(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)
Peter measured time in seams.
The first month, seams were everywhere. Hairline fractures in bus-station air. Faint zipper-sounds above rooftops. A ripple on a lake that wasn't there. He chased them like a night janitor with a roll of "DO NOT CROSS" tape for causality, finding where the Mirror had abraded the world and laying down anchors until the ground remembered how to stay ground.
By the third week he had a routine: dawn check of the planetary barrier—his quiet, stubborn dome, "house rules for Earth"—then coffee, then a sweep of known weak points: the park fountain, the monorail bend, the cul-de-sac where light still bent wrong. He'd press his palm to air that felt like thin ice and whisper to the physics. Keep. He'd mean it. The web would answer with a soft, compliant thrum, and the seam would refuse to widen.
The 3-2-3 pulse that used to haunt the night grew shy. It showed itself now and then—three quick flutters, two slow, three again—like the memory of a panic attack passing through the city. Peter learned not to flinch. He learned to listen until it faded.
He learned a lot of things.
Zoe, Xayah, and Rakan arrived in pieces and stayed in rules.
The first week, they were sharp edges trying not to cut anything. The second week, they learned where the glasses lived and put them away facing the same direction. By week four they asked, "Is this seat taken?" before sitting on the couch they had already sat on every night for a month.
Probation looked like small, unremarkable choices. Rakan folding the blanket he'd slept under and tucking it behind the armrest like it belonged to someone else. Xayah wiping down the counter without being asked, jaw tight with a pride that refused to accept the act as servile. Zoe standing in doorways until invited, hoodie sleeves past her knuckles like an apology she didn't know how to pronounce twice.
They never went upstairs. They never tested the lab door. Once, Zoe drifted too close and the door prickled—his "grows teeth" enchantment raising invisible hackles. She stepped back and didn't make a joke. That mattered.
Jinx called it "house arrest with better snacks." Lux called it "a start." Neeko, who had every right to throw plates, set a cup down in front of Zoe one evening and said, "Drink. Not poison." That was the whole thing. It was also everything.
The day Ahri's team met Zoe again, the air had weight.
They walked into Peter's living room like a front line—Ahri first, beautiful and controlled, Sarah Fortune at her shoulder, bunkered charm hiding a loaded muzzle. Janna hovered at the back, serene wind on a leash; Soraka's staff glowed like mercy with reservations; Syndra's orbs spun lazy and lethal as planets you shouldn't approach. Poppy had the hammer. Lulu had stars in her pockets, dangerous in a different way.
"Tell me this isn't what it looks like," Sarah Fortune said, fingers already sure of trigger discipline. She didn't point the weapon. She didn't need to. Her eyes did it.
"It's what it looks like," Peter said.
Zoe didn't posture. She didn't smirk. She didn't call anyone kid. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and looked at the carpet like it might refuse to hold her weight. "We're not here to—" she started, voice small, and stopped. Maybe because that sentence had never existed in her mouth before.
Ahri's tails stilled in a way that meant they very much wanted to move. "You bring our executioner into our home," she said, polite in the way people are when they're trying not to break something they might regret. "Explain."
Peter did. For hours.
He stood between the two histories and fed both sides facts instead of adrenaline. He talked himself hoarse. He parceled out silence like water and let it sit on tongues until the need to fill it passed. Coffee went cold. Twice. Someone reheated it and no one said thank you.
He told them what they already felt and what they didn't want to name: that the thing he'd met wears humans the way actors wear parts; that it doesn't swing; it edits; that you don't punch a revision, you deny the change; that only he could see it if it didn't want to be seen; that the barrier was up; that the seams were sealed; that the house had rules and so did he.
Sarah Fortune holstered first. It looked like her hand was returning to her hip; it looked like a storm being postponed. "You're asking us to not shoot the girl who..." She trailed off because listing the crimes would take hours more, and their coffee was already cold twice.
"I'm asking you not to shoot today," Peter said. "Because today I need you alive. Tomorrow too."
Ahri listened like a judge. She asked questions you ask when you want someone to contradict themselves. Peter didn't. Janna asked exactly one: "Is our presence here making the air safer?" She meant: tell me we're not making it worse by standing near this choice. Peter said the only true answer. "You being here makes me remember what the ground is supposed to feel like." It wasn't science. It was enough.
Soraka's eyes softened like dawn on a hospital ward. "Then we will stand," she said.
Syndra didn't sigh, but the feeling of a sigh crossed the room. "If the planet ends because you decided to rehabilitate a fox and a star with boundary issues," she said, dry as vacuum, "I will haunt you."
"You're already haunting me," Peter said. Return banter, thin and human. That helped.
Poppy laid her hammer on the rug. Not a truce—just the gesture you make when your hands are tired. Lulu, who had been picking at a loose thread on the couch with cosmic curiosity, stuck a star sticker onto Zoe's sleeve. Zoe stared at it like it might be a trap. It was just a sticker. Sometimes stickers were allowed to be stickers.
In the last ten minutes, when words were sand and everyone's throats were made of it, Zoe tried the apology. Not performance. Not plea bargain.
"I'm sorry," she said, once, eyes on nobody, the syllables a stranger she was trying out. She didn't add "but." She let the sentence be a floor.
Ahri didn't bless it. She didn't spit on it. She set it on a shelf. "We will not forgive you today," she said, the kindness of truth sharpened clean. "We will not kill you today either. That is what we have."
Zoe nodded like a person learning a new language from a strict teacher. She kept her hands inside her sleeves and didn't touch anything on the way out.
When they'd gone, Sarah Fortune sank into a chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I hate being reasonable," she muttered.
"Reasonable looks good on you," Jinx said from the doorway, and then, because she couldn't help herself, added, "Not as good as chaos, but like—a strong runner-up."
Poppy and Lulu and Janna were easier.
Lux and Jinx ran interference, which looked like jokes placed with the precision of keystones and a spreadsheet of talking points that never left Lux's phone. Poppy showed up with a thermos and a hammer and said, "If Peter says it's a problem, it's a problem. How do we hit it without hitting it." Practical. Bless her.
