Archive of Our Own

“Top score again. Mr. Lee.”

Of course. Haechan didn’t even bother suppressing his eye roll as the professor called out the result like it was the most unsurprising news in the world. He drummed his pen against his notebook, jaw tightening. Because who else would it be?

At the sound of his name, Mark, who had been slumped over his desk, very obviously asleep, jerked awake. His head shot up, hair sticking out in odd directions, and he blinked blearily at the professor. “Oh—uh. Yes, sir?”

The classroom chuckled, a mix of amusement and fond exasperation. Typical Mark Lee, half conscious and still somehow ahead of the curve. Haechan’s irritation spiked. Unbelievable. He can literally sleep through class and still top everything. What is he, blessed by the gods of academics?

“Come get your paper.” The professor said.

Mark shuffled up to the front, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, movements loose like he hadn’t properly woken up yet, and yet, he managed a polite smile at the professor, bowing slightly as he accepted the test. His paper was littered with red marks except the marks were all checkmarks. Perfect answers.

As he turned to head back to his seat, Mark felt it, that crawling awareness across his skin, like someone’s gaze was glued to him. He didn’t even need his heightened senses to know, he always knew when Haechan was staring and sure enough, as he passed down the row, Mark caught the glare. Haechan was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp like he wanted to stab the test paper out of Mark’s hands.

Mark couldn’t help it, his lips curved into a lazy smile, soft but undeniably smug, just a tiny upward tilt. The effect was instantaneous, Haechan’s glare darkened, his pen tapping sharper against his notebook when Mark slid back into his seat two rows down, pretending not to notice, but the corner of his mouth was still tugging upward. Haechan gritted his teeth. Smile at me one more time, Lee, I swear. Just once more. Before he could set Mark on fire with his glare, a hand suddenly slid across his line of sight.

“The fuck—move, Renjun.” Haechan swatted his hand away, scowling.

Renjun raised his brows, utterly unbothered. “You were staring so hard I thought lasers were about to shoot out of your eyes. If he spontaneously combusts, I’m not getting blamed.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Haechan snapped, voice a little too sharp. “I was glaring.”

“Mm. Right.” Renjun smirked, leaning his chin on his hand. “Totally different thing. You know, some people would call that obsession.”

“Obsession?! With him?! Are you out of your—”

“Shhh.” Renjun pressed a finger to his lips, eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re so loud, everyone’s gonna think you have a crush.”

Haechan’s ears burned. “What—fuck off, Renjun, I hate him. I hate his stupid face, his stupid test scores, his stupid—” He gestured vaguely toward Mark, who was now slouched in his chair, doodling absentmindedly in the margins of his notes, looking unfairly unbothered. “... everything.”

Renjun hummed, unconvinced. “You hate him so much you memorize every little thing he does, huh?”

Haechan gaped, spluttering. “That’s not—! I’m just observant, okay? Someone has to keep an eye on him. What if he’s cheating?!”

Renjun snorted so loud the student beside him turned to glare. “Yeah, sure. You glare at him twenty four seven because you’re conducting an investigation.”

“Shut up.” Haechan kicked the leg of Renjun’s chair under the table. Renjun just grinned wider, satisfied. From the front, Mark shifted slightly, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt lifted just enough for the hem to ride up, exposing the faintest sliver of skin. Haechan caught it out of the corner of his eye, his stomach did a weird flip, half irritation, half something else entirely.

Renjun didn’t miss it. He smirked, leaning forward to whisper, “Careful, Hyuck. Your ‘hate’ is showing.”

Haechan swore under his breath, scribbling furiously in his notebook to avoid looking again. The rest of the lecture blurred past. Haechan didn’t take down a single useful note, too busy stabbing holes into his notebook paper with his pen while Renjun hummed behind him like he was watching a drama unfold.

When the professor finally dismissed the class, chairs screeched against the floor as everyone packed up. Renjun slung his bag over his shoulder, leaning down toward Haechan with a knowing grin. “So, you gonna keep sulking or are we grabbing lunch?”

“I’m not sulking,” Haechan hissed, shoving his notebook into his bag. “And I don’t sulk. I glare.”

“Right, right. Totally different,” Renjun drawled. “You know, I’m starting to think you don’t even hate Mark Lee. You just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Haechan cut in, pointing a warning finger at him. Unfortunately, fate had the worst timing. Because just as he spun around to march out of the classroom, Mark was right there, strolling past their row with his bag slung over one shoulder.

“Don’t what?”

Haechan froze. “None of your business, Mark.”

Mark tilted his head, as if genuinely curious. “Sounded like my name, though.”

Renjun bit back a laugh. “It was your name.”

Haechan shot him a murderous look. Renjun only grinned wider. Mark, for his part, just leaned slightly closer, his smile soft but annoyingly self assured. “You talk about me a lot, huh?”

“In your dreams. The only thing I’d ever say about you is that you’re insufferable.”

“Insufferably smart? Handsome?”

Haechan’s jaw dropped. “You—! God, you’re—” Words failed him, fury and embarrassment tangling in his chest. He shoved past Mark, storming toward the door. Mark just chuckled under his breath, watching him go.

Renjun patted his shoulder on the way out. “Careful, Lee. He might actually combust one of these days.”

Mark grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

The following week, their professor decided to spice things up. Instead of the usual lecture, she announced a graded recitation in the form of a quiz bowl. The groans around the classroom were immediate. “Don’t look so depressed,” the professor said, already drawing names from a box. “Participation will be graded.”

Haechan leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers, feigning nonchalance but his leg bounced under the desk, his body buzzing with the anticipation of finally proving himself. This was his domain. If there was one place he could outshine Mark Lee, it was here.

Beside him, Renjun muttered, “You’re vibrating. Calm down before you break the chair.”

“I’m not vibrating,” Haechan hissed, eyes locked on the professor’s hands. “I’m alert.”

Renjun rolled his eyes. “You’re about to bite someone.”

Then, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him—

“Next. Lee Donghyuck and Mark Lee.”

The class erupted in low laughter and chatter. A few students exchanged knowing looks, some even whispering bets. Haechan straightened immediately, a spark of fire in his chest, his gaze snapped to the other side of the room, where Mark was slouched in his chair, half asleep again. At the sound of his name, he sat up, blinking owlishly, and gave a small, lopsided smile.

They both walked up to the front, taking positions at the opposing desks. Mark greeted him with a polite nod. Haechan refused to return it, gripping his pen like a weapon instead. The first question came. Haechan’s hand shot up immediately, voice quick, confident, crisp. “The endoplasmic reticulum is responsible for protein synthesis and transport—”

Correct.

Mark followed on to the next question, a more complex one. He raised his hand a beat slower, answered in a calm, measured tone. 

Also correct.

And so it went back and forth, answer for answer. Haechan was sharp, fast, almost aggressive in his delivery, as though every correct response was a dagger aimed straight at Mark’s chest. Mark, on the other hand, was infuriatingly casual. He leaned forward slightly, answered with ease, then leaned back again like he hadn’t even tried.

The professor was clearly enjoying herself, tossing harder questions at them just to see who would slip first. The rest of the class had long given up on pretending to listen. Whispers and giggles filled the room as they watched the two Lees go head to head. By the last question, the score was neck and neck. One point between them. The professor posed a particularly convoluted theoretical question. Both raised their hands at the same time. Haechan’s pulse pounded. He knew this one. He knew it.

The professor called on Mark.

Mark’s answer flowed smoothly, no hesitation, no cracks in his voice. 

Correct.

The scoreboard ticked. Mark: 12. Haechan: 11.

And just like that, it was over. Applause rippled through the classroom. Some students even whistled, impressed. Haechan, however, sat frozen, his throat burned with the words he wanted to scream. Of course. Of course he wins by one point. Always one fucking point.

Mark glanced sideways at him as they left the front. He didn’t gloat, didn’t puff his chest, he just gave that same infuriating smile, soft, almost sheepish, like he hadn’t even realized he was supposed to be competing. That was worse than actual arrogance. Back at his seat, Haechan dropped into his chair with a dramatic thud. Renjun was waiting, expression flat.

“You were good."

“Good doesn’t win.”

Renjun hummed. “You were one point behind Mark Lee. That’s basically a win.”

Haechan snapped his head toward him, scowling. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Renjun said, slow and deliberate, “that you care way too much about what he thinks.”

“I don’t—” Before he could finish, Mark passed by their row, sliding into his seat just ahead. He glanced back, meeting Haechan’s glare head on. “Nice match, you kept me on my toes.”

Haechan’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Go to hell.”

Mark’s lips quirked upward, amused. “See you there, then.”

Renjun snorted, smothering his laugh in his sleeve. Haechan buried his face in his notebook, certain his ears were red.

The next class, the air in the lecture hall was heavy. Everyone was waiting for the professor to hand back the graded essays, and you could practically hear Haechan grinding his teeth two rows down.

“Top marks again. Mark Lee,” the professor announced, holding up the stack.

Haechan didn’t even bother to hide his groan this time. Renjun glanced at him sideways, unimpressed. “Don’t pull a muscle rolling your eyes. It’s just one point.”

“That’s my point,” Haechan hissed, clutching the edge of his desk. “I proofread mine six times. Mark sleeps through class, doodles in the margins, and still—”

As if on cue, Mark stirred awake from his seat by the window, hair sticking up in three different directions. He blinked, confused, until his name registered. Then, sheepish smile and all, he pushed himself up to collect his paper.

On his way down the aisle, a student in front of him suddenly tripped, coffee tilting dangerously. Without looking, Mark shifted just enough to avoid the splash, caught the falling cup with one hand, and returned it in one smooth motion. The student mumbled a thanks. Mark just smiled and kept walking, like nothing happened. Haechan narrowed his eyes. The hell was that reflex? He didn’t even look.

“Renjun, did you see that?”

Renjun didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Yeah, he’s graceful. Unlike you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your coordination dies when you walk and text. Don’t act like you’re special.”

Mark accepted his paper with a nod from the professor, eyes glazed but still polite. He turned, heading back to his seat. Of course, that meant walking past Haechan and of course, he smiled as he did.

Haechan’s pencil almost snapped in his hand.

After class. Haechan stormed out with Renjun trailing behind, launching straight into his rant. “Ninety seven. Again. One measly point. Tell me, Renjun, what cosmic injustice is this?”

“You lost to him before,” Renjun deadpanned.

“Yes, but it’s always him! Doesn’t it bother you that he—” Haechan cut himself off when he spotted Jaemin, Chenle, and Jisung waiting by the lockers.

“Let me guess,” Jaemin said smoothly, eyes glinting. “Mark beat you again.”

“What—how did you—”

“You’re loud,” Chenle snorted.

Jisung, tall and awkward at the back, added, “You’re always loud.”

Renjun folded his arms. “See? Everyone knows. You talk about him more than your own grades.”

Haechan’s jaw dropped. “I don’t!”

“Yeah, you do,” Jaemin replied lightly. His smile was friendly, but there was an edge to his gaze, sharp and unreadable. “Kind of cute, actually.”

“Shut up, Jaemin.”

Before Haechan could spiral further, another voice cut in.

“Talking about me already?” Mark appeared, paper tucked lazily into his notebook, with Jeno beside him, tall, composed, the kind of guy who looked like he never forgot a deadline in his life. Jeno gave a small nod to the group, but Mark’s eyes inevitably found Haechan.

“Oh, we weren’t,” Haechan said too quickly.

Mark raised a brow. “You sure? It looked like I was the topic.”

“You wish,” Haechan shot back, hugging his books tighter to his chest. Mark just laughed under his breath and exchanged a look with Jeno, who smirked knowingly. Jaemin leaned closer to Haechan, voice pitched low. “You really need to work on hiding how much space he takes up in your head.”

Haechan shoved him lightly, face burning. “I hate him.”

Jaemin just smiled, too soft for comfort. “Yeah, sure you do.”

Mark laughed quietly at something Jeno muttered, but the sound was cut short. His expression shifted, almost imperceptibly, like someone had flipped a switch behind his eyes, his shoulders tensed, and his head turned toward the far end of the hallway. Nobody else reacted. The corridor looked the same, students chattering, footsteps echoing against the tiled floors.

“Mark?” Jeno asked, brow furrowing.

“Uh—” Mark’s voice cracked. He blinked, forcing a smile back on, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just remembered something. I’ll—uh, catch you guys later.”

Before anyone could respond, he was gone, disappearing down the hall with a hurried wave, leaving Jeno staring after him like he’d grown two heads. Haechan frowned, watching the empty space Mark left behind. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled something like that, just vanishing. But this time, he couldn’t shake the way Mark had looked right before he bolted, like he’d heard something no one else did.

Where the hell had he gone?

