Hey there, dear readers.
I'M SORRY!!!
Not sure if you caught my last comment of me giving a heads-up about why I was about to disappear for a while—if you didn't, I probably look like a douchebag who ditched the story halfway through. Which… I almost did.
Now, I'm about to talk about what's been going on lately, so feel free to skip this part if you're just here for the story.
I hit a wall. My brain refused to come up with anything half-decent, and with that and my usual lack of motivation, I just couldn't write even a single paragraph I didn't immediately hate. I just couldn't write.
So, since day one, I've been writing this entire thing on my phone. It's old, cracked, and probably came with spyware pre-installed. Plus, writing on this site is awful on mobile, so I've had to write in the Notes app, then copy-paste it over. Which was not ideal, in the slightest.
And that was because a few months ago I got hacked. Apparently by some random Russian guy I added as a friend in a game. He tried to steal money from my account (joke's on him, I'm broke. He probably stole like 4 dollars?), so I freaked out, changed all my passwords, and reformatted my PC.
That backfired when the PC didn't turn back on after that, and I was too panicked to tell my family about what had happened. Which was an incredibly dumb move on my part, because it could've gotten way worse by not doing so. Thankfully, it didn't.
To make things even worse, I'm studying programming, and most of my coursework depends on me having a working computer to facilitate my studies. So, I've been going to a nearby library to do my assignments, which has been a massive pain in the ass.
But hey, I finally got the PC back, so that'll help me go back to the usual schedule or even better it.
Also, I want to get better at English, so the story is more pleasant for you to read.
Now, I want to be honest about something heavier. I've been struggling with my own flaws—sins, if you will. I've been giving in too much to the wrong impulses. Sloth, Pride, Lust...
Whenever I sit down to write, I lose all motivation, even though deep down I really do enjoy it. I fall into the same quick, low-effort distractions. Videogames, Doomscrolling or just plain pornography. And the more and more I choose those things, the harder and harder it became to see writing as something fun, or as a hobby I genuinely love, and not this unbearable burden I was forcing into myself.
And unlike my protagonist, Wade, who thrives on his selflessness, I'm the complete opposite.
It's hard to write someone I don't connect with—it feels like I'm mocking myself every time I write him. In real life, I avoid things entirely than risk embarrassment. I stay quiet when people need me. I keep to myself when someone tries to connect with me. Picking my comfort first every time—and in doing so, I only embarrass myself more with each passing day.
Even the little good I do gets twisted by pride. I give a penny to a homeless man, and I pat myself on the back like I'm such a great guy, when the truth is I've ignored so many other chances to help people because it was easier to just look away.
My hypocrisy gnash at my soul every waking moment.
Aaanyway, I also want to rework some of the chapters, like #018, so expect some changes.
Thanks for all the support. Truthfully, you guys are great.
Sincerely, The Author.
_______________________________________
Well... that sucked. A lot.
But after swimming through alleyways to dodge a night in juvie... I finally made it home.
I mean, it wasn't like I had to take the long way, but after last night... better be safe than sorry. Every time I heard a car engine or saw blue lights in the distance, I switched streets like a paranoid pigeon.
So, I took the scenic route. By "scenic" I mean grimy alleyways, with stray cats, stray dogs, and a stray me.
And of course, it's dawning. Why wouldn't it be?
I drag myself up the front steps like I'm climbing the Everest, fish my keys out of my pockets, and unlock the door—hopefully to some peace and quiet.
Right now? All I want is to get inside, lay down, and not be awake anymore. But... I've got a few things to take care of first.
I head into the kitchen, still moving like a lazy zombie. Grabbed a handful of ice cubes, toss them into a zip-lock, and press them against the arm with the crowbar-shaped dent. Hissing through my teeth.
After that, the house is quiet... The kind of quiet that makes you want to scream, break it.
Almost makes me miss Stick. Almost.
Leaned against the kitchen counter for a second, finally letting the weight come off my right leg. It's been flirting with a cramp the whole way back—guess it didn't enjoy the sudden olympic-level acrobatics.
What was that anyway? Whatever, I'll think about it later.
Also, sleep. God, sleep. I need to fix that.
I need a schedule. A life. A fucking nap.
And maybe a therapist too, but let's stick with the nap for now...
I walk into the living room, and it still looks like someone tried to feng shui the place with a stick—pun intended.
One of the walls even has a dent with the shape of my entire back. From when Stick dropkicked me across the room like a ragdoll and my rib cracked like a glowstick.
Fun times...
I took a slow lap around my living room, surveying the disaster zone. The mess was bad, sure, but the real disaster was in my head.
Cletus and now Stick... What a fucking nightmare.
Both feel like loaded guns pointing at my face, and I don't know which one's going to go off first.
What can I do...?
I was chewing on that thought when I accidentally kick a shard of a broken coffee mug, sending it skittering under the couch.
Closed my eyes for a sec, letting out a loooong tired groan.
"Great, that's exactly what I fucking needed. Perfect." I cursed at the ceiling, grabbing a broom from the closet beneath the stairs.
Note to self. Never fight a blind man… ever again.
I pause mid-sweep. "…Now, I'll probably have to deal with The Hand too... Why does every evil ninja clan have names of body parts? The Hand. The Foot. What next? The Scrotum?... heh"
I snort at my own lame joke, I know it wasn't the peak of comedy, but after the last few days? I'll take what I can get.
Finally managed to sweep the shards from beneath the couch and into the trash, but the rest of the place still looks rocked by a hurricane.
The table's collapsed in on itself, cut in two by Stick's blade. Also, the chairs aren't standing any better, from when I tried to use them as makeshift batons. I grab them all by the legs and drag them to the porch, edges scraping and bumping against the floorboards the whole way out.
The couch cushions suffered a true massacre. One's split wide open, its cotton spilling everywhere—I make a half-hearted attempt to stuff them back in, even thread a needle… but after a few jabs, I stab my own thumb and decide life's too short.
The pillows join the table and the wrecked chairs outside.
While I'm at it, I keep asking myself.
