Chapter 1
Night settled over the city like a bruise, spreading slow and purple across the skyline. The air was damp, thick with summer heat and the sharp scent of garbage and metal. From his place clinging upside down to a rusted fire escape, Felix could hear the buzz of streetlights and the distant rumble of a subway beneath the ground.
He didn’t blink. Just hung there—limbs curled and relaxed like a resting predator—watching.
Below him, a van idled in the alley. Three men were pacing. One leaned against the wall with a cigarette; the others spoke in low voices that bounced off the brick walls like secrets not meant to last.
“Textbook sketchy,” Felix muttered. His voice didn’t echo. The mask muffled it, soft and dry like he was speaking to himself. “Middle of the night, unmarked van, matching jackets. It’s either a deal or a midnight cosplay club. I’d bet on the deal.”
He crawled sideways along the underside of the fire escape like it was nothing, his movements slow and fluid. Twenty-three years old, and this was still what he did every night. Not exactly what he imagined when his aunt used to tell him he was meant for big things.
Big things didn’t pay rent.
He paused, listening again. One of the guys below kicked at a rat and cursed. Felix tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
Sloppy. Nervous. First timers.
His stomach growled. Hard.
He ignored it. He’d had half a slice of leftover pizza this morning and a granola bar he found in his coat pocket at lunch. Probably expired. Still worth it.
He could drop down now, end it in seconds. He could break them. But that wasn’t the point.
It never was.
He tugged his mask a little tighter and checked his web cartridges. Almost full. Good.
Three guys. One with a weapon. One twitchy. One distracted. He ran the angles in his head like second nature. Drop point. Blind the gunman. Stun the smoker. Panic-response trap for the last. Ten seconds, tops.
“Alright,” he sighed. “Let’s dance.”
He dropped.
The fall was silent, flawless. His body hit the pavement like water—fluid, smooth, lethal. Thwip! A web splattered across the armed man’s face, yanking his hand upward and slamming him into the side of the van—just hard enough to leave a dent and daze him.
A roundhouse kick sent the smoker flying into the wall. He hit it solidly, rebounded with a grunt—dropped, not broken. Felix’s momentum had been sharp, but precisely controlled.
The last guy didn’t even get to scream. Felix tackled him in a blur, webbed his legs, and hoisted him midair with two swift, deliberate tugs—no more force than necessary.
Seconds later, all three of them were strung from a lamppost like lazy Halloween decorations.
He took a breath and looked them over. They’d all live. That was the point.
“Rough night, boys?” he muttered, tapping one of them on the forehead with two fingers. “Try therapy next time. Or knitting. Less illegal.”
He turned to leave. Then froze.
That feeling again.
Someone was watching him. Carefully. Closely.
He shifted his weight, angling one hand outward like he was just stretching—then fired a short line of web toward the nearby wall. Anchoring himself, just in case.
With a quick pull and a silent launch, he flipped upward, landing in a low crouch on the edge of the rooftop.
His fingers pressed to the concrete. Muscles tensed.
He moved like he wasn’t touching the ground at all—just part of the shadow, part of the skyline.
The rooftop across the alley was still. Too still.
He listened hard.
No breath. No shift of weight. No heartbeat.
But the feeling pulsed under his skin like electricity.
"...Not a fan of being watched," he murmured.
Silence.
His fingers flexed around the web line. The web hole on his palm was warm now—sensitive. Alert.
Still no movement. Whoever it was, they were good.
Felix stayed a beat longer. Then sighed through his nose and straightened.
“Creep.”
He fired upward and disappeared into the skyline, gone in the blink of an eye.
---
The city changed when it got late enough. Past midnight, it stopped pretending to be alive and settled into its real shape—restless, heavy, full of cracks. Felix knew those cracks well. He walked between them.
Tonight, he was quiet. No quips. No muttering.
His web shooters were full. His head was clear.
But his gut told him something was off.
He reached the rooftop overlooking the construction site, perched lightly on the edge of the beam. The villain was supposed to be here—rumors, tips, faint signals. Something had brought him this way.
But then—he felt it.
A shift in the air.
A weight. A presence.
His senses flared all at once. Like someone was already watching him. Close. Too close.
Felix turned his head sharply, instinct pulling his body around before his brain could catch up. He stepped forward—silently, carefully—toward the opposite end of the rooftop, where the shadow was just a little too still.
He could feel it. Whoever it was, they were seconds away from being spotted.
Then—
“HEY!”
Felix whipped around as a massive figure stormed into the clearing beneath him—armor-clad, weapon swinging, boots slamming into the ground.