Lulu waved a ribbon at the barrier and giggled when the ribbon came back with a faint tingle. "It's like a big soap bubble," she declared. "Except if you pop it you die." Peter resisted the urge to make her wear gloves inside. Barely.
Janna listened to the barrier with her eyes, which is a thing some people can do if you trust them enough. "It hums," she observed. "Like air breathing. Like a house with a sleeping toddler." She smiled at Peter like she'd caught him being soft on purpose. He didn't deny it.
Acceptance in this case wasn't hugs. It was Poppy taking a shift at the front door with a book and a hammer across her knees. It was Lulu taping "no touchy" doodles near the lab stairs. It was Janna writing down emergency numbers on the whiteboard and then erasing them because numbers weren't what this emergency would use.
Life became logistics with feelings.
The trio learned to exist in a house where the walls did not belong to them. They asked permission to take a shower. They asked permission to use the spare blanket. Xayah sharpened knives over the sink and then wiped away the metal dust so no one would have to feel it on their fingertips later. Rakan left post-it notes on the fridge that said "we have milk" and drew a heart in the corner. He crossed the heart out, as if he had gone too far, and left the cross-out there as proof that he had tried to calibrate.
Zoe picked up Neeko's mug once and moved it two inches to wipe underneath. Neeko saw the movement and froze the way deer freeze at roads. Zoe put the mug back exactly where it had been and stepped away like she'd avoided a tripwire. After a week, Zoe began setting the mug on a coaster before Neeko came into the room. Little choreography, learned without being taught.
Once, late, Peter heard the quiet scratch-scratch of Xayah unlearning a habit—claws against the back of the couch, a release valve she'd used for years. The sound stopped halfway through and was replaced by a thick, frustrated exhale. The next day there were mitts on her hands when she watched the news. She didn't look at anyone looking at the mitts. She didn't take them off.
The house softened around them without giving up its shape. Lux left a blanket on the back of the couch without declaration. Jinx taught Rakan how to use the game console and then beat him seventeen times in a row until he learned how to respect a blue shell. Neeko learned exactly how many steps it took for Zoe to cross the living room and did her counting in rooms where Zoe was not.
Peter watched all of it and did not categorize it as redemption. He filed it under maintenance.
He sealed seams. He checked the dome. He slept when his body took sleep away from his mind and handed it back with a pointed look.
Some nights he woke to the not-sound of the barrier humming and the curve of the Earth snug beneath his palms. If he concentrated, he could feel the faintest pressure where something used to be in him, a missing name that refused to stand still long enough to become a face. He didn't chase it. He took the information—this hurts here; we don't know why—and he went back to sleep.
When the 3-2-3 pulse returned one rainy Tuesday, it was faint as a bad memory. Three-quick-two-slow-three that made the streetlamps blink in sympathy. He stood at the window, counted with it, and then counted past it. The city did not split. The room did not lean.
He made a note in his head. He made a note on the whiteboard. He made a sandwich because sometimes the correct answer was protein and bread.
By month four, Ahri could knock on the door without Peter's hand tensing toward fight. She would bring fruit and a list and her apologies arranged in honest rows. She and Zoe learned to occupy opposite corners of the living room with the vastness of a continent between them. Sometimes Sarah Fortune would say, "I still don't like you," to Zoe with a candor that refused to degrade into gloating. Zoe would answer, "I still don't like you either," which for her was probably progress.
Syndra set a rule of her own: if Zoe spoke in riddles, she left. Zoe stopped. Not for love of Syndra. For love of the rule. Peter respected that.
Poppy told Xayah flatly, "You're on thin ice." Xayah glanced at the sticker Lulu had put on her mitten and said, "I can skate." Poppy didn't laugh. Three days later she did.
Lulu started a sticker economy. You got a star for not doing something terrible. You got two for doing something decent without being caught. Jinx rolled her eyes and covered her bracelets in stars and then used the bracelets anyway, star stickers flying like warning confetti every time she fired. It looked ridiculous. It looked right.
Janna brought tea and the unbothered calm of someone who had seen weather come and go. She sat across from Zoe once, put her palms up, and waited. She didn't ask for confession. She didn't offer absolution. She offered presence like a chair. Zoe stared at Janna's hands for three full minutes and then left the room without taking them. That was also a kind of answer.
Soraka bandaged a scrape Xayah got on her knuckles and did not ask how. Xayah said "thank you" without swallowing glass over the words. Soraka nodded as if she had watched a storm choose not to deepen.
Sealing seams kept getting easier. The big rips were done. The little ones were just reminders—the city's scar tissue being weather. Peter would step under a bridge where sound echoed wrong and press glue into cause-and-effect until the echo forgot its trick.
He taught Lux how to spot the tells—a heat shimmer where there shouldn't be heat, a shadow with the wrong number of edges. He taught Jinx to look for the way pigeons refused to fly through certain alleys. He taught Neeko the rhythm of his grounding count so she could start it for him when his mind skidded.
They learned, and he didn't ask them to believe in why. He only asked them to remember what to do.
Month five turned into month six the way snow turns back into street—quietly and with grit.
Peter kept his hands on the dome, adjusting pressure at the seams only he could feel. The barrier felt like a held breath and like a promise; it felt like a parent awake in the hallway while the kids slept, listening to a house and saying, without words, I'm here.
The trio's edges dulled from knives to keys—still metal, still capable of hurting, but now shaped mostly to open and close. They still startled at loud noises. They still kept their backs to walls. But when Lux laughed in the kitchen, Zoe's shoulders didn't go up anymore. When Rakan beat Jinx at racing for the first time—fluke, bad drift, a miracle—the whole room groaned and threw couch cushions. Xayah smirked and pretended it wasn't relief.
On a Tuesday that registered as "normal" in the book of days, Peter walked the perimeter of his life and found it intact. He checked the barrier. He checked the seams. He checked the coffee. He checked on the three he'd given rules to and found them following those rules without complaint. He checked on the three he loved and found them laughing at a video where a cat decided to be liquid. He checked on himself and found—a quiet he didn't distrust.