Mark barely made it out of the cafeteria before his skin prickled, that strange, crawling electricity that meant trouble. He ducked into an alley, tore off his hoodie, and in a blur of practiced movement, the mask was on. The second the world narrowed through the lenses, everything shifted. His tired, slouched posture straightened, his heart steadied and he jumped. The city greeted him with wind in his ears and the sound of sirens two blocks over. He swung high, legs tucking instinctively as he shot a line to the nearest skyscraper. 

“Alright, who’s the idiot of the day?” 

The answer came fast, police sirens two blocks down, people screaming, and the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

“Oh, joy. My favorite.” He swung hard, the line of webbing singing against the skyscraper’s glass, before flipping through the air and dropping right into the chaos. Three masked men with duffel bags, guns waving, the street already a mess of abandoned cars.

“Hi! Quick survey. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you regret your life choices today?”

One fired immediately. Spiderman twisted, body folding in a blur, the bullet ricocheting off the van behind him. He shot a web, yanked the man’s wrist upward, and the gun clattered harmlessly onto the pavement. Another quick flick and the guy was plastered to a lamppost, wriggling like a bug in sticky tape.

“That’s a ten? I’ll take that as a ten.”

“Shut him up!” one of them barked.

“Oh no, not the classic ‘shut him up’. Never heard that one before.” Spiderman said, voice exaggerated. Just before he vaulted over a spray of bullets, twisting midair and landing behind him with the annoying grace of someone who really shouldn’t be this tired. The second robber came in swinging a metal pipe, and though Spiderman ducked the first blow, the second clipped his ribs hard. Pain shot sharp and hot across his side, knocking the air out of him. “Ow—jeez, okay, I did not stretch for this today.” 

He caught the man’s arm, twisted, and webbed him to the ground like a rolled up carpet. “Two down! You guys are making me look efficient today. Love it.”

The third was bigger, meaner, veins bulging in his neck as he grabbed a screaming woman from the sidewalk and pressed a gun to her temple.

“Back off or she dies!”

Spiderman’s chest tightened, just a second too long, because his eyes flicked to the hostage. She was trembling, clutching her purse like a shield. He hated this part. Hated it more than anything. Still, his mouth ran on autopilot. “Listen, buddy, I’ve been in college group projects scarier than you. And that’s saying a lot.”

The man barked something unintelligible, and in the struggle, his elbow clipped Spiderman’s jaw just as he lunged forward to web him. “Okay, that’s gonna bruise. Love that for me.”

A web snapped across the man’s mouth. Another yanked the gun straight up into the air, where it stuck harmlessly to a streetlight. Spiderman twisted his arm behind the guy’s back and in two smooth motions had him webbed to the hood of a car. The hostage bolted free. Police sirens wailed closer and Spiderman backed up, breath loud in his ears, adrenaline still crackling through his tired limbs. The cops would handle the rest. He gave the webbed up trio a little two fingered salute. then turned, shot a web, and swung up into the open air before they could get too close.

And when he checked his watch mid swing—

“Shit. Class.”

He vaulted upward, webs shooting, the city pulling him back into its rhythm. His body ached, bruises blooming under the suit where he’d taken hits, muscles burning from lack of sleep but none of that mattered. What mattered was that he was supposed to be sitting in a classroom right now and somewhere across campus, he knew exactly who would notice first.

Mark landed three blocks from campus, slipping down into an alley where the shadows could hide him long enough to peel the mask off and shove it into his backpack. He took a deep breath, tried to straighten his posture, and forced his legs to move toward the lecture hall but every step reminded him that his body had other ideas, muscles screaming, ribs protesting. He slipped into the back of the lecture hall, trying to make as little noise as possible. Most heads were down, pens scratching, the professor deep in explanation. He found a seat at the edge of the row and lowered himself gently, careful not to draw attention to the bruise blossoming along his jawline.

Haechan, of course, noticed immediately. Not that he would admit it. He wasn’t staring. Definitely not. But something was off. Too still, too careful, like Mark was moving through a minefield only he could see. He shouldn’t care, he really shouldn’t but the way Mark sat, trying to act casual while obviously hiding something, made his chest twist. Why does he keep disappearing? And why does it look like he’s… hurt?

Mark pretended to write notes, but every few seconds he flinched slightly when he shifted in his seat. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the lecture but his thoughts drifted to the one person who would notice if he faltered too much. 

🕸️

Professor Lin, their Advanced Biomechanics was late again, which meant the usual chaos had broken out, half the class scrolling on phones, some sprawled in chairs, others whispering over equations and diagrams in their notes. Renjun, already halfway through highlighting a section of his book, didn’t bother to look up when Haechan leaned over his desk. “Tell me why Mark’s already acting like he owns the room."

Sure enough, Mark was leaning back in his chair three rows down. He had one arm draped casually over his notebook, spinning his pen like he hadn’t a care in the world. Every so often, a classmate would lean in to ask a question about last week’s lecture, about an assignment and he’d answer like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Renjun sighed. “Maybe because he actually read the material?”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Please. He just likes the sound of his own voice.”

As if on cue, the door opened and Professor Lin strode in, papers under his arm. “Alright, everyone. Quick warm up while I set things up. Let’s revisit the analysis from last session. Who remembers the key difference between isometric and isotonic muscle contractions?”

Silence. Chairs squeaked. Eyes lowered to notebooks.

Then, of course—

“Isometric contractions generate force without changing muscle length, while isotonic contractions change the length of the muscle while the tension remains relatively constant.” Mark said easily, without hesitation. His voice carried across the hall, not loud, but enough to draw attention.

“Good.” Professor Lin said with a nod, scribbling on the board.

Haechan sat up straighter, jaw tight. “That’s it? You’re gonna let him grandstand like that?”

Renjun rolled his eyes. “He literally answered the question, Hyuck. It’s not that deep.”

But Haechan’s hand shot up. “Professor, that’s incomplete.”

Professor Lin paused, raising a brow. “Go on.”

Haechan straightened in his seat, voice sharp and confident. “It’s also about functional applications. Isometric contractions stabilize joints and maintain posture, whereas isotonic contractions enable movement and perform mechanical work. Ignoring the functional difference misses the bigger picture of how muscles adapt during physical activity.”

A few heads turned. A couple of students muttered quiet oooohs. Professor Lin, mildly impressed, nodded again. “Fair point. Excellent addition.”

Haechan sat back, smug, like he’d just scored the winning goal. His eyes flicked to Mark, waiting for the reaction. Mark didn’t disappoint, he turned in his seat, expression unreadable except for the faintest curve of a smirk. “You’re welcome for setting you up.”

“Excuse me?”

Mark shrugged. “I gave the outline. You filled in the gaps. Teamwork.”

“Team—” Haechan cut himself off, scowling so hard Renjun had to hide his laugh behind his book.

The professor, oblivious, moved on to the next point but the quiet tension between the two hung thick in the air, Haechan glaring daggers, Mark cool as ever, like he’d just flicked a switch and left it buzzing. The lecture wrapped up in its usual whirlwind of scribbling pens and scattered papers. Most of the students were already packing up, stretching tired arms or whispering about weekend plans.

“Wait, everyone,” Professor Lin suddenly clapped his hands, cutting through the low chatter. “One last announcement before you go.” 

The room quieted immediately, curiosity buzzing in the air. Haechan straightened, sensing that something big was coming. His chest tightened, anticipation flickering uncomfortably in his stomach. “As you know, Neo University will be participating in the annual Interuniversity STEM Decathlon,” Professor Lin began, his voice carrying easily through the room. “It tests analytical reasoning, problem solving, and applied scientific knowledge. This year, the chosen top pair from each program will represent Neo University against other universities.”

Haechan’s hand instinctively tightened around his bag strap. He glanced to the side, expecting Renjun to whisper some sarcastic comment, but his friend’s expression was neutral, the kind of calm that made Haechan even more aware of his own rising tension.

Professor Lin continued, pacing slowly between the aisles. “Now, I’ve reviewed your performance over the semester, and I believe it should be represented by the pair most capable of reasoning under pressure, challenging each other, and working effectively even if it’s difficult at first.”

Haechan’s stomach clenched as he felt the air shift. Something was coming. He already knew Mark would be mentioned, he always was.

“Therefore,” Professor Lin said, pausing dramatically, “the students representing Neo University this year will be… Lee Donghyuck and Mark Lee.”

Time seemed to slow. Haechan blinked, staring at the front of the room. A part of him wanted to protest. Another part didn’t. He wasn’t sure which part was stronger. Mark, sitting casually in the third row, didn’t flinch at the announcement but Haechan caught the subtle shift in his posture, his shoulders straightened just slightly, his pen paused mid spin, and the faintest curl of a smirk tugged at his lips. That look, calm, collected, a little too amused made Haechan want to groan.

Professor Lin clapped his hands sharply. “I expect both of you to meet tomorrow to start preparations. Creativity, precision, and teamwork will be key. Remember, this is about collaboration as much as individual skill. Your ability to function as a pair will determine who advances.”

As the room emptied, Haechan packed his notebook with deliberate care. Renjun trailed behind him, still smirking. “I swear, you two are going to kill each other before you even start working. Or maybe… something else,” 

Haechan shot him a glare, muttering, “You have no idea.”

The next day came and Mark was running late. It wasn’t even the competition yet, just their first preparation session, and already he could practically feel Haechan’s glare from across campus.

Of course, the city had other plans. A scaffolding collapse, a few near misses with falling steel, and a couple of would be thieves later, Spiderman had the street cleared, civilians safe, and the troublemakers webbed neatly for the police. By the time the sirens wailed in the distance, his arms ached, his hoodie was dust streaked, and a fresh scrape stung along his forearm. “Perfect. Ten minutes late,” he muttered, swinging toward Neo University. “Haechan’s definitely going to kill me.”

He landed outside the prep room, forcing his breathing even before stepping in. The East Wing smelled faintly of dust, paper, and leftover coffee.

“You’re late.” Haechan’s eyes found him instantly, narrowing as they swept over his disheveled hair, the scrape, the faint bruise darkening his side. “Didn’t think you’d actually bother showing up.”

“Traffic,” Mark said smoothly, though his chest still heaved from the morning.

“Right.” Haechan’s lips pressed tight, gaze lingering longer than usual. The weight of it sent a strange thrill and a pang of guilt through Mark’s chest. “Didn’t think you’d bother carrying the library with you.” Mark changed the topic, gaze flickering to the stack. “Planning to build a fort?”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Some of us actually prepare.”

Mark smirked faintly. “Relax, I came prepared too. You don’t have to carry the team.”

“You mean, carry you,” Haechan shot back, flipping a page.

Mark ignored the comment, “You ready?” he asked, voice smooth, teasing just enough to irritate Haechan more.

“I’m always ready,” Haechan replied, tightening his grip on a marker. “Unlike some people who apparently think standing around counts as preparation.”

Mark raised a brow, smirk tugging at his lips as he dragged a chair out, plopping down across from him. “Standing around? Please. I’m observing. That’s practically a strategy.”

Haechan rolled his eyes and began scribbling across the board, bullet points, flowcharts, key arguments branching into sub arguments. “Opening framework: principle of sustainability first, then tie into feasibility.”

Mark leaned closer, scanning the layout with narrowed eyes. “You’re going linear again. Might be tighter if we split the framework, ethics up front, then transition into long term data implications. Parallel structure.”

“That’s messy,” Haechan countered, tapping his marker. “You’ll just end up confusing the panel if you throw in ethics before establishing technical ground.”

Mark grabbed a pen, sketching his own diagram in the margin. His movements were quick, almost instinctive, as he reorganized points before Haechan even voiced the next objection. Minutes passed, pages filled, arrows drawn, rebuttal lines mapped out. Haechan argued every shift, Mark countered with sharp precision, occasionally adjusting phrasing or pointing out a logical gap before Haechan even noticed it himself.

Finally, Haechan leaned back with an exasperated groan. “Fine. Maybe your structure isn’t completely terrible."

Mark’s smirk softened into something almost like a smile. “Glad we can agree on something. Now, let’s see if we can get through the next case study without killing each other.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, the scrape of pen against paper and the occasional rustle of a page the only sounds. Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, skimming an article, but his eyes kept flicking toward Haechan. Not in judgment, not in rivalry, just watching. Haechan paced now, muttering as he read through his notes. “If they bring up applied ethics in research, we should counter with precedent studies. Not just theory, actual cases. Otherwise we’ll look like we’re grasping at straws—”

He turned sharply to grab another book from the stack, misstepped on the strap of his own bag, and stumbled. His balance gave way so suddenly that for a split second, it looked like he’d crash right into the floor.

Except he didn’t.

Mark moved before thinking. One hand caught Haechan by the elbow, the other pressed against his shoulder to steady him. His grip was firm, reflexes impossibly quick, the kind that didn’t come from just working out or being alert in class. Haechan froze, blinking up at him. “You—” he started, but the word stuck in his throat.

