(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
The crater was gone.
Hours had passed. The battle site, once raw with heat and silence, had been swallowed by time and emergency protocols. Cleanup drones from Valoran City hovered along the perimeter. The stars had shifted. Night had fully embraced the world.
And now, beneath the soft, dim glow of hanging paper lanterns and the low hum of quiet music, twelve chairs surrounded one long table in a quiet, tucked-away restaurant near the coastline. Wooden interior. Open-air balcony. A place that usually hosted first dates and late-night friend groups.
Tonight, it hosted survivors of something cosmic.
The Star Guardians had chosen this place not for comfort—but for containment. A semi-neutral zone. Somewhere they could think, talk, observe... and maybe, if they were lucky, get answers.
Peter sat at the far end of the table.
Not isolated. But apart.
Still wearing the black underlayer of his symbiote suit—toned down, hoodie-like, casual but sleek. His hood was down, the tendrils of living armor subtle, withdrawn beneath the surface. He held a steaming mug of tea like it was the only thing anchoring him in place.
He hadn't said much.
Didn't need to.
They were still watching him like gravity bent around his shoulders.
Lux sat three seats to his right, trying not to make it obvious how often she glanced at him. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, her food untouched.
Poppy sat across from her, chewing with mechanical rhythm, eyes never leaving Peter's face.
Jinx was lounging next to Lux, legs kicked up on a chair, twirling her spoon in a glass of soda. "Sooo," she said after an awkward stretch of silence, "does anyone else feel like this is the weirdest first date-slash-intervention ever?"
Ezreal snorted. "It's not a date."
Jinx smirked at him. "You jealous?"
Ezreal flushed. "What? No! I just—"
Ahri raised a hand, quieting the table with a single, measured look. "We're here for answers," she said, voice even. "We can get into jealous crush drama later."
Peter finally looked up.
His eyes met Ahri's, calm, unreadable. "So this is an interrogation, then?"
"No," she said. "This is a conversation."
"Feels like both."
Silence again.
Soraka, seated beside Syndra, finally leaned in. "Then maybe... start with something small," she offered gently. "What are you doing here? Why this world?"
Peter stirred his tea slowly. The liquid shimmered—not tea. Something else. Something he needed.
He didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was with that same unnerving clarity.
"I was sent here to stop reality from breaking."
Lux blinked. "What does that mean?"
Peter's gaze flicked toward her. Softer. But distant. "It means this place—your world—it's... infected. Something unnatural entered it's existence. A corruption that doesn't belong."
"Like the Dark Stars?" Poppy asked.
Peter didn't flinch. "Worse."
Janna leaned forward. "Then why didn't you say anything? If you knew what was coming—"
"Because the moment I explain too much," Peter cut in, "I risk killing the people I'm trying to protect."
That stopped the table cold.
Miss Fortune set her fork down. Her green eyes narrowed. "What kind of answer is that?"
"A true one," Peter said.
Jinx crossed her arms. "You're saying we can't know things? Like... it'll explode our brains?"
"Something like that."
Syndra hummed. "You're holding back."
Peter tilted his head at her. "So are you."
That earned a tiny grin from her.
Lux's voice broke the tension. "You're still avoiding the question. What are you, Peter?"
He met her gaze, slowly. "I'm the guy who saved your lives."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
His smile was tired. Sad. Like a joke he'd told himself too many times.
"I'm what happens when existence stops following it's script."
Miss Fortune leaned in, arms folded on the table. "You killed him. That... Herald? Not just killed—erased. Like he never existed. You've done that before, haven't you?"
Peter didn't respond.
That silence was louder than any confession.
Ahri's eyes narrowed. "How many?"
Peter looked away.
Janna finally spoke again. "We heard what the Herald said. That you were tortured. That someone made you into this."
Peter's voice was almost too quiet. "Someone always does."
Lulu sniffled quietly, hugging Pix. "That's... really sad."
Ezreal rubbed the back of his neck, trying to lighten the mood. "So, like... Guardian of the Multiverse, huh? That sounds cool. Sounds... heavy."
"It is," Peter said. "Too heavy for one person."
Jinx raised a brow. "So why carry it?"
Peter set the mug down. The clink rang sharp in the quiet.
"Because I'm the only one who can."
He looked at each of them then, for the first time. Really looked.
His voice dropped.
"You all still think I'm like you. That I'm just another magical warrior who happens to wear black. I'm not."
Lux's heart pounded.
Peter leaned back.
"You all wake up with hope. With purpose. I wake up wondering if today's the day the story decides I shouldn't exist anymore."
Syndra's expression shifted—just slightly. Something colder. Something that understood.
"And yet," Peter continued, "I still save it. Again and again. Not because it's fair. Not because I get anything from it. But because someone has to."
The silence stretched again.
Longer.
Then—
"Okay," Jinx said suddenly, voice too-loud. "But real talk... how strong are you without the suit?"
Peter raised a brow. "Is that your way of asking if you can take me in a fight?"
"Maybe."
He grinned, just slightly. "You can try."
Peter leaned back slowly, letting the mug rest in his hands again. He wasn't smiling anymore.
"You're asking what I am," he said, calmly. "But that's a complicated question."
Syndra narrowed her eyes. "Try us."
He didn't flinch. "Fine. But no guarantees it'll make sense."
The lantern light flickered above them, casting shadows across the table.
Peter spoke slowly, as if carefully measuring every word. "Let's say... your universe has certain patterns. Systems. Like a biological immune system, except on a cosmic scale. Light, dark, balance, entropy. The usual. But every now and then, something breaks through. Something that isn't accounted for."
"Like the Herald?" Lux asked.
Peter nodded. "Exactly. That thing wasn't just powerful—it was foreign. It carried structure and energy that doesn't match this universe's signature. It was a contaminant."
Janna tilted her head. "A virus?"
Peter looked at her, impressed. "More or less. An anomaly that warps what it touches. Not because it wants to, but because it isn't supposed to be here. Like pouring gasoline into a bloodstream. Reality gets... inflamed."
Ezreal made a face. "Gross. And kind of terrifying."
"That's what I deal with," Peter said. "I find these anomalies. I isolate them. I neutralize them."
Ahri leaned forward slightly, voice unreadable. "And who tells you what counts as an anomaly?"
Peter's gaze hardened. "Sometimes I have to figure that out myself."
Poppy finally spoke again, her voice low. "That doesn't explain how you erased him. That wasn't just some energy blast. That was... deletion."
Peter exhaled through his nose. "Because the thing that powered him—the source that corrupted him—was built on unstable principles. It wasn't rooted in the natural physics of this world. It was coded wrong. Disjointed. Once I disrupted the core logic of what held him together..." He paused, glancing toward the sea. "The system corrected itself."
Soraka's brow furrowed. "That sounds like he never should've existed at all."
Peter met her gaze. "He shouldn't have. Not here."
The silence hung heavy.
Miss Fortune tapped her fingers against her glass. "Okay, you keep using words like 'logic' and 'structure.' You talk like you're studying this place from the outside."
Peter didn't answer immediately.
"I see the fault lines," he said. "I can't explain how—I just can. It's like... you ever listen to a song and know when a note's off-key? Or smell something off in a room full of perfume? I pick up on disturbances like that, except... on a multiversal scale."
Lulu blinked. "So you're like a... reality sniffer dog?"
Peter actually chuckled at that. "Sure. Let's go with that."
Jinx raised an eyebrow. "Okay, but if you're this cosmic glitch-buster or whatever, why do you look like you haven't slept in a year?"
Peter's smile faded again. "Because fixing things... costs something."
Lux leaned forward, hesitant. "Then who fixes you?"