Suspicion had not become trust. It had become function. The house breathed. The city mostly held. The pulse, when it came, was a memory he could name and dismiss.
He wrote it on the whiteboard in block letters so everyone could see it and no one had to speak it:
WE LIVE HERE.
He drew a line under it. Jinx added exclamation marks until Lux erased all but one. Neeko drew a little house. Lulu added a crooked star on top. Xayah pretended she didn't look at it when she walked by. Rakan pretended he didn't touch the underline for luck every time he left the room. Zoe pretended a lot of things.
Peter stood in the doorway and read the sentence until it felt true enough to use, then went to make dinner.
Outside, buses sighed. Drones blinked hello to no one. The dome hummed its low, parental hum. And somewhere very far away, where laughter belonged to someone who could make reality change just by smiling, the joke went unshared a little longer.
Functional coexistence wasn't a victory, he told himself. It was a platform.
That would do, for now.
...
Morning started the way good work should: shoes tied, city not awake enough to argue.
Peter got Akali and Kai'Sa to the park before joggers, before dog walkers, before the seed-bag grandpa. Dew turned the grass into a galaxy of tiny lenses. Kuro and Shiro floated at shoulder height like punctuation—Kuro vibrating at anything remotely shiny; Shiro moon-calm, which somehow made him funnier.
"Rule one," Peter said, stretching. "We train like life so life doesn't notice. No trauma speedruns. No 'surprise, destiny.' We do this the boring way."
Akali blew hair out of her face. "Sick. I'm, like, a huge fan of boring."
Kai'Sa tried a smile. "Honestly? Same."
They jogged—easy pace, full-sentence pace. Peter checked form, pointed out the slippery patch near the fountain. Akali caught a root; Kuro screamed like a tiny fire alarm and corkscrewed around her head until she swatted him away, laughing despite herself. Shiro observed with a serious little frown, as if grading the moment.
"Show you care first," Peter said while they stretched calves. "Words can hitchhike."
Akali squinted at him. "We're still doing that line?"
"It's a good line," Kai'Sa said, then quieter, "It... worked."
They rotated through tiny courage drills Peter packaged as normal errands. Ask a vendor for change without apologizing six times. Put a kid's abandoned scooter back on its kickstand and don't wait around for praise. Sit on the cold ground for sixty seconds and name five things that aren't fear. Kuro tried to cheat with "sparkles" and "additional sparkles." Shiro said nothing out loud and still won.
Between reps came the real rule. "I don't pull you. I don't edit you. Aura stays off unless we're patching physics or someone's going splat. You walk into this because you want to."
Akali tilted her head. "You always talk like a guy negotiating with a writer's room."
"I kind of am."
Stairs, two flights up and down—because mild suffering turns into quiet pride. Balance along the low stone edge—because control likes practice. Practice telling Kuro no when he tried to burrow into Kai'Sa's hoodie. (He sulked; Shiro patted him with a tiny ghost-hand like, there there.)
By day four, Akali's eyes weren't hunting exits. Day five, Kai'Sa stopped apologizing for a water break. Day seven, a siren wailed beyond the trees and they both looked to Peter, saw he wasn't moving, and kept breathing.
Next: a low rooftop. Peter chalked a line on the parapet. "One at a time. Stand. Breathe. Eyes on me, not down. You already know how to balance. The ground isn't your enemy."
Akali hopped up first because she likes to beat fear to the punch. Wobble. Adjust. Grin like the sun moved one inch closer for her. Kai'Sa followed, steady like she'd been waiting for permission to be steady.
"Again," Peter said. No pep talk. Reps did the talking.
Afternoons turned into kindness drills until they stopped feeling like theater. They carried groceries for a woman with a wrist brace. Akali tried to deflect the teary thanks with a joke; Peter shook his head. "Take it. It's a gift for both of you."
They stocked shelves at the shelter where Kai'Sa's dad worked. Kai'Sa's eyes kept flicking to the door—who came in, who didn't. Peter didn't say a word; he just made sure he was the anchor between her and the exit.
"Why does this feel like a trick?" Akali asked later, sweaty and extremely non-magical.
"Because it's not dramatic," Peter said. "Drama's cheap. Oaths are heavy. Your spine should know how to hold weight before we put a future on it."
She worked that around and finally nodded like, fine, fair.
Jinx crashed a few days like a comet—loud, affectionate, helpful in the exact wrong ways. Kuro adopted Akali on sight and demanded to be thrown like a ball. Shiro took his time and then, during a sunshower, turned into a tiny umbrella over Kai'Sa. He didn't smile. Peter swore the corner of his mouth twitched.
Evenings, the city remembered night. "In for three, out for five," Peter said. "Find the slowest clock in you." Akali learned to count without foot-tapping. Kai'Sa learned to unclench her hands. Kuro managed sixty seconds of silence (a certified miracle). Shiro remained undefeated at existing.
Zoe haunted the edges and bristled on principle—anything First Star-adjacent put her on alert. She perched on a fence, flicking splinters, muttering about "contracts written by cowards." Less knife these days; more sore throat. She didn't cross Peter's chalk lines.
"You don't have to love the system," Peter told her at mauve-o'clock. "You can love the people in it."
"I don't want to give it leverage."
"Then give them leverage," he nodded toward Akali and Kai'Sa, currently failing to teach Kuro to sit. "Let your care make you predictable. Safer that way."
Zoe stared. "I hate that that makes sense."
"Same."
She kept coming back. Kept not crossing the line.
He picked a clean night for the Oath. No meteor shower. No big anniversary. Just cool air, visible breath, behaved stars.
The hill turned into a quiet bowl. Ahri and Sarah Fortune arrived together, polite truce in leather and lacquer; Kiko flicked her tails and judged everyone equally. Boki & Baki butt-bumped onto the grass, already giggling. Janna brought thermoses; Zephyr floated slow circles, calm spreading like a tide. Soraka came with Shisa, who glared at the horizon just to be safe. Syndra's Multi orbited like three tiny planets. Lulu's Pix buzzed with green-flavored excitement. Neeko cuddled Towa against her cheek. In the back, Xayah's Saki gave her a smug wing-bump while Rakan's Riku checked his own reflection in his phone. Zoe stood at the fence with Ran, mischief dialed way down. And Kuro & Shiro hovered at Peter's flanks like very opinionated commas.