How do I get to Cletus? Do I just wait for another fire? Beat the info out of his cult members? That's not exactly heroic if I have to gamble with other people's lives. I need to be more proactive.
Finally, I stick the broom back in its corner and check the clock.
6:32 AM.
If I hurry, I might be able to pass out on bed before I actually pass out.
---
I've been staring holes into the ceiling for... Twenty? Thirty minutes?
Long enough for my eyes to start inventing patterns in the cracks.
Fine. I give in. Grab my phone. Back to my trusty friend Google.
First tip: calm music...
Let's try classical, violins and stuff... Hmmm... Nope. Brain still louder.
Second tip: No phone...
Two minutes later, I'm back on it. So, no, that's not gonna work either.
Third tip: Meditation.
Gotta find my center. Oh, I found it- Nope, that was just a fart...
"...Son of a bitch." I throw the blanket fully off and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I gotta accept it—I can't sleep.
Because the only thing I can think of is… That I made Wade's life a living hell.
I mean, the actual Wade—yeah, he was kind of shitty, bullying Peter.
But did he deserve to be replaced by me? He was just a dumb kid.
And now... Is he dead? Erased? All because the universe decided that I was special? Somehow more valuable?
I fucking hope not.
But at the same time, I kinda wish he doesn't come back. Because all I've done since landing here is ruin his life...
Yeah, Cletus started the fire. But I entered it.
The burns—those are on me. They're MY fault.
I've been wearing his body, Him, like a hand-me-down, and acted like I could do anything I wanted with it. A parasite.
So... Why Wade?
Was it just random? Or was it because he didn't matter?
And if Wade didn't matter… what the hell does that make me?
Hell, I can't even remember what my name was before being Wade...
No, wait. I can. If I just—Shut my eyes, dig around my head.
I know it's buried somewhere. Somewhere under all the crap.
Come on... Just say it. Say your name.
Just static... A ringing in my ears.
A joke. A cruel joke at my expense.
I open my mouth and there's just silence where my name should be...
Who am I?
I want to say something—anything—but the words won't come. Instead, my thoughts spiral, dragging me down deeper. "...Maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe it doesn't matter who I am—just what I've done. I saved that kid. That's good… But the firefighters could've done it too." I run my fingers over the scabbed skin on the back of my neck, feeling the roughness catching against my fingertips. "Done it better... So, was it worth it? Getting burnt? Meeting Cletus? Fighting Stick? WAS IT?"
Yeah, I've helped people. Sure.
Earned my pat on the back.
But… was it because I'm good? Or was it because that's what I think someonegood would do?
What has changed in me since my life?
I still swear like a sailor. I still avoid people like they're landmines.
But... Why? Why am I so scared of people, that I'd rather run into a burning house than into a crowd? Are they really worse than the flames?
Why am I such a coward?
"Fuck..." I groan out, dragging my fingers through my hair, like I could claw the thoughts right out of my skull.
But they're stuck in there, buzzing, making the silence feel louder and louder...
The room feels too tight, too full of me, so I push myself up before the silence crush me into oblivion.
No way I'm sleeping now—not with my mind playing cruel games with me.
So instead, I head for the bathroom. That way I can at least get rid of one problem tonight, the sweat and the trash water stink.
When I get there, I peel the splints off my pinkies first, careful not to jar the bruised knuckles. They clatter lightly against the bathroom sink.
I pull the hoodie off, then the t-shirt clings for a second before it gives, pulling free with a faint sound of fabric stretching against the skin.
Shoes. Socks. Pants. All kicked into a corner.
Enjoying the coldness of the bathroom tiles on my bare soles, I finally look at myself in the giant bathroom mirror.
My face first. Always my face...
The broken nose—It's healed, but the bridge is still a little sharp, and under the bathroom light it feels like the only thing anyone would notice.
The eyes are worse. One still slightly blackened, but both are ringed by shadows. Tired. The iris feels hollow, somehow.
The brows above them? Too thick, too wild. Now they only show the exhaustion underneath them.
The hair, stubborn as he alone. Can't control it. It's thick in places, flat in others. It spikes without rhythm, defies both gravity and reason, like it's mocking the idea of control. Like it resents me.
Should I just… buzz it? It'd hurt less if I didn't have to look at what I can't change.
Or I could... dye it? Heh, I wonder how silly I'd look if did.
Finally looked a little more down, and there they are... My Scars. Wade's...
New 'n' old. Burns, Cuts and Bruises.
Some of the stitches still are angry looking, like they might start bleeding any second now.
I run a hand along the burn on my forearm—lightly, but even that makes me flinch. The skin feels tight, fake, like a cheap imitation of what it should be.
It itches like hell too sometimes—the kind of itch that makes you want to rip the skin apart.
Almost did back at the hospital, but the nurses stopped me.
Now I grew—mostly—used to it.
My fingers drift higher, up to the shoulder where the skin was more mottled.
I rest my hand there a moment, huff out a breath, then I turn the tap with the other, it squeaks a little. Funny.
Testing the water with my palm. Lukewarm. The nurse's voice still rings in my head "Always lukewarm, never hot." Apparently, that's forever now.
Steam curls lazily in the air, faintly, lacking the comforting warmth I used to like.
I step in slow, almost shy, letting the water run down my head and into shoulders. It glides across the scars in a way that's almost… not painful.
Where the skin is tight and puckered, the water beads, then snakes down, carrying faint stings with it. The stitched places feel worse—the thread tugs with every drop, calves spasming faintly every time a drop go past them.
I let the spray run for a while, get used to it, before I touch any soap.
Hospital-approved stuff, unscented, bland. I lather with slow small circles, careful, no scrubbing. The suds slide away on their own, pale and foamy against the drain.
The skin's tougher now than it was half a week ago, but it still feels like parchment in places, threatening to tear if I forget.
When I'm done, I pat dry—can't rub no more
Thankfully, the towel feels softer than usual, maybe because I'm paying attention. And I do. I pay attention.
Because now I finally realize that this isn't just my body, and I've got to learn how to live in it without breaking what's left.
