Something ferel in the fog
Something wasn’t adding up.
Felix crouched on the side of a building, one hand gripping the ledge, the other clenched around a crumpled flyer that used to list a local gang’s turf. Now that gang was… gone. Not just scattered. Gone.
He stared down at the quiet alley below. No movement. No sounds. No blood, no bodies—but they’d been here.
He could feel it.
That was the fifth gang in two weeks.
He remembered the warehouse on 47th—bare walls, bodies missing, blood wiped clean like someone cared about presentation. The floor was too spotless for a gang known for eating noodles off the concrete. Even the rats looked confused. Felix had crouched in the rafters that night, senses twitching like they knew something he didn’t. He'd mapped it out since—circled locations, scribbled timestamps, drawn connection webs that spiraled into messy loops.
The worst part was how efficient it all was. No signatures, no patterns... except for the eerie silence left behind. It felt like someone was cleaning up for him. And that pissed him off more than it scared him. He didn’t like help. He didn’t need it.
He narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingers against the ledge with too much force. His web shooter clicked lightly against his wrist. He didn’t notice.
“People don’t just disappear,” he muttered, voice low.
“They get scared. They hide. They run. But this?”
This was different.
His fingers twitched again.
The first few had seemed like normal gang turf shakeups—brutal, yeah, but not unusual. Then it kept happening. Too fast. Too clean. No cops. No press. Just whispers. Silence.
He started mapping them out, pinning digital notes and cross-referencing reports. The pattern was tight. Precise. Like someone was doing his job—but with more…finality.
“Not cops,” he muttered again. “They’d leave tape. They’d make it loud. This isn’t loud.”
He paused. That itch crawled up the back of his neck again.
It was quiet now. Too quiet.
Felix turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the opposite rooftop. Nothing.
But his gut twisted.
He leaned back on the balls of his feet, shifting slightly—not enough to be seen. Just enough to feel the weight in the air. The way it bent around him when he was being watched.
Not watched like a criminal watches.
“The hell are you?” he whispered.
Maybe it was just a raccoon. Or a really lost pigeon. That’d be funny. But his gut said otherwise—and lately, his gut had been louder than usual. He scratched at his jaw, then stopped, realizing it was the fourth time in ten minutes.
The twitching was back. His skin itched under the suit, but not from the fabric. From something else. Something watching. His gaze flicked toward the far corner of the rooftop, half-expecting to catch a silhouette in the dark. Nothing. Just fog and shadows. Still... he knew what his instincts felt like. They weren’t wrong often.
His fingers flexed again. Tighter. A little twitchier.
Then he heard it.
A faint creak in the distance. A sound that could’ve been metal. Or maybe fabric shifting. It didn’t last long enough for him to track it.
Felix stayed still. Silent. Staring.
Nothing moved.
He released a breath through his nose and stood slowly, brushing off the dust from his knees, eyes never leaving the shadows.
“You better not be some cryptic wannabe hero,” he muttered. “I’m not in the mood for sidekicks or secret admirer shit.”
He turned and shot a webline toward the next building,
Mid-swing, he rotated his shoulder just slightly, adjusting the angle by less than two degrees. It bought him a higher arc, one with a better view. Old habit. A habit that came from knowing he was being watched long before he could prove it.
“Could be Batman,” he muttered under his breath. “Wouldn’t that be fun.”
His grip tightened. He wasn’t laughing. Not really. The vanishing criminals. The perfect timing. The weird pressure behind his spine like something breathing down his neck.
It wasn’t just off—it was intentional. Every missed villain, every wiped crime scene... it was as if someone was hunting the hunters. And Felix was starting to feel like bait.
His mind didn’t quiet, though.
By the time he landed again, two blocks away, he’d already rebuilt the mental map. The drop points. The timing. The missing names. Whoever it was, they were smart. Brutal. Efficient.
Too efficient.
Felix narrowed his eyes. His foot tapped twice against the beam he landed on, almost like a tick.