Peter didn't draw a circle. He anchored the hill quietly—three web-lines on the compass points, one thin ribbon along the crest to remind the world to behave.
"This isn't a jump scare," he told Akali and Kai'Sa. "No truck from off-screen. No monster-shove to force a glow-up. You can say yes or not yet. If it's not yet, we get hot chocolate and try again next month. No one's dying on a schedule."
Kai'Sa's eyes shone. "What if I say yes and it's the wrong yes?"
"Then say yes again tomorrow. Oaths are maintenance."
Akali swallowed. "What if I screw up?"
"You will," Jinx said. "We all do. Ten outta ten, would screw up again."
"Jinx," Lux hissed.
"What? Supportive!"
"Hands," Peter said, holding his out—offer, not chain. Akali took it first because hesitation annoys her. Kai'Sa followed because company makes courage easier.
"Eyes here," he said. "No theatrics. You don't owe the sky a performance."
Aura stayed folded like a blanket under the floorboards—steadying the room, not them. The planetary barrier hummed low. The mediums ringed the space like a choir that knows when not to sing.
"Say what's true."
Kai'Sa went first. Words are pricey for her, but truth likes how she holds it. "I'm tired of being tired," she said. "I want to help without disappearing. I want to be... held in place, not pinned. I'll stand when I can. When I can't, I'll say so."
"Honest," Peter said. "That's the currency."
Akali squeezed his fingers once, testing reality. "I don't want to be a symbol," she said. "I want to be loud and kind and inconvenient. I want to punch the right things. I want to stay even when my pride screams bail. I'll try." Beat. "I'll try."
"Then the words," Peter said—not from a book, but the version he wished someone had given him. "I choose the light that lets others see. I choose the fight that keeps them whole. I keep my name. I keep my no. I hold the line with the hands I have."
They echoed it—not perfectly in sync, just two people choosing the same sentence.
Light showed up anyway.
Not fireworks—no boom, no halo drop. It slipped in like dawn under a curtain, like someone opening a door to a room you forgot you owned.
Akali lit from the bones outward. Amethyst and midnight violet settled on her in clean, sharp planes edged with starlit silver. A layered skirt broke into comet-ribbons when she shifted; slim greaves carried little star-marks at knee and ankle; a crescent-cut breastplate curved where her kindness needed edges. Twin arc-blades chimed into her hands—half-moons with opinions.
Kai'Sa brightened like something finally unclenched around her ribs. White-rose and soft gold feathered her shoulders; winglike thrusters unfurled with a soft hiss; bracer-blades mirrored the star at her chest. The silhouette was clean, aerodynamic—steadiness with wings.
For a breath they both looked shocked to be beautiful.
Then their mediums found them.
A white blur popped by Kai'Sa's ear—Ina, ears tall, eyes bright, textbook busy bunny. It gave a terrible salute and immediately started fussing with her bracer like it had a to-do list already.
A round noodle-gremlin drifted into Akali's orbit—Umi, belly-first and delighted, doing a lazy backstroke through the air as if the sky were broth. Akali laughed—free, startled—and Umi tried to steal the last noodle from a takeout box that did not exist. Akali promised some later. He believed her.
The rest of the mediums reacted like family. Kiko gave Umi a withering look, then accepted a belly rub like royalty. Boki & Baki performed a celebratory butt-bump. Zephyr's glow warmed a notch; Shisa pretended not to tear up. Multi aligned into a tiny constellation and pulsed once. Pix stuck a sticker on literal light (unsure how; very proud). Towa squeaked happy tears against Neeko's cheek. Saki wing-bumped Xayah, smug. Riku angled himself to admire his reflection in Kai'Sa's new pauldrons. Ran watched from Zoe's shoulder, spark on probation.
Zoe stayed at the fence, jaw set. No heckle. When Akali grinned at her blades like she finally had the right tools, Zoe's shoulders eased a millimeter.
Ahri's eyes did that leader-soft thing when the world hands you something to protect on purpose. Sarah Fortune nodded once like a deal cleared. Janna closed her eyes and caught a trustworthy wind. Soraka's whole posture exhaled. Lux's "Welcome" landed soft and fierce. Jinx whooped and launched nonlethal confetti. Poppy stomp-thunked approval; Lulu declared everything "sticker-worthy."
"They're not replacements," Lux murmured—relief, not jealousy.
"They never were," Peter said.
Akali drifted over, still faintly glowing, like she hadn't learned how to tuck it all the way away. "I don't feel... different. Is that bad?"
"It's good," Peter said. "You're still you. Just... more surface area for good to stick to."
Kai'Sa touched the emblem near her heart. "I thought it would feel like pressure."
"It will some days," he admitted. "That's why we practiced breathing."
Ina saluted again (still terrible) and tugged her sleeve like, assign me a task. Umi attempted to eat a star. Shiro slid between them and produced the tiniest possible grin. Kuro blew harmless sparkles and immediately tried to take credit for the entire evening.
Night went back to being night. Anchors hummed, settled. The hill remembered it was a hill. The city minded its business.
They walked down not in a parade—just people going home after choosing something heavy and good. Halfway to the sidewalk, Akali bumped Kai'Sa's shoulder. "We did it."
"We're doing it," Kai'Sa said. "Ongoing verb."
Peter let the smile show. Kuro spun like a respectful firework. Shiro floated a touch closer. Umi snored mid-air. Ina started a checklist that was somehow 40% boba.
Two new stars, lit without spectacle, slotted into the teams without displacing anyone—additions, not replacements. Not trophies. A promise.
Later, after the thermoses and congratulations and Lulu's sticker assault, Peter stayed on the hill, checking web-lines one last time. He pressed a palm to the ground and said the only counterspell he trusted.
"We keep."
The earth under his hand agreed.
Present Time...