Peter looked at her—and this time, his eyes softened in a way that wasn't guarded or distant. Just... tired.
"No one," he said quietly. "Not really."
That answer lingered longer than it should have. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was honest in a way that caught everyone off guard.
Lux's throat tightened. Her fingers clenched the napkin in her lap. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words didn't come.
Soraka glanced down, her expression quietly pained.
Janna looked away.
Peter leaned back in his chair again, shoulders relaxed but not at ease. The tension never truly left him. It just coiled tighter beneath the surface.
"I wasn't supposed to come here," he said after a moment. "I didn't crash. I didn't wander in by accident. I was brought in through... other means. Let's just say someone opened a door, and I had to be the one to walk through it."
Ahri's brow lifted. "Who opened it?"
Peter shrugged. "That's the thing about doors like that. You can't always see who turned the handle."
Ezreal leaned forward on his elbows. "So what now? You stopped the Herald. Is your job done?"
Peter gave a dry smile. "No. That was just the scout."
That silenced the table again.
Jinx sat back with a groan. "Of course it was."
Miss Fortune's voice cut in. "And what happens if we get in your way?"
Peter didn't look offended. If anything, he seemed to respect the question. "You won't. I don't want to fight you."
"But if it came to that?" Syndra asked, tone unreadable.
He met her gaze. "I'd try not to hurt you. But I wouldn't lose."
There was no arrogance in his voice. Just certainty. A fact, not a threat.
Poppy grunted. "Cocky."
"Experienced," he corrected.
Lulu finally found her voice again. "So what are we supposed to do, then? Sit back while you handle things we can't even see?"
Peter shook his head. "No. I didn't say you were helpless. You're Guardians for a reason. You protect what matters." He looked down at his hands. "So do I. Just... on a different level."
Ahri studied him for a long moment. "You talk like you're above us. Not in strength. In perspective."
"I don't want to be," Peter said. "I didn't ask for any of this. But once you see the edges of the system, you can't unsee them. I've been rewired to feel cracks in the foundation. Even if I try to live normally, I'll always know when something's... off."
Syndra tilted her head slightly. "And that's what we are to you? A system?"
Peter gave a faint, almost wistful smile. "No. You're the reason I keep going."
That made Lux look at him again, sharply.
Peter continued, quieter now. "When everything else is noise—when reality is nothing but code and consequence—you remind me there's still something worth saving."
Nobody spoke after that.
The waves outside the balcony crashed gently, like the world itself had been listening.
Then Jinx broke the silence with a crooked smile. "Okay, but I'm still mad you didn't tell us you could do that black hole punch thing. That was crazy cool."
Peter exhaled, almost laughing. "Next time, I'll send a flyer."
"Dibs on designing it," Jinx grinned. "It'll be all ominous and broody, with a cool title like Spider-Guy: Universal Plumber."
Ezreal groaned. "No. No marketing. Please."
Peter took a sip of his tea again—still steaming, still anchoring him.
He didn't say it, but for the first time that night, something in his shoulders relaxed.
For now, the conversation had bought him peace.
Even if it wouldn't last.
Syndra rested her chin against the back of her hand, her eyes sharp as obsidian. "That's cute," she said idly. "You fight gods, erase threats, carry worlds. But I wonder..."
Peter's mug paused mid-air.
"...do you remember what it felt like?" she asked. "The pain? The helplessness? Or did you bury that too deep, along with whoever you were before?"
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be.
They were surgical.
Lux's eyes widened. Jinx straightened slightly. Even Miss Fortune glanced up from her glass.
Peter's grip around the mug tightened—not visibly, but the faint creak of ceramic under pressure gave it away. A flicker of heat danced at the base of his jaw.
Syndra smiled—pleasant, cruel. "That Herald said some interesting things. About how you always carry the burden. Always alone. Makes me wonder..." She leaned forward slightly. "Was it really heroism—or was it no one else cared enough to stand beside you?"
That did it.
Peter set the mug down with a quiet clink that somehow sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
His eyes lifted to meet hers.
Not angry.
But hollow.
Dark.
"I get it," he said softly. "You want to see how far I'll go."
Syndra didn't blink.
"You want to poke at the wound, see if the monster you sensed is real."
She said nothing, but her eyes glittered. A confirmation in silence.
Peter leaned in slightly, his voice lowering—calm, cold. "You don't understand me, Syndra. You think pain makes us equals. It doesn't. Pain is universal. But what I've survived?" His tone sharpened. "You wouldn't last five seconds."
The air around the table tensed.
Even the lantern light seemed to dim.
Syndra's smile remained, but it faltered—just slightly. Barely enough for anyone else to catch. But Peter did.
"And you know what's funny?" he added. "For someone who flaunts power and judgment, you're still running."
Her eyes narrowed. "Running from what?"
He leaned closer—just enough for her to hear the next words alone.
"From what you did to Akshan. From the truth you've hidden under that elegant little eyepatch. From the contracts you never intended to keep. From Harp. From Gwen. From yourself."
Syndra's breath hitched—but only for a fraction of a second. Her expression didn't crack, but her silence screamed.
Only Peter noticed the twitch of her fingers under the table. A micro-flinch.
Gotcha.
She straightened, voice cool again. "You presume too much."
Peter smiled—but it was cold. Sharp. "I don't presume. I read."
Lux stood quickly. "Okay, enough!"
Everyone turned.
She glared at both of them, her hands trembling at her sides. "This was supposed to be a conversation. Not a sparring match." She looked at Peter—pleading now. "You said you didn't want to fight us. Then don't act like you're trying to start one."
Peter looked at her.
And something... softened.
Not entirely. Not completely. But just enough to make the shadows around his shoulders seem less heavy.
He leaned back in his chair again, gaze falling to the table. "You're right," he murmured. "That was... uncalled for."
Jinx let out a low breath. "Geez. I thought we were all gonna start levitating with murder vibes for a second."
Even Lulu, who had been hugging Pix tighter and tighter through the exchange, peeked over the table nervously. "That was really scary..."
"I'm sorry," Peter said, not looking at her. "That wasn't aimed at any of you."
His voice was flatter now. Quieter.
Guilt didn't show easily on his face. But it was there—in the pause, in the restraint.
Syndra smoothed her hair back, reclaiming her posture. "Noted," she said simply, but her usual arrogance was missing. Masked by something else now. Wariness. Maybe... respect.
Ahri's gaze moved between them both, unreadable.
Miss Fortune slowly raised her glass. "So... anyone else want to ask the reality assassin more deeply personal questions while we're still alive?"
Ezreal let out a nervous laugh.
Janna didn't speak. But her eyes remained fixed on Peter.
Peter took a slow breath. He looked down at the tea again—no longer steaming. Cold.
Like everything else.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of the Red Goblin whispered like a ghost behind glass.
You'll never be safe. You'll never be whole. You're the rot they buried too deep to heal.
He pushed it down.
Hard.
"You wanted to see how deep it goes?" Peter finally said, voice level. "Don't dig again."
That was the last thing he said for a while.
And no one dared respond.
...
The wind bit sharper the moment Peter stepped out.
He didn't say a word. Just stood, then walked—quickly, shoulders tight, steps clipped. Down the restaurant stairs. Past the glowing lanterns. Past the view of the ocean. Out into the darkness.
His hood went up halfway through the descent. But not before they saw it—how pale his face had turned. How his jaw clenched like it was wired shut.
Lux hesitated only a second before rising.
"Lux—" Janna started, but the younger girl shook her head.
"I'll talk to him," she said, already slipping out the door.
By the time she caught up, Peter was by the overlook railing, hunched over, one hand gripping the wooden beam as if it were the only thing holding him upright. His other hand pressed against his temple, trembling.
