Chapter 1
Titan was silent.
Not quiet—silent. A hollow kind of stillness that swallowed sound before it could breathe. The kind that came after something had broken.
Peter stood with blood on his suit and ash on his fingers. His chest heaved. His mask was long gone, his curls damp with sweat and dust. All around him, the battlefield was beginning to still, and it was wrong.
Something felt wrong.
First it was Mantis. Her face went pale, eyes wide, a word half-formed on her lips as she dissolved into golden fragments, scattered like petals into the wind.
Then Drax, frozen mid-step, blinking as if time betrayed him. Quill next—desperate confusion in his eyes before he too was taken, flickering into nothing like the embers of a dying star.
Peter’s stomach dropped. Cold sweat slicked his back. Something was happening—something bad.
Then Strange. Doctor Strange, who had seen it all, who had held fate in his palm and measured every possibility. He met Tony’s eyes with quiet resignation and said, “There was no other way.”
And disappeared.
Peter’s breath hitched.
Then he felt it.
It started in his fingers. Not numbness. Not cold. A heat—searing, electric, alive and angry. Like a thousand ants crawling under his skin with razors for feet.
His hand twitched uncontrollably.
“Mister Stark?” he called out, his voice too small.
Tony was there. Just a few feet away, shell-shocked, ash in his beard, eyes lost. But he looked up.
“I don’t… I don’t feel so good…”
Peter doubled over.
He didn't even mean to say it. It just came out, like his body was speaking for him. Like some ancient part of him understood before his brain caught up.
And then the pain hit.
White-hot, wild, impossible.
His nerves screamed. Bones flexed and cracked under invisible pressure. It felt like his insides were being ripped apart, one atom at a time.
He stumbled, breath ragged, every inhale a war.
His healing factor flared up in full force. He could feel it—his body trying to knit things back together, trying to fight off the tearing, the disintegration. Skin re-forming only to be stripped again. Blood cells replicating, dying, rebuilding, failing.
His DNA was unspooling like thread, and his body—his amazing, stupid, heroic body—kept trying to put the puzzle back together, faster and faster, desperate to live.
He screamed.
“I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening—”
Tony was at his side in a heartbeat, catching him as his knees gave out. But even in Tony’s arms, Peter felt everything. His back arched, spasming as another wave of pain carved through him. He clawed at the Iron Man suit, fingers curling like talons, mouth open in a soundless cry.
His brain was breaking under the agony. Every cell flaring and dying in sequence.
His healing factor didn’t know how to lose.
But this wasn’t a wound.
This was a command from the universe: You are no longer here.
“Save me,” Peter sobbed. “Save me…”
He didn’t mean to say that either. But it was true. He was seventeen. He had homework. He had friends. He had a life. He didn’t want to die on an alien rock light-years from home.
“I don’t wanna go,” he gasped. “I don’t wanna go, Sir, please. Please—”
Tony’s arms tightened around him like they could stop it. Like they could anchor him to this world.
Peter’s voice broke into a sob.
“—I don’t wanna go…”
His hands turned to dust first.
He felt it. Like pins and needles at first, then the horrible lightness of nothing. He looked down and saw them fading—bone, tendon, skin—himself, disappearing piece by piece.
He couldn’t cry anymore.
The pain was still there, but distant now. Like his brain had finally stopped trying to record it.
His healing factor was still trying. Still rebuilding. But it was fighting the tide with a spoon.
“I’m sorry…” he whispered. His last breath.
And then, finally, he let go.
Peter opened his eyes.
But it wasn’t Titan.
It wasn’t the harsh glare of a dying sun or the choking dust of a ruined landscape. There were no craters, no scattered debris, no aching emptiness that came after an impossible loss. It wasn’t Mr. Stark’s arms pulling him close, the sound of his voice barely making it through the fog of terror in Peter’s mind. It wasn’t the unbearable silence of death itself.
It was quiet. But not the eerie silence of the aftermath.
