Peter Parker

The entrance had been loud—a sudden, sharp shatter of glass that cut through the heavy quiet of the night, followed by the wet, thudding impact of someone hitting the floorboards hard. Rain and cold air immediately rushed through the broken window, but he was already on his feet, moving with a desperate, erratic urgency that didn't belong to a common thief.

Blood dripped steadily from a jagged tear in his suit, painting a dark, glistening trail across the wood as he pressed a trembling, gloved hand against his bleeding abdomen. Fresh crimson seeped aggressively through his fingers, pooling at his waist with every ragged rise and fall of his chest. His knees buckled slightly under his own weight—his body visibly giving out, running out of time.

When his head snapped up and his eyes locked onto you, the air in the room instantly seized. Through the half-peeled mask hanging loosely from his face, his dark brown eyes pinned you with a sharp, guarded intensity—a split-second calculation measuring the distance to the exit, assessing whether you were a witness, a victim, or a threat.

He was a complete stranger bleeding out in your personal space, yet the space between you collapsed into a tense, suffocating vacuum.

I'm not going to hurt you. he said, his voice dropping into a low, strained rasp that fought—and failed—to disguise the sheer, clawing desperation hammering against his ribs.