6 Months later...
By six, Peter had wrapped both patrol routes solo—Ahri's grid in the morning, Lux's just before lunch—closed two hairline seams no one else felt, and walked home under a planetary ward that hummed like a giant, polite refrigerator. On the way he texted the quiet group chat:
meet @ mine 6pm — important — onesies on — no bullshit at the door pls!
No thesis. He'd say the hard part in person.
Downstairs, the "probation suite" was already occupied: Zoe, Xayah, Rakan—plus Ran, Saki, and Riku. Six months of house rules had mellowed the vibe. Ran still looked like a gremlin that wanted crimes; it just... didn't do them. Saki wing-bumped Xayah's shoulder when she tried to look feral. Riku admired himself in the TV when it was off.
People trickled in by twos and threes.
Lux's crew hit first:
Lux with a bakery bag; Shiro drifted like a shy halo.
Jinx shouldered through, Kuro purring static against her jaw.
Poppy and Lulu behind them, Pix orbiting like a golden bee and trying to land on Poppy's hammer until she gave it the mom-glare.
Janna last, Zephyr gliding in her wake and making the foyer feel like exhaling.
Ahri's team rolled up five minutes later:
Ahri with Kiko riding shotgun being ninety percent sass.
Sarah Fortune with Boki & Baki butt-bumping the door jamb.
Syndra with Multi in neat little orbits.
Soraka with Shisa giving the welcome mat a background check.
Akali and Kai'Sa jogged up late, sneakers squeaking; Umi and Ina bounced like they were also late and mad about it.
Peter widened the house ward so nobody got zapped for existing. "Shoes left, mediums right," he said, which made exactly three people listen and two mascots obey.
They packed into the living room like a sleepover with trauma. Mediums claimed airspace. Kuro posted on Peter's shoulder like it paid rent. Zephyr hovered near the ceiling light and turned it from harsh to soft without touching it.
"Thanks for coming," Peter started. No drumroll, no hero voice. "Short version: I'm going to start finding the remaining Star Guardians off-world before he plays with them or deletes them. I'm telling you up front so we don't repeat... last time."
That landed. A month gone. Teams chewing each other apart. Bad week, plural.
Lux leaned forward, elbow to knee. "Appreciate the heads-up. New behavior, proud of you."
Jinx snorted and didn't disagree. Kuro flicked an ear like preach.
Sarah Fortune crossed her arms. Boki & Baki crossed theirs, which was adorable and unhelpful. "So we split up? Sweep faster?"
"Logical," Syndra said, dead calm. Multi chimed in three-part harmony.
Peter shook his head. "No splitting. I go. You stay."
Instant temperature change. Shisa growled, Pix ducked behind Lulu's hair, Kiko rolled tiny eyes like it had been waiting for this fight since birth.
"Absolutely not," Jinx said. "No solo acts. I just learned to sleep without dreaming knives."
"Same," Lux added, softer, and Shiro drifted closer to her cheek.
Neeko didn't trust her voice. Towa looped the lace of her hoodie and held on like a frog in a hurricane.
Peter raised a hand. "Okay. Listen. You know those Dark Voidlings we've fought? The static smell, the violet edge on shadows, the way air feels buzzy? You can feel that. You can hit those. This—" he didn't say the name "—isn't that. Think radios. You're AM/FM. The Voidlings are loud stations on your dial. He's broadcasting outside the band. Different spectrum, different rules. My aura can couple to that band; yours can't. It's not a you-problem. It's a physics interface problem."
Blank looks from half the room. Akali raised a hand. "English?"
Peter tried again. "He's Wi-Fi in a different house. You can't ping him. I'm the only one with a password."
"Oh," Lulu said, then nodded like that actually helped. "Passwords are rude."
Syndra's eyes narrowed, thinking it through. "Coupling constants, nonlocal interaction. He sits in a space where our operators return null."
"Hot," Jinx said. "Nerd-hot. Don't stop."
Soraka's frown smoothed a little. "So we can't touch him even if we wanted to."
"Right," Peter said. "Unless he intentionally compresses himself down into our... bandwidth. He sometimes does, because he's a showoff."
Ahri's tail flicked. Kiko did the same, because of course it did. "Then what do we do? Besides sit."
"You do what you're already good at," Peter said. "Warn early, pull people out, make the city boring so there's less for him to play with, and keep me tethered. You've felt Dark fingerprints before. This guy's signature is different. Look for: green tint in moonlight that makes crowds drift like they're on the same song. Temperature inversions—cold feels like it dropped from the sky instead of blowing in. Time desync—like reality misses a clap; your breath goes out of step. And a pulse pattern—three beat, two beat, three beat. If you feel any of that? You ping me. Immediately."
Zephyr brightened at ping. Janna nodded, already in logistics mode. "I'll run a quiet net—dream reports, odd phrases, group movement. No public channel names that sound like bait."
"Thank you," Peter said. "Lux—outreach to friendlies and retirees. Keep them on 'weird weather watch,' not 'cosmic horror diary.' Poppy, Lulu—ground response. Move people, not mountains. Soraka—triage and enforced naps. Sarah and Ahri—perimeter and humans. Syndra—if a mundane problem gets spicy, you make it un-spicy."
"Copy," Sarah Fortune said, and Boki & Baki did a tiny salute.
Rakan lifted two fingers. Riku used one as a mirror. "And us basement gremlins?"
"You three sit tight," Peter said, meeting Zoe's eyes so the next part landed. "You've felt a different Dark field than the Voidlings. If you hear chatter about a tall, too-friendly guy with a smile that feels like sales—"
"—we run," Zoe said, quick, small. Ran didn't grin for once.
"Yeah," Peter said. "You run and text me a period. I'll get it."
The room forked into two camps without anyone naming them. Fear (Lux, Jinx, Neeko, Janna, Soraka, Ahri, Sarah Fortune, Lulu, Akali, Kai'Sa) and Logic (Poppy, Syndra, Zoe, Rakan, Xayah, and Peter). Mediums mirrored it—Zephyr brighter, Shisa bristlier, Kiko hiss-purring because drama, Pix peeking, Umi vibrating like a noodle about to jump, Ina still as a drum major.