She approached carefully, quietly.
"Peter?"
No answer.
His breath came in ragged pulses, and under the moonlight she could see it—his fingers twitching, nails digging into his scalp. The black suit along his arms was alive in subtle ways, the texture rippling like waves under skin. Defensive. Strained. As if fighting something deeper.
"Peter, it's me," she said again, stepping closer.
Still no answer.
Then—his voice, raw and hollow.
"Why are you here?"
"I saw you leave. You looked like you were in pain," she said softly. "I was worried."
He laughed—dry and sharp.
"Worried I'd hurt Syndra?"
Lux blinked. "What? No. I mean—yes, a little. But mostly... I saw your face. That wasn't anger. That was something else."
She stopped two steps behind him.
"What's happening to you?"
Peter didn't turn around.
"It's a migraine," he muttered. "Just a migraine."
"That's not just a migraine," she said gently. "You're shaking."
"I said I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
The symbiote trembled at the edges of his sleeves. The wood beneath his hand had begun to splinter under his grip.
"I get it," Lux said after a moment. "You don't like being questioned. You don't want to talk about what hurts. But I know what I saw back there. Syndra hit something real."
Peter flinched.
"Don't start too," he muttered.
"I'm not trying to attack you," Lux said, her voice tightening. "I'm trying to understand. I've seen you save people without hesitation. I've seen you laugh with us—even when it looked like it hurt to smile. And tonight..."
She took a breath.
"Tonight, you looked like you were breaking."
Peter finally turned, just enough for her to see the outline of his face—his eyes bloodshot, his lips pale.
"You really want to know?" he asked quietly. "What that felt like?"
She nodded. "Yes."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Like something in my head was trying to claw its way out. Like... a scream I couldn't hear, but felt. Over and over."
Lux's heart squeezed. "Is it the memories?"
Peter didn't answer.
Instead, he looked past her—at the ocean, at the stars, anywhere but at her.
Then, almost reluctantly: "Something's trying to come back. Pieces of me. But it's stuck. Like static in my skull. And every time it gets close, something... drags it back down. Like a leash."
His hand moved to his chest, fingers curling.
"I see glimpses," he murmured. "A face. A sound. A falling star. But the second I reach for it—"
He snapped his fingers, softly.
"Gone."
Lux stepped closer. "Peter..."
He shook his head. "It's like being half-awake in a nightmare you can't escape. And the worst part?" He looked at her now, truly looked. "I think I chose this."
She stared.
"What?"
"Not all of it," he said, his tone distant. "But part of me... part of me wanted to forget. I was broken. I begged to forget. And now—now that something's changed—I'm trying to remember. But it's too late."
Silence.
Only the waves below responded.
Lux whispered, "Then let me help."
Peter tilted his head.
"How?"
"I don't know. Just—talk to me. Let me in. You don't have to carry it alone."
He took a step toward her. Close enough now that she could see the tiny fractures in his composure—lines drawn across his face like hairline cracks in glass.
"I'm not safe," he said. "Not for you. Not for anyone."
"I don't believe that."
"You should."
She raised her chin. "Then prove it."
Peter blinked.
"Prove that you're as broken and unworthy of care as you say. Right here. Right now. Hurt me. Push me away. Do something that proves you're the monster you think you are."
He didn't move.
She continued. "Because all I see is someone who's hurting. Someone who's scared. Someone who's built a cage so tight around their heart they've forgotten what sunlight feels like."
His hands clenched again—but this time, not in pain.
In resistance.
To her.
To himself.
To the voice in the back of his mind screaming that this was dangerous. That letting her in would only make it easier to hurt her later.
But the Guardian Aura flickered. Adapted.
And so he softened.
Not truly. Not deeply.
But enough.
He looked at her, and this time, his expression was carefully layered.
Grief.
Guilt.
And the exact amount of vulnerability he needed her to see.
"...I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just... everything hurts, Lux. Every breath. Every moment I'm awake. I want to do the right thing. I want to be okay. But it feels like I'm pretending."
Lux took the final step forward.
Close now.
Too close.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
Peter's jaw tightened.
He looked away—toward the sea, the stars, anything to ground him from the weight in her eyes.
And behind his thoughts, behind his fractured calm—
The whisper of the Red Goblin echoed.
Let her in. Just enough. You know what comes next.
Peter said nothing.
But he didn't move away.
Peter didn't answer her right away. His back was still turned, his breath rising in faint clouds against the coastal chill. The sea wind pulled gently at his hoodie, the black threads of the symbiote shimmering faintly beneath the surface, like veins of living shadow resisting stillness.
Lux stood just behind him now—closer than before, but still not close enough to touch.
"You remember the camping trip three weeks ago?" she asked, her voice softer. "Out by the cliffs?"
Peter blinked, the migraine still blooming behind his eyes like a pressure he couldn't release. He gave the smallest nod.
"You were smiling then," Lux continued. "Even laughed when Lulu tried to roast marshmallows with a starbeam and turned everything into molten sugar."
He didn't speak.
"I remember thinking... maybe you're not as alone as you think. Maybe we were getting through to you."
Peter's grip on the railing tightened.
"And now?" he asked, without turning. "Now you think it was just a lie?"
She hesitated. "No. But it feels like you're pulling away. Like you're making me doubt what I saw."
Peter turned, finally. His eyes—still bright and deeply human beneath all that darkness—met hers with quiet intensity. "I didn't lie. But maybe I let you see only what I wanted you to."
Lux's brows furrowed, her voice cracking. "Why would you do that?"
He shrugged, slowly. "Because it's easier than showing the parts of me even I'm afraid of."
There it was again.
That fractured honesty.
That raw truth carefully layered between misdirection and vulnerability.
Lux stepped closer. Her hands shook slightly, but she didn't stop. "Then show me now. Don't retreat into cryptic one-liners or cosmic metaphors. Just talk to me."
Peter looked away again, but this time it wasn't in dismissal. It was restraint. As if keeping his gaze on her too long would unravel something fragile between them.
"You're not ready for all of it," he said.
She didn't accept that. "Try me."
His breath caught.
Then slowly, deliberately, he turned and leaned back against the railing. His arms crossed. His face unreadable.
"You asked why I seemed off tonight," he said. "Why I left."
Lux nodded, silent.
Peter tapped the side of his head. "Because every time someone pokes the past—like Syndra did—something breaks in here. Whoever fucked me over didn't just torture my body. He rewired my mind. Planted traps. Deadlocks. Memories stitched shut with fire and lies. Every time I get too close to remembering... I bleed."
Lux's mouth parted, but she didn't speak. She listened.
Peter continued, his voice steadier now—carefully measured. "You want the truth? Fine. You're not the first person I've trusted. Not the first one who tried to reach me. But they're gone. Erased. And what's worse... I can't even remember how they smiled. Their faces blur like static when I try."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"When I look at you... it's like I see an echo. Something familiar that shouldn't be. Something comforting—and dangerous."
Lux's voice was trembling now. "You think I'm dangerous?"
He opened his eyes. They were sad again.
"No. I think what I feel around you is."
The confession hung between them like a wire stretched too tight.
Lux took another step forward. "Then why keep letting me close?"
Peter didn't move. "Because some part of me still believes you could be the one who helps me remember. That if I hold on long enough, maybe you'll remind me who I was."
Her eyes were wet now, but she blinked the tears away. "Then stop pushing me away."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He sighed, looking up at the stars. "Then maybe it's instinct. Maybe part of me knows the closer you get, the more I risk losing you."
Lux reached out slowly, hesitantly. Her fingers brushed his sleeve. The contact was gentle, barely there.