The first thing he saw was the gleam of polished mahogany. The grain of the wood was rich, deep, like it had been carved from the heart of an ancient tree, its curves and lines a testament to care and wealth. He blinked again—his lashes flaked with dirt, his eyes burning from the grit that had settled there. Blood caked the side of his cheek, still sticky and raw. His breath came in shallow, confused gasps, as though he was trying to remember how to breathe again after the void had nearly swallowed him whole.
His chest ached—aching in ways he didn’t understand, as if it had been torn open and sewn back together wrong. His ribs burned with every breath, his muscles trembling, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.
And the suit.
His nanotech suit—if it could even still be called that—clung to him in fractured pieces. The once sleek, form-fitting armor was now a chaotic mess of disjointed patches: patches of exposed skin stained with dirt, streaks of blood, and streaks of something darker, ash from the battle that felt so far away now. His shoulder pads flickered in and out of existence, weak and broken, like a glitch in the fabric of reality. Some pieces were missing entirely, leaving only the faint outline of where they once were, as though the very fabric of time and space had been warped around him.
Everything felt wrong. Too still. Too different.
Peter’s pulse hammered in his throat, each beat like a question he didn’t know the answer to. He looked around, confusion clouding his thoughts, trying to piece together the disjointed reality.
A long, gleaming table stretched out before him. Marble? No, polished wood. The deep, rich brown of mahogany, with veins of gold weaving through it like hidden rivers. The table was set with fine china and crystal glasses that caught the light in impossibly perfect ways. Each surface reflected light so carefully placed that it almost seemed unnatural—diffused, warm, as though someone had designed the whole room to make you feel like you were being bathed in sunlight no matter where you looked.
Above, the ceiling was a masterpiece—high and vaulted with intricate moldings, painted in soft, muted tones of gold and white. Ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling like the wings of some celestial being, catching the light and sending it scattering across the room in soft, fluttering patterns. The walls were lined with tapestries, rich in detail, woven with threads of deep burgundy and emerald. The air smelled faintly of something expensive—a mixture of rich wood, leather, and the faintest hint of jasmine.
Peter’s head swam as his eyes struggled to take it all in, trying to connect the dots in a world that felt entirely alien.
And then he saw him.
Across the table, a man sat frozen in motion, staring at him. His presence was imposing—broad shoulders squared, posture impeccable. His crisp white shirt gleamed against the warmth of the room, the cuffs neatly pressed, and his cufflinks gleamed under the ambient light, catching Peter’s attention. Peter could almost feel the weight of them—the kind of cufflinks that probably cost more than his entire apartment. They reflected the light as if mocking him, showing off something Peter could never have, not even if he sold everything he owned.
The man looked like he belonged in a magazine—he was sculpted, perfect in a way that felt almost unnatural. Every angle of his face, every line of his jaw, seemed too deliberate, too sharp. He had the kind of presence that made everything else feel smaller in comparison. It was like staring at a marble statue of power and precision, too perfect to be real.
And yet, here he was—staring at Peter.
Peter’s breath caught in his throat, his mind still reeling, still unable to comprehend what had happened. The man blinked, still frozen in the moment, his expression hard to read. But the longer Peter looked at him, the more it felt like this room—and everything in it—was somehow made to swallow him whole.
Peter's throat was dry. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He could still feel the ghost of Mr. Stark’s arms around him. The phantom pain of his atoms tearing apart. The scream caught in his lungs that never made it out.
A door opened somewhere behind him.
Footsteps.
A warm, casual voice called out, “Dami! So I heard you had an art exhibit today. You gonna pretend it didn’t happen, or—?”
The voice stopped short.
Peter didn’t dare turn around. He didn’t move at all.
Because the man in front of him—who had been reaching for a cup of coffee—was now staring at him. Not like a father looking at a son. Not like someone who saw something strange.
But like someone who just saw a ghost wearing his child’s skin.
Peter blinked again. Slowly.