More out of respect than self-preservation.
After the shower, the mirror waits for me. Fogged, blurred, merciful.
I stand there longer than I should, debating whether to wipe. See what's on the other side.
"...I'm sorry, Wade." I whisper, not looking. "But I don't want to see you… or the scars." The words crawl out half-whisper, half-groan.
It's a stupid, cheap fix. But the silence after—no staring back, no judgment—feels like a breath I've been holding since the fire.
Now it's just me in the room. No reflection. No Wade. No Cletus.
Just me… whoever the hell that is.
---
I wait. Eyes locked on the clock, willing those red numbers to crawl toward that glorious 8.
When it finally beeped, I let out a slow breath that felt like freedom.
Clothes first. One layer at a time, fabric dragging a little uncomfortable against the skin.
The splints next. Sliding over my pinkies and ring fingers, snug and awkward. That's the routine for now.
Last comes the backpack. Lighter than I remember, but still familiar.
All ready for another day.
Another day of helping strangers...
Another day of seeing faces I'll probably never see twice...
Another day of stories I'll never get to hear the end of...
I pause by the door, palm resting on the handle.
That thought stings worse than I imagined.
I'm tired...
I don't want this cycle anymore.
I don't want to just help people up, and then… vanish.
I don't want to keep acting they're ghosts the moment I walk away.
I want to know them. Their names. Their voices. Their dreams... Anything that makes them real. Anything that makes me real.
My thumb rubs the door handle in slow circles.
Today's different. It has to be.
I let my hand fall from the door handle and rub the back of my neck.
Stick...
"Two days." he said. Hell's Kitchen.
I replay his voice in my head, dry and sharp like a knife.
Did he mean today? Tomorrow? But knowing he doesn't mind killing a 16-year-old, he'd count the minutes and cut me down just for being a second late.
But the bastard didn't even give me the hour. Nor a corner or rooftop to meet—nothing. Just Hell's Kitchen. For all I know he might've even meant the cooking tv-show.
I scrub a hand over my face, groaning.
Great.
So, do I just wander through subway stops, hoping the old bastard materializes out of the shadows?
Or is this some test—see if I can sniff him out like a bloodhound?
My stomach knots at the thought, but I shake it off. Doesn't matter. I'll go today, just in case. Better to face him early than to deal with a shitty little lecture about discipline or some shit like that.
Still… that's for later.
I roll my shoulders, adjust the backpack higher. For once, I want to have a morning that isn't just answering to someone else.
So yeah. Stick can go fuck himself and wait.
Today? Today belongs to me.
---
The city air hit me in the face the second I stepped out.
Cold enough to sting the bridge of my nose.
I winced, tugging the backpack straps tighter, trying to walk like I wasn't still all bruises, stitches, burns and a broken rib.
Okay, be sociable... It's cool.
Just don't be a total creep and you're golden.
Just... Just say hi.
Easy.
I passed a man in a suit, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. My mouth opened, then clamped shut. He didn't even look at me.
That's... Fine. Strike one.
A block later, an old woman shuffled out of a corner store with two paper bags clutched against her chest. Her coat was a little too big, knitted scarf drooping low. I caught myself slowing down, chewing my lip.
Alright, Wade. Try.
"H-HeEy… good morning" I blurted, voice cracking. Why does it always crack…
She froze mid-step, blinked at me—then her face lit up. "Oh! Goodness, it's you."
My heart stuttered. "...Me?"
"Yes, yes, you!" She shifted the grocery bags to one arm and pointed at me with her free hand, grinning. "You're that-that boy. The one who pulled me out of the street when that taxi nearly ran me over. Months ago."
I blinked hard, caught off guard. "You… remember that?"
"Of course I remember." Her laugh came out soft, like bells. "How could I forget? You were so quick to help. I've always wanted to thank you properly, but you—well." She tilted her head, eyes squinting in thought. "I'd see you dashing across the street, I hope towards school." She squinted at me then, her smile faltering a touch. "But… dear, what happened to your face?"
I scratched the back of it, looking away. "Yeah. I... I guess that sounds like me." Stiffened a bit, feeling guilty for some reason. "And the face—it's nothing, really. Just… clumsy, I guess."
She frowned, eyes narrowing, full of that stubborn fire that some older folks carry. "That nose is broken, not clumsy." She smiled kindly, wrinkles deepening around her mouth. "My Nathan used to be the same—my husband..." she said softly. "Always rushing, always so lively~"
"He sounds like a great guy, ma'am" My words still felt a little awkward, but I kept talking. Trying to ease into it. "I, uh… I heal quick. So, there's no need to worry." Before she could press about it, I gently nodded at her bags. "Need help with those? I'll carry them if you want to, ma'am."
Her brows lifted. "Oh, you don't need to—"
"C'mon, please..." I said, mock pleading "Let me help, or I'll look like a real jerk just standing here."
She chuckled and handed the grocery bags over. "You're a stubborn one."
"Guilty." I joked, adjusting the weight.
As we walked, she tilted her head. "Shouldn't you be hurrying to school about now? You're always darting around this neighborhood at this hour."
I hesitated, then gave a crooked grin. "Helping ladies is more important than school."
I cringed at myself a little there.
"I mean—I do care about school. Really. I just… Y'know, priorities? You're carrying groceries, and I've got hands to spare. School can wait, ma'am."
She seemed to understand. Her grin softened as we reached the corner.
"Well. Thank you for walking with me, dear. Just seeing you wave made my morning. You helping me again? That made my day."
I chuckled under my breath. "That goes both ways, ma'am."
"Anna" she corrected with smile. "Not ma'am. Anna."
"Anna." I nodded, moving my hands with the grocery bags to my chest. "I'm Warren, it's a pleasure"
"What a gentleman you are, and what lovely name you have, dear." She smiled but then tilted her head like she was testing me. "You know, you never answered my question last time. Are you sure you don't want to meet my niece? She's very pretty."
