Voices in My Head but Make It Gothic
The shadow didn’t move the way shadows should.
Peter stood frozen in the center of Room 307, heart pounding like a trapped animal. His Spider-Sense was in full existential scream mode—this wasn't just danger. This was wrong. A hiccup in reality.
Then the voice came again.
“Do you know why you’re here, Peter Parker?”
He flinched. The voice wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. It slid down his spine, whispered in the creases of his mind, and echoed in bones he didn’t remember breaking.
Peter swallowed hard. “Okay. No pressure or anything... but I feel like I’m about to be recruited into the world’s creepiest cult.”
Silence.
Then… laughter. Low. Rumbling. Not human. Not cruel, either. Just ancient. Curious.
“You are not of here. Your soul frays at the edges… does it hurt?”
Peter blinked, mouth running ahead of his fear. “I mean, rent's due, my knees are sore, and my web-shooters are busted, so yeah, kinda.”
The air pulsed. The walls breathed. The shadow stretched across the ceiling, muttering secrets he couldn’t quite catch. The bulb above flickered—and died.
And then—her.
Not with eyes. Not with form. Not yet.
But he felt her.
She was the void between the stars, the grit in Gotham’s gutters. A cathedral of thorns and spires, mourning bells and velvet blood.
“You are… different,” she said. “You are claimed, but not mine.”
Peter gripped his humor like a lifeline. “So what are you? The hotel? A ghost? My unresolved trauma in drywall form?”
“I am Gotham,” she replied.
Peter blinked. “Cool. Awesome. Dimensional freefall. My therapist’s gonna love this—if I ever find one again.”
“I am the soul beneath the stone. The whisper in the storm. The scream that does not stop. And now…”
The shadow brushed his fingers.
“You are mine.”
His knees gave out.
Pressure slammed into him—gravity redefined. His lungs folded in. His heartbeat scattered. And then—visions.
Stained glass shattering in reverse. Thunder that bled. Masked faces—angry, broken, divine. Bats. So many bats.
A city bleeding war like it was blood.
And himself, caught in the center.
“What is this?!” he gasped.
“A world not your own,” she whispered. “You fell from another. A rupture. A fracture. You are… anomaly.”
“Wait—another world? Like... a whole other dimension?”
He swallowed. “Great. Interdimensional travel on a rent check.”
No answer.
Only stillness. A softness to the air.
“Your presence is dangerous,” she murmured. “You do not belong. And yet…”
And yet.
He felt her—threading through his pain, curling around old wounds.
“You understand loss,” she said. “You carry your death with you.”
Peter said nothing.
“I claim you. For the city. So the wound does not spread. You will remain until you are no longer a threat to everything.”
“Gotham quarantine. Love that for me.”
A hand on his shoulder—not physical. Velvet shadow. Cathedral stone.
“Sleep, Peter.”
His eyelids dropped under command. Shadows crawled over his vision. Cold turned to silk.
Last thought:
“God, I hope that wasn’t real.”
________________________________________
Peter woke gasping.
Sweat clung to his skin. Hoodie tangled. Sunlight sliced through cracked glass.
No whispers. No crawling dark.
Just the hum of Gotham existing.
He stared at the ceiling. “...Okay. Either I dreamt a goth cathedral made of shadows claimed my soul, or I’ve got brain damage.”
Silence.
Then—
*"You dreamt nothing."
Peter groaned and flopped back down. “Great. Still haunted.”
________________________________________
Tiny diner. Cracked booth. Bitter coffee. A plate of eggs that looked better than Peter felt.
He hunched over the table, hoodie drawn low, eyes fixed on his reflection.
He looked... wrecked. Not just tired. Hollow.
This wasn’t the first time his world had imploded.
But this time, he was truly alone.
No Aunt May. No MJ. No Ned. No Stark. No rent control. No name.
Just him.
And a city that whispered when he slept.
Jaw clenched. Breath shallow.
“You ever get tired of being the only one holding it all together?” he murmured.
No answer. Not even from her.
He stared into his cup.
“Guess it’s just me. Again.”
He finished the coffee, dropped a few wrinkled bills, and rose.
Back to work.
________________________________________
Peter sat in a grimy corner, hoodie up, typing with practiced speed. His Spider-Sense buzzed in low, constant pulses.
Too many weapons in hidden coats. Too many eyes that lingered too long.
But Peter wasn’t here for answers.
He was building a new life.
Not with paper. With data.
Government systems. Academic records. Financial trails. Metadata injections. Social presence fabrications.
“Peter Kaine Reilly,” he whispered. “Born and raised in Gotham. Star student. Solid past.”
A new identity.
Clean. Sharp. Untraceable.
Lady Gotham murmured in approval. "You work with focus."
Peter didn’t look up. “Not letting life erase me again.”
That’s when he felt her.
The scent of clean skin and worn paper. The hush of boots. Red hair. Glasses. Eyes like scalpels.
Barbara Gordon.