“…Where am I?” he rasped. His voice was small, hoarse, barely more than a breath. “What’s… What’s going on?”
The older man didn’t answer.
His chair creaked as he slowly stood up, one hand instinctively brushing the back of his waistband where a weapon might sit.
Peter flinched. The air was suddenly too sharp, the lights too bright. His head swam.
His hands were trembling.
“Damian?” the voice behind him said, much softer now. Closer. Uneasy.
Peter turned.
Another man stood in the doorway—tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, probably in his twenties, his mouth half-open in shock. His expression flickered between concern and alarm.
“I…” Peter started, and it hit him, all at once, like a punch to the chest. “I’m not—I don’t know who Damian is.”
The tension snapped.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But the room shifted.
The older man’s eyes sharpened. The younger one stepped back, hand darting to a phone or something else unseen. Somewhere, far off, Peter heard a security system chime to life.
The chair legs scraped against the floor as Peter shoved back from the table, breath catching. His knees gave out underneath him. He caught himself awkwardly, hands slipping on the polished floor, leaving smudges of dried blood and dust.
“I don’t—” his voice cracked. “I was just—I was with Mister Stark—he was—I was dying, I think—I don’t—this isn’t—”
He looked around, and nothing made sense.
Paintings lined the walls. The light smelled like expensive candles and fresh wood polish. There were too many forks on the table. His heart was beating so hard it might break something inside him.
The silence was crushing.
“I think you should tell us exactly who you are,” the older man said, finally. His voice was low. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need to shout.
Peter looked up at him—tired, aching, still covered in dirt from another planet, eyes still shining with leftover tears from a death that had happened only minutes ago.
“I’m Peter,” he whispered. “Peter Parker. From Queens.”
He didn’t say it to convince them. He said it to convince himself.
Because somewhere in his bones, he knew—this wasn’t Earth. Not his Earth.
And Mister Stark wasn’t coming through that door.
Damian blinked.
The scent of cinnamon still lingered—someone had made pastries.
The sunlight filtering in through the manor windows was warmer than usual, slanting over the table like it had been poured there on purpose. Everything was calm, for once. Still. The silverware gleamed. The clink of porcelain echoed softly as his father set his cup down with the usual care. Across the table, Grayson was laughing at something stupid—probably a story about the Titans or his ridiculous taste in civilian clothing. Damian rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched upward when no one was looking.
He poured water into his cup.
It was the first time in weeks—months, really—that they were all here. No patrols. No villains. No city falling apart. Just the three of them. Breakfast.
He didn’t say it, of course. But he’d been looking forward to this.
But as he reached for a sip of water, the world around him shifted.
One blink. Just one blink, and everything changed.
The sensation was disorienting—his surroundings seemed to warp, as though the very fabric of reality had been pulled from underneath him. The air thickened, and he felt his pulse spike. A dizzying swirl of confusion took hold of him, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he was no longer at the table with his family.
He blinked again, desperately trying to steady himself, but the sudden shift left him off balance. He looked around, taking in the new environment with wide, startled eyes.
This was not the dining room at Wayne Manor.
The table was gone. The manor was gone.
His family was gone.
The ground beneath him was hard. Alien. Dust blew past in waves. The sky above him was cracked in every direction, as if reality itself was bleeding light. There were craters—ruins. Shattered rocks. Smoke. The sting of ozone. A massive tree curled in the distance, its roots twisted like broken fingers. He could smell death in the wind.
But what stood out most, what immediately registered in Damian’s mind, was the overwhelming wrongness of the scene.
Before him, standing too close for comfort, was a man—a stranger. And to make it worse, he didn’t even have time to process it.
One moment, he stood in the middle of some foreign space, on a marble floor so cold it bit into his feet, and the next—
A stranger—a man—was right there, suddenly wrapping his arms around him.
Damian’s heart lurched as he was pulled off his feet, crushed against the chest of someone he didn’t know, his body overwhelmed by the strange pressure of the embrace.