“You’re not sloppy enough to be new,” he said to the night. “And you’re not me.”
A smirk tugged at his lips—but it didn’t stay long.
His eyes darted to the edge of the next rooftop.
Still nothing.
No eyes. No sounds. No clue.
But the city had shifted. Something in it.
Felix rubbed his temples, sighed, and
He landed hard on the rooftop, knees bent to absorb the force. He didn’t move for a moment. Just crouched there, knuckles pressed to gravel, heart thudding too fast.
His mind screamed for silence, but the thoughts wouldn’t shut up.
“You’re not angry,” he whispered to himself. “You’re just... annoyed.” A lie. His jaw clenched.
He glanced behind him once, just once, and then pulled a small piece of chalk from the band of his glove. Drew a crooked X on the chimney ledge. A decoy. A test. If someone followed him, they’d pass it. And if they did—he’d know. Then, maybe, he’d stop pretending he was doing this alone.
whispered under his breath:
“Don’t follow me. Don’t try to help. I’m not your damsel.”
He paused.
Then, colder
“And I’m not your pet project.”
---
Felix didn’t land quiet this time. He didn’t try to. His boots slammed onto the rooftop hard, the crunch of gravel echoing sharp across the concrete. Deliberate. Loud. A warning. He was done playing nice with ghosts.
Felix crouched low near the edge, shoulders stiff, muttering under his breath.
“Five gangs in ten days. Not even a dropped cigarette left behind.” He clenched his fist, nails pressing into his glove.
The math was too clean. Someone was erasing threats faster than he could map them.
"Who the hell wipes down a crime scene like it’s a damn hotel room?” He clicked his web shooter absentmindedly.
The rooftops felt different now. He wasn’t patrolling anymore. He was tracking a ghost.
Someone was out there—cleaning up after him. No names, no mess, no motive except doing his job better. Or worse.
But the silence was the part that really crawled under his skin. So tonight? He wasn’t patrolling. He was bait. He scanned the rooftop in quick, deliberate angles. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense. His web shooter hovered just slightly raised, fingers twitching.
Then— A crunch. Behind him. Felix spun, web loaded—
“Wow, Spider-Baby,” a voice called out, breezy and way too familiar, “you always land this sexy, or is it just for me?”
Red. Black. Swords. A paper bag that smelled like tacos. Deadpool.
Felix froze mid-step. His shoulders locked. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Deadpool tilted his head like a confused puppy. “Nope. Real. Masked. Mildly dangerous. Bit sweaty, but that’s just commitment to the craft.”
He tossed the paper bag toward Felix’s feet like a peace offering. Or a trap.
Felix didn’t look down. “You followed me.”
Deadpool held up a gloved finger. “Incorrect. I stalked you. Much sexier.”
“You’ve been circling my patrol routes,” Felix said, voice low and sharp.
“I was hoping you would,” Deadpool replied smoothly. “That’s half the fun.”
“Fun?” His voice cracked on the edge of rage. “You think what we do is fun?”
“When you do it? Yeah,” Deadpool said. “It’s like watching ballet. Except with more webs and less tutus.”
Felix sighed, sharp and ragged. His hand twitched at his side. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. It was just that everything about this guy made his skin itch. The way he moved. The way he talked. The fact that he wasn’t breathing heavy, wasn’t sweating, like stalking a superhuman across rooftops was a casual hobby.
“You think this is funny?” Felix snapped. “Creeping around the city like a stray mutt?”
“Oh, honey,” Deadpool said, stepping into the moonlight like it was stage lighting. “I’m not a mutt. I’m a very loyal guard dog. With a sword fetish.”
He wanted to punch something. Not out of panic. Just pure, grinding irritation.
“You left... weird stuff at the scenes,” Felix said, squinting. “The blood... was that a heart?”
Deadpool’s head tilted. “Maaaaybe. Could’ve been. Who knows. Some people leave trash, some people leave art.”
Felix frowned. “You're not an artist.”