The rooftop presence vanished from his thoughts like it had never been there.
From the shadows behind him, someone whispered, just barely audible
“That was close.”
Felix didn’t hear it. He was already locked on his target.
Felix dropped low, knees bent, fingers brushing the edge of the rooftop as he scanned the construction site. The figure below was massive—armor-plated, armed, and moving with purpose. Not a random thug. Not a scared first-timer. This one came ready.
He launched off the beam without hesitation.
His body curved through the air like a slingshot, web thwipping mid-arc to slow his descent just enough. He landed in a crouch, silent, then pivoted hard to the left as a burst of energy blasted the spot he'd just vacated.
Concrete shattered.
Felix barely caught a glimpse of the weapon before he moved again—some kind of modified blaster, humming with heat. Not standard issue.
Custom work. Expensive. Definitely not homemade.
The brute raised his arm to aim again. Felix didn’t give him the chance.
“Really?” Felix muttered as he shot a web at the rebar
scaffolding above. “You brought a plasma cannon to a street fight? Bit dramatic.”
He yanked himself upward, swinging wide to the left. The brute tried to track him, turning too slow. That armor was good protection, but it cost him speed.
Mid-swing, Felix let his body coast in a low arc across the scaffolding, feeling the wind shift. The sharp scent of metal, sweat, and ozone filled his nose. He filed the blaster’s specs away in his mind—there was no reason a guy like this should’ve gotten access to something like that. Someone had funded him. That meant this wasn’t random.
Felix landed on the edge of a steel beam, recalculating angles as the guy stomped forward.
Three support points. Wind eastward. Cracked flooring—unstable. Pulse lag on the blaster: 1.7 seconds.
He waited for the hum of the weapon again. As soon as it started charging—he dropped.
Halfway down, he shifted midair, twisting just enough to spot a metal crate below. His instincts kicked in—redirect, deflect, anchor point—and he let his body glide sideways, foot tapping the crate’s edge as a mid-air pivot.
Twisting midair, he let gravity and momentum whip him around the enemy’s back, planting a sharp kick to the man’s upper shoulder. The armor absorbed most of it—but the force knocked the blaster loose.
It skidded across the concrete with a screech.
“Oh no,” Felix called. “Did you drop your overcompensation?”
He landed, rolled, and came up firing webs—one, two, three—aimed clean at the brute’s joints.
They stuck. But didn’t hold.
Some kind of coating. Fluorinated polymer? Too slick to bind.
“Of course you’d be the one guy who Tefloned his kneecaps,” Felix muttered.
The brute’s foot slammed into the ground inches from Felix’s shoulder, sending a shockwave of dust up. Felix flipped backward, sliding across the dirt. His body moved faster than he could think—muscle memory, pure reflex. He could almost hear his aunt’s voice: Don’t break your bones over stupid men with knives. He grinned under his mask. Too late.
The brute roared and lunged. Felix ducked under the swing, grabbing a broken pipe and spinning it in his grip.
He swept the man’s legs hard and fast, knocking him flat with a crash that echoed across the site.
The hit vibrated up Felix’s arms. His ribs were still aching from the last fall, and now his grip felt off—too loose. He tightened his fingers and pushed through it.
Felix moved fast, webbing the guy’s wrist to a support beam, then his other arm to the cracked floor.
He climbed up onto the brute’s chest, boots planted, both web shooters aimed point-blank at the faceplate.
“You know,” Felix panted, “I was gonna let you walk away from this. But now? I think I’ll let the cops deal with your search history.”
The man growled. The steel under Felix’s boots shifted.
“You think this is over?” the brute snarled.
“No,” Felix said flatly. “I think your helmet’s about to meet my kneecap.”
He was seconds from finishing it. Seconds from making sure the guy stayed down.
Then—
The brute slammed his head forward.
The helmet cracked into Felix’s own mask with a sickening thud, and the world spun.
He flew backward, hit the ground hard, then tumbled into a pile of concrete debris. His back screamed. His ribs throbbed.
Stupid. Should’ve knocked him out first. Should’ve checked the chin strap. Should’ve webbed his neck while I had the shot—
His hands fumbled over gravel, boots sliding slightly as he tried to find purchase. His fingers brushed something sharp—rebar or a bolt, he couldn’t tell. Everything blurred.
A roar ripped through the air.
The villain was up again. Blood dripping from his lip, one of Felix’s webs still slapped across his helmet like a mocking sticker.
He pulled a blade from his side.
Not the blaster.
Not tech.
Just a massive slab of sharpened metal.