"You won't lose me."
Peter looked down at her hand.
And then—his expression changed.
Subtle. Quiet. A ripple beneath the surface.
Manipulation. Not because he wanted to hurt her. But because he needed her.
For what came next.
He stepped closer. Just enough that she felt the warmth of him, the quiet pull of his Guardian Aura tightening like a net around her thoughts.
"You're brave," he said softly. "But you're too kind for this world."
"I can handle it."
"You think that," Peter whispered. "But what happens when I fail again? When I lose control?"
She swallowed. "Then I'll still be here."
He tilted his head. "Even if I break you?"
"Yes," she said, without hesitation.
That word echoed louder in Peter's mind than it should have.
"Yes."
And something in his gaze changed again.
From mourning.
To intent.
The moment had shifted.
Peter didn't speak.
But something inside him coiled—tight, precise, calculated with purpose.
This was the moment. The window where vulnerability met proximity. Where trust was complete, and doubt had dissolved into soft breath and glassy eyes.
Lux stood there—so close now. Her eyes shimmered in the dim lantern light, wide with concern, tinged with something warmer. Something naive.
Her fingers still touched his sleeve.
Peter leaned in slowly, and she didn't flinch. Her breath hitched, but she didn't step back.
Because she trusted him.
Because she cared.
Because he had made her feel like the only thing anchoring him to sanity.
And maybe, just maybe... she was.
That's what made her easy.
The Guardian Aura flared softly, like a whisper of warmth beneath her skin. Dimming the edges of her logic. Smoothing the ridges of resistance. She didn't even know it was happening.
Peter lowered his voice, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
"I'm sorry I made you worry," he said, intimate. Honest.
But not really.
Lux's heart pounded. "I'm just glad you're okay."
"I'm not," he whispered, tilting his head. "But you make me feel like I could be."
That line hit her like a lullaby made of starlight and grief.
She didn't question it.
She didn't stop herself.
She rose onto the tips of her toes—hesitating only once.
And then—
She kissed him.
It was gentle at first. Awkward. Uncertain. Her lips trembled against his. It wasn't romantic—it was scared. Desperate. The kiss of someone trying to save a drowning man by clinging to him.
Peter's arms slid around her waist—not forceful, but firm.
Anchoring her.
Letting her think she was the one leading.
And that's when the symbiote struck.
The kiss deepened for just a second too long.
And in that second, something passed from Peter to her.
A thread. A whisper. A warmth that turned cold the longer it lingered.
Lux didn't feel it—not right away.
But the Guardian Aura surged.
Corrupted.
Twisted.
It seeped into her like ink in water, subtle and seductive. A thought that wasn't hers told her she was safe here. That Peter would never hurt her. That anyone who doubted him was the enemy. Syndra. Ahri. Maybe even Jinx.
They didn't understand.
But she did.
Peter needed her.
And she wouldn't let anyone take him away.
Not again.
Her fingers gripped the front of his hoodie tighter. Her body leaned in, melting against his as if clinging to that feeling.
But the moment was no longer about emotion.
It was control.
Peter gently pulled back, eyes half-lidded, voice soft against her lips. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," Lux murmured, breathless.
His smile returned—perfectly shaped.
"I know."
He pressed his forehead to hers, hiding the flicker of black that pulsed just behind his irises.
And inside Lux's mind... a gate opened.
She wouldn't notice it yet. Not until later. But a seed had been planted.
Doubt.
Devotion.
Dependency.
All from a single kiss.
Peter stroked her hair, voice low and slow.
"You're not alone either, you know."
"I know," she whispered, eyes dazed.
"You've got me now."
She nodded.
The last of her resistance melted.
And Peter?
Peter closed his eyes.
That's one.
The moonlight shimmered across the shoreline.
Lux's hands still rested lightly on Peter's chest, her fingers tangled in his hoodie like she didn't want to let go. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyes half-lidded—dazed, warm, lost in something she couldn't name.
Peter exhaled softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek, careful not to touch the spot where the tendril had entered. Not yet. Not where it would leave a mark.
He had what he needed now.
She was his.
But it had to look real.
No strings. No strings visible, at least.
"You should go back," Peter said gently.
Lux blinked slowly, like coming out of a dream. "What?"
"To the others. They'll wonder where you are."
Her brows furrowed. "They can wait. I'm not leaving you alone like this."
That was sweet.
Predictable.
He leaned his forehead back against hers, voice low. "I just need a little more time. I promise I'm okay now."
Lux hesitated—then nodded, swayed by the warmth in his voice, the calm that the symbiote was feeding directly into her thoughts like lullabies woven in silk.
"Alright," she murmured. "But... promise me you'll come back soon?"
Peter smiled again. It looked tired. It looked human. It wasn't either.
"I will."
She kissed his cheek before turning, her boots soft against the wooden steps as she started back toward the restaurant. The moment her silhouette faded into the lantern glow, Peter let his expression fall.
He turned toward the sea.
His eyes lost their softness.
And then he muttered under his breath:
"She's mine..."
The symbiote pulsed under his skin.
And for the first time in days, he breathed without pain.
The ache in his head was still there, yes—but it had less weight now. Lux's kiss had made something inside him quiet.
A pressure valve released.
A barrier cracked.
The Red Goblin's voice, once a thunderstorm in his mind, had grown quiet—but not gone. Just... watchful.
Still laughing behind glass.
"You're learning," it whispered in Peter's memory. "You know how to take. Finally."
Peter didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The Guardian Aura wrapped tighter around his shoulders like a cloak of ink, keeping him still, composed, unreadable.
But this time, something else stirred beneath it.
Guilt?
No.
Remorse?
Not quite.
A shadow of what should have been empathy.
But now it was something else—hollowed out and repurposed.
He was playing a long game.
And Lux... sweet, well-meaning Lux...
She had become a chess piece.
One he could move freely now.
One he could use.
...
Lux walked back into the restaurant alone.
Not flustered.
Not breathless.
Not her.
Her face was smooth, almost serene, as if she'd practiced wearing this expression in front of a mirror—like she'd ironed out every wrinkle of emotion that had once been stitched into her eyes. The golden glow that usually clung to her steps seemed dimmer, more calculated. Not gone. But caged.
The door clicked shut behind her, and all conversation—what little remained—fell silent.
Ten sets of eyes followed her like shadows.
Ahri, seated near the head of the table, was the first to speak. "Where is he?"
Lux didn't stop walking. Her arms were folded across her chest, her steps light but deliberate. "He needed air. Time to cool off."
Her voice was level. Flat. The kind of calm that made Janna's stomach tighten.
"And?" Ahri asked, her voice tighter now.
Lux stopped at the corner of the table, gaze sweeping across them all, but barely resting on any one face.
"And he's fine," she answered, her tone sharper now, aimed like a dagger. "Just needed a moment away from people who like to test how far they can poke a bear."
Her eyes met Syndra's—just for a breath.
Syndra didn't flinch. But the smirk she'd worn since Peter's departure was nowhere to be found.
Jinx leaned forward, brows raised. "Wait—what happened? Did he say something?"
"No," Lux said too quickly. "He just needed space."
A beat.
Then another.
Ahri narrowed her eyes. "That's it?"
Lux's fingers curled tighter around her folded arms. "Yes."
Soraka, ever gentle, leaned forward slightly. "Was he... upset?"
Lux hesitated. Just slightly. "He's tired. Hurt. But not dangerous."
Poppy grunted. "Still weird how you're acting like it's no big deal."
Lux turned toward her. "Because it isn't."
The response was so swift, so mechanical, that even Lulu stopped twirling her straw.