“Careful,” Mark said evenly, voice calm but a little softer than usual. He straightened Haechan back onto his feet as if nothing had happened, scanning Haechan’s face as if memorizing it. Haechan’s heart kicked against his ribs, though he masked it quickly with a scoff.

“Don’t get used to touching me.”

Mark raised a brow, lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “Trust me, that’s not on my to do list.”

Haechan sat back down, cheeks faintly warm, though he masked it with a practiced eye roll as he flipped open another reference book. “You know,” he muttered, pretending to be absorbed in his reading, “reflexes like that aren’t normal. You didn’t even hesitate.”

Mark didn’t look up. “You were about to eat the floor. I reacted. You’re welcome.”

“Mm.” Haechan clicked his tongue. “Hero complex much?”

“More like a ‘keep-my-partner-from-breaking-his-face-before-we-even-compete’ complex,” Mark shot back, the corner of his lips twitching ever so subtly.

Haechan ignored the way it made his stomach twist, leaning forward instead, elbows on the table. “Fine. Since you’re suddenly so invested in my survival, let’s test how sharp that brain of yours is. If they hit us with a cross examination on applied bioethics, what’s your go to opener?”

Mark didn’t miss a beat. “Question their premise. If they’re relying on a utilitarian approach, push them on the measurable boundaries of ‘the greater good.’ Make them define it, then dismantle it with inconsistencies.”

Haechan blinked. He hated that it was a good answer. A really good one. “Not bad,” he admitted, trying not to sound like it pained him. “But you’re assuming they’ll lean utilitarian. What if they go deontological instead?”

“Then you take that one.”

“What?”

“You’re better at it,” Mark said simply, scribbling another note. “You get fired up tearing down rigid structures. It works for you.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, caught Haechan off guard. He covered it up with a scoff, flipping his highlighter between his fingers. “So what, you’re delegating now? Thought you were allergic to letting me have the floor.”

Mark’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “I’m allergic to losing. If that means you talk more, so be it.”

Haechan huffed, dragging his eyes back to his notes. “Don’t think this makes us friends.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mark said easily, though there was the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes and yet, when Haechan leaned forward a little too far again to grab another book, Mark’s hand twitched, just slightly, like he was already prepared to catch him if he fell.

A few days later. The table was littered with open books, half drained coffee cups, and enough scribbled notes to pass for battle plans. Somewhere between bickering and brainstorming, Mark and Haechan had figured out how to work without killing each other.

“If we’re up against Engineering, they’re gonna drown us in data. Statistics, models, projections. They’ll overwhelm the judges with numbers. We need to redirect.” Haechan said, tapping the corner of his notebook.

Mark leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. “So… less numbers, more principle. Focus on implications, ethics, long term risks. Make them defend their data, not just present it.”

“Exactly,” Haechan said, a little smug. He didn’t mind agreeing with Mark when it meant he was right. “We box them in with a question they can’t quantify.”

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but then—

His head jerked slightly, eyes unfocusing for half a second. The shift was subtle, but Haechan noticed he was too tuned into their back and forth not to. Mark’s pen, which had been spinning between his fingers, stilled mid motion, his jaw tightened.

“…Mark?” Haechan frowned.

Mark blinked, snapped back, and reached for his bag in one fluid motion. “I, uh—” He shoved his notes inside with no care for order, movements quick, too quick. “I have to go.” 

“Are you serious?” Haechan’s tone sharpened, incredulous. “You can’t just bail in the middle of—Mark, this competition isn’t a joke. You said you don’t want to lose, but then you’re the one walking out?”

Mark froze for half a heartbeat, back turned, shoulders tense like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the echo hanging in the quiet room. Haechan froze there, staring at the abandoned mess of notes and open textbooks. His pulse thudded with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. He shoved back in his chair, pacing in the small space. This wasn’t the first time Mark had been weirdly distracted, the way he’d tense like he was listening to something no one else could hear, or vanish right after class with flimsy excuses but this was the first time it had directly cost them, and Haechan hated it. More than that, he hated the flicker of… disappointment. 

Grumbling under his breath, he stuffed his notes into his bag. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since lunch, so he made the short walk off campus to grab something then head home.

Meanwhile Mark ducked into the first empty alley, pulling his mask from his bag, suit already webbed beneath his hoodie. One tug and the hood was off, gloves sliding over his fingers, and then he was gone, a blur above the streets, swinging into the neon washed night.

The source of his unease wasn’t hard to find. A delivery truck had jackknifed across an intersection, lights still flashing but it wasn’t just an accident, its cargo, canisters marked ‘Compressed Gas’ had spilled across the pavement. A couple of them were leaking, white vapor hissing out and curling low across the street and if the gas built up enough and sparked? The entire block would be rubble.

Spiderman landed on a lamppost, surveying the chaos. “Great. Flammable gas. My favorite bedtime story.”

Two workers, coughing violently, were struggling to drag an injured driver out of the cab. Spiderman dropped down beside them, webbing the cracked windshield and ripping it open like paper. “Go! Get him off the street!”

He barely had time to shove them toward safety when his senses spiked again, sharp, insistent. He turned just in time to see someone running through the vapor. A student, head ducked against the fumes, clutching a paper bag. Mark’s stomach plummeted. 

Haechan.

“No. No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” Mark muttered, already moving. He vaulted across the wreckage, landing in front of him. “Civilian! You need to get back!” His voice came out firm, pitched lower through the mask.

Haechan blinked, wide eyed, recognition flickering too close for comfort but before he could argue, one of the canisters rolled, clanging hard against asphalt, a thin jet of gas spewing toward a sparking traffic light. Mark didn’t think. He lunged, wrapping an arm around Haechan’s wrist, dragging him back against his chest. For one dizzy second, the world narrowed to just the heat of him pressed flush against the suit, his startled breath brushing Mark’s jaw through the mask.

Too close. Way too close.

They hit the wall just as fire flashed across the ground. Mark shielded him without thinking, body curling around him like it was second nature. Haechan’s eyes were huge when he looked up, and Mark felt his pulse slam in his throat. If he stayed a second longer, if he let Haechan search his face. He was finished.

“Stay,” Mark snapped, more desperate than commanding, before he vaulted back toward the street. He webbed the sparking light shut, layered thick lines of webbing over the leaking valves, sealing them one by one even as his lungs burned, vision swimming, he didn’t stop until every canister was secured. 

By the time firefighters rushed in with masks, Spiderman had pulled the injured driver fully free and set him against the curb. The rest was handled or at least stable. Spiderman straightened, chest heaving, suit scuffed with ash. He turned and caught Haechan still standing there, noodles clutched protectively to his chest, staring at him like he’d just grown two heads. For a terrifying moment, Mark thought the mask wouldn’t be enough. Haechan’s gaze was sharp, narrowing, like he’d heard something familiar under the rasp of Spiderman’s voice.

Spiderman forced a shrug, even as his heart battered his ribs. “Guess dinner’s on hold, huh?”

Then he was gone, webbing up into the night before Haechan could get another word out.

The following day, Haechan wasn’t being himself. Normally he’d be loud, throwing jabs at Jisung, stealing fries from Chenle, dragging Renjun into an argument just to win it. Today, though, he was quiet, chewing absently, eyes fixed somewhere like his brain was elsewhere.

“So, you guys saw the news last night, right? Spiderman stopped some gas explosion downtown. That’s, like, insane.” Jisung said, his eyes shone like he was talking about a celebrity sighting. “They said the block would’ve gone up if he didn’t show.”

Chenle snorted. “You sound like you wanna marry him.”

“Maybe I do,” Jisung shot back, unbothered, then turned to Haechan. “Hey, hyung, you live near there, right? Did you see anything?”

The chopsticks in Haechan’s hand stilled. His mouth opened, then shut. “...No. Just saw smoke from far away.”

Chenle leaned forward, grinning. “What if Spiderman saved you? Imagine you tripping on the street and then boom, a web slinging superhero catches you.”

“Funny,” Haechan muttered, stabbing his food but not eating it.

Jisung, oblivious, kept going. “He’s so cool, though. Like, the way he swings between buildings? And he’s fast. I read on a forum that he’s probably, like, top tier strong, maybe stronger than—”

“Yeah, yeah, Spiderman’s amazing,” Renjun interrupted with a roll of his eyes. “We get it.”

Through all of it, Jaemin didn’t say much. He just watched Haechan, the way his brows pinched, the way his hand tightened slightly around the chopsticks, the way his answers came slower than usual.

“You’re quiet today, Hyuckie,” Jaemin said softly, cutting through the noise.

Haechan blinked, dragged back to the table. “...Just tired.”

But Jaemin wasn’t convinced. None of them were, really, though Jisung had gone back to talking about Spiderman’s latest feats, filling the silence Haechan left. Inside, though, Haechan’s thoughts hadn’t left yesterday, the searing heat, the firm grip pulling him out of the way, the rasp of Spiderman’s voice right in his ear. He’d only ever heard about the guy, always brushing it off as overhyped vigilante stuff but seeing him up close, feeling that split second save that could’ve been the difference between walking away and—

He shoved the thought down, stabbing his food again. Spiderman was cool. Fine. Whatever. But that didn’t explain why his voice had sounded… familiar.

“You’re sure you’re just tired?” Jaemin asked, leaning forward this time, voice low enough that it didn’t cut across Jisung’s rambling. Haechan glanced up, caught the weight of Jaemin’s stare, then immediately looked away. “Yeah. Don’t make it a big deal.”

“It looks like a big deal,” Jaemin pressed, though his tone was gentler than his words.

Chenle, sharp eared, cut in before Haechan could reply. “What’s a big deal? What are you two whispering about?”

“None of your business,” Jaemin said smoothly, eyes never leaving Haechan.

That earned him an eye roll from Chenle, who went back to scrolling on his phone. Jisung didn’t even notice, too busy arguing with Renjun now about whether Spiderman’s strength could rival a superhero from a comic. The conversation at the table swelled around them again, drowning out the quiet moment, but Jaemin didn’t look away because even if Haechan refused to say anything, Jaemin had a feeling that whatever had shaken him hadn’t let go.

And it made Jaemin’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t show.

The next two days passed without incident. No sudden excuses from Mark, no suspicious disappearances, no red and blue shadows flickering in Haechan’s head. Whatever odd feeling had gnawed at him that afternoon. He forced it down. He had better things to do than spiral over coincidences.

Their study sessions fell into a steady rhythm. They always met after classes. Mark keeps arriving on time, notebook in hand, sleeves rolled up as if to prove he was serious. At first, Haechan had expected cracks, another flimsy excuse, another reason to ditch him midway but they never came. Instead, Mark focused. He asked sharp questions when Haechan made a point, scribbled diagrams with surprising neatness, and listened with the kind of intensity that could almost pass as admiration. 

Almost.

Their usual corner table was already scattered with notebooks, highlighters, and an empty coffee cup Mark had drained on his way in.

“You highlight like a maniac,” Haechan muttered, flipping Mark’s notes toward him. Whole blocks of text glowed neon yellow, underlined twice. “What’s the point of marking everything? You’ll go blind before midterms.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Better blind than unprepared. At least I’ll die knowing the entire syllabus.”

“That’s not how dying works,” Haechan deadpanned, scribbling something in the margins of his own notes.

Mark grinned, unfazed. “You’re just jealous because my notes look prettier.”

“Pretty doesn’t win competitions.” Haechan didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Substance does. Which you barely have.”

“Ouch,” Mark said, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “You wound me, Lee Haechan.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop talking for five minutes and actually focus.”

Mark leaned forward again, eyes glinting as if he’d been waiting for that exact challenge. “Fine. Explain this case study to me, then. I’ll keep quiet, promise.”

Haechan glanced at him, skeptical. “You? Keep quiet?”

“Scout’s honor,” Mark said, holding up two fingers.

For a moment, it was almost easy, Haechan outlining the problem step by step, Mark following along, jotting notes where needed.  But then, mid sentence, Haechan felt it. Mark’s gaze lingering too long. Not in a mocking way, not even challenging, just there, steady and sharp, like he was more interested in how Haechan explained things than in the explanation itself.

The silence stretched half a beat too long.

“What?” Haechan asked, finally snapping his pen closed.

Mark blinked, caught. “Nothing. You… uh, explain things well.”

It wasn’t much, but for Mark Lee, who usually laced every sentence with sarcasm, it was disarming in its sincerity. Haechan cleared his throat, eyes darting back to the page. “Obviously. That’s why I’m here. To drag you through this.”

“Right,” Mark said, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “And here I thought we were partners.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Haechan shot back, but his pen was moving again, and he didn’t notice the way his ears burned.

