down just enough to peck his cheek.
"Don't die," she whispered. "Or I'm gonna drag your corpse back just to yell at you."
"I'd expect nothing less," he replied.
They started to walk off together, Lux leaning lightly into Jinx as they headed back toward their apartment.
Peter watched them for a moment, then turned away.
Back to the alley. Back to silence.
Back to business.
Because the world may have felt healed for a few fleeting hours—but he knew better.
Something else was waiting.
Something deeper.
And it wasn't going to wait forever.
The laughter was gone. The warmth of neon restaurant lights replaced by the quiet hum of the city's heart beating in shadows. Peter turned a corner and slipped into a narrow alley tucked between two forgotten buildings, his steps slowing as the last of the voices faded behind him.
Here, the world felt distant.
He paused under a flickering service light. Concrete walls closed in like arms around a secret. In this pocket of silence, there was no one left to play the part for. No one watching. No one judging.
He exhaled slowly, his breath curling like smoke in the cool night air.
Then he leaned back—shoulders pressing into the wall behind him—and let it begin.
The suit responded to his thoughts before they even fully formed.
With a sound like silk tearing through metal, black tendrils slithered from his sleeves and ankles, wrapping around his limbs. A shimmer of red webbing followed, overlaying the darkness in layered patterns. The Iron Spider framework folded outward across his back, crawling up his spine like a living engine, merging with the symbiote like they had always been one.
It looked like liquid armor—alien and divine. A sleek, obsidian shell streaked with crimson veins that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Within seconds, Peter Parker was gone.
Only the Guardian remained.
He tilted his head back and let the mask slide down over his face.
And then, silence.
No HUD. No AI. Just breath. Pulse. The faint hum of the world below.
His fingers flexed once, and a low thrum vibrated through his arms as the suit synched to his nervous system. No friction. No hesitation. It was second nature by now.
But even as the suit clung to him like a second skin, something tugged behind his thoughts.
This city...
These streets...
They didn't feel like his anymore.
Not really.
He looked up at the web-strewn skyline above him—rooftops once familiar, alleyways once known by muscle memory—and felt nothing. No nostalgia. No comfort. Just shapes in a temporary zone of importance.
A setting for a chapter. A fading stage.
This wasn't his world. It was just the one he had to save. For now.
He launched upward with a short breath, slinging a web high above the alley mouth. The recoil snapped his body forward, sending him arcing into the air with the practiced grace of a silhouette dancing between shadows.
He moved fast. Too fast for eyes to follow. Each webline struck the skyline like thunder, dragging him across rooftops and spires, each swing harder than the last.
But there was no thrill anymore. No spark.
He wasn't swinging for joy.
He was just moving.
Navigating.
Calculating.
And then... abandoning the ground altogether.
With a single gesture, his calves split open into segmented thrusters. Red energy flared downward, lighting the edges of the buildings beneath him as the propulsion kicked in.
The webs dissolved.
He ascended.
Faster. Higher.
Past towers, past clouds, past weather. The wind grew silent. The stars grew sharper.
And then he broke through.
The final barrier cracked like glass—an invisible shimmer of force between narrative and void. It wasn't Earth's sky. Not really. This was the upper shell of the Star Guardian dimension. A pocket layer of fiction, insulated and swirling with cosmic threads.
Above him, reality looked different.
Constellations didn't just shimmer—they moved.
Galaxies spun with purpose, shaped by intention rather than gravity.
There were no planets here. Just fragments. Floating memories of ones that once were. Narrative echoes. Lost potential.
He hovered there for a moment, alone in a skyless sea.
Below him: the city, quiet and glimmering.
Above him: the stars, whispering old truths.
And everywhere around him: the slow, crawling sickness that had begun to spread.
He could see the wounds in the universe now. Like hairline fractures across glass, they shimmered with the same residual pulse he'd felt back during the battle with Riku and Aqua.
Tera Flare.
The dimensional shockwave hadn't just vaporized enemies or bent time—it had ripped something far deeper. Cracks between layers. Fault lines in continuity. Misaligned threads that once stitched together the stable version of this narrative universe.
Now... it was unraveling.
Fragments of alternate timelines bled into one another. Echoes of characters flickered in places they didn't belong. Background scenery changed between blinks. Even voices repeated in loops like a glitched track, only to vanish a second later.
It annoyed him.
Because he understood what this meant.
This was supposed to be a closed system. A controlled corner of the League Multiverse. But now, thanks to one flare, one disruption, one miscalculation—it was compromised.
Peter narrowed his eyes, focusing.
He pinpointed the first tear—a flickering rift just beyond the curve of the atmosphere. A pulse of corrupted light bleeding in and out of reality like a frayed heartbeat.
That would be his starting point.
He engaged full boosters. The symbiote suit morphed mid-flight, adjusting to the vacuum as his body launched through the stratosphere.
