Chapter 4
By the time Gwen made it back to her dorm room, she was twitchy.
Not the cute, nervous kind of twitchy—more like the “don’t breathe too loud or I’ll scream” kind. She slammed the door shut, spun the lock, and exhaled like she’d just outrun a SWAT team.
Aaron phased through the wall half a second later. “You know doors don’t work on me, right?”
“DOOR MEANS NO,” she barked, pointing at him like he was a misbehaving raccoon.
Then came Peter.
He came through the window, naturally. Just passed through the glass like it was mist, landing softly on her rug with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Habit.”
“Habit?! You’re dead!”
Peter smiled gently. “Still got instincts.”
Gwen whirled, grabbing the nearest thing—her drumsticks—and pointed one at each of them. “Okay. Ground rules. No floating into my bathroom. No phasing through my cereal bowls. No watching me sleep. This isn’t Ghost Roommates: The Sitcom.”
Aaron looked around. “Actually, this would make a bomb Netflix pitch.”
Peter chuckled. “Could even make it a band name. ‘Ghost Roommates.’”
“Guys,” Gwen said, rubbing her temples. “I am this close to losing it. I saw six ghosts on the walk back from class. One was just vibing in a trash can, and he tried to give me a prophetic vision. Do you know what that looked like to people passing by?!”
“Performance art?” Aaron guessed.
“Deranged!” Gwen snapped. “It looked deranged! And I can’t tell anyone. Not my dad. Not my band. Not even sketchshade.”
Peter tilted his head. “Sketchshade?”
Gwen paused. “Uh. Online friend. Not important.”
Aaron made a waggly eyebrow face. “Secrets.”
“Shut up,” Gwen said, tossing a hoodie over his head. It passed through and landed on her desk.
Peter sat on the floor, cross-legged like an actual ghost Boy Scout. “Sorry. For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just—when I saw you could see me, I thought maybe… I don’t know. You might know what’s going on.”
“Oh, great,” Gwen said, throwing herself onto her bed dramatically. “Now I’m the neighborhood ghost whisperer.”
Aaron, unhelpfully: “You kinda are though.”
There was a silence. The kind that swells up when everything hits at once—the pressure of school, of being Spider-Woman, of pretending to be fine when two dead guys were literally hanging out in her room like it was a sleepover.
Her fingers found her phone.
Sketchshade [typing]
She hesitated. Then typed back.
Drumbeats:Ever feel like you’re gonna explode and all you can do is smile through it so nobody asks what’s wrong?
He replied fast.
Sketchshade:All the time. Especially when I’m alone.
Drumbeats:Yeah. Same.
She locked the screen and closed her eyes for a second.
Peter’s voice was quiet. “That your friend?”
Gwen nodded. “Only one I can talk to without lying.”
Aaron floated upside down above her. “We’re literally right here.”
Gwen didn’t open her eyes. “You’re dead. You don’t count.”
Peter gave a half-laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
Aaron groaned. “I’m haunting a drama queen.”
Gwen cracked one eye open. “You chose this haunting. You’re stuck with me.”
Aaron smirked. “Well, until you pass on my mysterious final message.”
“What message?! You don’t even remember what it is!”
He shrugged. “Details.”
Peter leaned back against the wall like this was all just a totally normal Tuesday. “If it makes you feel any better… I think you’re doing okay. Not everyone would’ve handled all this without freaking out.”
“I am freaking out,” Gwen said quietly. “Just… silently.”
Peter nodded. “That still counts as handling it.”
She blinked at him. “You’re too nice. How are you friends with him?”
Aaron, dramatically fake-offended: “Excuse you, he’s lucky to be haunting with me.”
Peter gave a wry smile. “He grows on you.”
Gwen flopped back against her pillows. “Like a ghost mold.”
“Exactly.”
Brooklyn’s night air tasted like rain and neon. Gwen moved fast down a back alley, hoodie pulled up and earbuds in—not that she was listening to anything. She just needed quiet. Ghosts didn’t seem to understand personal space, and the illusion of music helped.
Unfortunately, it didn’t help enough.
Aaron floated beside her, arms crossed and eyebrows raised like a disappointed sitcom dad. “Seriously, you out here again? Do you know how many muggers I used to dodge in this part of Brooklyn?”
She rolled her eyes. “You dodged muggers?”
“I dodged bounties, kid. Big difference.”
Peter appeared, hovering just above a cracked fire escape. “I liked it better when she just talked to herself. Now we get live commentary.”
“Go away,” Gwen hissed under her breath.
“Talking to your pizza again?” a man passing by muttered.
Gwen gave him a thumbs up and kept walking.
And then—thud.
The air pressure shifted.
Something dropped from above like a shadow wrapped in velocity. Gwen froze mid-step. A figure landed ahead of her in the alley—tall, sleek, all dark colors and sharp lines. Spider-Man.
Not the one she knew. A Spider-Man. His suit was black with bold red detailing, the mask shaped slightly differently from the one she'd seen on TV. This Spider-Man didn’t speak right away. He turned slightly, one hand raised mid-web shot.
Behind Gwen, someone screamed.
Thwip!