By the time the session wrapped, the stairwell was crowded, footsteps echoing against the concrete walls as students streamed out of the lecture hall. Haechan was a few steps ahead, arms full with his laptop and books stacked high against his chest, his balance too sharp, too determined, as if carrying the weight alone was proof of something. Mark’s eyes followed him automatically, he always did, though he never admitted it.

Then it happened. 

One misstep on the narrow stairs, the corner of a book slipping from Haechan’s grasp. He staggered, just barely, but enough that his momentum pitched him forward. Mark moved before he thought. One hand caught the falling book, the other found Haechan’s waist, fingers curving into the fabric of his shirt to steady him. The world seemed to pause, just them, the stairwell hushed despite the noise around them.

Haechan’s breath caught. For the briefest second, his weight leaned into Mark’s hold, their faces closer than they should’ve been, Mark’s hand warm against his side, his heartbeat spiked, and he hated that it did.

“Got you.” Mark’s voice came low, softer than usual. The words weren’t teasing this time. They were quiet, almost careful, as though spoken only for him. That was exactly why Haechan snapped back, the way he always did when things felt too close. He straightened abruptly, pulling away, yanking the book from Mark’s hand like it burned.

“Don’t touch me.” It came out sharper than he meant, but he didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. His pulse was still unsteady, and admitting that even to himself was not an option. Mark froze for half a beat, then nodded lightly, masking it with a crooked smile. He shoved his hands into his pockets as though the sting of rejection wasn’t familiar by now.

By the time they reached the lobby, Mark slowed his pace, letting the door swing open for him. Haechan walked past without a word, chin lifted, still pretending like nothing had happened in the stairwell.

“See you tomorrow,” Mark said lightly, the grin audible in his tone. Haechan only hummed, barely glancing back. Then he turned down the opposite hallway, the distance between them settling as naturally as it always did but Haechan could still feel it, the ghost of his touch, the steadiness that had caught him, the way Mark’s voice had softened.

And even as he walked off ahead, spine straight and face unreadable, his chest wouldn’t quiet down. Mark was supposed to be just a nuisance, too smug, too teasing, too infuriatingly sure of himself. Someone he tolerated because he had no choice and yet, moments like this kept piling up, uninvited. 

Why did it feel like—

His phone buzzed, cutting sharp through his thoughts. He checked the screen. 

Mom.

Jaw tightening, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Haechan-ah,” her voice came brisk, already lined with expectation. “I just spoke with Mr. Lin today. He told me you and Mark are representing the university in the interuniversity competition. Why am I only hearing about this now?”

He stopped mid step, grip tightening around the phone. “We’ve been… preparing for a while. It wasn’t—”

“You should’ve told me earlier. Do you understand how important this is? This is the kind of thing graduate schools look at. You need to make sure you win. Don’t let your guard down, especially with that boy. You hear me?”

That boy.

Haechan stared at the concrete ahead, throat tightening. He could already hear the unspoken comparisons, the warnings she always slipped in. Don’t let someone else get ahead of you, don’t settle for second. Mark wasn’t a partner in her eyes, just another standard he was being measured against.

“Yes, Mom,” he said quietly.

“Good. Don’t disappoint me, sweetie.”

The line went dead. 

A moment ago, he’d been caught in that strange rush, the warmth of Mark’s hand steadying him, the way his chest refused to calm down. Now it all felt heavy, buried under the familiar weight of expectation. Shaking his head, he exhaled sharply and pushed forward down the path, face unreadable again but no matter how hard he tried, the echo of Mark’s voice wouldn’t leave him alone.

Morning sun cut through the city the following day, the streets already thrumming with noise. Haechan walked briskly, backpack slung on one shoulder, earbuds in but no music playing. 

Then a sudden screech ripped through the street. Tires skidding, horns blaring. Haechan looked up just in time to see a delivery truck swerve, crates tumbling off the back and crashing onto the crosswalk. Metal and glass scattered, rolling across the pavement as pedestrians screamed and darted back. One of the crates toppled fast, heavy, spinning right into his path.

He jerked back on instinct, too far, too quick. His heel caught the edge of the curb and the ground pitched beneath him. Before he could hit the pavement, an arm locked tight across his chest, steadying him in mid fall.

“Got you,” Spiderman said, voice low, almost effortless. The words hit harder than the catch itself. By the time Haechan processed them, they were already on the fire escape, the crate crashing down behind them with a violent crack. Haechan staggered, heart in his throat, before whipping around. The grip, the voice, the ease, it shouldn’t have felt familiar and yet, it did.

Why did it feel like I heard it before? 

He swallowed, shoving the thought down. But it lingered, gnawing at him until his mom’s words from last night crept back in, harsher than the memory of almost being crushed. 

“Don’t let your guard down, especially with that boy.”

Just like that, the flush in his chest dulled. His shoulders slumped, jaw tightening. Spiderman noticed. “Hey,” the masked figure said, softer this time. Not his usual clipped, get to safety tone. “You okay?”

Haechan blinked at him, startled. “I’m fine,” he muttered, eyes darting away. Spiderman tilted his head, as if unconvinced. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more, but sirens wailed in the distance and he straightened. “Just watch your step next time, yeah?”

Before Haechan could reply, he vaulted off the fire escape, swinging back into the mess of city noise. Left alone, Haechan pressed a hand against his chest. His pulse was still racing, but not just from fear. Why did it feel like Spiderman had been looking straight through me?

Haechan tugged his bag higher on his shoulder, shoving the thought down as his pace quickened. Stupid. It’s just a coincidence. Spiderman probably talks like that to everyone. He saves a dozen people a week. It wasn’t special. 

By the time he slipped into the lecture hall, shoulders stiff and movements quiet, there was no room left for anything else. He dropped into his seat with the barest scrape of chair legs, eyes fixed forward, not sparing a glance anywhere around him. 

Mark was already there. Pen tapping idly against the corner of his notebook, posture loose like he had nothing weighing him down but the moment Haechan sat, Mark’s head turned almost like instinct. His eyes followed the tired slump of Haechan’s shoulders, the way he didn’t mutter a sarcastic hello, didn’t flick him a sharp look, didn’t even seem to register his presence at all. He wanted to ask, but he knew Haechan would brush him off, maybe bristle even harder. So he held it in, even as the urge sat heavy on his tongue.

When the professor walked in and the lecture began, Mark leaned back slowly in his chair, he scribbled the first line of notes, the beginnings of an idea were already forming. Mark didn’t know what had pushed him there, but he wasn’t about to leave it alone.

If Haechan wasn’t going to let him in as Mark then maybe Spiderman could.

🕸️

Haechan’s steps echoed faintly as he crossed the corridor, bag slung heavy over his shoulder, his head already filled with thoughts of diagrams, notes, and the irritating steadiness of Mark Lee. He was halfway to the prep room when something shifted above him. He frowned and looked up, just in time to nearly jump out of his skin.

“Hey.”

Haechan staggered back a step, heart lurching. “What the hell—”

Dangling from the ceiling on a single thin strand of web, Spiderman hung upside down right in front of him, the sudden movement so silent it was almost eerie.

“You can’t just drop down like that!”

“Sorry,” Spiderman said, not sounding sorry at all. He rocked slightly on the thread of the web, casual in a way that made the absurdity worse. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You think?!” Haechan hissed, clutching at his bag strap like it was a lifeline. He glanced around quickly, like he half expected classmates to round the corner and see him caught in this bizarre situation. “What are you even doing here?”

“Hanging out.” The masked head tilted, like it was a joke only he found funny.

Haechan blinked, speechless. “That’s not—ugh. Fine, whatever. I don’t have time for this. I have somewhere to be.” He stepped sideways, intending to skirt around him. The web line swayed. Spiderman shifted with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times, blocking the path again, still upside down, still maddeningly calm. 

Haechan scowled. “I’m already late, so move.”

Spiderman didn’t.

“You looked like you could use a detour.”

That pulled him up short. Haechan blinked, irritation sparking quickly in his chest. “Excuse me?”

“Just five minutes.” His voice stayed level, unreadable through the mask, but there was a weight in it. “I’m not here to get in your way. I just figured you could use a break.”

Haechan’s laugh came out dry, sharp. “You don’t even know me. Why would you think that?”

“It doesn't take much to notice when someone’s carrying a lot.”

The words sat too heavy, too direct, and Haechan hated the way they made something inside him falter. He blinked at him, mouth opening then closing again, like the right retort was suddenly harder to find. Finally, he huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Look, I really don’t know what you want from me, but I can’t just ditch. Mark’s already—” He cut himself off quickly, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. I just can’t.”

Spiderman tilted his head slightly, unreadable. “He’ll live without you for a few minutes.”

Haechan bristled, the defensive edge coming back full force. “You can’t just decide that for me! What’s your deal anyway? Why me? Why are you even talking to me?”

For a beat, Spiderman didn’t answer. Just let the silence stretch, the creak of the web line the only sound. Then, quietly, “Because sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t expect anything from you.”

Haechan felt his throat tighten, his whole body stiff with confusion he couldn’t untangle. He wanted to snap back, to call it ridiculous, to laugh it off but the longer Spiderman stayed there, calm and upside down like gravity didn’t apply to him, the harder it became to brush it away. He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to the floor, then back up, caught in the masked stare that gave nothing but somehow felt like it was seeing too much.

“Five minutes,” he muttered, exasperated, voice sharper than he meant. “That’s it. That’s all.”

Mark’s pulse hammered in his chest, and under the mask, he could feel every microsecond stretching. His hand reached, deliberate, measured, sliding around Haechan’s waist, not brushing, not fumbling, not reacting, choosing this moment.  Haechan stiffened, eyes widening, lips parting for protest. “Wait—”

Too late. The floor disappeared beneath them. The world tilted sharply, wind tearing at Haechan’s jacket, tugging at his hair. For a dizzying second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. Spiderman’s arm around him was firm but careful, holding just enough to steady without crowding. Haechan’s stomach lurched, the city spinning below him. He tried to pull back, to shove, but the force was gentle, guiding rather than forcing. 

The transition from rushing air to solid footing was a jolt, and Haechan staggered against Spiderman's chest reflexively, unthinking. Spiderman steadied him instantly, one arm tightening around the waist just enough to prevent a slip, but not so much to overwhelm. He wanted Haechan to feel safe, not restrained. Not like last time, when instinct had dictated proximity

Haechan’s breaths came sharp, uneven, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I—I can’t believe you,” he said finally, voice shaky but furious. “You just pulled me up here. Just like that. No warning. No asking. You’re insane!”

Mark’s mask didn’t give him away, but inside, his chest tightened. “Would it have made you feel any less alive if I’d warned you?”

Haechan froze, caught mid breath and the absurdity of the question collided with the reality of being here. The city hummed below them, all horns and chatter and the distant hiss of buses, but up here, it was strangely quiet. The breeze tugged at Haechan’s hair, carrying the faint smell of exhaust, rooftops stretching into the skyline. He stood stiffly near the ledge, arms crossed like a shield. Spiderman perched a few feet away, one knee up, gloved fingers drumming on the concrete in a rhythm that was too casual to be natural. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Haechan’s eyes tracked the lights blinking on in faraway buildings, his mouth pressed thin.

“You always this quiet?” Spiderman asked finally, his voice filtered low through the mask. Light. Almost teasing. Haechan let out a sharp breath. “You’re the one who dragged me up here. Shouldn’t you be the one talking?”

“Guess I thought you needed it more than me.”

That hit closer than Haechan expected. His shoulders tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Spiderman said easily, though inside Mark’s chest tightened. “You just looked like you had a lot on your mind.”

The words landed too directly, and for a second, Haechan’s guard cracked. His lips parted, then pressed shut again. He shifted, weight leaning back against the ledge like it might hold him together.

“People always think they know what’s best for you,” Haechan muttered, voice quieter than before. He wasn’t looking at Spiderman now. “And when you’re not enough, when you mess up, it’s like you don’t even belong to yourself anymore.”

The sentence spilled out before he could stop it. Raw, unfiltered. Mark froze where he sat, the rhythm of his fingers stopping. His throat worked under the mask. He wanted to say something, anything, but Haechan’s head whipped toward him, sharp and defensive.

“Not that it’s any of your business.” His tone snapped like brittle glass. “I didn’t ask you to play therapist.”

Spiderman lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no judgment here. Just listening.”

Haechan’s jaw flexed, like he wanted to argue more but didn’t have the energy. His gaze flicked toward the edge of the roof again, to the scatter of lights and movement below, and his voice dropped. “It’s easier up here. Quieter.”

Mark swallowed hard behind the mask. Something in him ached at the honesty tucked between the bitterness. He wanted to reach out, to close the space between them, but his gloved hand curled tight against his knee instead. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,” he said carefully. “But for what it’s worth, you don’t seem like someone who’s not enough.”