Up here, there was no sound. Only vibration. Only thought.
Peter's gaze narrowed beneath the mask.
This was what it meant to be alone. To see the cracks in everything and know it was on him to patch them. That no one else even understood what was bleeding through these walls.
No Guardian. No Star.
Just him.
And the dark.
The tear pulsed before him like an open wound in the cosmos.
It didn't shimmer—it shivered, bending the space around it like gravity around a dying star. Thin threads of reality frayed from the edges, colorless veins twisting in and out of focus, each one trembling with fractured memory.
Peter hovered in silence, his form outlined by the faint red glow of his suit's thrusters. The void around him was silent, but the rift... the rift spoke.
Not in words. Not in language.
In scenes.
Visions.
Possibilities.
He adjusted the lenses on his mask. Micro-thread sync engaged. The suit filtered the raw data bleeding from the tear and rendered it into narrative strands, like watching a thousand pages of a book overlay at once.
He focused on one.
And then—like the rift obeyed—it bloomed.
A moment from an alternate strand of the Star Guardian universe: Xayah—impaled, fading, her final breath escaping in a whisper of starlight. Rakan cradled her, wings flickering, scream muted by the vacuum of a broken battlefield.
Peter's jaw tensed.
He blinked, and the vision shifted.
Another thread: Zoe, triumphant, her laughter echoing through a corrupted sky. The city had fallen. Lux lay curled beside Jinx, both petrified in crystalized stasis, their bodies frozen mid-embrace.
Next: Neeko, never rescued. Alone. Still caged in that horror-built prison.
Peter cut the feed.
The rift sizzled faintly, threads shifting like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
"Great," he muttered, voice cold beneath the mask. "Even broken universes are more coherent than half the people I deal with."
His hands moved in subtle gestures, scanning the periphery of the tear. No anchor point. No clear origin. Just... rot. The kind that spreads when a story's structure gets punctured from the inside out.
He could feel the instability. Sense it.
These weren't just glimpses of what could've happened—they were bleeding into this world. If left unchecked, one of these fragments could overwrite events here entirely.
He'd have to seal it soon. Patch the narrative back into shape. Reassert control.
But instead of moving, he just hovered.
Silent.
Watching the flickering possibilities blur together like a bad dream refusing to end.
And then the anger crept in.
It came quietly—like it always did now.
Not a roar.
A whisper.
Because fixing these things? Fixing everything?
That's what he did.
That's what he always did.
Even when no one asked. Even when no one thanked him. Even when they treated him like a threat. Like a curse wrapped in silk.
Like he hadn't just handed them their happy ending on a silver plate.
His fingers flexed.
The symbiote twitched—barely noticeable to the eye, but he felt it. The suit was mirroring him again. It always did.
Responding to his thoughts. His emotions. His irritation.
It knew.
Peter's eyes narrowed behind the mask.
His mind drifted—unbidden, unwanted—to this morning.
A simple moment. Forgettable on paper.
But it clung to him.
He'd been walking through the apartment complex. Just passing through. No tricks. No illusions. Just him, wearing a hoodie, looking for Lux and Jinx to head out together.
And there they were.
Janna and Soraka.
Standing near the balcony garden, chatting quietly like two old stars reminiscing.
The moment their eyes caught his—
They turned.
And walked away.
No smile. No nod. Not even a polite lie.
Just... nothing.
Avoidance. Rejection. Distance.
Peter hadn't said anything. Hadn't reacted. Not then.
He just watched them go, his footsteps slowing. Something cold curling in his stomach like a wire being pulled too tight.
He remembered how the door had clicked shut behind them.
And how his hands had trembled just slightly as he forced himself not to care.
But he did care.
Because after everything—
After killing three Darks and taking an attack that can destroy multiple timelines. After saving Neeko from the abyss. After healing Ahri's and Sarah's hearts with surgical precision...
They still looked at him like he was the infection.
They didn't see the man who patched the bleeding heart of their team.
They saw the shadow that might come for theirs.
Peter's breath fogged the inside of his mask.
He stared into the tear again.
And for the first time in hours, his voice cracked beneath the weight of venom and exhaustion.
"You ungrateful cowards."
The symbiote rippled. A soft hiss of movement across his shoulders, as if it, too, wanted to speak.
It understood.
They had no idea what it cost to carry this weight. What it meant to hold back the tide while pretending to smile. While keeping just enough humanity to pass as normal—just enough restraint to keep the monster quiet.
And still...
Still they turned their backs.
Still they whispered behind closed doors.
Still they avoided him.
Like he was the Dark.
A pulse of red surged through the web patterns on his suit. For a moment, the Iron Spider's claws curled tightly, the metal groaning with tension.
Peter inhaled slowly.
Calm.
Control.