“Depends who you ask,” Deadpool said with a shrug, then leaned in slightly. “You’re kind of my muse.”
Felix stiffened. “You ever hear of personal space?”
“I’m a fan of shared space,” Deadpool replied casually, eyes trailing where they shouldn’t. “Especially when the view’s this... well-spun.”
“If you’re trying to get hit, you’re one bad line away.”
“Good thing I like living dangerously,” Deadpool teased.
Felix narrowed his eyes. “Seriously. What is your deal?”
Deadpool let out a hum, pretending to think. “That’s a loaded question, Spidey. We talking childhood trauma or just my superior taste in men?”
Felix didn’t answer. He was already regretting asking.
Deadpool leaned in a little more, voice playful but watching every flick of Felix’s fingers. “You know, most people would say thank you when someone brings them dinner.”
Felix glanced at the bag at his feet. “Most people wouldn’t tail me across six rooftops and then flirt like a Twitter bot.”
Deadpool gave an exaggerated gasp, then grinned behind the mask.
“Me?” he said, gesturing to himself with faux innocence. “Just a guy appreciating fine rooftop art. And, y’know… a certain tight-suited wall-hugger.”
His eyes dropped down Felix’s frame and dragged their way back up. Slow. Purposeful. Felix felt it. Felt the gaze like a second skin, hot and unapologetic.
“You always this flexible, or is that just a Spidey bonus?”
Felix’s jaw ticked so hard it hurt. His hand shot up, web primed. “I swear,” he said low, venom in his voice, “one more stupid line—”
Deadpool interrupted, smoothly, “You ever hear the one that goes, ‘Are you Stray Kids? Because I want to taste your flavor under red lights’?”
Felix made a sound that didn’t have a name. A cross between a hiss, a groan, and the scream he wanted to release.
He fired a webline just past Deadpool’s head. The guy didn’t even flinch.
“One more of those,” Felix growled, “and I web your mouth shut permanently.”
“Ohh, kinky,” Deadpool whispered. “Didn’t think we’d get there this fast.”
“I will end you.”
Deadpool put a dramatic hand to his chest. “You say that, but here I am. Still standing. Still hot. Still tragically single.”
Felix didn’t answer. He didn’t move. But the tension in his spine curled tighter.
Deadpool looked him over again—blatant now, shameless.
“You know, Spidey,” he said, voice dropping lower, “the way that suit fits? Almost unfair.”
“Keep your fantasies to yourself.”
“Too late,” Deadpool said, totally unapologetic. “They’ve been filed. Labeled. Alphabetized. And archived.”
Felix made a noise—it was frustration. Rage. Pure exhaustion. He twitched. His jaw locked.
His gaze lingered at the waist, the curve of his stance, the slight rise in his chest from adrenaline.
“You always shake like that when you’re mad?” he asked, voice curious.
Felix stiffened. His jaw cracked.
Deadpool grinned wider. “Hot.”
They stood there, frozen in two kinds of tension. Felix, breathing sharp through his nose. Deadpool, radiating chaotic confidence like it was a weapon.
Felix finally snapped, “Why are you here?”
“Sharing a rooftop. Maybe a taco. Maybe a moment.” Deadpool winked behind the mask. “Maybe I just missed that glare of yours.”
Felix’s hand twitched again.
Deadpool tilted his head, tone shifting just enough to sound genuine: “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? All the sudden disappearances?”
Felix didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But his silence was answer enough.
“Some people call it cleaning up,” Deadpool said lightly. “Others? They might call it devotion.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed. “Devotion to what?”
Deadpool smiled behind the mask, voice a little softer: “Depends who you’re doing it for.”
That did it. Felix shot a web right next to Deadpool’s boot. The man didn’t flinch.
“Yikes,” Deadpool whispered. “Spider’s got bite.”
Felix turned. He didn’t want to admit it, but the rooftop felt different now. Not just crowded. Off. Like the energy shifted when this idiot arrived. He hated that. He hated being watched. He hated the itch behind his eyes like he already knew this wouldn’t be the last time.