"You're telling us," Lulu said slowly, "you found him after he almost exploded in front of Syndra, talked to him, and now everything's okay?"
Lux offered a smile.
It didn't reach her eyes.
"He just needed someone to listen."
Jinx blinked. "You listened?"
"I did."
"And?"
"He talked."
Poppy squinted. "You're being really... efficient."
"I've had a lot of practice," Lux replied coolly.
The table fell quiet again.
Janna's eyes hadn't left her. She studied the cadence of Lux's words, the unflinching posture, the sharpness behind the smile. It wasn't just that Lux was calm.
It was the wrong kind of calm.
Then Lux's gaze shifted to Jinx.
"He's at the arcade," she said quietly. "Still cooling off. You might want to check on him."
Jinx blinked. "Wait—what?"
Lux stepped closer. Her voice dropped low, like a secret. "He likes the quiet. The hum of machines. Said it helps him think."
Jinx narrowed her eyes. "And you're telling me this why?"
Lux tilted her head. "Because I'm letting you win."
The table froze.
Poppy blinked. "You're what?"
Jinx's mouth opened, then closed again. "...What does that mean?"
Lux stepped past them, drifting toward an empty chair near the window. "It means what it means."
Her tone had an edge—too sharp to be indifference. Too flat to be sincerity.
Jinx stared at her, searching for the usual signs. The fidgeting. The defensiveness. The glare.
But there was nothing.
"You're not jealous?" she asked slowly.
Lux looked up, eyes cool. "Why would I be? It's not a competition."
"Since when?"
Lux didn't answer.
Janna finally spoke, her voice quiet but pointed. "You seemed pretty protective of him earlier."
Lux didn't blink. "That was before I understood what he needed."
"Which is?" Soraka asked gently.
"Peace," Lux said. "Not noise. Not conflict. Not games."
"And Jinx isn't noise?" Poppy asked.
Lux looked at her. "She listens."
Jinx tilted her head. "That sounded almost like a compliment."
"Take it how you want."
Poppy stood slowly, arms crossed. "You're not acting like yourself."
Lux's eyes flicked to her. "Maybe that's a good thing."
No one spoke after that.
Jinx stood slowly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Right. Okay. Guess I'll go check on him then."
She started walking, then paused at the door. Looked back one last time.
Lux didn't return the glance.
Didn't move.
Didn't care.
The door shut softly behind Jinx.
And the moment she left, the air grew heavy.
Lux sat.
Not a sound escaped her as the rest of the table lingered in stunned silence. Her presence no longer warmed the room—it chilled it.
She didn't blink often. Her gaze drifted occasionally to the window, as if watching a storm only she could see. And yet... she smiled. Not sweetly. Not in the way Lux used to, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
This one was colder. Like she knew something the rest didn't. Like she'd already made her choice.
Poppy was the first to move, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm sorry, but... no offense, you're acting like you got brain-swapped with a mannequin."
Lux looked over at her. Calm. Polite. "Would you rather I come back screaming?"
"That'd be normal," Poppy muttered.
Lulu leaned closer to Pix. "Definitely not a mannequin. Mannequins twitch when you poke them."
No one laughed.
Janna finally spoke. "Did something happen out there?"
Lux didn't answer immediately. Her fingers folded delicately atop the table, her posture flawless. "He was in pain. Deep pain. He needed silence. I gave it to him."
Ahri narrowed her gaze. "You say that like it was... transactional."
Lux's head tilted slightly. "Isn't that how most things are?"
That earned a visible flinch from Janna.
Even Syndra looked a bit caught off guard by the sheer bluntness.
Miss Fortune let out a dry breath. "So... are we just pretending you didn't basically threaten Syndra on your way in?"
"I wasn't threatening," Lux said with a faint shrug. "I was clarifying."
Syndra's brows lifted, amused but guarded. "That's a new tone from you."
"I'm tired of playing nice," Lux said. "He's not the villain here. If anything, we're the ones pushing him to become something he doesn't want to be."
Ahri tapped a finger against her glass. "You've known him what—three weeks?"
Lux met her gaze evenly. "Long enough."
"That doesn't sound like you either," Soraka said gently.
"It's still me," Lux replied. "Just clearer."
Ezreal, who had been quiet until now, looked between them all. "So... we're not going to address the fact she's talking like a cultist?"
Lux's smile returned. Barely. "Funny, coming from someone who thinks lasers solve everything."
"I mean... they do," Ezreal muttered, slouching back.
Poppy leaned in again, brow tight. "Lux, when you left, you were upset. You were shaking. You were furious with Syndra. Now you're... not."
"I processed it," Lux said simply.
Janna shook her head. "Not this fast. Not like this."
"I don't need your approval to feel different," Lux said. "I saw something. Heard something. And now I understand."
Poppy frowned. "Understand what?"
"That he's not who you think he is."
A pause.
"And who is he?" Ahri asked softly.
Lux smiled again. It didn't touch her eyes. "Someone who's seen more than we ever will. Someone who doesn't need our judgment. Just our trust."
"And if we don't give it?" Syndra asked, tone dangerously casual.
Lux looked at her, head tilted. "Then I hope you never need him."
A silence spread across the table like frost.
Lulu's ears twitched. "Okay, now I'm creeped out."
Jinx's absence felt heavier now, like they'd unknowingly sent her into the deep end of a pool with no idea how far the bottom went.
Soraka folded her hands in her lap. "You care for him."
Lux gave no answer.
No confirmation.
No denial.
Just the same unreadable quiet.
Janna turned toward her slowly. "Lux. Are you sure you're okay?"
Lux finally blinked. "I'm better than I've ever been."
It was a perfect lie.
Delivered like truth.
Lulu shrank in her chair. "She's so not okay."
Poppy turned to Janna. "Do we tell Jinx to come back?"
Lux stood.
"No," she said, voice like glass over water. "Let her go. Let her see what I saw."
"And if she doesn't?" Ahri asked.
"She will," Lux said, already walking toward the doors again.
Janna half-rose from her seat. "Where are you going?"
Lux paused at the threshold. Her back to them. "To breathe."
The door creaked as it opened—and then she was gone, her silhouette swallowed by the evening air outside.
No one spoke.
Not for a long moment.
Miss Fortune finally broke the silence. "So... anyone else feel like we're all on the wrong side of the story?"
Syndra gave a slow, sideways smirk. "I don't know. But I think we just lost her."
Ahri's stare lingered on the door. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
"No," she said. "We didn't lose her."
Her hands clenched beneath the table.
"She gave herself away."
...
The neon lights flickered overhead, casting rhythmic pulses of magenta and cerulean across the slick floor of the arcade. The quiet hum of machines buzzed in the background, muffled by the occasional chirp of a victory sound effect or the dull thud of a skee-ball crashing into its wooden cradle.
Jinx stepped through the front doors, pausing just past the threshold.
Her eyes scanned the dim space, already locking onto the shadow near the claw machine.
He hadn't moved.
Same hoodie. Same stillness. Same unshakable presence, like a statue carved out of something just barely restrained.
Her heart kicked once. Then again. A jitter of nerves—not fear. Curiosity. Maybe even anticipation.
She made her way over slowly, hands stuffed into the pockets of her bomber jacket, the soles of her boots sticking lightly to the polished floor with each step. There weren't many people in the arcade tonight—just a couple of kids trash-talking at the air hockey table and a bored-looking employee behind the prize counter with headphones in. No one would overhear.
Just the way she liked it.
"Y'know," she said, her voice light, teasing, "most people choose something a little less ominous than 'brooding silence next to a claw machine' when they bail on dinner."