He couldn't afford to lose either. Not now.
Not yet.
He brought his palm up and fired a thin webline directly into the tear. It sparked on contact, reacting to the Guardian Code embedded in his suit. The strands around the rift pulsed—recoiling from his touch.
With a series of calculated gestures, he began to weave a seal. Thread by thread. Layer by layer.
He would fix this tear. Seal this scar.
Because someone had to.
But he wouldn't forget.
Not the visions.
Not the fracture.
Not the faces of those who still didn't trust him.
Not Janna's quiet dismissal.
Not Soraka's turned back.
He was done being the one who waited for understanding.
He was done hoping for gratitude.
He was done.
The city looked different at night.
From above, it resembled a machine on sleep mode—quiet, soft, blinking with occasional life. He broke atmosphere silently, gliding back down toward the towers and streets of Valoran City. No alarms. No welcome. No sky to catch him.
Peter didn't engage his boots until the last second, letting himself plummet into the alley behind the apartment building. The impact cracked the pavement, but he barely noticed.
The suit peeled back around his face, retreating like steam drawn into shadow.
His eyes, however, remained sharp.
Focused.
Not angry.
Just... cold.
He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, through a street dimly lit by flickering signs and lamp posts. The echoes of a busy world were gone. He had cleared them all out. Helped the wounded. Fixed the team. Restored Neeko.
And now?
Now it was time to face the two who pretended none of that mattered.
Janna.Soraka.
He stopped at the edge of a closed bookstore, its window casting soft blue light across the sidewalk. The quiet hum of the evening pressed against him like fog. His fingers flexed slightly in his coat pocket.
And that's when he heard her voice.
Not theirs.
Hers.
"They were supposed to believe in you."
A whisper—half silk, half smoke. Female, but not human. Familiar, but unreachable. Like the memory of music after the melody was lost.
Peter froze, pulse tightening.
The voice didn't echo in his ears. It vibrated through him. Through the architecture of his thoughts.
He didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
Behind him, reflected in the window glass, was the blurred shape of someone standing just beneath a flickering streetlight.
Feminine.
Tall.
Dressed in layers of something regal, ancient—though the details were impossible to pin down. Her face was veiled in static, as if it had been corrupted by a program beyond recovery. Her eyes—if they were eyes—flashed like a million open tabs collapsing.
"You did everything right, Peter. And they still walked away."
He blinked.
Nothing.
Just the reflection of a streetlight now. Empty sidewalk. No one behind him.
But the voice remained in his head, now lower, almost gentle.
"You gave them back what was taken. And they gave you silence."
Peter exhaled slowly.
"I don't know who you are," he murmured under his breath.
"You do. Or... you did. Before he tore the memory from you."
A sharp flash ran through his mind—of stars collapsing inward, of screaming static, of a hand reaching out from behind a mirror. He clenched his jaw.
Pain.
A migraine like crushed glass.
His vision doubled, his thoughts stammered.
Then—
Gone.
He staggered forward a step and steadied himself against a cold lamppost. The voice, the figure—everything—faded like smoke in wind.
But the bitterness remained.
It always remained.
He reached the edge of the apartment block, staring up at the upper floor windows where light still glowed from the living room.
Their base.
Their home.
Their silent, judgmental sanctuary.
Janna and Soraka were likely inside. Probably reading. Maybe meditating. Probably talking about him.
Probably pretending he didn't exist.
He rolled his shoulders back and began walking up the steps.
Slow.
Calm.
No noise.
He thought of how Janna used to speak to him—not with the same curiosity as the others, but with the quiet wisdom of someone who saw people. She saw sadness and didn't run from it. She let it sit beside her.
But now?
Now she ran.
Now she turned.
He thought of Soraka—how she once talked to him, curiously. She used to smile gently, like she believed in things beyond what the others feared.
But now?
Now she retreated.
Now she closed her heart.
He approached the apartment door.
That same door he had watched close behind them this morning.
His hand hovered over it—half a second of debate. Rational thought said knock. Be civil. Set an example.
But civil was what they ignored.
And examples were wasted on cowards.
He withdrew his hand.
The symbiote stirred beneath his coat, writhing with a soundless breath of shadow. His Guardian Aura pulsed softly—almost imperceptibly—through the walls. It reached inside before he did.
He could feel them.
Hear them.
Reading. Whispering. Pretending he wasn't there.
He closed his eyes, letting the aura settle into the seams of the room. Letting his presence soak into the edges of their world like ink in parchment.
They wouldn't have time to pretend anymore.
He opened his eyes.
And stood still.
Outside the door.
No knock. No warning. No threats.
Just Peter Parker, Guardian of the Multiverse.
Shadowed in moonlight.
Wrapped in a skin of darkness and brilliance.
Waiting.
For them to feel him.
To Be Continued...