"He scares you," Jinx said, not a question. "That freaks me out."
"Me too," Lux said, and didn't hide it.
Neeko squeezed Towa until the little blob squeaked. "Neeko not want Peter to disappear."
Syndra kept it level. "He survived a first contact. With prep we raise the odds."
Poppy thunked her boot to the floor once. "He's the hammer. We're the handle. Hold."
Ahri cut across it. "Last time you vanished, we almost broke. So if you go, we do it with receipts. Location. Timers."
"Yeah," Peter said. "Already assumed. I'll mark my path on the way out. Same signature as the barrier—webbing you'll barely notice unless you're looking. Three marks in a line means 'alive/here/stop panicking.' If you see no marks for twenty-four hours, you do not try to rescue me. You lock the city down and make boring your religion."
"Boring is sacrilege," Lulu whispered.
"It's our brand now," Janna said, gentle.
Jinx stared at Peter, then flicked Kuro's ear like she needed to do something. "I hate this plan."
"I know," Peter said, honest. "I love that you hate it. Hate it from here."
It didn't fix the fear. It made it... livable.
He clapped once, coach-style. "Okay. We're done spiraling for today. I'm ordering pizza."
That broke the mood because carbs do. While they waited, the house softened into normal. Zephyr dimmed the kitchen light just right while Janna and Lux set up a calm comms sheet. Soraka brewed tea; Shisa watched the kettle like it owed him money. Syndra and Multi sorted plates telekinetically with ridiculous precision. Poppy and Lulu stickered their tokens like that made them stronger; Pix tried to eat a sticker; Lulu negotiated it into a hat.
Peter fired up Mario Kart World on the living-room TV. Jinx, Akali, and Rakan took the bait. Kuro flopped over the controller like a cat; Umi demanded two bites of Akali's snack; Riku "refereed" until Peter webbed him gently to the coffee table for crimes against vibes.
"You're cheating," Jinx announced after the second course-cut.
"It's literally in the game," Peter said. "Ethics by menu."
"Boo," Akali said, already plotting violence that was technically playful.
The doorbell rang. Peter rescued the delivery guy from a tower of boxes, tipped in cash, told him to keep the change. Kitchen turned into a buffet line. Kiko begged for exactly one belly rub and then pretended she didn't. Boki & Baki butt-bumped in victory at acquiring slices. Pix made off with a pepperoni. Multi tried to stack breadsticks like a Zen garden until Syndra coughed delicately and they snapped to perfect rows.
Lux drifted to Peter's side without having to aim. Neeko tucked under his other arm and exhaled like a person. Jinx leaned on his shoulder and pretended she didn't.
"Still hate your plan," she said through a mouthful.
"Noted," he said. "Keep hating it. Loudly."
By nine, the living room looked like a normal house after a not-normal meeting—cups on coasters, mascots getting sleepy, people talking about nothing on purpose. Goodbyes stretched. Zephyr turned the entryway into soft weather so hugs didn't feel so big. Boki & Baki bonked the doorframe again just because. Pix left a sticker on the shoe rack and then proudly told Lulu she didn't eat it. Saki wing-bumped Xayah toward Lux, and Lux didn't flinch. Ran stared at Peter like a reformed chaos plush and, miracle of miracles, kept quiet.
When the door shut and quiet pressed in, the residents split up—basement and upstairs. Peter paused at the basement hall. "Night."
"Night," Zoe echoed. Ran tried to grin, then thought better of it.
He killed the living-room lights, checked the ward one more time out of habit, and pushed into his room. Lux, Neeko, and Jinx were already in pajamas on his bed. Kuro and Shiro drifted to the foot like tiny sentries.
Three looks met him: Lux steady, Neeko worried and brave, Jinx scowling with devotion.
"No disappearing," Lux said first.
"No disappearing," he echoed. "Breadcrumbs, timers, the whole annoying packet."
Neeko nodded, small, fierce. "Neeko will keep house boring. Very boring. Neeko hates boring."
"Same," Jinx said, then lifted the controller. "Mario Kart rematch. No shortcuts. Be a citizen."
He laughed, crossed the room, and let himself be the guy who was loved, who explained the scary thing like it was just tech, who would walk into it anyway—and come back.
The following day...
Morning didn't start with a crowd—it started with roommates.
Lux taped a crooked paper star over the kitchen doorway that said DON'T DIE (pls). Jinx slapped a sticker on the thermostat—MAXIMUM CHILL—then argued with it like that would help. Neeko folded blankets over the couch into fort walls; Towa stuck to her cheek like a sleepy sticker.
Downstairs, the "probation suite" tidied itself. Zoe vacuumed the entry with the intensity of a confession. Rakan kept fluffing throw pillows until Saki wing-bumped him away. Xayah reorganized the shoe rack into a formation only she understood. Ran lurked at Zoe's heel; Riku checked his reflection in the black TV every other minute; Shiro did his little silent orbit and judged no one. Kuro buzzed through it all like a gremlin punctuation mark.
Peter made coffee, ran a lap of ward checks, and kept the mood light on purpose. "House is ready," he said. "If we panic now, we peak too early."
Lux rolled her eyes but smiled. "Text the others?"
"Already did." He waggled his phone. send-off @ 5 — carbs provided — no speeches — shoes off, egos off.
The morning stayed small—laundry, tea, playlist debates, the kind of chatting you do when the thing hasn't happened yet. By early afternoon the place looked like a send-off, not a war room. Jinx added a second sign beside Lux's: NO BULLSHIT AT THE DOOR. Peter laughed, took a picture, and put his phone face down so he wouldn't stare at it.
People trickled in by twos and threes after four.
Ahri's knock was soft; Kiko's tail-flick was not. "We come bearing snacks and incredibly reasonable expectations," Ahri said as she stepped in. "Mostly snacks."
"Reasonable expectations got stuck in traffic," Sarah Fortune called from the sidewalk, shoulder-checking the door with pizza boxes while Boki & Baki butt-bumped the frame.
Syndra followed with Multi in exact formation and the kind of neutral face that says I brought plates because you animals will forget. Soraka slipped in with Shisa doing a background check on the welcome mat. Poppy and Lulu arrived mid-argument about whether stickers count as interior design; Pix decided yes.