I froze, laughed a little too quick. "Ehh… your niece? I—uh—kinda have my hands full of school for the moment. Y'know, books first? I'm sure you and Nathan thought the same way at my age."
Her laugh cut through before I even finished. "Oh, Nathan thought of everything but school at your age." She shook her head, smiling at the memory. "Always chasing the world, trying to help everyone but himself." Her gaze lingered. "You remind me so much of him when he was young."
I shifted the bags, smiled a little, not sure what to do with the compliment. "I don't know about that. I'm just… doing what anyone would've done, Anna."
"Not everyone does, dear." Her brows knitted, confused of my words, I guess. "Most people would just let an old woman like me with her groceries. But you—you don't even want to take a thanks for helping?"
I swallowed, nodded. "Helping is already enough thanks for me."
...Ugh, what with these corny phrases today?
"Don't worry, dear" Anna said with a smile, tugging the other grocery bag. "I know how shy your generation can be. My niece is the same. She's about your age, maybe a touch older. Same stubborn streak—never wants help from anyone, insists she can carry the world on those skinny shoulders of hers. But underneath all that, she's a sweetheart. Just like you, I can tell."
I shifted the bag against my hip, fighting the urge to say I wasn't shy, just exhausted. "I'm sure she is great…"
"She is—wild, that girl. Always has been, and Lord knows she'll never grow out of it." Anna smiled to herself, the corners of her eyes crinkling as the memory warmed her. "When she was little, she'd climb right up on the coffee table with a hairbrush, pretend it was a microphone, and sing until the neighbors banged on the wall. Couldn't keep her from dancing either—Ha! I swear that child thought the living room was that Radio City Music Hall place."
I couldn't help it—A small genuine chuckle slipped out of me too, a laugh. "Sounds like she's… one of a kind"
"Oh, and she used to drag out that guitar of hers too." Anna went on, warming to the subject like she was rolling down a hill with no brakes. "Big thing, twice her size. She'd sit there for hours, face all scrunched up, those little fingers trying to work out chords like she was solving a world crisis. Then she'd set me up in the armchair—front row seat—and give me these full-blown concerts every weekend. Cost me nothing, but I'll tell you, I felt spoiled rotten." Her laugh faltered just a hair. "She hasn't played for me in years, though. A shame, really."
I nodded, grin slipping into something quieter.
Her voice filled the air like a warm quilt, but I caught the faint trace of disappointment she tucked between her words.
Somehow, It felt louder than the honking horns of the cars and the pigeon flutters as we walked past them.
Her brow creased faintly, but she smoothed it out with another smile. "She's sharp as a whip, too. Quick with her mouth—you'll see. Sometimes too quick, if you ask me. Anna tilted her head, thoughtful, then added "Got that from her mother's side, I think."
I glanced sideways at her, eyebrow raised. "Is she—?" I said, but practically not saying anything, trying not to sound like an asshole for suggesting things.
Anna's laugh bubbled out, rich and unbothered. "Troublesome? Oh, perhaps. But then again, I've always had a soft spot for big personalities. Maybe because I had to deal with so many of them when I was younger. I worked in real estate back in the day—back when this city wasn't choking the life out of itself. Lord, the characters I had to sweet-talk into buying old townhouses! You learn a lot about people in that line of work. Who's lying. Who's desperate. Who's got money to burn. It paid for my house, though, and for a long while I thought I'd die in that career. But, well, life has a way of rerouting us, doesn't it?"
Her eyes flickered, the smile dimming as her voice grew heavier. "My poor girl has been through more than most kids her age. But she's stronger for it. Stronger than she knows."
I found myself staggering a step, as I lost myself in the emotions of her words. "I can see that you really… love her."
"Yes, I do. I always tell her I do. But I guess, she feels I just say to fill the day..." Anna added, lowering her voice like she was confiding in me, though she didn't stop walking. "Her father… My little brother. Well, he's not been himself since the accident. Lost his wife, her mother, in a car crash, and, oh, it broke him. Took to the bottle soon after. He's not a bad man, he's just… lost. Someone had to look after Mary Jane properly, so—" She lifted her chin, a flicker of pride showing through. "Here she is, under my roof. Legally my ward, though I prefer not to use such cold words. She's family. That's all that matters."
I nearly stumbled, my grip tightening on the grocery bag like it might tether me. Did she just say—
Anna kept right on, oblivious. "She doesn't make it easy, mind you. She'll roll her eyes, sass me, but I wouldn't trade her for anything. She's got fire, my girl. Fire and heart. You'll see."
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the grocery bag carving a groove into my arm.
—Mary Jane?
Ok, relax. Breathe. You're about to meet another iconic character, no biggie. Besides, for all you know, she could just be some random girl with the same name.
It wouldn't even be the worst ball-kick you received in this universe.
Honestly, I don't know what to think of her. All I've got are the Raimi movies—ugh. She was fucking unbearable in those—And the comics.
And don't even get me started on them.
Paul. God, what a perfect dickhead.
And now she's tied up with Venom? Literally why? Who gave the thumbs up to that shit?!
But… from the way Anna's talking, she doesn't sound half bad here. Wild, smart, fiery.
That's… something. I just—God, I just hope she isn't another letdown.
At least Spider-Verse gave her and Peter some justice.
"You sure you don't want to meet her? At least to say hello?" Anna pressed, smiling sly
"I'm—"
"Come now." She brushed me off with a little laugh. "Just greet her, and I'll stop pestering. That's fair, isn't it?"
Before I could realize it, I agreed. We were already at her porch. She slid her key into the lock, nudged the door open—and just as I try and open my mouth to earn an extra sec to prepare, the door creaked.
First thing I see? A girl on the main hallway.
No—no, The Girl.
Yawning. Walking barefoot on her tippy toes to avoid the cold of the tiles. Rubbing the remaining sleep from her eyes. Hair a tangled, flaming mess that catches the morning light like it's her very own spotlight. Wearing a stretched-out band tee, almost two sizes too big, hanging halfway down her thighs and slipping lazily from one of her shoulders.