Peter didn't look at her at first. His eyes remained fixed on the glass window of the machine, his hand lightly gripping the joystick. The flickering light made the black of his eyes seem deeper somehow. Endless.
"Didn't know I ghosted," he replied after a beat. "Thought I was being polite."
Jinx smirked and leaned against the side of the machine. "Oh yeah, very polite. Nothing says classy exit like vanishing mid-sentence and leaving everyone at the table to wonder if you were gonna explode."
The claw dropped inside the machine, completely missing the stuffed rabbit it had hovered over. Peter didn't react. His hand let the joystick go.
He finally turned toward her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'm fine."
"You sure about that?" Jinx tilted her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. "Because that looked a whole lot like a migraine and a panic attack had a baby and named it after you."
Peter chuckled—dry, but not dismissive. "That's a vivid way to put it."
"I'm a vivid kind of girl."
She stepped a little closer, her voice softening. "Seriously though. Lux came back looking like she'd seen a ghost—and not in the cool, spooky way. More like... the worried-wife kinda way."
Peter's smile didn't fade, but it didn't grow either. His eyes were unreadable. "We just talked."
"Uh-huh." Jinx arched an eyebrow. "And now I'm here because she said you 'needed company.' Her words. Not mine. Which is weird, by the way. Because last time I checked, you and I were kinda, y'know, in silent competition for your attention."
"That a problem?" Peter asked smoothly, the question floating out like smoke—neutral in tone, but just sharp enough to sting if it wanted to.
Jinx blinked, caught a little off guard. "What? No. It's just... weird, okay? She practically shoved me at you like I was being handed a mission or something. No fight. No snark. No 'back off, he's mine.' Just... go."
Peter leaned against the machine, one arm resting across the top, his posture casual but perfectly measured. "And you accepted it."
Jinx didn't answer right away. She shifted her weight onto one leg, eyes narrowing. "I didn't say I hated the idea."
There was that smirk again. Barely there, but undeniable.
"I figured."
They stood like that for a moment, the neon glow reflecting off his dark clothing, making him look like he belonged more to the shadows than the flickering lights. Jinx studied him—the shape of his face, the edge in his eyes, the casual smoothness in his voice. She'd seen people play cool before. Seen them act like they didn't care, didn't feel, didn't bleed.
But this wasn't an act.
Whatever was going on under the surface, it wasn't fine.
"Peter," she said, gentler now, "did you ask Lux to tell me to come here?"
He met her gaze. Direct. Calm.
"Would it matter if I did?"
Jinx swallowed. "A little. Kinda makes me wonder why."
Peter stepped forward, just enough to shift the space between them. Not invading. Not aggressive. Just... closer.
"I thought you might want to spend time with me."
Jinx's heart did that thing again. Just once. A kick.
"And if I say yes?" she asked. "If I say that's exactly what I want?"
Peter tilted his head. His voice dropped just slightly.
"Then we're already where we're supposed to be."
Jinx hesitated, her usual bravado taking a step back. The glimmer in her eyes wasn't gone—it never really left her—but something behind it softened. Just a flicker of vulnerability, like the curtain dropped for half a second before she remembered who she was.
But Peter saw it. Of course he did.
He always did.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a rare motion of unease from someone who usually walked like a storm with legs. "You've got this way of talking, y'know? Like... like you've seen too much. Like you're always halfway out the door, even when you're standing still."
Peter didn't respond immediately. His gaze lowered slightly, as if acknowledging something—but not quite accepting it.
"I've been through... a lot," he said simply. "More than most."
"Yeah," Jinx murmured, "we all have."
But she knew even as she said it that it wasn't the same. She'd read pain in people before. Lux, how she tried so hard to unite the team, but seemed so inexperience and clumsy. Ahri looked like someone whose afraid of connections, as if she had lost people before and didn't wanted to see it happen again.
But Peter? His pain wasn't a crack.
It was a collapse.
Still, she didn't press.
Instead, she let herself move closer—shoulder brushing his. A moment of contact so brief and light, it could've been dismissed as nothing.
Peter didn't pull away.
He didn't lean in either.
That was the thing with him. Every inch he gave felt deliberate. Every breath he allowed you to hear felt like it was earned.
"So," Jinx said, trying to ease the mood back up, "what are we playing first?"
Peter glanced toward the machines. "Something easy. You like to cheat."
"Only if I'm losing."
"I don't lose."
She grinned. "Then I guess we're both gonna have fun."
And they did.
They moved through the arcade like a dance. Jinx dragged him toward the basketball hoops first—she sunk three shots in a row, tongue poking out of her mouth as she laughed and mocked him with a dramatic spin.
Peter followed up by sinking five—perfect form, effortless.
"Okay, rude," she muttered.
"Just honest."
Then it was whack-a-mole, where Jinx swung so wildly she broke a mallet handle and got them both kicked off the machine. Peter's reaction was a calm, quiet chuckle. Jinx swore she caught the corner of his mouth twitch again—almost a smile.
The more time passed, the more the tension dulled. It never vanished completely—Peter was too tightly wired for that—but something about her chaos balanced the structure in him. Where he was restraint, she was release.
But underneath it all... he was still watching her.
Not in a creepy way.
Not even in a flirtatious way.
In a precise way.
Every expression she made, every way she moved, every time her voice dipped or rose—it was like he was logging it. Understanding it. Mapping it.
And Jinx, oblivious to the deeper intention, just enjoyed being seen.
Actually seen.
That was the trick with Peter. That's what made it so easy.
He didn't need to lie.
He just needed to understand.
And by the time they were back near the claw machine—laughing from a racing game where she'd spun them both into digital traffic three times—Jinx was standing just a little closer than before.
"I'm starting to think you're not as emotionally constipated as you pretend," she said, nudging him.
Peter leaned an elbow on the machine again, calm and unreadable.
"You just caught me on a good night."
Jinx looked up at him, grin fading just slightly. "Was Lux the one who made it a good night?"
The air shifted.
Not tense. But... heavier.
Peter didn't move. Didn't flinch.
"We talked," he repeated again. "That's all."
"She came back different."
"So did I."
Jinx studied him—really studied him this time.
"Did you tell her to send me?"
Peter's gaze met hers. That same infinite calm.
"No."
"But you're glad she did?"
His response took a second longer this time.
"Yes."
That did something to her. Not big. Not dramatic.
But her expression faltered.
Just a little.
And in that exact moment, Peter knew—
She was already his.
She just didn't realize what that meant.
Yet.
Jinx hesitated, her usual bravado taking a step back. The playful grin lingered, but her eyes... her eyes were watching him differently now.
"You always talk like that?" she asked, feigning nonchalance. "Like everything's just... some big riddle."
Peter tilted his head slightly. "Do I?"
"Yeah. Like you're narrating a noir film or something. Gotta say, it's kind of annoying."
"Then why'd you come?"
That made her blink. His voice wasn't sharp—just honest. Blunt. It cut through the haze of neon like a clean strike.
Jinx clicked her tongue and rocked back on her heels, then looked around the arcade. "Because I wanted to."
He gave a small nod, letting her words hang.
For a moment, it felt like neither of them knew what to say next. The claw machine kept cycling through its idle animation, the little LED lights blinking around the edges like a heartbeat. A cheesy voice sample said something about "Try your luck!" but it was distant. Faint. Forgotten.
"I saw how you looked when you walked out," Jinx said finally, her tone softening. "You were trying to keep it together, but I've seen that look before. That cracked armor kind of look. I've worn it myself."
Peter's expression didn't change, but the silence that followed carried weight.
"I'm not here to dig into you," she added. "Not like Syndra."
"Then what are you here for?"
She met his gaze. "To see if you're real."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Real?"
