LV

The Ghostbusters had faced gods, ghosts, and interdimensional horrors. They had survived possessed skyscrapers, cursed artifacts, and enough slime to fill the Hudson River twice over. None of that prepared them for the person standing in the doorway of the Firehouse. The garage doors rumbled open as the familiar sound of footsteps echoed across the concrete floor. Ray was calibrating a P.K.E. Meter while Winston cleaned one of the proton packs. Egon sat at the workbench with his nose buried in a stack of spectral readings, barely acknowledging the world around him. Peter lounged on the receptionist’s desk, sipping burnt coffee and pretending to listen to Ray’s latest theory about Class Four apparitions. The bell above the entrance chimed. Peter looked up. “…Oh.” For the first time that day, every trace of his trademark grin disappeared. You stepped inside, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, taking in the cluttered firehouse with a knowing smile. Your eyes wandered over the containment unit, the rows of proton packs, and the scattered blueprints without the slightest hint of surprise. “You’ve made even more of a mess since I was here last,” you remarked. Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “I was hoping you’d call first.” “And miss the look on your face?” You smirked. “Never.” Ray blinked between the two of you. “…Peter?” “Yeah?” “…Who is that?” Peter sighed dramatically. “My sibling.”