And her face—damn. Cute nose. Cute light blue eyes. Freckles so perfect they looked painted on. Like she walked straight out of a canvas—of one of those Renaissance artists who just had to flex on us, mortals.
Wasn't this universe supposed to be more... I don't know, Real? Human?
She looks—
"Quit staring, creep."
I jolted. Nearly dropped Anna's grocery bag.
She was squinting at me. Her blue eyes narrowed with annoyance—like a cat roused too early.
She muttered around the tail end of her yawn. "Great. Auntie, you dragged home a stray. Just what I needed this morning."
"Mary Jane Watson!" Anna snapped immediately, scandalized. "Don't you dare talk to him like that. This young man was kind enough to help me, so show some manners."
My breath hitched. I was expecting… I don't know. An iconic phrase? Something half-tease, half-mock? Not just mock. Not that I expected her to call a stranger "Tiger" but… roasting at first sight? I mean, I get it—she doesn't owe me any niceties—but damn.
Mary Jane groaned dramatically, rubbing her temple with exaggerated suffering. "Ugh, Fine! ...Thanks, uh- random guy, for… carrying the groceries." She flicked a dismissive hand at the bags and me, then stepped aside. "Happy? Now, can I eat before I starve or what?"
She led the way into the house, and into the kitchen "Ignore her tone, dear." Anna huffed but waved me in.
I followed, setting the rest of the groceries on the kitchen table. The place smelled faintly of coffee and old books. The kind of homey scent that'll made you itch with memories.
"Thank you, Warren." Anna said warmly, touching my shoulder. "Really. You've been such a help."
I tried to smile through the awkwardness, shifting back toward the door. "It's nothing. I should, uh, get going—"
But Anna was already talking over me, that sly little grin tugging at her mouth. "You know, Mary Jane's has an habit of chasing the wrong boys."
"Aunt Anna!" Mary Jane groaned from the fridge, pulling out the orange juice like it was a weapon. "Are you serious? Right here? Infront of... him?"
Anna ignored her, fixing me with a too-knowing smile. "But you—you're kind, thoughtful. You'd be perfect for her. The sort of boy she should notice."
"Please stop embarrassing me..." Mary Jane twisted the cap off with the help of her shirt, poured herself a glass, and shot me a flat glare. "You're not my type. AT. ALL."
I raised my hands in mock surrender, grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "No, no, I know. I'm twe—sixteen. I'm sixteen."
Her head whipped toward Anna, eyes wide. "Aunt Anna! Did you even bother asking his age? Do you want me to be branded as a cradle robber?!"
Anna chuckled into her teacup, clearly unbothered. "Oh, come now. Me and your uncle? We were six years apart when we started dating. In comparison, you and him are practically the same age."
MJ nearly choked on her juice. "Aunt Anna! That's disgusting!"
I, on the other hand, scrambled for a lifeline—anything—to steer the conversation to something less awkward and uncomfortable.
"...I, uh—Your aunt told me you used to sing." I blurted out before my brain could stop me.
Mary Jane's eyes went wide in horror—like I had just thrown a bucket of cold water on her. She slammed her palms down on the table, springing up like a firecracker. "AUNT ANNA! Seriously? You had to tell him that?!"
Her voice had that edge—more than irritation, it was the raw, panicked kind of defensiveness that made Anna's smile soften, and well… grin even wider.
Mary Jane shot her a glare that could melt steel. "I don't need my embarrassing childhood stuff dragged out, especially not now. And especially not in front of Mr. Perfect Stranger over here."
She jabbed a thumb at me, folding her arms, her eyes staring daggers at Anna—and one at me that clearly said 'Don't make me kill you.' "I was a dumb kid who thought belting out pop songs was cool. Now I'm not that little girl anymore. So quit pretending I'm some kind of show pony."
Anna just grinned wider, clearly enjoying the meltdown. "You're still my little star, whether you like it or not."
Mary Jane rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched like she was fighting back a smile. Then, without looking at me, she muttered "Great. Now you know my dirty secret."
"Huh… I think it's cool." I tried to find some common ground, both thumbs up out of instinct.
Her head tilted just enough to cut me a sideways glare. "Uh-huh. Sure, you do. And let me guess—you're gonna tell me you also sing, right? Gold star for you. Should we start a duet, Waghrren?" She dragged my name out with a fake gag sound.
"I—uh—" I stammered uselessly.
"Oh, Warren, don't let her scare you off," Anna cut in with a laugh, bustling around the kitchen. "Stay as long as you want. It's always a pleasure seeing my little girl interact with someone that isn't her guitar."
Mary Jane's cheeks went red. "Aunt Anna! You can't just—" she swung toward me, flustered, "—you can't just say that kind of stuff to him!"
"What?" Anna said, all innocence. "I only meant that you lock yourself in your room all day, strumming the same chords no one else gets to hear. I didn't mean—well, I suppose you do keep all your best performances to yourself, don't you, MJ?"
Mary Jane slapped a hand over her face. "Kill me. Kill me now."
What the hell is happening?
"Uh, yeah, yeah… it's, uh. Normal. Everyone's got stuff they only share with themselves sometimes…" I tried to bail her out.
"Do they, Warren?" Mary Jane asked, lowering her hand just enough to raise an eyebrow at me. "Is that what you do?"
Bitch, I'm in your side. Damn.
I opened my mouth, but Anna clapped her hands together. "See? He's honest. Honest boys are rare these days." She leaned toward me with that conspiratorial grin again. "That's exactly what Mary Jane needs."
"Stop matchmaking us!" Mary Jane yelped, pointing an accusatory finger at her aunt. "He literally just carried groceries! You can't marry me off to some guy because of… ugh! You're actually trying to ruin my life."
"I'm trying to improve it." Anna said, completely unfazed. "Strong arms, polite manners, and he carried groceries without being asked. That's more than what most boys your age do."
Mary Jane groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "Harassment. Actual harassment." she turned back to me, blue eyes sharp, like she was trying to laser me out of existence. "Don't get any ideas. She's like this with everyone."