Janna and Zephyr were last, turning the foyer into soft weather just by existing. "We brought tea and boundary reminders," Janna said.
"Tea first," Peter answered. "Boundaries as garnish."
They expanded into the living room the way groups do when they're used to other people's knees on their couch. Mediums claimed airspace. Zephyr smoothed the light; Multi stacked napkins; Pix tried to put a sticker on Shisa and then thought better of it. Ina and Umi bounced in the doorway like they were also late and mad about it.
Nobody started with business. The room insisted on being a hangout first.
"Okay, what're we playing while we wait?" Jinx said, already booting up Mario Kart. "And by 'playing' I mean 'publicly exposing cheaters.'"
Rakan threw a cushion. "You're talking to the mirror, princess."
"Please," Jinx tossed it back, "the mirror has taste."
Peter took a controller, fought his worst impulses to cut every corner, lost anyway to Akali because she weaponized spite, and endured three rounds of trash talk that was ninety percent laughter. Kuro declared himself a ref and got webbed to the coffee table for crimes against vibe. Umi begged—successfully—for someone's crusts. Ina made a tiny to-do list on Kai'Sa's palm: 1) boba 2) stretch 3) save galaxy 4) boba again.
Conversation slid over the game and under it, natural as breathing.
"Remember the Herald?" Lux said to no one, then everyone. "Johnny. The fire one."
Ahri groaned. "Don't remind me. I could feel my mascara melt."
"Human Torch," Peter said, half-grin. "Herald of Galactus. Flames with those violet-black cracks, forcefields and invis tricks he shouldn't have had."
Syndra nodded once. "He flickered—phase, constructs, nova bursts. Then escalated. 'Phase Two.'"
Neeko's brow pinched. "You told us to stay back. Time got... weird. Lightning on you. The Core woke up."
Jinx pointed at Peter like he was still on-screen. "You speed-punched him so hard the sky buffered."
Lulu swallowed, small. "And then he... unmade." She didn't say "erased." She didn't need to.
Janna's voice stayed even. "We couldn't touch that corruption. Only you could."
Peter lifted a shoulder, made it lighter than it had felt. "Bad day. Clean ending."
"Clean is one word," Sarah said, dry. "Effective is another."
Even Syndra smiled with her eyes, which is basically a parade.
Zoe stayed back a step, hands swallowed in the sleeves of a borrowed hoodie. Ran peeked out, gauging the room like a cat deciding if the party was safe. Xayah hovered near the bookcase; Rakan pretended the crown molding needed compliments. Six months around them and they still looked like they were waiting for a trap to snap.
Peter crossed that gap the way you cross thin ice: steady, no sudden moves. "You three good?" he asked, easy.
Xayah's jaw worked once. "We're not used to... this part."
"Where people hang out and don't throw knives?" he said.
"Where you act like a person and not an earthquake," Zoe muttered, then winced like she wished she could stuff the words back in.
Peter took it without flinching. "We can pivot back to earthquake if that's more comfortable."
"Don't you dare," Rakan said, both palms up. "My hair has plans."
Peter grinned. "Then take the compliment. You've done the work. I see it."
They didn't know what to do with that. Fear makes people fluent; kindness short-circuits. Ran actually hid. Saki did a weird little hop like a wing-bump couldn't carry all the charge in the room.
"Wow," Jinx called from the couch, totally eavesdropping. "Did you just break the former villains with a nice voice?"
"Shut up," Zoe said, no heat. She looked at Peter again, eyes odd. "Thanks, I guess."
"Anytime," he said, and meant it.
They delayed the serious talk as long as they could. You can feel when a room is ready to let the heavier thing in. Around six, it was.
Peter didn't climb a chair or switch on a hero voice. He stood feet planted, hands open. "Last brief. I'm going off-world to reach remaining Star Guardians before he toys with them or erases them. You're on standby. Normal Void/Star trouble—you handle. Weird-weird—green tint in moonlight, upside-down cold, time missing a beat, that 3-2-3 pulse—you ping me and do not chase."
He didn't say the name. He didn't have to.
Ahri's mouth tightened. "And you tell us where you are. No vanishing act."
"Breadcrumbs, timers, obnoxious transparency," Peter said. "I learned."
"Don't joke about it," Jinx muttered.
"I'm not," he said, and let the humor fall away. "I'll be fast. I'll be careful. If a team refuses to relocate and they're circling a drain, I'll... get creative. Kindly."
"Kidnapping with manners," Sarah translated, dry.
"Persuasive escort," Syndra corrected, even drier.
Zoe folded her arms. "If they're like we used to be, bring a crowbar and a bedtime story."
"Packed," Peter said.
Janna's voice was soft. "Then we'll make boring our brand."
"Blasphemy," Lulu gasped.
"Temporary religion," Poppy said, which for Poppy was poetry.
Soraka pressed a tea into his hand like it was a blessing. "Return if your breath falters," she said. Shisa glowered in agreement.
Ahri eyed him, then nodded like she'd signed a contract with herself. "No month-long ghosting. No martyr arcs."
"No martyr arcs," he said back.
"And no dying," Lux added, bright and blunt.
"No dying," he echoed, and it felt like putting a promise inside a ring and closing your hand.
They ate because feelings and carbs use the same plates. Stories spilled—Syndra's deadpan recap of The Time Peter Convinced A Building To Stop Being On Fire, Sarah's gossip about a fence who swore he'd sold a necklace to a very polite fog. Jinx declared only three of those words were real. Zephyr dimmed the kitchen light to perfect while Multi sorted slices into tidy stacks. Pix acquired a sticker and, in an act of tremendous restraint, did not eat it.
Eventually there weren't any more slices to move around or jokes to throw in front of the moment. Peter excused himself with a look that said two minutes and came back in black.
The symbiote rolled up his arms in a liquid sweep; the Iron-Spider chassis unfolded over it in matte plates. The thorax limbs flexed once like waking animals. Boots sealed; vector thrusters breathed awake. The mask stopped at his jaw.