Deadpool called after him, cheerful as ever: “Text me!”
Felix didn’t answer.
“I’ll find you either way!”
Felix swung off the rooftop without looking back. But his pulse was still ticking too fast. And somewhere deep in his chest, under all the annoyance and static, something ugly and electric told him—he’d just met the start of a very, very bad habit.
---
Felix didn’t swing gracefully tonight. He flung himself through the streets like the wind had teeth.
His swings were jagged, wild—like his thoughts were trying to outrun him.
He yanked his body through narrow alleys and between rusted fire escapes, not caring how close he scraped the walls. A metal railing clipped his shoulder. He barely flinched. The pain helped. Focused him. Every motion was more violent than it needed to be, not graceful like usual—just raw, sharp, full of rage.
He didn’t want to arrive anywhere. He wanted to crash. The wind bit at his sides, but his chest burned hotter.
The whole way, his head buzzed with the echo of a voice he didn’t ask for. That damn pick-up line. That stupid lilt. That mask.
He didn’t want to think about it—but he was thinking about it anyway. Every inch of his skin itched. He dug his fingertips into the buildings as he launched again. Swing. Pull. Launch. Too fast. Too tense. He wasn’t on patrol. He wasn’t hunting anyone. He was just running from the frustration twisting in his ribs like wire
Irritated.
Pacing the skyline more than patrolling it. His shoulder clipped a fire escape, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The burn in his muscles wasn’t enough to distract him—not from him. That stupid voice, that smug tone, that red suit. Deadpool. He could still hear it in his head. The pick-up line. The fake flirtation. The stare.
The worst part? How it had stuck to him. Like cobwebs between his fingers.
Felix couldn’t shake the look in those eyes—well, the mask didn’t have eyes, but it felt like it. Like he’d been seen. Skimmed over like an object and studied like a subject. He didn’t want to feel watched. He hated that feeling. Made his skin crawl.
Felix practically growled. He veered to the left and landed hard on a half-collapsed rooftop. Concrete cracked beneath his weight, but he didn’t care.
He slipped through a rusted vent shaft and dropped two stories into the belly of an abandoned building. The air here tasted like dust and copper—familiar. Safe. His hideout.
He didn’t take the mask off. He didn’t sit down. He didn’t even speak.
Instead, he climbed. Up onto the ceiling. Hands and feet locking to the cracked plaster. The room was a nest of tangled webs, some old, some still wet. They hung from beams, looped across corners, coiled like veins. This was his space—his only space.
He didn’t bring people here. Never had. Never would. It wasn’t just privacy—it was survival. If anyone saw the way he acted in this space, they’d call it obsessive. Or worse. But it worked. The noise in his head dulled just enough when he moved like this. When he could control every thread. Every corner.
This wasn’t a room. It was a blueprint of his mind. And it had to be perfect.
Some webs were tangled beyond repair. He kept them. Refused to clear them out.
Like a warning to himself. “You’ve failed here. Don’t forget.”
He crawled right over them, ignoring the stick of old silk on his fingers. They reminded him of when he slipped up. Missed a gang. Let someone die.
The good corners—the ones he rebuilt every time—were almost sacred. Same patterns. Same order. Not a ritual, not really. But close. If one thread went out of line, he felt it. A deep, skin-crawling itch that didn’t stop until he corrected it. And he always corrected it. Even if it took hours.
Especially if it took hours.
He didn’t sleep here. He didn’t rest. But it calmed him.
He crawled in slow, shaking spirals. One loop. Then another. Another. His hands moved with surgical precision, laying new web over old patterns.
The same shapes, the same lines, traced again and again and again. When a thread felt too uneven, he shredded it and started over.
He did this for minutes. For hours. For something.
Inside his mask, his breath was hot and shallow. He hummed a pattern beneath it—not a melody, just sound. A grounding noise. He had no name for what he felt, but his thoughts chased themselves in endless loops.