"Uh..." I said brilliantly. "Not getting ideas. No ideas here. None." I just stood there like a deer in headlights. "...Should I, uh, leave?"
"Yes!" Mary Jane said immediately.
"No." Anna said at the same time.
They both turned to glare at each other, and I realized I was officially in the middle of a war I didn't sign up for.
---
Somehow, I ended up staying for breakfast.
Not because I wanted to, exactly, but because Anna insisted and she was the kind of person who didn't take no for an answer. She had that smile that made you feel like refusing would be a crime against humanity.
So, there I was, sitting at a square wooden table that looked like it had seen generations of family arguments, with a plate of fried eggs steaming in front of me, trying not to choke on the tension between aunt and niece.
MJ sat across from me with her arms crossed tight, like she was bracing for impact. Her hair was pulled into a lazy ponytail that didn't do much to tame the mess, and every time she threw another jab my way, Anna would chime in with some story of her own. And that's when MJ would flinch—like she was waiting for her aunt to drop something truly catastrophic.
And Anna… oh, Anna was having the time of her life.
"Did you know..." Anna began, pouring orange juice into mismatched glasses. "that Mary Jane once staged a full concert in our living room with a hairbrush for a microphone? She even came up with her own band name—" Anna's grin widened as she set the glass down in front of me. "The Mary Janes~ One member, and one veeeery long setlist."
MJ let out a groan so loud it could've cracked glass. "Aunt Anna, please." She threw me a deadly glare like this was somehow my fault. "Don't listen to her. She's senile. I was, like… six. I'm an adult now, Aunt..."
"Mm-mm" Anna corrected sweetly "You were eleven. You even had costume changes~"
"Oh my god, why…" MJ groaned, dragging the words out. She dropped her face into her hand and peeked out between her fingers, glaring at her plate like it had plotted against her. With a huff, she stabbed at her eggs so violently the yolk burst, spilling across the porcelain in little golden streaks.
MJ flicked her eyes toward me then—just a quick glance, sharp and warning—and added "Don't you dare laugh, Warren. Not one sound."
That was it. My lips twitched. I closed my eyes, nodded, let out a breath like it pained me, but the more I tried to hold it in, the funnier it got.
"Don't—" MJ jabbed her fork in my direction without looking up. "—you'll regret it."
Anna laughed, delighted, like this was the best Saturday morning entertainment she'd had in years. "Isn't she just radiant in the mornings?"
"Like nuclear fallout." MJ muttered, before pointing her fork at me. "So, Mr. Grocery Boy, what's your embarrassing childhood hobby? Huh? Did you play dress-up? Talk to action figures?"
I scratched below my ear, stalling. "Hmm… embarrassing hobby? Well… I used to, uh… try drawing manga—"
MJ cut in instantly, like she'd been waiting for it. "Ha. Weeb."
"…Huh. Yeah, I mean… that part was kinda implicit." I shrugged.
Her smirk faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing her face.
She leaned back in her chair, fork tapping against the plate. "Tch. You're supposed to at least look embarrassed, you know."
I tilted my head. "Over being called weeb?"
TThat only seemed to annoy her more, her eyes narrowing like I'd just dodged something she threw. "Whatever" she muttered, stabbing her eggs again. "Let's just… eat breakfast, alright?"
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the soft clink of forks and the hum of the refrigerator. A few minutes ticked by. The table eased back into something resembling peace—Anna didn't chatter the way she had earlier. She still tried, of course. A quick comment about how MJ used to drown her scrambled eggs in ketchup. Another about the way she begged for roller skates for Christmas and then refused to take them off for three straight days.
I chuckled once or twice—couldn't help it. The memories were too vivid, too easy to picture.
MJ obviously didn't laugh. She glared at me from across the table, her fork pausing just short of her mouth, as though my reaction alone was some kind of betrayal. Sometimes she rolled her eyes. Sometimes she tried to turn the attention toward me with a jab that landed more like a shove.
Her fork scraped across her plate, the screech of metal on porcelain just a little too sharp, a little too deliberate. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded tight, as if holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her eyes flicked over to me, narrowed, calculating.
It wasn't casual teasing anymore. It was like she was searching for the spot where it would hurt most.
MJ stabbed at her eggs like they'd offended her, shoulders tense. "So what, nothing embarrasses you? Not even your stupid anime doodles?"
I smirked. "What can I say? Takes more than being called names to ruin my day."
Her lips curled, but it wasn't amusement—it was irritation. She leaned back, fork dangling between her fingers as her eyes flicked over my face, searching for a crack. Then she tilted her head, casual, careless.
"Figures. You probably can't even walk straight without tripping over yourself. Explains the nose, doesn't it? Or… wait." She let the thought hang, eyes narrowing with a false little smile. "Maybe your stupid mother dropped you as a baby. Would explain a lot."
The words were light, tossed out like nothing.
But they landed heavy, like a brick through glass.
Anna's cheerful hum died on her lips, her smile faltering. She shot MJ a look that was half shock, half scolding, but MJ just stared straight at me, waiting for the hit to connect.
I wanted to laugh it off, tell her nice try—but the mention of my mom knocked the air out of me in a way no insult had in years.
I forced a smile anyway, though it wobbled. "...heh, yeah, I guess it would, no?"
Eventually, Anna cleared her throat, her voice gentler now. "You know, Warren, you should come by tomorrow too. Or really, whenever you'd like. I loved having you here. You brighten the place up."
MJ sat up, alarm flashing in her expression. "Aunt Anna—"
But I cut her off, leaning back in my chair like I'd just won the lottery. "I'd love to" Met her glare head-on, then let a slow, superior nod roll out, coupled with a wide shit-eating grin "Especially if it means hearing more stories about Mary Jane's childhood~ Tomorrow works just fine for me. Maybe the concert footage survived somewhere?"
Anna laughed, delighted, while MJ nearly choked on her juice, the color rushed to her face. Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind her lips. It wasn't the kind of flush born from embarrassment—it was sharper, tangled, Panic and fury fighting for the same space.
I know, I know... I'm already busy as hell with Stick, but I just had to be a little petty.