Felix’s breath caught. Not from fear—but calculation. That thing was heavy. One hit with full force and his ribs wouldn’t just ache—they’d collapse. He couldn’t let the guy swing. Not even once. His mind spun with probabilities. No backup. No exit. Just him, the steel beams, and a bastard with a machete complex.
Felix pushed himself up slowly, blinking away the blur.
His legs trembled, but his mind was still calculating.
One eye slightly swollen. Breathing heavy. Bleeding from the mouth. Favoring left knee.
He was hurting.
So was Felix.
“Why is it always the big guys with knives?” he muttered. “Why can’t I get mugged by, like, a book club?”
The brute didn’t speak. Just charged—blade high, wild-eyed, heavy steps shaking the beams.
Felix groaned. “Of course. Why stab once when you can monologue with your sword?”
He dodged to the right, barely missing the first slash.
Sparks flew from the steel behind him.
The brute didn’t pause—another wild swing, then another. Felix ducked, weaved, barely staying ahead. One slice nicked the edge of his suit.
Too close. One second slower and that would’ve been my side.
He stumbled, caught himself with a web shot, and flipped backward onto a scaffold beam.
Panting, he narrowed his eyes.
His swings are too wide. All strength. No timing. He’s tiring out.
“I don’t know what you’re getting paid,” Felix called breathlessly, “but you’re not exactly earning it.”
The brute roared and rushed again.
Felix braced himself, shifting to the side and raising one arm—aiming, calculating, heart pounding.
Blade length: 0.8 meters. Swing radius: 120 degrees. Weak spot: left armpit, just under the joint.
He had one chance.
One clean strike. One angle. One shot to stop this before it went from bad to—
Too late.
---
He crouched near the crumbling edge of the rooftop, paint can in one hand, the cold weight of a silenced pistol resting against his thigh. The wind stirred the edge of his mask, and somewhere below, the city exhaled in smoke and static.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t breathe like a man who needed to.
The blood on his chestplate had already dried in dark streaks. He didn’t notice—or didn’t care. His focus was fixed on the figure across the gap.
Spider-Man.
The paint hissed softly as he sprayed, slow and methodical. The shape he was creating wasn’t neat—jagged curves, uneven lines, bright crimson against the concrete. A heart, but barely.
Messy. Like obsession.
He started to hum.
Soft. Off-key. A lullaby with no name.
The sound floated between buildings like fog, almost too quiet to exist. Almost. But not quite.
Just enough to reach the figure perched like a shadow on the steel beam nearby.
The last stroke curled into place. He leaned back slightly, paint still wet on his gloves.
He didn’t move again.
He simply hummed.
---
Spider-Man crouched low, fingers curled against the beam, his posture sharp and alert. His breathing was steady—but too steady. Controlled.
Something was off.
His body stilled.
He felt it in his spine first. A tingle—familiar, subtle, unmistakable. Like a whisper against the back of his neck.
Then he heard it.
A sound. Light, barely there. Someone was humming.
He turned his head a fraction, scanning the upper rooftops.
It wasn’t close. But it wasn’t far, either. A strange tune, slow and steady, like someone was singing to themselves with too much comfort for this hour.
His hand hovered near his web shooter.
Than—
BAMM.
One soft shot. Silenced but sharp. No echo. No warning.
Behind him, the brute dropped like a stone.
Spider-Man turned, fast—but not fast enough to stop it.
The body hit the concrete with a wet crunch, face-down, a hole through the helmet.
There hadn’t been time to blink.
His heart slammed in his chest. His legs stayed crouched, tense, ready. But he didn’t move.
The humming hadn’t stopped.
It was still drifting—soft and lazy—like none of this mattered.
He scanned the rooftops again, sharp and focused, but the shadows were empty.
The humming continued.
He stepped forward slowly. The villain’s blade lay abandoned, slick with blood. He didn’t even glance at it.
His eyes caught something else.
A heart.
Spray-painted. Sloppy. Big.
.
.
.
Still dripping.
.
.
.
His chest rose.
.
.
.
“…What the fuck,” he whispered.
He approached cautiously, feet silent against the ground. The paint hadn’t dried yet. It clung to the wall in thick lines, dripping down in long red tears.
Fresh. Very fresh.
No sound around him. No breathing. No voices.
Just the tune, still lingering.
His fingers twitched at his side. His head spun slightly—not from pain, but from confusion.
Then the words slipped out
“Great. A stalker with a spray can. That’s new.”
Pause.
“Who kills a guy and leaves me fan art? What is this, a blood-themed Valentine?”
