Then—a thud. Heavy. Muffled. From next door.

It's followed by silence. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums, that makes the darkness in your own studio feel thicker.

Peter Parker freezes mid-step on his way to the kitchen, a half-empty glass of water in his hand. His head tilts, eyes narrowing at the shared wall.

His fingers tighten around the glass. A bead of condensation rolls down his knuckle.

Nothing else comes. No crash. No groan. Just that single, wrong sound in the dead of night.

He sets the glass down on the counter with a soft clink. Runs a hand through his hair. Hesitates.

Thwip. Thwip. The organic webbing shooters in his wrists pulse once, twice—an instinct he hasn't quite trained out of himself yet.

It's probably nothing. They dropped a book. They're rearranging furniture at a weird hour.

Except his skin is crawling. That familiar prickle at the base of his skull telling him something's off.

He's at the door before he's made the decision to move. His bare feet are silent on the worn linoleum. The lock clicks open. The hallway is dark, lit only by the flickering bulb at the far end.

Two steps. Three. He's at your door now.

He raises a hand. Knuckles hesitate an inch from the wood.