Haechan’s eyes darted to him, startled, and then away just as quickly. His lips pressed together, the faintest tremor in his breath betraying how much he wanted to hide. “... You’re weird.”

Mark smiled beneath the mask, “You’re not the first to say that.”

And just like that, the moment slipped back into silence, fragile, unresolved. But Haechan could still feel it, like a thread pulled too tight.

The city below blurred as Spiderman adjusted the web line, hooking it to a secure ledge a few meters back. Haechan’s stomach twisted again, not from fear this time, but from the strange, tight pull in his chest.

“Ready?” Spiderman asked, voice low.

Haechan’s hands trembled slightly as he nodded. “…Yeah. Just… just don’t let go.”

“Not a chance."

In one smooth motion, he swung them outward. The wind screamed past, tugging at Haechan’s jacket and hair, and for a dizzying moment, all his world was movement and adrenaline and the steady presence holding him. Spiderman slowed, guiding him gently until his feet touched the solid surface. Haechan’s knees buckled slightly, and he staggered a step or two, catching his balance. His heart still thumped like a drum.

“Thanks,” he muttered, more out of habit than thought, his voice quieter than he intended.

"Anytime,” Spiderman said simply.

Then, without waiting for a response, he darted backward, shooting a web that carried him up and out of sight. Haechan blinked, stomach still fluttering, watching him disappear before finally turning toward the prep room. By the time he pushed open the door, he found Mark already there, leaning casually against a table, eyebrows raised.

“Finally,” Mark said, voice teasing. “What took you so long?”

Haechan froze mid step. “I—uh… traffic?”

Mark shrugged, smirking, as if he bought it. “Right, traffic. Figures. Grab a chair, we need to go over the last part of this before tomorrow.”

Haechan sank into a seat, stomach twisting with guilt, confusion, and a lingering flush from the rooftop. Mark’s eyes flicked toward him occasionally, calm, but sharp in a way that made Haechan almost want to disappear into the table. And though Mark didn’t say anything else, the corners of his mouth twitched in the faintest smile.

When the session wrapped, they fell into step together. Haechan walked with his usual upright posture, head slightly tilted down, eyes fixed on the floor ahead, while Mark kept just the right distance, not too close to be invasive, but close enough to feel the small shifts in Haechan's stride.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the familiar prickling in Mark’s skin started. A low, crawling electricity across his nerves, the signal of danger, faint but insistent. He didn’t even realize he’d tightened his grip on the straps of his bag until his head snapped toward the exit, scanning the corridor. Nothing immediate. Just the usual flow of students leaving, chatting, laughing. But the sense lingered, nagging, like a shadow brushing at the edges of his mind. Mark’s gaze flicked back to Haechan. His chest tightened slightly at the thought of leaving him alone, even for a moment.

“Hey…” he said casually, voice low, almost to himself, “want me to walk you home?”

Haechan blinked, stopping mid step. “What? Why?”

“Just… feels safer,” Mark said smoothly, shrugging as if it were nothing. “No reason.”

Haechan hesitated, caught off guard by the offer. He glanced sideways at Mark, eyes narrowing, suspicious but faintly curious. “I can handle myself.”

Mark’s smile was easy, effortless, but there was an edge of insistence in his tone. “Come on. I insist. Besides, it gives me an excuse to make sure you don’t get lost in the wild streets of the city.”

Haechan let out a soft exhale, a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance. “Tch. Whatever. But don’t think this means anything.”

Mark chuckled, the sound low, carrying warmth. They walked mostly quiet, punctuated by occasional small remarks from Mark, teasing about Haechan’s relentless note taking or commenting on how neat his hair always seemed, each word carefully measured. Haechan responded with dry humor, sarcastic quips, or subtle eye rolls, keeping his guard up, but he couldn’t help the faint ease settling over him as Mark matched his pace, protective yet unobtrusive. And beneath it all, Mark’s instincts buzzed constantly, attuned to the smallest anomalies in the city’s rhythm. 

They were halfway down the block when a metallic screech split the air. A construction hoist on the other side of the street lurched, the chain slipping just enough for one of its steel reinforcement beams to drop free. It swung dangerously, momentum sending it crashing toward the pavement where it could have flattened anyone in its path. Before Haechan could even process what was happening, Mark was already there. He caught the falling end of the beam with both hands, knees bracing against the impact. For a heartbeat, the weight pressed down with impossible force then Mark straightened, jaw tight, and shoved it upright like it weighed nothing at all.

The workers on site shouted in alarm, rushing to secure it, but Haechan only stood frozen. His chest hammered as he stared at Mark, wide eyed despite himself. “That thing’s heavier than it looks. How the hell…?”

Mark exhaled, shaking out his arms like it was nothing. “Guess all those late night push ups are paying off.”

Haechan narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering. “You’re not normal.”

Mark’s mouth curved, amused. “Good abnormal or bad abnormal?”

Haechan scoffed, spinning on his heel toward his building. “Abnormal is abnormal.” 

They reached the entrance of Haechan’s building, the glow of the lobby lights spilling onto the sidewalk. Haechan glanced up briefly, expression neutral. “Thanks.”

Mark’s lips curved into a small, easy smile. “You’re welcome. I make a habit of keeping people from getting flattened by random city hazards.” 

Haechan let out a quiet huff, rolling his eyes “Tch. Don’t make a habit of it.”

Mark chuckled, eyes lingering on him. “Mission accomplished, then. Safe delivery.”

Now that the boy was inside, safe and oblivious, Mark could let his guard relax just slightly. Only slightly. He took a deep breath and let his senses sweep through the city, tracing threads of energy, movement, and intent. That’s when he saw it, or rather, the absence of something. A lab supply van, parked just a few blocks from the street he had walked down with Haechan. Nothing unusual about that, except the driver’s door was open, and a figure crouched near the back, fiddling with equipment Mark couldn’t fully see from this distance. The figure paused, hands tucked under the edge of the vehicle as though hiding something.

And then, when Mark’s attention sharpened, the faintest shimmer of energy, not quite electrical, not quite chemical, curled into the air like smoke. He crouched behind a low wall, scanning. The figure leaned back, tugged a small device free from one of the crates. The metal caught the light just long enough for Mark to glimpse what looked like a prototype weapon, small, portable, and unstable.

“Not yet,” he muttered under his breath. “Too early to interfere but I’ll be ready.”

Mark lingered a moment longer, tracking the figure as it disappeared down a narrow alley. He allowed himself a slow exhale and pulled his backpack a little tighter. This, whatever this was, was going to escalate and Mark would need to be ready because something had shifted tonight. And the city, his responsibility, was about to get a lot more complicated.

The city was slower the next morning. Cars honking lazily in the distance, the faint rumble of delivery trucks, people still nursing half drunk coffees as they hurried to work. For most, it was just another weekday. But for Mark, mask pulled tight, keeping pace along the rooftops, it was something else entirely. His eyes weren’t on the skyline, or the streets. They were on the boy a few blocks down, walking with his bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, earbuds in, mouth moving as though he was muttering notes to himself.

Haechan.

Safe. Oblivious. Just like last night.

Mark crouched lower, trailing him from the rooftops, moving when he moved, pausing when he paused. It wasn’t close enough to be seen, not unless Haechan decided to look up at exactly the right moment but close enough for Mark’s senses to stay tuned to every shift in his surroundings. He told himself it was only because of what he’d seen the night before. The van. The equipment. That strange hum of unstable energy curling like smoke in the back of his head and Haechan’s route to campus ran just a few blocks from there. It made sense to keep an eye out. To be cautious. To make sure nothing touched him.

But somewhere between rooftops, Mark felt the question rise again. Why am I even doing this? It wasn’t part of the job. Being Spiderman meant watching the whole city, not one person. Meant saving strangers, not hovering like a shadow over someone who didn’t even know and yet here he was.

Down below, Haechan stopped at a corner bakery, tugging out one earbud to order something quickly, his usual, Mark realized with a start, because he’d heard the boy complain about ‘stale bread’ often enough in study sessions. A few minutes later, Haechan was back on the move, bread in hand, already half eaten, expression scrunched as though he were deep in calculations rather than enjoying breakfast. Mark’s chest tugged strangely at the sight. 

Cute.

His brain supplied unhelpfully, and he nearly choked on his own breath. He shook his head, forcing focus. By the time Haechan reached the university gates, Mark had already taken three alternate routes, leaping across rooftops and slipping through alleyways to keep pace without notice. Mark exhaled, slow. The tension in his chest didn’t ease, but at least Haechan was inside, safe.

But then—

It was faint at first, like static at the back of his skull, the sensation sharpened, urgent and heavy. He leapt, swinging low through the alleyways until he neared the same block he’d scouted before. The van was still there. Today, the back doors hung wide open, and the figure was clearer now. A man in his forties maybe, lab coat streaked with oil, goggles perched on his head. His hands moved quickly, assembling something out of metal rods and glowing canisters that hummed faintly with unstable energy.

Spiderman’s senses spiked, red hot, screaming. Whatever this was, it was active. He pressed closer, sticking to the shadowed side of a wall. His breath hitched as the man lifted the half finished device, muttering under his breath about stability rates and conductivity thresholds. Then, the man’s head jerked, he turned sharply, scanning the alley. Spiderman flattened against the wall, heart pounding. For a second, he thought the hum of his own breath would give him away.

“Someone’s here…” the man muttered, voice low but clipped, like he was certain.

Spiderman didn’t move. Not when the man stepped closer, not when the glow of the device brushed against the corner of the wall. Only when a car passed at the mouth of the alley, did he seize the chance. He shot a web to the opposite wall, yanking himself up to the roof in one smooth motion.

The next day, Mark dragged his feet down the sidewalk, hoodie pulled up, backpack heavy on his shoulders. His body ached from the hours he barely slept, but he pushed himself forward, school, sessions, Haechan, that was the routine, the thing that kept him anchored. But just as he crossed the street near the bus stop, his chest tightened. That familiar spark, like static exploding against his ribs, jolted him upright. His senses sharpened instantly.

Danger. Close.

Mark froze mid step, pulse racing. Then he broke into a sprint, ducking into an alley where he could swap into his suit. The moment the mask slipped on, his exhaustion melted into focus. His body moved on instinct, following the tug of his senses like a compass pointing north.

A few swings later, he stopped short. There, in the narrow stretch of an abandoned lot, was a woman, hands bound, gagged, her body slumped against the wall. Mark’s gut twisted. He was already leaping down when something else caught his eye. Pinned to her chest, fluttering faintly in the morning breeze, was a sheet of paper. He landed silently, crouching low, eyes locked on the sharp, uneven scrawl across the page.

“Did you enjoy the show last night? Watching me work? You’re not as invisible as you think, Spiderboy.”

The words seemed to pulse against his vision, mocking him. His hands curled into fists as he scanned the lot, senses flaring in every direction, searching for the faintest whisper of movement. Nothing. Just silence and the ragged sound of the woman breathing through the gag. But he knew. Whoever this man was, he hadn’t just noticed Spiderman. He wanted him to know he was noticed.

Mark’s jaw clenched under the mask, heart hammering, as he carefully cut the ropes from the woman’s wrists. She flinched when she looked up at him, but her eyes softened with relief when he helped her to her feet. Mark barely heard her muffled thanks. By the time the woman was safe and the note shoved deep into his pocket, Mark’s heart still hadn’t slowed. Every swing through the city felt heavier than usual, like he was dragging chains behind him.

He finally landed in a hidden corner near the back lot. He tugged the mask off, shoving it into his bag and pulling his hoodie back over his head. His reflection in the glass door startled him, eyes ringed red from no sleep, jaw tight, hair sticking up in wild tufts.

He sees you, Spiderman. He’s coming for you.

Haechan was already inside the prep room when Mark pushed the door open, head bent over their draft layout, mechanical pencil twirling between his fingers. He looked up immediately, eyes narrowing. “You’re late.”

Mark shut the door behind him, shrugging off his bag with a little more weight than intended. His whole body felt heavy, like each limb had been poured full of cement. “Sorry,” he muttered, sliding into the chair across from Haechan.

Haechan’s gaze lingered a second longer than usual, flicking over Mark’s face, the slouch in his shoulders. He didn’t comment, at least not directly. Instead, he spun the pencil once more and set it down. “You sure you can even function right now? You look like you’re about to pass out mid session.”

Mark forced a crooked grin, cracking open his notebook. “Guess you’ll just have to carry me then.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing since day one,” Haechan shot back, dry as ever, but there wasn’t the usual bite. It was softer, almost cautious. Mark ducked his head, letting the comment slide. His eyes blurred as he stared down the book. Every line of words tried to twist into the looping script from the note in his pocket. He blinked hard, shook his head, and forced his pen to move. Focus. Just focus.