What was he doing wrong? Why did someone keep beating him to it?
He tore down a corner strand and re-wove it. Again. The center wasn’t right. He could feel it.
He rebuilt. He refocused. His fingers flexed mid-air, caught in invisible rhythms only he understood. Every slight shift in the tension of the silk meant something. It had to.
Everything had to mean something.
Then the thoughts came back. The places he went today. He tried to remember the details.
Location One - An old warehouse by the docks. He’d tracked a group there a week ago. When he arrived tonight—it was clean. Too clean. Concrete scrubbed, trash gone, no bodies. Just one bootprint half-dried in a puddle of bleach.
Location Two - A corner club they used as cover. This one was worse. Blood, but not fresh. Furniture smashed. Walls dented. Whoever hit this spot hadn’t bothered to wipe anything. It looked like a tornado spun with a knife.
Location Three - An alley behind a gambling ring. Still smelled like gunpowder. One set of footprints leading out. Too heavy for a runner. Someone dragged something—or someone—away.
Location Four - A burned-out flat in the east block. Gang tagged. Empty. Not even a sign of life. He checked every window, even the floorboards. Nothing but a broken pair of glasses and a crushed phone that didn’t belong to anyone he recognized.
Location Five: The last stop. A squat brick building near the edge of the city, sandwiched between two old diners. This one made his skin crawl. He hadn’t stayed long. The front looked like every other cleared zone—quiet, dim, spotless. He passed through the entrance hall, took a few steps inside. The hairs on his arms stood up. It didn’t feel right.
The sound in the room was wrong. The buzzing light stuttered like a heartbeat, syncing too perfectly with the drips of blood falling from the ceiling. Somewhere, something dripped steadily. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to make the silence feel like it was breathing.
He remembered stopping mid-step and just… knowing something was wrong.
There was a door in the back. Slightly ajar. Nothing in the hallway. But Felix’s body went still. Something in him screamed not to go further.
Not out of fear. Out of urgency. He was late. He told himself he’d come back. But he hadn’t. Now, in the quiet of his nest, he regretted that. He should’ve broken that door. He should’ve seen what was inside. But he hadn’t. And that was crawling under his skin like acid.
He rebuilt a webline three times before it felt right.
His hands were shaking. He flipped upside down, hanging in a slow spin from the ceiling. The motion helped. Sometimes. The blood rush cleared things, if only briefly. His fingers twitched.
He whispered, “It doesn’t add up.”
It was dark. Quiet. The door creaked open just an inch further since he’d left. Inside, the air was thick with iron. The lights had been broken—only the flicker of a busted security lamp lit the far wall.
And on that wall?
.
.
.
.
Hearts.
.
.
.
.
Dozens.
Painted, smeared, drawn in blood. Fresh. Still wet in some places. Dripping down the plaster in lines that looked almost purposeful. In the center of the floor was a circle of smeared bootprints and drag marks. The bodies were gone. But the blood hadn’t been cleaned.
The biggest heart was across the far wall. Tall enough to reach the ceiling. Its outline was jagged. Slashed in with something sharp.
A mirror hung crooked on the opposite wall, cracked down the center. Someone had tried to clean the glass,
but smeared blood fingerprints made a perfect frame. In the middle, just barely visible through the crack, was a reflection of the big heart behind it—distorted and warped. Watching itself.
At the base of it, a message.
He breathes. I burn.
The rest was shakier—letters scratched over letters, jagged like the blade slipped or the hand trembled.
So I painted in red till the room learned his name.
No signature. No mark. Just that. A message, left like a shrine.
The light flickered again. For a moment, the shadows crawled like they were alive.
One of the smaller hearts looked smeared by a handprint. Another had been finger-painted in long, wide strokes. Some had drips trailing downward. Some splattered.
None were the same size. None were neat.
But they were intentional.
And they were fresh.
Soaking into the floorboards. Into the cracks. Into the city itself.