"Yeah. Not some black-suited, world-ending mystery guy who walks around like he's carrying everyone else's sins." She shrugged again, more subdued this time. "Just... a guy. Someone who hurts. Someone who maybe laughs sometimes. Maybe even has fun."
Peter let the words sink in. His hands slipped into his pockets. "You think I'm faking it?"
"No," Jinx said. "I think you're drowning in it."
The lights of the arcade seemed to dim for a moment. Or maybe that was just Peter's expression shifting—barely, but perceptibly.
"And what happens if I am?"
Jinx took a step closer, close enough to feel the ambient chill of his aura. "Then maybe it's time someone swam out to meet you. Before you go under."
Peter stared at her, reading her the way only someone like him could—scanning everything from the way her pupils contracted under the light, to the way she tucked her hands into her sleeves. Defensive posture. Guarded openness.
"You've lost people," he said, not as a question.
Jinx smiled—but it didn't reach her eyes. "Everyone has. But some of us got used to the empty seats."
Peter looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up.
"We didn't just talk," he said suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Lux and I. We didn't just talk."
Jinx stiffened. "So what then?"
Peter exhaled, the breath slow and measured. "She was trying to help. She thought I needed comfort. Maybe she was right."
Jinx waited.
"She kissed me."
The air in the arcade shifted. Even the machines seemed quieter.
Jinx blinked once. Her head tilted just slightly, like she hadn't heard him right—or didn't want to. Her lips parted, but no words came out. The flickering neon lights reflected in her eyes, making them shimmer like fractured glass.
"...You kissed her?" she asked, voice flat. Too calm.
Peter didn't blink. "She kissed me."
"Oh." Her hands dropped from her hips, falling loosely to her sides. "Right. Big difference."
There was a beat of silence.
Then came the sharp, hollow laugh.
"Of course she did. Little miss golden girl with her perfect sparkles and her guilt-ridden puppy eyes." Jinx took a step back, shaking her head. "What'd she do, cry until you felt sorry enough to lean in?"
Peter didn't answer.
That made it worse.
Jinx's shoulders tensed. "I'm not mad," she said, unconvincingly. "I mean—I'm not mad mad. Why would I be? We're not, like, a thing. We were just talking. Playing games. Having a laugh."
Her grin returned, sharp and forced. "That's what I do, right? I'm the fun one. The chaos girl. Disposable."
Peter watched her, silent.
"And you?" she snapped. "You're the brooding mystery guy who everyone wants to fix. Everyone wants to save. I should've seen that one coming. You collect pity like trading cards, don't you?"
Still, he said nothing.
"Say something!" she demanded, voice cracking at the edges.
"I didn't plan for it to happen," he replied softly. "But it did."
Jinx's fists clenched. Her eyes burned—not with tears, but rage. Not heartbreak, but something more dangerous: humiliation.
"Is that why she told me to come here?" she spat. "So I could keep you company? Was that your idea too? What, am I just—next in line?"
Peter's voice remained eerily calm. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" she snapped. "You sit there with your sad eyes and your broken voice, and you make everyone feel like they're special for getting close. Like they're the one who finally cracked you open. But you're not cracked open, are you? You're just hollow. You're just—"
She stopped.
Because his eyes—those strange, impossibly deep eyes—locked with hers.
And for a moment, all that fury, all that rebellion—it froze.
Peter took a slow step toward her.
"You think I'm playing you?" he asked, voice low, steady. "You think I wanted any of this?"
Jinx didn't answer.
"You saw what I did back there. To that thing. You saw what it took out of me. What it brought back. You don't know what I've lost, Jinx. You don't know what it's like to forget entire lifetimes of people you once loved—and feel it anyway. Like ghosts pressing against your chest."
He was in front of her now, close enough for his voice to settle directly in her bones.
"I'm not hollow. I'm hurting. And I didn't ask Lux to kiss me. But she did. And it didn't fix anything."
Jinx's breath hitched.
Peter leaned in slightly, voice softer now. "But you're still here. Aren't you?"
She blinked rapidly, her glare faltering.
"I didn't ask you to come," he said. "But you did. So ask yourself—was it really about her? Or was it always about us?"
The silence stretched, thick and charged.
Jinx felt it in her chest—the beat of something warm, the echo of something real. But underneath it, something darker slithered. The part of her that whispered don't trust him suddenly seemed far away. Like a signal cutting out.
Peter reached out and gently, deliberately, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"I'm not asking you to save me," he said. "But maybe... I don't want to be alone right now."
Jinx's anger fractured completely.
She looked down, away, trying to hide the war behind her eyes—but it was too late. His Guardian Aura was in full effect. Soothing. Inviting. Disarming.
Manipulating.
When she looked back up, her glare was gone.
Replaced by something else.
Longing. Uncertainty. And the smallest hint of surrender.
"...Fine," she murmured, barely audible. "But I'm not sharing tokens."
Peter smiled—not smug, not triumphant. Just warm.
He didn't move.
He stood there in the dim arcade glow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to let his words soak through whatever cracks Jinx had left.
That's two.
He didn't say it again. He didn't need to. The symbiote whispered it for him, its tendrils flickering just beneath the skin like black veins pulsing with victory.
Jinx tried to pull herself together—straighten her posture, rebuild some of that fire—but the damage had been done. Her arms crossed again, more out of instinct than defiance, but the defensive weight behind the gesture was gone.
She was still here.
She hadn't run.
And that told Peter everything he needed to know.
He turned, casually now, and started walking toward the rhythm game cabinet near the back wall. Its lights blinked in erratic patterns—somehow matching the tempo of his manipulation. He didn't look back when he spoke.
"Dance battle?" he offered.
Jinx raised a brow. "Seriously? Again?"
Peter shrugged, selecting a song. "What? You said we were here to hang out. Gotta earn those arcade tokens somehow."
There it was—that shift in tone. That same easy, casual banter that had disarmed her before. He wielded it like a scalpel now. Precision. Charm. And control.
Jinx narrowed her eyes but followed him anyway.
"I'm going to beat you this time," she muttered, stepping onto the pad beside him.
He flashed her a sidelong glance. "You wished."
The track started—fast, erratic, chaotic. Perfect.
And somehow, Peter kept up.
No, more than kept up—he moved with a kind of fluid precision that shouldn't have matched his frame. Every beat was hit, every flick of movement perfectly timed, like he wasn't playing the game so much as reading it before it happened.
Jinx matched him, at first.
Her chaotic rhythm against his calculated form.
But her focus was breaking—cracked by the mess of emotions still knotting her insides. That conversation. That kiss. That look in his eyes. And now this—this strange dance of fun and friction.
Peter didn't speak, but he didn't have to.
His Guardian Aura was still active. It pulsed gently beneath the music, weaving through the air like a scent, like a suggestion. Her shoulders relaxed. Her heart pounded, not with anger anymore, but something that felt dangerously close to infatuation.
He made her feel seen.
He made her feel like the only one who mattered.
And he knew exactly what he was doing.
The song ended. Peter won.
Jinx let out a breathless laugh and collapsed onto a nearby couch. "DAMN IT! You win this round, spider-boy."
Peter stepped off the platform, sweatless, unbothered, a half-smile playing at his lips. "Told you."
Jinx watched him as he sat beside her, just close enough to make her stomach flutter, just far enough to keep her guessing.
"You know," she muttered, brushing blue hair from her face, "this is seriously messed up."
Peter turned slightly. "What is?"
"All of it," she said. "This whole thing. Me. You. Lux. The others. I don't even know what we're doing anymore. You show up, wreck a cosmic horror like it's your weekend chore, and now we're acting like we're just... people."