Another beat.
“Okay. Someone kills a guy and leaves me a gift. Cool. Totally normal hero stuff.”
He looked up one last time.
“Is this what flirting looks like now? …Should I be flattered?”
He stopped. The sarcasm cracked mid-sentence.
It didn’t land. Not even with himself.
The humming… finally stopped.
His chest rose faster. His ribs ached.
He thought about chasing it. Whoever it was—they were nearby. Close.
But his shoulder throbbed. His side was sore.
And the sound—the sound was already gone.
.
.
.
Almost like it had never been real.
.
.
.
—
The tune still echoed in his head. He didn’t hum now—not out loud.
He crouched again, same spot, same shadow, one hand resting against his notebook. The other still held the warm edge of the spray can.
He hadn’t looked away once.
Spider-Man was still down there, standing stiffly, shoulders tight. Confused. Beautiful like that.
The wind carried the words back to him.
“…fan art…”
“…Should I be flattered?”
He smiled. A slow, curling thing. Quiet. Deep.
“Cute,” he whispered, almost soundless.
“Flirting,” he added, even softer. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
He didn’t blink.
His fingers pressed against the edge of the notebook. Inside were drawings, sketches, notes. Spider-Man’s posture, his swings, the angle of his hands when he fired his webs.
He flipped the page. A new sketch stared back at him—Spider-Man curled in a nest of webs, sleeping, peaceful.
He hummed again, but just for himself now.
“You’re welcome, Bugsy.”
He let the silence stretch a little longer—just to hear the weight of it.
“One day,” he murmured, “he’ll know it was me.” He
murmured to himself satisfactory
"But not now".
.
.
.
No one heard.
.
.
.
He stared.
And watched.
And smiled.
.
.
.
---
Felix slammed the door shut behind him with his foot, dropped the lock, and let out a long breath that sounded more like a growl.
His apartment greeted him with its usual sad charm: one secondhand couch with stuffing poking out the side, a folding table with three legs and a book propping up the fourth, and a mini fridge humming like it was dying of old age. It wasn’t much. But it was quiet. And it was his.
He stripped the mask off and tossed it onto the couch, dragging his fingers through his damp hair. Sweat clung to his skin. So did the confusion.
What the hell even was that?
He didn’t sit. Instead, he scaled the wall in one fluid
movement, bare feet pressing into the cracked paint. His body folded up easily, used to the motion, and in seconds he was up by the ceiling—wedged in the far corner where the beams met the wall.
His little web nest clung there like an afterthought. A twisted hammock of silk, thick and smooth, anchored to the ceiling with care. It gleamed faintly in the low light, like something alive.
Felix crawled into it like it was the only place in the world he trusted.
He let himself hang slightly upside down, legs braced against the beam, back curled just enough to let him sway. It was the only position where his mind started to slow down.
The red heart wouldn’t leave his head.
Neither would the humming.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “God, what even was that?”
No answer. Just the low groan of the pipes in the walls.
His body shifted slightly, adjusting into the webbing with practiced ease. The silk clung to his suit, warm and familiar. One arm stretched across his stomach, the other pressed close to the wall. As he moved, the inside of his wrist brushed lightly against something.
A jolt—sharp, hot, instinctive.
He hissed, flinching just enough to make the web sway.
His wrist had brushed over the sensitive ring of skin where the spinnerets were. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just... a surge. Reactive. Primal.
Like a warning system for a body designed to survive.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Still jumpy.”
The spot itched now, not in a bad way—more like it was waiting. Watching.
He flexed his wrist once and felt the spinneret shift slightly under the skin, still closed. A strange comfort, knowing it was there. That he could still make webs with nothing but instinct and tension.
He exhaled, eyes flicking across the ceiling like it might offer answers.
Some psycho had taken out a target Felix hadn’t even gotten close to. Finished the job. Left a heart. Hummed a tune like it was bedtime. And then disappeared.
And Felix had let it happen.
He blinked slowly, staring past the faint lines of his own silk.
“Maybe it was a message,” he mumbled. “Maybe it’s just some creepy stalker. Or maybe I’m hallucinating from lack of actual nutrients.”
He paused. “Do granola bars count as nutrients?”
Another silence. Longer this time.
The apartment creaked as the temperature dropped a degree.
Felix didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. He just stayed there, hanging, web-wrapped like something between a person and an animal.
But his mind didn’t settle.
The heart was still dripping behind his eyes.
And for a second—just one—he thought he heard that tune again.
But when he held his breath and listened?
Nothing.
Only the quiet.