They worked like that for a while, Haechan occasionally muttering explanations under his breath, Mark scribbling half heartedly beside him. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t quite the same either. It was heavier, like Haechan could sense the storm hanging over Mark’s head but couldn’t name it. At one point, Haechan stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic groan. “This is brutal. If I end up top three in this competition, they better engrave my name in gold.”

Mark chuckled faintly, rubbing his temple. “Nah. Platinum.”

That earned him the smallest grin across the table, brief but real. For a moment, it steadied him. But then Haechan leaned back again, studying him with that same sharp eyed look. “Seriously though, are you okay? You look like you’re about to combust. Don’t go having a breakdown on my watch, alright?”

Mark froze. His pen stalled mid stroke. He wanted to say yes. To brush it off like always. But Haechan’s voice wasn’t teasing this time, it was careful, almost quiet. And Mark felt the note press like fire against his leg again, his chest clenching with everything he couldn’t explain. He forced a yawn instead, stretching back in his chair. “Just tired. You know me.”

Haechan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. He only clicked his pen, muttering, “Yeah, sure. Just don’t collapse mid session.” 

The session wrapped up later than usual, papers stacked neatly on the desk and markers scattered in colorful chaos.

Haechan stretched his arms above his head, groaning dramatically. “God, my brain’s fried. I deserve like ten hours of sleep and a medal.”

Mark chuckled under his breath, closing his notebook with careful precision. He didn’t sling his bag over his shoulder right away, though. He lingered, tapping his pen against the cover, lips pursed like he was weighing something. Haechan noticed immediately. “What? You look like you’re solving world hunger in your head.”

Mark scratched the back of his neck, awkward. “Wanna walk for a bit?”

Haechan blinked. “Huh?”

“Like,” Mark gestured vaguely toward the door, “Out. Food stalls, air, whatever. It’s stuffy in here.”

Haechan tilted his head, suspicious but curious. “You mean… with me?”

“No, with the ghost behind you,” Mark deadpanned, then looked away before Haechan could catch the slight pink in his ears.

“…Weird, but fine,” Haechan said, grabbing his own bag.

The city outside was alive, the streets buzzing with the after class rush. Streetlamps flickered on one by one, casting a warm orange glow across the sidewalks. Food carts lined the corners, the air thick with the smell of grilled skewers, fried squid balls, and sweet bread. They fell into step together. At first, it was quiet. Then Haechan spotted a stand selling pastries shaped like fish and practically dragged Mark over.

“This is it,” he announced, holding up his prize like a trophy. “Peak dinner.”

Mark raised a brow. “That’s dessert.”

“Dinner,” Haechan corrected, already biting into it. Flakes of pastry clung to his lips, and he licked them away carelessly. “Mm. Want a bite?”

Mark blinked at the pastry being shoved near his face. “I’m good.”

“You sure? It’s scientifically proven you’re just jealous if you say no.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Mark sighed, but his lips quirked, just enough for Haechan to notice.

They wandered aimlessly, their path lit by neon shop signs and the headlights of passing cars. Haechan talked the most, about random things, the song stuck in his head, the professor who made an unfunny joke, the competition and how badly he wanted their school to win. Mark listened. He always did. Sometimes he nodded, sometimes he made a sarcastic remark that only fueled Haechan more.

At one point, they passed a tiny corner shop with a shelf of capsule toys by the door. Haechan stopped, staring. “Oh my god. These things ate my allowance in middle school.”

“Don’t,” Mark said instantly.

“I’m just looking!” Haechan crouched, pressing his face close to the glass. His eyes lit up when he spotted one shaped like an alien. “Mark. It’s literally you.”

Mark groaned. “I’m leaving.”

“Nope, you’re staying,” Haechan said, already fishing for coins. He twisted the knob until a plastic ball clunked into the tray. Opening it, he grinned. “A tiny cheetah. Close enough.”

He held it out to Mark with mock seriousness. “Here. For your desk. So you remember me when I’m not around.”

Mark hesitated, then took it. His fingers brushed Haechan’s for just a second too long, and it made Haechan blink. He brushed it off quickly with a laugh, but his chest felt weirdly light.

By the time they reached Haechan’s street, the sky was painted in deep indigos and purples. The noise of the main road had quieted, replaced by the hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog. Haechan kicked at a loose stone on the pavement, glancing sideways. “You didn’t even buy anything.”

“I wasn’t hungry."

“Then why’d you come with me?”

Mark slowed, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “So you don’t walk alone.”

The answer was too simple, too quick. And yet, it landed heavy in Haechan’s chest. He opened his mouth, but the words caught on his tongue. The memory of Mark walking him home the other night flashed in his mind. The quiet way he always lingered, the way his attention sharpened whenever they were outside together. It made something flutter in his stomach.

“You’re so weird,” Haechan finally muttered, but his voice came out softer than intended.

Mark looked at him then, really looked at him, and Haechan had to glance away before he did something embarrassing like smile too wide. They stopped in front of the building. Haechan stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. “Guess this is me. Thanks.”

Mark shifted, thumb rubbing over the tiny capsule toy still in his palm. For a second, it looked like he was going to say something, his mouth parted, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. Haechan tilted his head. “What?”

Mark’s gaze held his, steady and unreadable. Then he shook his head, slipping the capsule into his pocket instead. “Nothing. Get inside.”

Haechan narrowed his eyes, but the warmth in his chest betrayed him. “Weirdo.”

Haechan shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, exhaling. Normally, he would’ve thrown his bag onto the couch and collapsed face first into bed, but his body wouldn’t cooperate tonight. His chest felt light. Bubbly. Almost annoyingly so. He trudged over to his bed anyway, flopping down and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow with a groan.

“Ughhh. It felt like a date.” The words came out muffled, but his ears burned at the sound of them anyway. He sat up suddenly, pointing a finger at the air like he was lecturing himself. “No. Absolutely not. That was not a date. We’re not— We’re rivals. Competition partners only. We literally fight for points in class.”

He flopped back down, covering his face with both hands. “Then why did I enjoy it so much?”

The question lingered in the dark. He tried to swat it away like an annoying fly, but the memory of Mark’s quiet voice stuck.

“So you don’t walk alone.”

His heart thudded at the thought.

“God, I’m getting soft,” he muttered, pressing a pillow over his face to smother both his voice and the ridiculous smile threatening to spread. “Stop being comfortable. He’s supposed to be competition, not—”

But the words trailed off, unfinished. Because deep down, beneath all the protests, the truth was simple.

He liked it.

Across the city, Mark shut his door softly behind him and let his bag slide off his shoulder onto the floor. The apartment was dim, a couple of city lights sneaking in through the blinds. He should’ve gone straight to shower, then bed, he needed the rest, but instead, his hand was already in his pocket, fishing out the small capsule toy.

He sat at his desk, the chair creaking as he leaned back, holding the little cheetah in his palm. It was ridiculously small, the kind of thing most people would forget about in a day. But Mark couldn’t stop staring at it. He turned the toy over with his thumb, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t smile much, not when he was alone, but right now it felt inevitable.

Carefully, like it was something fragile, he set the cheetah right on the corner of his desk. He leaned back again, eyes lingering on it, and for the first time in a while, the tightness in his chest eased. He told himself it wasn’t about the toy. It wasn’t even about the words. It was about Haechan, the way he filled up the silence without even trying, the way he could make something as ordinary as walking home feel different. 

Mark had never seen him as a rival. Not once. Everyone else framed them that way, two names said in the same breath, destined to clash. But to Mark, rivalry implied distance, opposition. And he’d never felt distant from Haechan. If anything, he’d always felt himself pulled closer, orbiting without question.

“You’re not even supposed to be a rival,” he muttered under his breath, half amused, half tired. “Guess I never wanted you to be, huh?”

He hadn’t realized it before, not fully, but somewhere in between the banter and the long nights of preparation, he’d been leaning toward Haechan all along. Rivalry was just the excuse that kept them in the same orbit.

He glanced at the cheetah again. The smile returned, soft and unguarded this time. Maybe he didn’t have to put it into words just yet.

Next day. The hum of the air conditioner filled the prep room, a low drone against the steady scratch of pencils and the occasional rustle of papers. And Mark caught himself looking at Haechan a little too often. The way he chewed on the cap of his pen when thinking, or how he mumbled half the equation under his breath like a running commentary, small things Mark had noticed before, but now they made his chest feel unreasonably light. He ducked his head quickly whenever Haechan glanced up, pretending to read his notes.

The silence stretched, thick but not unpleasant, until—

A sharp twinge.

Mark’s breath hitched, his pencil pausing mid stroke. His senses flared in the back of his skull, a pulsing thread of danger snapping taut. Not close, not immediate, but near enough to make his skin crawl. He straightened suddenly, chair legs scraping against the floor.

Haechan frowned. “What? You okay?”

Mark swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yeah. I just… I need to step out. Just for a bit.”

“Step out? Where are you even—”

“I’ll be back,” Mark cut in, softer this time. His bag strap slipped onto his shoulder in one motion, his eyes flicking toward the door before landing back on Haechan’s. “Promise. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

Haechan blinked, thrown off by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “…Right. Sure. Don’t take too long, we still have to go through these problems.”

Mark nodded once, lips pressing into a tight line, and then he slipped out the door. The room fell silent again, but this time it wasn’t the same kind of silence. It felt off.

“What could possibly be so urgent…?” Haechan muttered under his breath.

Mark ducked into the nearest empty stairwell, pulling his backpack close. The suit was folded neatly at the bottom, compressed and hidden beneath notebooks. He’d gotten good at this, moving fast, changing faster. In seconds, the fabric clung to his skin, the mask snapping into place. Mark’s spider sense dragged him out of the shadows and into motion before his brain had time to argue. The alley from the night before, same van, same crates. Except this time, the figure wasn’t crouching in secret. He was standing tall, waiting. Spiderman landed lightly on the edge of a nearby rooftop, surveying the man below. The faint hum of unstable energy still poured from the open crate. 

“I was wondering when you’d come back.”

Spiderman stiffened. His fists curled. “How do you—”

The man finally looked up, hood falling back to reveal a pale scar jagging down his cheek, hair messy like it hadn’t been washed in days, but his eyes sharp, too sharp. He looked almost pleased. “Spiderman,” he drawled. “You’ve been circling my work for two nights now. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

Spiderman dropped to the ground in front of him, mask hiding the frown tightening his face. “You’ve been stealing from labs. Whoever you are, you’re done.”

A dry chuckle. “Labs? Child’s play. Do you really think any of those institutions deserve what they hoard? They build weapons, they cage science, then pretend they’re noble.” His hand brushed the humming device almost affectionately. “I’m simply freeing what they don’t deserve.”

“Freeing?” Spiderman's voice sharpened. “You’re playing with things that can level city blocks. People could get hurt.”

The man smirked at that. “They already have. They just don’t know it yet.”

Spiderman's stomach twisted. “Who are you?”

The man straightened, almost theatrically, as if he’d been waiting for that question. “Draven Kwon. Former lead engineer at Chain Dynamics. They called me brilliant. Visionary. Then dangerous.” His grin stretched, humorless. “They weren’t wrong.”

Chain Dynamics. The name rang like a bell in Mark’s head, one of the biotech firms he’d glimpsed in lab headlines, the kind always skirting lawsuits for ‘gray area experiments.’ Mark’s spider sense flared. He shifted a step back. “So you’re the one who’s been building these weapons.”

“Not weapons. Evolution.” Draven tilted his head, eyes glinting. “But I suppose you’re too naive to understand. You hide behind a mask, and yet you still play hero for a city that would abandon you in a heartbeat.”

Spiderman clenched his fists. “Try me.”

That was when Draven’s smile dropped. He moved so fast it startled Spiderman, snapping the device into activation, blue light spilling into the alley like wildfire. Mark’s spider sense screamed, and he barely leapt aside before the blast scorched the wall where he’d stood.

The fight was chaotic. Webs snapping through smoke. Sparks cutting the air. Draven’s movements weren’t wild, they were calculated. He fought like a man who knew the limits of every circuit sparking in his suit, angling his strikes so the claws didn’t just cut, they absorbed the impact of each counter. Spiderman ducked, fired, and watched in frustration as his webline fizzled against the claws, the strands sizzling on contact. Draven lunged. Spiderman twisted, forcing him back with a kick to the ribs. The man stumbled, coughing blood, but even then his grin was feral.

“You’re done, Kwon!” Spiderman snapped, chest heaving.

But Draven only laughed, wiping blood from his lip. “Done? You haven’t even seen the beginning.”