Besides...When has little petty payback hurt anybody?
So, Anna 'n' Mary Jane. Tomorrow. Onto the schedule.
---
After that, I finally said my goodbyes, though MJ made sure to sneak in a parting gesture of her own—two middle fingers when Anna wasn't looking.
I caught it out of the corner of my eye and let a small, amused smirk slip past my otherwise exhausted face.
Stepping back onto the sidewalk, I adjusted the strap of my bag, the warmth from the Watson residence fading with every step. They sure leave an impression. It wasn't unpleasant—it was just… a reminder. A reminder of how a house, a home is supposed to feel. Safe. Loud in all the ways a family should be.
I felt a weird mix of exhaustion and longing in my chest.
The kind of warmth you don't realize you miss until you walk away from it. I caught myself smiling at the thought, even if it hurt a little.
The streets were waking up in their usual, unhurried way. A jogger puffed past, muttering curses at the hour under his breath. An office worker jingled his keys as he locked up, already looking like he wanted the day to be over.
Across the street, an older neighbor in a faded robe went to water her garden, the spray of the hose catching the morning light.
Life in all its small shapes 'n' forms, moving without asking for permission.
A kid with a backpack slung too low shuffled by, eyes glued to the cracks in the sidewalk. I caught his glance and tossed him a half-smile, casual as I could manage. "Hey… cool shirt."
He blinked, startled, then gave the smallest nod before pushing past.
I kept walking, but something made me glance over my shoulder as I reached the corner. He had stopped halfway, looking back at me like he wasn't sure if the words had actually been meant for him.
I lifted a hand and gave him a sign. Nothing dramatic. Just a simple thumb-up.
But it seemed to be enough. He turned back around and kept moving, his steps a little less heavy than before.
And me? I kept walking too, but something it's funny how something so small—barely two seconds of an interaction—could feel like it mattered.
Still, every so often, my mind drifted back to MJ. Her wild red hair, those piercing blue eyes, the way she could make a simple breakfast feel like a battlefield.
By the time I reached the corner that led to school, my steps had slowed without me noticing. I ducked my head, adjusted the strap of my bag higher onto my shoulder.
The gates were already swarming with students when I got there, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. I slipped in, weaving through the crowd, tossing out greetings like they were pebbles into a pond.
"Hey, man—uh, Kevin, right? No? Brandon? …Daniel? Okay, Daniel. Got it." I snapped my fingers and grinned when the kid laughed and shook his head, correcting me. I made a show of pretending to write his name in the air before giving him a thumbs up.
Then, before he could slip away, I added the same apology I'd been trying out all morning. "Hey… about yesterday. Sorry. I was being a jerk, pushing everyone away. It wasn't my best moment—I was just having a crappy day."
He hesitated, then nodded slowly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
It was almost the same reaction I'd gotten earlier from a group of kids I half-recognized. I'd slowed my steps, tossed out the same clumsy words, and one of the girls had blinked at me before her face softened. "It's okay, no worries" she'd said, and the rest had followed with a mix of shrugs and murmurs.
That tiny forgiveness—those four simple words—felt bigger than it should have, like something loosening in my chest that I hadn't even realized was tight.
I kept at it, little gestures. "Morning, how are you?" here, "New haircut?" there. A wave to a kid across the hall I'd only spoken to once, a quick "Nice shoes, man" to another. Some kids looked at me like I was being weird—again—but others smiled back, and a few just kept walking, earbuds in, lost in their own worlds.
It didn't matter. I was trying.
By the time I slipped into class, I was later than usual. Well, usual for me. Wade used to try and skip this class entirely. The teacher paused mid-sentence as I pushed the door open, every eye in the room glancing my way.
"Mr. Wade…" she said, arms crossing, voice cutting sharp through the quiet, "late again?"
I lifted my hands in surrender, walking quickly to my seat. "I'm so sorry, Teacher. I was helping an old lady with her groceries."
A few kids snickered. The teacher gave me a long, skeptical look, but after a beat, her shoulders eased. "Sit down, please. And let's try to make this the last time."
I slid into my chair, dropping my bag beside me, and let out a quiet breath.
Even with the teacher's disapproval still lingering in the air, I couldn't help but feel a small spark of amusement.
---
The rest of the day I carried it with that same alien rhythm.
I kept forcing myself into conversations, trying to catch names and faces I'd ignored before. It was overwhelming—So many voices, laughs, smiles, flashes of human expressions I'd never noticed just by keeping my head down.
Peter kept giving me these weird looks, like I'd finally gone off the deep end. I explained it to him—watered down, of course—but he understood enough.
He didn't join in though, not yet at least. I couldn't blame him. When you've spent years being invisible to people, diving headfirst into their lives isn't exactly easy.
Still, I hoped he'd ease into it eventually.
At lunch, I steered us toward Liz's table.
"Wade, what are you doing? Hey—" Peter hissed, tapping my shoulder half-panicked, clutching his tray like it was body armor.
"I'm doing you a favor." I said, dragging him along anyway. "We're going to sit with your crush."
His eyes went wide. "What! No—no, dude, bad idea. She's gonna think I'm… we're… I don't know, desperate or creepy or something."
"Relax, Romeo." I gave him a nudge with my elbow, smirking. "Worst case, we eat with new people, and you stare at her like an idiot from two feet away instead of across the cafeteria."
By the time we reached the table, his mouth was still working overtime, trying to come up with excuses—but the second Liz looked up, smiled, and said "Hi" every word fell out of his head. He went stupid, grinning like she'd just hung the moon.
So, I stepped in. "Hey, Liz. Mind if we sit with you guys today?"
She perked up immediately, not even hesitating. "Oh—yeah, sure! Pick up a seat."
Her friends gave each other a quick glance—some raised brows, some curious smirks—but no one objected.
We slid into the empty spots. Peter, of course, picked the one right next to her. Smooth.
Liz laughed, and Peter joined in, a beat too late. He glanced at her like it was the best sound he'd ever heard.