A guy came crashing down from above, webbed to the fire escape railing like a fly caught mid-flight.
“Creep,” Spider-Man muttered, almost too quiet to hear. “Gotcha.”
He turned—slowly—and his mask tilted as he noticed Gwen. He stood there, just watching her, like assessing if she was a threat or... something else.
Gwen’s heart pounded. “Thanks. That guy was—uh—definitely following me.”
Spider-Man said nothing at first.
“Stay out of alleys.”
His voice was low, soft, and warped by whatever voice tech was in the mask. Gwen nodded slowly. “Noted.”
Peter floated up beside her, gaze locked on the masked figure. His voice was... strange. Soft. “I know that suit.”
Gwen glanced at him. “Huh?”
Aaron raised an eyebrow too. “What?”
Peter floated closer to Spider-Man, like drawn in. “That’s him. That’s the kid. The one who took over. After me.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”
Peter didn’t answer. His expression—if a ghost could have one—was part awe, part heartache.
Meanwhile, Spider-Man seemed to be examining Gwen. Not in a creepy way—more like he was trying to decide if he’d seen her before. Or maybe... heard her voice?
She cleared her throat. “So, uh... you do this kind of thing a lot?”
Still quiet. Still that sharp, unreadable silhouette in the dim light.
“Sometimes.”
“Right.” Gwen scratched her arm, nervous. “Thanks for the save.”
He turned like he was about to web off, but paused. “You’re not scared of me.”
She blinked. “Should I be?”
A beat passed. Then, without answering, he thwipped onto a wall and disappeared upward, vanishing into the night sky like he was never there.
Gwen stared after him.
Aaron floated beside her, low whistle escaping his mouth. “Okay, that was... something.”
Peter still hadn’t moved. “He’s got the weight on his shoulders now.”
Gwen furrowed her brows. “You know him?”
Peter finally turned to her. “Not... personally. But yeah. I know what he’s carrying. I carried it first.”
She swallowed. Her fingers curled tighter into the sleeves of her hoodie. “He seemed... sad.”
Aaron floated backward. “Don’t all heroes?”
Peter gave him a sideways glance. “Some more than others.”
Brooklyn breathed beneath him. Streetlights flickered like tired eyes, traffic murmured in the distance, and the wind carried that familiar hum of a city that never truly slept.
Miles Morales sat cross-legged on the rooftop, the same spot he always ended up after patrol. His hoodie was up, suit tucked beneath street clothes, and his fingers were raw from drawing. He flipped his sketchbook shut, resting it on his knees. His phone buzzed beside him.
Drumbeats: You ever feel like your brain just doesn’t shut up? Like even when it’s quiet, it’s loud?
A smile tugged at his lips.
Sketchshade: All. The. Time. Especially after a long day.
She didn’t know it, but he’d just saved someone from getting mugged. And before that, stopped a runaway car. And before that, chased a black-market tech dealer across five rooftops and a fire escape.
But Drumbeats—whoever she was—had become this strange little space where he didn’t have to be Spider-Man or Miles Morales. Just… Sketchshade, the guy who got it.
Drumbeats: What do you do to make it stop?
Sketchshade: Rooftops. Drawing. Sometimes I just talk to myself like a weirdo.
She reacted with a laughing emoji, and he couldn’t help the real laugh that bubbled out.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” a voice said behind him.
Miles turned to see his dad climbing the ladder onto the roof, two mugs in his hands. He handed one over—hot chocolate, by the smell.
“Mom sent you?” Miles asked.
“Maybe,” Jeff said, easing down beside him. “But maybe I just like bothering my kid after midnight.”
They sipped in silence for a moment.
“You okay?” Jeff asked after a beat.
Miles shrugged. “I dunno. I met someone tonight.”
Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Girl?”
Miles chuckled. “I didn’t even get her name.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“No,” Miles said, a little quieter. “It’s just... She felt so different.”
That made Jeff pause.
“Think she liked you?”
“I'm not sure. But it was like... She saw me. Not the person I am. Just me, on the inside.”
Jeff nodded slowly, letting that settle in. “Sometimes the people who see the most are the quietest about it.”
Miles looked over at him. “Is that a dad-ism?”
Jeff grinned. “Bet your mom would call it wisdom.”
Miles snorted, leaning back on his hands. His phone buzzed again.
Drumbeats: You still up there talking to yourself?
He texted back without thinking:
Sketchshade: Not tonight. Got company. Kinda wish you could meet him. He’s annoying, but smart.
Drumbeats: That’s cute. Sounds like your dad?
Miles blinked.
Sketchshade: …How’d you know that?
Drumbeats: It’s a dad thing. They all have the same “wise but exasperated” vibe.
Miles laughed again, caught between the quiet of the city and the strange feeling blooming in his chest. This Drumbeats girl—whoever she was—understood him in a way that felt too easy.
He glanced over at his dad. “Hey... do you ever feel like someone’s watching out for you?”
Jeff’s expression turned thoughtful. “Yeah. Sometimes. Even when you don’t see them... you know when they’re there.”
Miles didn’t know what it meant exactly. But maybe he didn’t have to—not yet.