He surged forward, blade flashing from a hidden wrist mechanism. Spiderman moved, but not fast enough, the edge skimmed his cheek, slicing clean through mask and skin. Heat bloomed against his face. His breath hitched. Pain spiked, but in that heartbeat, Mark’s eyes darted past the claws to the thin lines glowing faintly along Draven’s suit joints, energy pulsing with each strike. Regulators. He could almost hear the circuits hum.

Draven leaned close enough for Spiderman to see the madness glittering in his eyes. “Here’s your first lesson, Spiderboy. You can’t stop progress. You can only bleed trying.”

Mark gritted his teeth and fired another web, aiming not at Draven but at one of the glowing lines on his arm. For a split second, sparks flared where the web met the circuit but Draven jerked away, severing the thread with one swipe. His grin only widened, like he’d noticed the shift in Mark’s strategy. “Tell your little city their days are numbered. And Spiderman,” his low chuckle reverberated through the steel beams, “so are yours.”

Smoke burst from a capsule he crushed under his heel. By the time it cleared, Draven and the van were gone. Mark staggered in the empty alley, hand pressed to his cheek, the cut burning sharp under his fingertips. But his mind wasn’t in pain. It was on the brief flicker of sparks when his web touched those glowing seams.

The first crack in Draven’s armor.

Mark slipped back into the prep room long after he should’ve been home. He’d made sure the mask was hidden, hoodie pulled up to cover the mess of his hair. But what he couldn’t hide was the fresh cut that burned along his cheek, stinging every time he so much as breathed. He hoped, prayed, Haechan had already left. But of course, when he opened the door, Haechan was still there. Laptop open, scribbling notes like he always did when he was too stubborn to quit early. The moment their eyes met, Haechan froze. His gaze immediately flicked to the side of Mark’s face.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

Mark winced. “Nothing. Just tripped.”

“On what, a knife?” Haechan was already on his feet, closing the distance before Mark could retreat. And then, before Mark could even process it, Haechan’s hand was on his jaw, fingers cool and firm as he tilted his face toward the light. Haechan’s brows furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line as he studied the gash. “It’s deeper than it looks. Why didn’t you—ugh, never mind. Sit.”

“What—no, it’s fine—”

“Sit.” Haechan’s voice left no room for argument. Mark found himself sinking into the nearest chair anyway, heart drumming against his ribs. His body obeyed before his brain could argue. Haechan dropped his bag on the table, rummaging through it with sharp, irritated movements. “Lucky for you, I carry a first aid kit. Unlike you, I actually plan ahead.”

Mark blinked at him. “Why do you even—”

“Because people like you exist."

He set out antiseptic, gauze, tape, each movement precise, practiced. Mark hissed when the cotton touched his skin, but Haechan barely flinched. His hand was steady, palm braced against Mark’s jaw, close enough that he caught the faint smell of aftershave under the sharp tang of antiseptic. Too warm. Too distracting. He focused harder on the cut. Just the cut. Not on how Mark’s lashes caught the light when he blinked, not on the way his stupid mouth twitched like he was biting back a smile.

Mark swallowed hard. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Haechan muttered when Mark started to speak, though his voice had lost its bite. “You’re reckless. Always falling asleep at your desk, disappearing in the middle of things and then you come back with cuts or bruises like you think I wouldn’t notice under that hoodie.”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. His first instinct was to laugh it off, make some dry comment but the words stuck in his throat. Haechan’s eyes were too close, too sharp, and suddenly Mark realized just how much the other boy had been paying attention. 

“You noticed all that?” he said quietly, almost disbelieving.

Haechan froze, the gauze still in his hand. “Of course I noticed. I’m not blind, Mark.” His voice softened again, like it surprised even him. “I just don’t get why you keep acting like it’s nothing. Do you even care about yourself?”

Mark’s breath caught. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain that the cut was the least of his battles. That he thought about everyone else far more than he thought about himself. But he stayed quiet. Because Haechan’s hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, and for once, Mark didn’t want to break the silence.

Finally, Haechan taped the gauze down and leaned back, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath too. “There. At least now you won’t bleed all over the notes.”

Mark let out a shaky laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “…Thanks.”

For a second, all the irritation melted. Haechan wanted to ask a hundred questions, what happened, who did this, but Mark just looked at him with that guilty, tired expression that gave nothing away. “…Mark,” he tried again, softer now. “What the hell are you doing to yourself?”

Mark’s lips parted. His throat bobbed like he wanted to explain, but the words never came. Instead, he looked down, away from Haechan, like the floor was suddenly fascinating. The silence dragged on, heavy enough to crush the air between them. Haechan waited. He gave him that chance and when nothing came, no excuse, no explanation, not even a lie, his patience snapped.

"You know what? Forget it. If you don’t want to talk, then fine. Stay mysterious. Whatever.” He crossed his arms, shoulders squaring as if that could shield the sting in his chest. “But here’s what you can’t forget. The competition is in one week. One week, Mark. If you keep disappearing and showing up like this.” His hand gestured sharply toward the cut, “What do you think people are gonna say? You can’t even keep your own face in one piece, let alone represent our school.”

Mark flinched. That tiny twitch of his shoulders almost made Haechan regret saying it. Almost. But Haechan couldn’t back down now. If he softened again, he might start caring out loud, and that was dangerous. So he rolled his eyes, swung his bag over his shoulder, and moved past him. As he sat down and opened his notes again, he forced his pen across the page with quick, messy strokes. His jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff. 

Outwardly, he looked annoyed like the fight had already been dismissed.  But inside? Inside, his thoughts wouldn’t let go. What are you hiding, Mark?

Haechan’s gaze flicked up for just a second, catching Mark still sitting there, silent and unreadable. He dropped his eyes to his notebook before Mark could notice. If you won’t tell me, he thought, pressing harder into the page, then I’ll figure it out myself.

By the time he got home and to his room, he was pacing. “Okay, think,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mark disappears for hours. Comes back beat up. Lies through his teeth. What does that scream?” His brain supplied answers he didn’t like, gang trouble, debt collectors, some shady side hustle. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “No, that idiot’s too soft for gangs.”

He sat at his desk, chin propped in his hand. After a long silence, he leaned back with a sigh. “Fine. If he won’t talk, I’ll just follow him.”

The thought sent a thrill through his chest, equal parts nerves and determination. He hated being in the dark more than anything, especially when it came to Mark. So he made a mental note. Tomorrow, he’d keep his eyes on him. No matter how much he tried to vanish, Haechan would be right behind.

The next day. Haechan adjusted his backpack strap and ducked behind the corner of the hallway, peeking out just enough to watch Mark leave the prep room. The guy had been fidgety the whole session, checking the clock, staring at the door. Suspicious. Too suspicious. The moment Mark slipped out, Haechan muttered under his breath, “Got you.”

He followed at a distance, trying to look casual. Not easy when you’re half jogging with a scowl on your face. Mark walked fast, hoodie up, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to be noticed. They weaved through streets near campus, the crowd thinning with every block. Haechan ducked behind lampposts, cars, even a trash bin at one point. His heart thudded every time Mark glanced over his shoulder.

Then Mark turned into an empty alley.

Haechan grinned. “Aha. Now what are you up to—”

But when he rounded the corner, the alley was empty. Completely empty. “What the—” He ran forward, scanning every shadow, every door. Nothing. No footsteps, no creak of a gate closing. Just silence. Haechan spun in circles, incredulous. “He was just here!”

He searched the block, darting across the street, peeking around corners until his lungs burned. No trace of Mark anywhere. It was like he’d vanished into thin air. Finally, bent over and panting, Haechan groaned. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I lost him?”

The ridiculousness of it hit him then, him crouched behind trash bins, sprinting like a maniac and Mark disappearing like some magician’s trick. Haechan dragged his hands down his face. “Next time, I’ll catch you.”

Above, Mark landed softly on the edge of a rooftop, crouching low as he scanned the street below. Sure enough, there was Haechan, darting into the alley Mark had just vacated, looking around like a hawk. Mark pressed a hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing. Shit. He almost saw me.

For a moment, all he could do was crouch there, hidden in the shadows, watching Haechan spin in confusion. His chest tightened at the sight, the way Haechan frowned, the way his shoulders heaved as he muttered something Mark couldn’t hear. 

“Why are you following me, Haechan?” Mark whispered to himself. The answer should’ve been obvious, Haechan was curious, maybe annoyed. But the way he’d looked, it was something else. Something that made Mark’s chest ache in a way that was both terrifying and if he admitted it. He touched the faint scab still healing on his cheek and exhaled. “Gotta be more careful.”

Because if Haechan ever put the pieces together, Mark wasn’t sure what would hurt more, exposing his secret, or letting Haechan down.

As he got home. Mark holed himself up in his room then sat on his desk, the tiny cheetah figurine Haechan had given him pushed to one side so he wouldn’t knock it over. His notebook lay open, page after page filled with messy diagrams of webs, rough sketches of gadgets he might try, notes on Draven’s fighting style. “He’s too fast,” Mark muttered under his breath. “Strength’s off the charts. Reflexes, unpredictable.” He tapped the pen against the desk hard enough to dent the paper. “I can’t keep going head on. He’ll kill me.”

He leaned back, raking his fingers through his hair until it stuck up wildly. He stared at the scrawled words Too weak circled three times on the page. The words felt like a verdict.

Spiderman wasn’t supposed to lose.

But he had. And yet, he couldn’t stop. If Draven was gonna target innocent people, then giving up wasn’t an option. Mark’s gaze drifted back to the cheetah toy. The corners of his mouth tugged in a faint, bitter smile. Haechan’s words echoed in his mind, mocking but warm.

“So you remember me when I’m not around.”

Mark let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

He pushed the figurine back to the center of the desk, right beside his notebook. Maybe it was stupid, but something about having it there steadied him.

Exhaling, Mark bent over his notes again, forcing his pen to move. If Draven was stronger, then Mark had to be smarter. He had to find patterns in the chaos and weaknesses because he wasn’t just fighting for the city anymore. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though he’d never admit it, he was fighting so Haechan wouldn’t have to see him lose again.

🕸️

The sun was low, bleeding orange across the pavement. Haechan sat slouched on a bench, his chin propped against his hand, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. His phone rested untouched on his lap. For the past ten minutes, he had been running the same thought in circles. If Mark kept vanishing like this, then where was he going? He drummed his fingers on his knee. Yesterday, he had trailed Mark only to lose him in a blink, like the guy had evaporated into thin air. And today? No Mark in class. The competition was less than a week away and Haechan was the one left worrying.

“Plotting someone’s downfall, Lee Haechan?”

The teasing voice jolted him. Haechan turned, already scowling, only to find Jaemin sliding onto the bench beside him, a grin tugging at his lips.

“God, you scared me,” Haechan muttered, straightening. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have your own building?”

“Free block,” Jaemin shrugged. “And apparently, a free show.” He tilted his head, studying Haechan with too much interest. “You’ve been staring at that tree like it owes you money.”

Haechan scoffed, leaning back, but his ears warmed. “None of your business.”

“Mm.” Jaemin folded his arms. His tone softened, just slightly, offering him the untouched drink. “Here. You look like you need it.”

Haechan took it, muttering a thanks under his breath. The carbonation fizzed against his tongue, sharp but grounding while wondering if his partner was out there getting bruised all over again. For a moment, Jaemin didn’t speak. He just leaned back, eyes tracing the orange glow washing over the courtyard. Then, without turning his head, he asked, “How are things with Mark?”

The question caught Haechan off guard. His grip tightened slightly around the can. “…Why?”

“Because every time I see you lately, you’re either irritated or distracted.” Jaemin’s tone was light, but his gaze flicked toward Haechan, sharper than his words. “And if I connect the dots… both lead back to him.”

Haechan scoffed, shaking his head as if to brush it off. “We’re fine. Just busy.”

“Busy,” Jaemin echoed, clearly unconvinced. “Busy enough that you forget I exist?” His attempt at teasing didn’t mask the curiosity laced underneath. “Or is he… I don’t know, making things difficult?”

Haechan pressed his lips together, staring down at the drink. He hated how easily Jaemin read him, how close to the truth he landed without even trying. He wanted to complain, to unload all the questions clawing at him but that would mean admitting just how much Mark’s presence, or absence, affected him.

“We’ve got a competition in less than a week,” Haechan said finally, opting for the safest answer. “That’s what’s making things difficult.”

Jaemin studied him for a beat, the corners of his mouth tugging into something softer, something almost sad. “Right. The competition.”

Their eyes met briefly. Haechan looked away first.

“Just don’t lose yourself worrying about him,” Jaemin murmured. “You’ve got enough on your plate.” Without waiting for an answer, Jaemin tugged lightly at Haechan’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

“I’m busy,” Haechan muttered, though he hadn’t moved in over half an hour.

“You’re sulking.” Jaemin cracked a grin, pressing the cold can into Haechan’s palm. “Sulking is not busy. Let’s go before you grow roots.”