He turned, gaze gliding. Lips curling—not smirking. Something warmer. Slower.
“Hey,” he said, low. “You always move this quietly, or just when stalking?”
She didn’t flinch. “You’re not local.”
He leaned back, never breaking eye contact. “Not yet. You could change that.”
Her brow lifted—cool, amused.
“Here to study or flirt?”
Peter stood, brushing just past her, voice brushing her ear.
“Why not both?”
His hand barely touched hers—soft. Deliberate. Like a spark asking for permission to burn.
Barbara turned as he passed. Eyes unreadable, but not indifferent.
“Tell me where to go,” he said, glancing back, “and I’ll follow.”
“You’re dangerous,” she said.
“So are you.”
She held out a temporary pass with two fingers.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
He took it—fingers grazing hers longer than needed.
“Never,” he murmured.
Then he was gone.
Barbara watched him leave.
And smiled.
________________________________________
The city had changed.
Or maybe Peter had.
Every block felt like a test. Every shadow an invitation.
Spider-Sense tapped with every step. The occasional rat. The occasional threat.
He saw a flyer nailed to a pole.
Room for Rent. Cheap. No Questions Asked. Basement. Private entrance. Address: Crime Alley.
Peter stared.
Lady Gotham whispered: “That place remembers blood.”
“So did my last landlord,” Peter muttered. “We’re even.”
He pocketed the flyer and moved on.
________________________________________
He stopped in an alley to check the map.
Footsteps behind. Close. Predictable.
Three men. Cheap threats. Sharp weapons.
“You lost, punk?”
Peter didn’t even glance. “Just avoiding another existential spiral.”
One snorted. “What?”
He turned slowly. Shadow pooled unnaturally at his feet. Eyes reflecting light like mirrors.
Spider-Sense surged.
“Lady Gotham,” he whispered. “Let’s scare them.”
“Gladly.”
The streetlamp above exploded.
A bell rang. Distant. Wrong.
Shadows rose behind him—moving, curling, alive.
The scent of wet stone and old wax. The walls breathed.
Peter smiled.
Then spoke.
“Run.”
His voice was layered—his own, deep and sharp, wrapped in hers: a ghostly, feminine echo laced with static and something ancient. Glitched. Fractured. Divine.
The men ran. Screaming.
Peter watched the shadows fade.
“Okay, that was awesome. Creepy. But awesome.”
“They feared your presence. Good. Let them.”
Peter nodded. “As long as they stop trying to stab me, I’m good.”
________________________________________
His stomach growled.
Peter ducked into a dingy corner store. Fluorescent lights. Dusty air. A fridge humming in protest.
He grabbed a sandwich, water, and cheap chips.
At the counter, someone stepped up beside him.
Leather jacket. Red helmet tucked under one arm.
Peter blinked.
“Small city,” he said.
Red Hood didn’t look up. “You’re bleeding shadow.”
Peter wiped his face with a napkin. “Cool. Add it to the list.”
They stood in silence, waiting for the cashier.
“You new?” Red Hood asked.
Peter shrugged. “Just passing through.”
Red Hood’s voice dropped. “Watch your back.”
Peter met his eyes. “Always do.”
For a moment, they held that look—two ghosts passing through neon light.
Peter smiled. “See you around, Buckethead.”
“Don’t push it,” Red Hood said.
Peter just grinned.
They left in opposite directions.
No goodbyes.
Just shadows behind them.
________________________________________
The basement apartment wasn’t much. Brick walls, mold stains, one working lightbulb, and a lingering smell like forgotten rain.
But it had a lock. It had silence.
And it was his.
Peter dropped the plastic grocery bag on the counter and scanned the space again, this time like a tactician.
Weak spots. Exits. Angles. Creaks in the floorboards. Drafts in the vents.
His fingers itched to build.
Within an hour, he had a motion sensor made from a dismantled smoke detector, a few hairline tripwires across the entrance, and a vibration alarm set on the back window.
He stacked furniture against key walls—nothing obvious. Just enough to narrow movement through the room, to force anyone breaking in to move predictably.
His web-shooters lay disassembled on the table, drying beside scattered tools. Every adjustment was small. Efficient. Intentional.
A burner phone buzzed softly as he ran a diagnostic script through an off-grid network.
Lady Gotham's whisper coiled around his spine.
“You prepare like a predator. Like something wounded, expecting the knife again.”
Peter didn’t pause.
“Because I am.”
She hummed—a noise that wasn’t sound so much as pressure.
“You are learning to wear the dark.”
Peter glanced at the boarded window, cracked open to let in just a sliver of Gotham's breathing fog.
“I always did,” he said.
He pressed a palm against the concrete wall and closed his eyes.
It felt cold. Still. Honest.
This city wasn’t his.
But maybe it could be.
He turned, collapsed onto the mattress, and stared up at the water-stained ceiling.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Then—
“Goodnight, Peter,” came the whisper.
For once, it didn’t sound like a curse.
He smiled.
“Yeah. Goodnight, Gotham.”