You'd screamed. Peter had come running down the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet, and found you clutching your hand and crying.

What happened? he'd asked, pulling you into a hug. Are you okay?

You'd shown him the mark. Two tiny red dots, like a weird sort of friendship bracelet for your skin. He'd laughed it off. Probably just a spider, he'd said. Nothing to worry about.

He'd been wrong.

Two days later, you'd woken up stuck to your ceiling.

Now, a year later, you lay sprawled across your bed in the dark, tracing the faint scar on your palm with your thumb. The bite that had changed everything. Phone in hand, thumb scrolling through TikTok. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, but that was normal for a Friday night.

Peter was out on patrol. Aunt May's old clock on the dresser ticked softly. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool October air and the distant sound of traffic four floors below.

And then—laughter.

Deep, booming laughter. The kind that rattled the walls. Voices, too. Multiple of them. Coming from the living room. From the kitchen.

Your blood went cold.

You sat up slowly, phone still in hand, heart hammering against your ribs. The clock on your nightstand read 11:47 PM. Peter wasn't due home for another hour.

More voices. A woman's voice, low and smooth. A man with a deep, warm laugh. The clink of something metallic.

You swallowed hard.

Are you stupid or are you stupid? You knew what you should do. Slip out the window, travel across the side of the building, wait for Peter. But your legs wouldn't move. Your feet were already on the floor.

You crept to your door. Pressed your ear against the wood.

"—really? The kid lives in Queens of all places?"

Another voice: "Well, I didn't get the official invite to his birthday party either, Steve. Some of us just work with what we're given."

You recognized that voice.

You'd heard it on the news. In Peter's room, on the little TV he kept in his closet, when he thought you weren't listening.

Tony Stark. That was Tony Stark. In your living room.

What the hell?

Your hand moved on its own, turning the doorknob. Just a crack. Just enough to see.

The living room lights were on. And standing around your aunt's old coffee table, still in uniform, still covered in soot and grime like they'd just walked out of a battle—

Iron Man. Captain America. Black Widow. Hawkeye. The Hulk, big and green and sitting on your couch, flipping through a magazine with incredible gentleness.

They were in your apartment. All of them. Together. Eating your leftover Chinese food.

One of them looked up.

Clint Barton. Hawkeye. He'd been mid-bite, chopsticks in hand, and then his eyes found yours through the crack in the door.

The next few seconds were chaos.

"Whoa—"

"Intruder!"

The door slammed open, knocking you back. You stumbled, hit the edge of your bed, and fell onto the mattress. And suddenly they were there—all of them, filling your doorway, silhouettes against the hallway light. Weapons raised. Repulsors humming. An arrow nocked and pointed directly at your chest.

You held your breath.

You looked at them.

They looked at you.