He tilted his head. "Aren't we?"
Jinx didn't respond.
Because in that moment, she didn't know.
Everything about him was wrong—and yet, everything felt so intoxicatingly right. She wasn't supposed to like this. Wasn't supposed to feel like this. But the warmth of his presence kept pulling her in. Stronger than logic. Stronger than anger.
Stronger than her.
Peter leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees. He stared at the flashing arcade floor.
"I don't sleep," he said suddenly.
Jinx blinked. "What?"
"Not really," he continued. "Not since the fall. Not since... Thanos." His voice trembled for the first time. Not much, but enough. "When your world ends, and you survive, there's a part of you that never stops hearing it. The scream of it all breaking."
She didn't know what to say.
So she didn't.
He looked at her then. And his expression was carved from something far older than he looked—grief dressed up as stoicism. Vulnerability masquerading as strength.
It hit her in a place she didn't know was still open.
And it was in that moment, when the weight of everything he carried crashed silently between them, that Jinx stopped trying to resist.
He didn't kiss her.
Not yet.
He just leaned slightly closer. Inches. Not touching. But his eyes never left hers.
"I'm not trying to confuse you," he said softly. "I just... I don't want to be alone anymore."
Jinx's breath caught.
There was something devastating in the way he said it—not dramatic, not performative, just raw. Honest. If it was a lie, it was one so well-worn and buried in truth that even she couldn't tell the difference.
Her lips parted slightly. She wanted to say something, anything—but the words never came.
Peter didn't press her.
He didn't move any closer.
He just let the moment linger, heavy and slow, like rain in a broken city. Like two ghosts pretending to be alive for just a little while longer.
"Do you ever feel like... no matter what you do, people still see you the same?" Jinx asked suddenly. Her voice was small. Not her usual manic pitch, but something much more vulnerable. "Like you're trying so damn hard not to break something—but everyone's just waiting for you to snap anyway?"
Peter turned his head slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet again.
"All the time."
And somehow, that answer—so simple—hit her harder than anything else.
Jinx looked down at her gloves. The fingerless fabric was scuffed, burned in some places, worn like armor that couldn't quite keep everything out. Or in.
"They say I'm the wild card. The time bomb. That if I get too close to anyone, I'll ruin them."
"You haven't ruined me," Peter said.
She looked at him, searching his face for the lie—but found none.
"Not yet," she whispered.
They sat in silence for a while. Long enough for the neon lights to cycle through three full color loops. Long enough for the clerk at the counter to change the song on his playlist.
Long enough for Jinx to almost forget what had happened before.
Almost.
"So," she said eventually, forcing a crooked grin, "how many other girls have you pulled this whole 'sad boy mystery with eyes like dying stars' thing on?"
Peter didn't flinch. "Only the ones worth the truth."
Jinx scoffed. "Smooth."
"I'm honest when it matters."
"Are you?"
He nodded.
She stared at him for a moment, then huffed and leaned back into the couch, eyes closed. "Gods, you're such a mess."
"So are you."
"Yeah," she sighed, tilting her head toward him again. "But I don't pretend I'm not."
That got a real smile from Peter. Small. Tired. But real.
"No," he said. "You just wear it better."
Jinx's cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked away—furious with herself for reacting.
Peter let her have the space.
That was the genius of it.
He never pushed. Never forced.
He just opened the door and waited for them to walk in.
And Jinx? She was already inside.
Deep down, some part of her still screamed for caution. Still whispered that he was dangerous, that this was too easy, that people like them didn't get this kind of calm without paying a price.
But the rest of her?
It just wanted to be seen.
Wanted to be understood.
And Peter, with his gravity, with his grief, with the subtle pull of his Guardian Aura laced through every syllable—he made her feel like he did.
"I hate you," she muttered.
He arched a brow.
"I hate that you make me feel like this."
He didn't reply. He just looked at her like he knew.
Because he did.
"Fine," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "I'm here."
Peter didn't move.
He didn't smile.
He didn't even look at her right away.
He just existed beside her—like a presence that bent gravity, like a singularity made of quiet pain. His shoulder barely grazed hers, but the warmth of it pulsed in slow waves, like heat from a dying star.
Jinx sat there for a moment, staring forward, arms folded loosely around her knees. It wasn't comfort—it was containment. She didn't trust her hands right now. Didn't trust her voice either.
Because something was unraveling.
And it terrified her how much she wanted it to.
The silence stretched, not awkward but... charged. Taut like a wire drawn tight between two collapsing towers. She could hear the hum of the lights above them, the buzz of the arcade machines, the thump of some slow synth track looping through the speakers—but all of it faded under the weight of what she felt right here.
And then Peter spoke.
"You don't have to stay."
His voice was so soft she almost didn't hear it.
But she did.
She turned her head to look at him, the edge of her bangs falling across her eyes. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No."
He said it too quickly.
Too honestly.
Jinx's lips twitched upward, but there was no humor behind it. Just something raw. Fragile. "Then don't say things like that."
Peter met her gaze.
And for a moment, everything stilled.
There were no lies in his expression.
No manipulation in his tone.
Just the same haunted boy who looked like he'd seen the end of a thousand worlds—and remembered every one of them by name.
"You know what's messed up?" Jinx said suddenly, her voice a low murmur. "I think I liked you more when I thought you were just mysterious and sad. That was easier. Now you're... real. That's way worse."
Peter tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"Because now I care."
She looked away, almost ashamed to admit it. "And I hate caring. I hate what it does to me."
Peter didn't flinch.
Didn't try to reassure her.
He just whispered, "Then don't care."
"But I already do," she said.
The quiet between them burned hotter now. Heavier.
And when she looked back—when their eyes locked again—something shifted.
Something tipped.
It wasn't lust. Not really.
It wasn't even romance.
It was gravity. It was momentum. It was a black hole swallowing hesitation and reason all at once.
She leaned forward first.
Not quickly. Not impulsively.
Like every inch she crossed was a decision carved in stardust and fear.
Peter didn't stop her.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't move at all.
He just waited.
Let her come to him.
And when her lips met his—
—it wasn't fireworks.
It wasn't cinematic.
It was quiet.
Devastating.
Final.
Her breath caught. His didn't.
For a second, she felt weightless.
Then—
Something cold pulsed beneath her skin.
Subtle. Subterranean.
Like black ink spreading through warm water.
Her fingers curled into his hoodie.
The kiss deepened—not because it was passionate, but because it was consuming.
Jinx didn't know why her chest tightened.
Didn't understand why the back of her mind suddenly felt fogged.
Like a thick, static cloud had settled just behind her thoughts.
It wasn't painful.
It wasn't invasive.
It felt like... sinking.
Like falling asleep in someone else's dream.
Peter's hand moved—gently, deliberately—resting along her jaw. Not possessive. Not forceful.
Just anchored.
A current passed between them—silent and invisible.
The symbiote didn't leap.
It merged.
Subtle tendrils of corruption threading beneath her skin like a song she couldn't hear but already knew by heart. Her mind didn't register it. Her instincts didn't fight it. Because the kiss wasn't just a connection.
It was a claim.
By the time she pulled back, her eyes were glassy.
Peter didn't say anything.
Neither did she.
They just stared at each other, breath mingling in the dim glow of the arcade lights. Her lips still parted slightly. His eyes darker now. Deeper.
Jinx blinked once—slowly.
And Peter could feel it.
The shift.
The moment the symbiote whispered its first thought into the creases of her mind.
He makes the pain quieter, doesn't he?
She didn't respond aloud.
She didn't have to.
Peter's smile returned.
The real one.
That's two Star Guardians down.
To Be Continued...