I gave Peter's room a quick once-over.
Clean. Organized. And posters everywhere.
Some posters of famous scientists, obviously—but mostly comic stuff.
And way too much Captain America.
Not that I blame him of favoritism. Cap's kind of the guy around here. Most merch is either him or some shitty knockoff. Cap's basically the face of everything.
Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised if there were tampons with his face on them.
Anyway, Peter was at his desk, hunched over a rough sketch like it was a science fair project. An unhinged science fair project.
"So… these parts right here?" he said, tapping the back and shoulders of the drawing with his pencil. "Flame-resistant. And underneath, I'm thinking some light padding. Not too bulky—don't wanna slow you down."
I nodded. "Cool. How long—?
He cut me off, scratching the back of his neck. "No clue. Never made a fire-resistant suit before. I still need to figure out how to sew, and which fabrics to use so they don't melt when you, y'know, walk into a blaze."
"I can wait"
"At least you're a patient suicidal."
I snorted and pulled out the rest of the money I had left from Warren's savings, placing it onto the desk. "Here. I'll get more, eventually. Just... don't blow it all on comics."
Peter picked it up, brows raised. "You know most people save for, like, college. Or new clothes or literally anything else, no?"
"Nah. I'mma do my own thing."
"You're a dumbass." he said, shaking his head with a crooked smile.
"But a generous one."
He chuckled, then gave me a nod with determination "I'll make it work."
---
Later that night, walking home, I couldn't shake the feeling.
Everything was going… smooth. Too smooth.
The kind of smooth that makes your hairs spike up—because you know it never lasts.
Not with my luck at least.
It's been a month since that hospital visit. A whole month since Cletus Kasady showed his ugly ass smile.
And then? Nothing.
No fires. No sightings. Just… quiet.
And the thing about someone like Cletus?
You prefer him yelling in your face. At least then you know where the danger is.
But this? This silence?
It's the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and stays there. Waiting. Like a ticking bomb with no timer.
It's only been three days since I got out of the hospital. Which means if Cletus is still around, he's probably nearby. Watching.
So I need to catch him. Yesterday.
Until then, I'll be watching over the Parkers.
Just in case he's got them in his sight. If he even has a plan. If he even knows what a plan is.
Because really, it'd be astronomically petty—even for him—to break into a hospital room, threaten the burned-up kid who ran into his fire, say something creepy like "I'll be around" and then… just disappear?
Nobody puts on that much drama just to vanish.
He's up to something. Something massive. Something evil and cruel.
And I'll be there to ruin it.
---
Y'know, spending a month in the hospital half-charred, turns your muscles into a wet noodle. Physical therapy barely got me walking again—never mind throwing hands.
So why the FUCK I'm in a fight again?!
I ducked under a wild swing from a guy built like a vending machine—some lowlife thug with fists like bricks and the impulse control of a toddler.
No batons on me either—I'm doing it raw.
Just gotta buy time for the cops to show up.
Y'know, I'm kinda impressed.
I thought crap like this only happened in Hell's Kitchen.
Turns out Queens isn't that far behind.
I took a quick look at the guy I was trying to help.
There he was—curled up on the pavement. Trying to regain his breathing, wheezing like a punctured accordion. Probably in a Pain-shock.
This wasn't mugging. It was a beatdown.
Why? Didn't know. Didn't matter. Just stepped in.
Anyway, another punch came flying—I ducked sideways just in time, boots skidding on damp concrete. Trying to regain some space while also avoiding the wall.
If he caught me with even one of those meat-hook fists, in my state?
One hit and to the floor.
So I kept moving.
If you hadn't noticed. I'm trying to tire him out. Let the adrenaline cook him from the inside.
He's getting frustrated, tired, sloppy.
That's both good and bad.
Good—because he's swinging harder.
Bad—because he's swinging harder.
He's also being more erratic. Erratic means unpredictable. Unpredictability is a bitch.
I exhaled slowly, steadying my stance, eyes locked on his every twitch.
He charged—shoulder-first, like he thought I wasn't about to dodge that too.
I dodge by jumping to the side, barely avoiding the full force, but his shoulder clipped my ribs on the way past.
I bit back the pain. Couldn't afford to let him know.
Couldn't afford to let me know it, either.
"C'mon, ya fuckin' Idiot!" he barked, fists clenched, voice cracking with rage and maybe a few too many drinks. "Weren't you just callin' me a coward a second ago!? Then fight, asshole!"
I would've said something. But it's hard to deliver a witty comeback in the middle of a fight.
At least for me, how does Spider-Man do it?
Instead, I just gave him the middle finger.
That did it.
He roared, charging again, leading with a wild right hook.
I ducked low, forced my legs into a slide between his stance—felt concrete bite into my thigh—and popped up behind him, just enough to kick him in the back of the knee.
Not a big hit. But enough to make him stagger.
He stumbled forward, cursed, and turned back. Swinging. Sloppier. Breathing heavier too.
And I kept moving.
And the guy on the ground? Still breathing. Still curled up. Still not dead.
Progress.
Somewhere in the distance—sirens.
Faint. Too far.
I wasn't gonna last that long.
My limbs were getting sluggish. It hurts to breathe. Yet, strangely I wasn't out of breath.
I had one more play.
The next time he lunged, I didn't dodge.
I stepped into it.
Faked a stumble, baited his swing—and then I twisted, let his momentum carry him forward while I grabbed his jacket and slammed him into the wall behind me.
Concrete cracked. His head bounced.
Not enough to knock him out. But enough to daze.
And dazed means window.
I used every weak desperate punch I had in me. At weak points, like at his liver. Didn't care about form. Just about the impact.
Needed him winded.
He shoved me back, stumbled, and finally—finally—fell to his knees.
I just stood there. Gasping. Legs jelly.
And then—
Red and blue. Sirens. Tires screeching.
I exhaled, head tipped to the sky.
Didn't even realize I was smiling.
_______________________________________
Word count: 1.139
Hey there, dear readers.
I know it's not that much of a chapter but its what my brain could managed with the lack of motivation.
I'm still not sure if it's decent enough for you all.
So feel free to criticize me for it.
Also, what do you think of the fights? Is it good?
Please comment it.
Sincerely, Author.