He did the rounds like a human being.
"Don't do anything interesting," he told Poppy.
"No promises," she said, but her smile said she'd try.
"To Lulu: "Keep the house weird."
"Obviously." Pix saluted with both ears.
"Zephyr, keep the air on easy mode," he told Janna.
"Always," she murmured.
"Syndra—if a mundane problem gets spicy—"
"Un-spice," she finished. "I have a gift for bland."
"Sarah, Ahri—"
"We'll police the edges," Sarah said. "Keep the humans boring."
Kiko yawned and allowed one belly rub in farewell.
He turned to the trio who still didn't know where to put their hands when rooms got honest. "Zoe."
She stared at the floor so she wouldn't have to stare at him. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for sticking. Thanks for trying."
Ran made the tiniest noise. Zoe looked up, startled by how normal he sounded. "I— yeah. Okay. Don't die."
"Working on it." His mouth tugged. "Xayah, Rakan—if anyone gives you crap for being here, text me a period. I'll handle it."
Rakan whistled low. "We're not used to you... being nice."
"Get used to it," Peter said. "It's cheaper than therapy."
Saki wing-bumped Xayah's shoulder like you heard the man. She looked away, but not to hide a scowl.
"Alright," Lux said, stepping in before anyone could dissolve. "Face."
He popped the mask. Three quick kisses—Lux sure and bright, Jinx daring and long, Neeko soft and anchoring. Kuro and Shiro both stared at the ceiling with the solemnity of men at sea. Towa made a tiny privacy curtain out of hoodie strings. Jinx rested her forehead against Peter's cheek a second longer than necessary. "No solos," she whispered, and meant come back.
"No solos," he promised. "Breadcrumbs. Timers. Annoying transparency."
He tipped his chin toward the sliding door. "Backyard—I'm not blowing out our windows."
They drifted to the threshold—half on the porch, half inside. Evening air, grass still holding the day's heat. The ward hummed low, like a giant refrigerator trying to be polite.
Out on the flagstones, Peter knelt. The symbiote cinched, the Iron-Spider plates settled. The Speed Force core sang awake—blue threads spidering across black, power humming high enough to taste. Boots vented with a soft, eager hiss.
"Showoff," Syndra said from the doorway.
"Strong," Poppy answered, which was Poppy for amen.
"Face," Lux reminded, and he popped the mask one last time for three quick kisses he could take with him. Then the mask sealed.
One breath—then the sky took him.
The thunderclap rolled across the yard, rattled the fence, lifted the paper star in the kitchen doorway. The ward swallowed most of the shock; the rest rang friendly in their teeth. As he cleared the roofline, a silver filament snapped from his wrist to the back doorframe; three slender web marks bloomed and faded in sequence.
Lux pointed. "Alive/here/stop panicking."
"Copy," half the room said automatically.
They watched the contrail thin to nothing over the neighbor's maple, then stepped back inside because that's what people do when the sky keeps what it takes.
Goodbyes didn't end with the door. They drifted into the kind of talking that only happens when the thing is finally, actually over and nobody knows what to do with their hands.
"I'll say it," Poppy announced, crossing her arms. "I didn't like him when he showed up. Too shiny. Too... a lot."
"Same," Ahri said, wry and honest. "Felt like a storm pretending to be a person. I don't feel that way now."
Syndra tilted her head. "He was inefficient with pain," she said, which was Syndra for too reckless. "He's... optimized."
"Translation," Jinx said. "He learned to sleep."
Janna poured tea, voice soft as weather. "He learned to let us hold some of the weight."
Soraka nodded, Shisa grumbling an agreement he'd never admit.
On the other side of the room, Zoe stared at the spot he'd been. "We came here out of fear," she said, not loud. "Because the thing I followed was bigger than me and angry in ways I liked until it wasn't. I thought running to the enemy of my enemy was just a stall. It... wasn't."
Rakan rubbed the back of his neck. "I expected drills and screaming."
"Got those," Xayah said. "And someone who says 'thanks for trying' like it's not a trap."
Ran peeked at Lux, then Jinx, then Neeko—at the way they were allowed to be soft in front of everyone. Something thoughtful crossed Zoe's face, new and sharp.
Lux caught the look and flipped a card. "Hey," she called. "Movie night tomorrow? Rooftop. Popcorn is mandatory. Teasing is encouraged. You three coming or what?"
Xayah blinked like someone had spoken an extinct language. Rakan opened his mouth, then closed it. Zoe's chin lifted on reflex. "If it's a romcom I reserve the right to heckle."
"House rule," Sarah said, deadpan. "Heckle with craft."
"Bring blankets," Janna added. "The good kind."
Zoe didn't smile—not exactly. But some heat bled out of her shoulders. "Yeah," she said, pretending not to be weirdly touched. "Okay. We'll show."
"Probation includes popcorn," Rakan said, and Xayah elbowed him for making a joke at the exact right time.
The evening softened around the hole he'd left. People cleaned without being asked. Mediums got drowsy: Zephyr dimmed the kitchen to dusk; Pix perched on Lulu's head and almost—almost—napped; Multi settled into a lazy orbit; Ina scribbled boba three more times; Umi snored like a tiny boat; Kuro pretended he wasn't watching the door; Shiro watched the door.
On the mantle, three faint web gleams pulsed again—alive, here, stop panicking—and faded.
"Tomorrow," Lux said into the quiet, more to herself than anyone. "We keep it boring."
"Boring," Neeko echoed, brave and unhappy. "Neeko hates boring."
"Boring is good soup," Jinx said, dropping onto the couch and dragging both of them with her. "We're gonna drown in soup."
From the basement hall, Zoe's voice floated up, surprised and a little shy. "What do you put on popcorn when you're not a monster?"
"Salt," Sarah called. "And forgiveness."
"Both," Syndra added, which made Multi snicker for reasons known only to them.
The house settled, warm and human around its missing piece. Out beyond cloud and traffic, a blue-white streak was already carving toward the dark between worlds. Down here, the people he'd steadied practiced the easiest hard thing there is: staying okay until he came back.