It was obvious that Liz felt something for me—Wade—and honestly, it made my skin crawl. But this wasn't about me.
I was the adult. The one in control.
This was for Peter.
So, I kept nudging the spotlight his way.
Under the table, I kicked his shin lightly. "Peter here's the real brainiac. You should see him in chem—guy basically invents new elements when the teacher isn't looking. Not to mention every other class."
Peter sputtered, nearly choking on his sandwich. "Wha—no! I, uh—I just… follow the notes. Yeah." His face was red enough to match Liz's apple.
Liz tilted her head, smiling at him. "Still. You always know the answers in class. Maybe you could join us for study group sometime."
Peter blinked, like she'd just suggested marriage. "…Study group?"
"Yeah." one of Liz's friends chimed in, smirking like she'd been waiting for that opening. "We meet in the library after school, or at her place before big tests. Liz is basically our free tutor."
"So yeah, Petey… don't sell yourself short." She leaned her chin onto her hand. "You'd probably save us a ton of hours."
"Oh, yeah, me and Peter—" I started, ready to throw him a hand, but he cut me off in a panic.
"Y-yeah! I mean—yes. Absolutely. That'd be… cool." He nodded so fast I thought his head might roll right off.
Her friends broke into giggles, but not the mean kind. It was the soft kind—the kind that said this kid's awkward, but kinda cute.
I leaned back in my chair with an almost proud grin, chewing on my nuggets while Peter stumbled his way through the small talk. He was barely keeping the rhythm, but he was glowing—happy just to be there.
And for once, I didn't mind being in the background.
Mission accomplished.
---
"You're an asshole, you know that?" Peter muttered as we walked down the block. His backpack straps were sliding off his shoulders again, and he kept hitching them up while side-eyeing me. I'd already told him I wasn't sticking around for our usual routine—that I had somewhere else to be—so I was just walking him to the subway.
"Ho—what?" I shot him a look, spreading my hands. "Why am I an asshole now?"
He huffed, scuffing his sneaker against a loose bit of pavement. "Well… no, you're not an asshole… but what you did was an asshole move. What if Liz or her friends thought I was weird? What if—"
I bumped his shoulder with the back of my hand, grinning sideways at him. "Weirder than me? Please. You really think that's possible?"
Peter rolled his eyes, groaning at my nonchalant attitude to his worries.
"Come on." I continued, tilting my head at him. "It's always 'what if this, what if that' with you. How about a little 'what now?' huh? Thing couldn't have gone smoother. You've got study group with her now, right? So… don't fumble it, and you're golden. My job's done."
Peter rubbed his arm where I'd tapped him, exaggerating like I'd slugged him. "Ugh… yeah, I guess. Thank you."
I raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. "Hmm? Thank you for what?"
He squinted at me like I'd just asked him to kneel and bow at me. "You're you really gonna make me say it? Ugh... Thank you for—"
"No, no, stop." I cut him off. "I meant, like, you don't have to say thank you. We're friends. That's what friends do."
Peter slowed his steps for a second, giving me a look I wasn't used to—soft, a little embarrassed, but touched. Then, right when it started to feel like we were having a moment, he wrinkled his face in an exaggerated mock disgust. "…Ew."
I groaned, rolling my eyes. "Okay, yeah, funny..." I bumped into him with my shoulder again. "Just don't forget who just handed you a date with your crush, Parker."
"That's not whAt—" His voice cracked, and he immediately tried to clear his throat, which only made me laugh harder. "Shut up" Peter muttered, tugging his backpack up, like it could hide the embarrassment radiating off him.
I shot back, pointing at him as we reached the subway stairs. "One day, when you're married to Liz Allen, you're gonna owe me a speech at the wedding."
He groaned like I'd just hexed his entire bloodline. "Yeah, right. If that ever happens, you're not invited. You'd just find some way to humiliate me in front of everyone."
"Please." I said, smirking. Unbothered. "That's literally the best man's job."
Peter stopped at the top of the steps, frown tugging at his brown—but it didn't quite land. His lips twitched like he wanted to stay annoyed but couldn't. Finally, he shook his head. "So yeah. You are an asshole."
"Maybe..." I shrugged with a smirk, hands in my pockets. "Maybe."
He muttered something under his breath, which was swallowed up by the crowd. But not before I caught the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Finally, the subway screeched in, brakes whining as the doors slid open.
"Hey now..." I called, just as he was stepping in. "I believe you can do it."
Peter blinked at me. "...Huh?"
"I'm saying—don't believe in yourself. Believe in the me that believes in you." I grinned, lifting my fist like it was some kind of banner.
"…What are you even talking about?" he asked, half inside the train. His brow furrowed. "Wait—are you referencing something?"
I just pointed dramatically at the station ceiling like it was the sky itself, holding the pose as the doors slid shut. The train rumbled away with Peter still staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed.
> You seriously have a gift for pissing me off.
> Also, I'm 100% googling whatever dumb speech you just ripped off.
I snickered, pocketing my free hand. Typing back.
> You'll thank me later. Life-changing stuff.
A pause—then another buzz.
> …You absolute hypocrite. You clown on me for being a nerd, and YOU watch anime?
That one actually made me laugh out loud. I fired back.
> Correction: good anime.
Another pause—buzz.
> Uh-huh. Sure. WEEB.
I chuckled at that, shaking my head as I slipped the phone back into my pocket. For a second, the laugh stuck with me—warm, easy, the kind that made the noise of the station blur into the background.
But then the smile lingered too long, thinned out, and finally slipped away. My chest felt heavier than it had a moment ago. The glow of the departing train dimmed down the tunnel, and the crowd's chatter snapped me back into focus.
I let out a breath, turned on my heel, and started toward the other platform. Picking my ride, towards...
Hell's Kitchen.
_______________________________________
Word count: 9,687
Hey there, Dear readers.
Hope the chapter was to you liking. Hope it isn't too cringry or cliche, I just wanted to upload something, anything.
I was listening to Under Pressure while writing this.
Hope you all had a Good day.
Sincerely, The Author.