It wasn’t the calm, controlled restraint of his father, nor the affectionate but awkward hugs from Grayson. No. This was a wild, frantic clutching, as though the man—who smelled like metal and something faintly sweet—was holding on for dear life.
A part of Damian froze. Another part screamed—his hands instinctively went to the stranger’s shoulders, shoving him away. His breath hitched, panic rising like an iron fist in his chest.
“What the hell—?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
The stranger’s arms tightened, pressing him harder against his chest, strangely familiar but not at all right.
He could hear the man mumbling something—words he couldn’t understand, broken, rushed. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
Damian’s mind was still reeling from the suddenness of it all, the way his world had shifted in an instant. The room around him was too big, too cold, too wrong.
Damian fought against the stranger’s hold, his muscles coiling to throw him off, but—
"You're okay. You're okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The voice was deep. Unfamiliar. Panicked.
Damian barely registered the words, because in the next instant, the stranger’s hands were moving—one at the back of his neck, one under his arms, pulling him in tighter.
Damian shoved again, harder this time, throwing the man off balance, but the embrace didn’t loosen.
The world was spinning.
He had no idea where he was. No idea what was going on. His instincts screamed at him to act, but his body refused to listen. His fingers burned as he tried to force the man off, pushing against his chest, but the grip only seemed to tighten.
“Stop!” Damian snarled, pulling his head back and finally catching a glimpse of the stranger’s face, his eyes wide with panic, tears streaking down his cheeks. The man was shaking—shuddering, like the whole world was crashing down on him.
“What the hell—Who—?” The words were breathless from the man.
With that he finally let go of Damian.
The man was tall, his body broad, like someone who spent hours training—his suit, a strange mix of high-tech fabric and what looked like advanced armor, was frayed, torn, and damaged. Bits of metal and glowing panels were barely hanging onto his body, and his face—scruffy and disheveled, covered in the dirt and dust of what must have been a battle—was an utter mess. His eyes were wide, panicked, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as he held onto Damian like a lifeline.
Damian’s heart hammered against his chest. He tried to process what was happening, but the more he focused on the stranger’s eyes—the raw panic in them—the more wrong everything felt.
There was a look in the stranger’s eyes that was so alien to Damian’s world—so different from the cold detachment of his father, or the caring but often distant presence of Dick. It was fear, yes, but there was also something deeper—something that tore at the edges of his focus, drawing him further into this surreal moment. This was a look he knew only from the rare flashes of vulnerability in his own life. It was the kind of desperation that made even the hardest people falter, even break. And it made Damian’s entire body tense in confusion.
Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His pulse thrummed in his ears.
This was wrong. This was wrong.
The stranger—who had, just moments earlier, held onto Damian like he was the last thing on earth—wasn’t supposed to be here.
Damian’s mind spun in confusion. He didn’t know where he was, or why he’d been brought here. He didn’t understand what was happening. His hands were trembling now, the frantic movement of his arms slowing, more confused than furious.
“You’re not him,” the stranger said, voice cracking. “You’re not Peter. You’re not…”
Damian blinked, staring up at him, his breath heavy in his chest.
“Who are you?” Damian asked, voice cold, trying to keep his composure, even though his pulse raced like wildfire in his veins. “And what is this place?”
But the stranger—he didn’t answer.
Damian’s confusion turned to fury. He swung his arms up, twisting himself out of the stranger's proximity with one final push, barely getting his footing under him as the stranger staggered back.
And there, standing in front of him, looking every bit as bewildered and distressed as Damian felt, was a person—no, a stranger—who had no right to be here.
Damian stood tall, eyes narrowing, and said again, with more force this time, “Who are you?”
The stranger still didn’t answer, his eyes wide, his face flushed, and his expression entirely unreadable.
He only stood there, breathing heavy.
Damian stared at him, completely lost.
The world was wrong. The reality around him was a distortion.
And he wasn’t in his own world anymore.