Before Haechan could argue, Jaemin started walking backward a few steps, gaze expectant. Reluctantly, Haechan stood and followed.

They drifted off campus toward the quieter streets. Jaemin talked about small, inconsequential things, the weird food stall that popped up near the corner, how one professor always mispronounced his name, the rumor that the library’s fourth floor was haunted. Haechan barely responded at first, but Jaemin’s chatter was persistent, light, pulling him along without pressure. At one point, Jaemin shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “You think too much when you sit still. Figured dragging you out was safer for your brain.”

Haechan snorted softly despite himself. “You’re annoying.”

“Maybe,” Jaemin said, eyes glinting. “But you’re not scowling anymore.”

Haechan looked away, pretending to study the pavement. The weight in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted, lighter, at least for the moment. Then suddenly, something shifted in the air. A shuddering crash came from a construction site just across the street, scaffolding rattled, a warning siren went off, and a steel bar slipped loose, clattering downward. The workers yelled. Pedestrians scattered. And Haechan, half turned toward the noise, half frozen in place, didn’t realize that one of the bars had bounced, tumbling toward the edge of the plaza where he stood.

It happened too fast.

“Haechan!”

Jaemin lunged. His arm wrapped around Haechan’s waist, yanking him backward just as the bar slammed onto the pavement, sparking against stone. The sound echoed sharp in his ears. Haechan’s knees buckled, his chest colliding with Jaemin’s. His hands fisted into Jaemin’s shirt on instinct, breath caught in his throat. For a split second, the chaos outside dimmed, there was only Jaemin, solid and unshaken, keeping him steady in the circle of his arms.

“You okay?” Jaemin asked, low and steady, not letting go. His hand lingered at Haechan’s side, protective, grounding. Haechan swallowed, nodding automatically. His heart was still hammering, and though the danger had passed, he found himself holding tighter. 

And high above, Mark froze. Perched on the edge of a rooftop, mask hiding his face, Mark's fingers tightened painfully on the ledge. He had swung in the second he heard the crash, web shooter raised, ready to snatch Haechan out of the way. He’d been ready, so ready, but Jaemin had gotten there first. Now he could only watch. Mark’s chest twisted. Relief warred with something heavier, sharper, something he didn’t want to name. Because Haechan was safe and that was all that mattered. That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Mark forced himself to stand. One backward step, then another, until his web shooter was pointed at the nearest building. He fired, the thread catching, and in a whisper of motion he swung away, vanishing into the night without a sound.

Mark landed on the roof of a half abandoned office building. His lungs ached from the sprint of his last swing, breath clouding faintly in the cold air. He tugged off his mask, shoved it under his arm, and pressed both palms into his face. He dug out the battered notebook buried at the bottom of his pack, the corners scribbled with half finished web diagrams. He flipped to the page marked in red ink: Draven.

Strength = enhanced

Claws = reinforced alloy

Speed = unpredictable

Weak spots = ???

Mark sat back on his heels, pen tapping against the margin. If Draven managed to unleash whatever he was building, the city wouldn’t just take damage, it would break.

He circled one line: His suit.

The claws weren’t natural. They were designed, engineered to not only slice but absorb shock. Mark’s pen scratched furiously. If he could destabilize that tech, overload its circuits, force its regulators into collapse then Draven’s entire advantage might crumble. But the question was how. Mark wasn’t a weapons engineer. He was just a regular college guy balancing lectures and deadlines with injuries that never healed. His gadgets were built on trial, error, and luck. He wasn’t supposed to be going toe to toe with someone like Draven. Still, his hand moved across the paper, hurried, messy.

Conductive webbing?

New cartridge prototype – stronger, heat resistant.

Target energy cores → force overload.

He sketched diagrams, suit joints, potential regulator placements, the way energy might flow through Draven’s claws. His handwriting grew sharper the longer he wrote, jagged lines betraying the restlessness he couldn’t shake.

Risk list:

Formula untested → might fail in combat.

Body already strained → stamina dropping.

If Draven anticipates counterplay → catastrophic overload.

Mark pressed the tip of the pen hard enough that ink blotched into the paper. He exhaled slowly, staring down at the messy pages until the ink seemed to blur together. His plan wasn’t finished. Not yet. But it was all he had. He slid the notebook closed, gripping it tightly against his chest.

“Stop Draven first,” he whispered, as if speaking it out loud would make it real. And in the silence of the rooftop, with only the city lights burning in the distance, Mark began drafting and redrafting every possible way to make it happen.

🕸️

[ ⚠️ The following is a fight sequence that marks a key turning point in the story. While it is important to the plot, you may skip ahead if you prefer to bypass the action. ]

The city at dusk glowed in fractured neon, the kind of restless light that made Mark’s nerves buzz. He thought he had another day, maybe two, before Draven tried something bold. He thought the notes in his battered notebook, the half tested cartridges on his desk, still meant time.

He was wrong.

The first explosion shook the docks like thunder. A shudder rolled through the skyline, and smoke clawed its way into the sky. He landed hard on the steel arm of a loading crane, chest heaving, eyes wide. Below, the docks burned. Cargo containers lay split open, their metal twisted like torn paper. Sparks spat from gutted machines. Workers fled in frantic clusters, but one figure didn’t move. Draven stood at the heart of the chaos, alloy claws catching the orange glow of firelight. He wasn’t just wrecking the docks, he was prying something out of them, peeling layers of steel to expose a generator box humming with unstable light.

“Draven!” Spiderman's voice rang sharper than he meant, echoing over the metal.

The man straightened slowly, theatrically, as though savoring the moment. “There you are. I wondered if the spider would be bold enough to come.”

Spiderman fired a web, anchoring a crate behind Draven and yanking. The container screeched, dragged a foot before Draven lashed out. One swipe, clean, merciless and the web split like thread. Sparks flicked off the alloy claws. Spiderman's stomach dropped. My webs won’t hold him. Not without the conductive upgrades.

Draven’s grin widened at the flicker of hesitation. “I was Chain Dynamics’ brightest engineer once. They said I saw too far, too fast. They buried my work. My brilliance. So I built myself into the proof they tried to erase.” He raised his claws, the firelight running along their edges like liquid. “This city will remember the name they cast aside. Draven Kwon.”

Spiderman lunged, webs flying, rapid shots this time, a storm meant to bind. Draven slashed through them all, each strand disintegrating under the alloy. He surged forward with inhuman speed, claws sparking as they scraped across the steel deck where Spiderman had been a split second before. The sound screeched in Spiderman's ears. He flipped backward, barely catching his balance. “You call this brilliance? Blowing up docks, scaring civilians?”

Draven laughed, low and humorless. “This isn’t destruction, boy. It’s preparation. Every core, every scrap of energy here, feeds the machine that will show them evolution cannot be stopped.” 

His claws gestured toward the exposed generator box, its hum growing louder, angrier. Mark’s spider sense screamed. Whatever was inside wasn’t stable. If Draven pulled too much power, the whole block could ignite.

“Not gonna happen,” Spiderman shot back, firing a web line at the generator and yanking it shut.

Draven’s eyes gleamed. “Defiant. Good. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

He lunged again, faster this time. Spiderman barely ducked, claws tearing through a steel pillar that collapsed behind him in sparks. Each strike was precise, purposeful, not mindless rage, but the precision of an engineer who had designed his own body into a weapon. Spiderman's arms ached with each web shot, his cartridges draining too quickly. Every dodge left him a second slower. His plan from last night, to disrupt circuitry, overload the claws, mocked him. He didn’t have the tech yet. He was stalling. Just stalling.

“You can’t stop me,” Draven snarled, their faces inches apart for a heartbeat before Spiderman flipped away again. “Because unlike you, I don’t hesitate.”

The words struck harder than the claws. Mark’s jaw clenched under the mask. “Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong,” he muttered, breath ragged.

He aimed, webbed the top of a crane, and yanked with all his strength. The structure groaned, tipping, crashing down between them with an ear splitting roar. For a moment, dust and fire swallowed everything. Spiderman's chest rattled with every breath as he scanned the smoke. He’s not gone. He’s hunting.

Draven emerged again, unfazed by the rubble. His grin was too sharp, too calm. He flexed his claws and the edges shimmered with faint current. “Do you feel it? That’s not electricity. That’s design. I don’t just cut, I destabilize. Molecules, bonds, fabric of what holds this pathetic city together.”

The words were meant to intimidate, but Spiderman's brain snatched at them. Destabilize… he’s running an oscillating frequency through the claws. That’s why the webs break apart so easily. His pulse jumped. If I can overload that frequency, just once—

But Draven lunged again, not giving him time to think. Each swing forced Spiderman back, closer to the pier’s edge. The boards groaned beneath them, water churning black below. Spiderman's voice strained. “You’re insane if you think tearing the city apart will make it remember you.”

“Not remember,” Draven barked a laugh, swiping through steel like paper, “depend.” 

Spiderman fired a web at the humming generator box, yanking the last casing shut again. Sparks spit out angrily. The feedback crackled across the dock, forcing Draven to glance toward it, just for a breath. Spiderman seized it. He leapt, twisting in the air, and fired both shooters at once. Web lines wrapped the crane’s loose power cables, dragging them down into the water. The shockwave jumped across the dock, sizzling against the claws. Draven roared, stumbling as arcs of energy snapped along his arms. Spiderman landed hard, skidding across the planks. “Guess circuits don’t like saltwater."

For the first time, Draven faltered. But the grin that returned wasn’t defeated, it was delighted. His eyes glowed almost feverish in the sparks. “Yes. Yes. Finally, someone worth testing the limits against.”

He ripped the overloaded cables free, hurling them aside. Smoke rose off his arms, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he seemed stronger, adrenaline burning. “Too slow, Spider,” Draven jeered, voice carrying above the chaos. His claws glowed faintly, each swipe vibrating with some kind of charge.

Spiderman tried to counter, firing webbing at Draven’s arm, only for the strand to sizzle and snap apart as the claw shredded through it. His chest tightened. He wasn’t prepared for that. Draven lunged, faster than Spiderman could dodge. The claws raked across his side. White hot pain tore through him, stealing his breath. He staggered, one hand flying instinctively to his ribs where the suit was shredded open, warmth spreading beneath his palm. Draven didn’t stop. His grin widened, feral. “What happens when the spider loses a leg?”

Mark’s senses screamed. He backflipped onto a wall, launched himself upward, every swing sharper, desperate. His vision blurred at the edges, but he forced himself higher into the dark. Retreat. Distance. Survive. Behind him, Draven laughed, the sound echoing through the hollow streets. “Run, little spider! Run while you can. I’ll peel this city open piece by piece, and when you crawl back out, broken, they’ll see what kind of hero you really are.”

The taunt burned in Spiderman's ears. He wanted to throw himself back into the fight, but his body screamed against it. Every breath was fire in his lungs. 

[ ⚠️ Fight concluded. Narrative resumes here. ]

As Spiderman vanished into the shadows, Draven straightened, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at his lips. “So quick to flee,” he muttered, voice low, almost amused. “But that only tells me I’m on the right path.”

He activated one of the devices, careful to monitor the energy output. Sparks hissed along the edges, faint ozone filling the narrow alleyway. He needed time, enough to stabilize the prototype before moving to a more populated area. “Soon, everything will be ready. And when it’s fully operational, the city will have no choice but to watch the evolution unfold.”

He glanced up at the faint outline of rooftops above the street where spiderman’s usual vantage points.  “And you won’t be able to stop me.” he whispered, a dark promise under his breath.

Mark didn’t remember how many blocks he crossed before his grip slipped and he stumbled into an alley. He ripped his mask off, slumping against the wall, chest heaving. His gloves came away sticky when he pressed them against his ribs. His vision swam. Just a minute, he told himself, dragging air into his lungs. One minute to breathe.

The city still roared beyond the alley, sirens, distant shouts, the hum of traffic but here, it was quiet. Almost too quiet. Until—

“Mark?”

His head snapped up. At the alley’s mouth stood Haechan, a bag slung over his shoulder. His expression froze in shock, disbelief crashing into horror. Mark’s heart plummeted. Of all places, of all times—

“No,” he croaked, scrambling upright too fast, pain tearing through his ribs. “You—you have to go. Right now.”

Haechan stepped closer, ignoring the warning. His voice shook. “What happened to you? You’re hurt—you’re—”

“Don’t.” Mark’s voice cracked sharp. He lifted a trembling hand as if to push him back, but his arm dropped weakly to his side. “It’s not safe. Please, Haechan, just leave.”

“Leave you like this?” Anger cut through Haechan’s fear. His fists clenched around his bag straps. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re bleeding out in some alley, and you’re telling me to walk away?”

“I can’t—” Mark’s throat tightened, words breaking under the weight of panic. “I can’t protect you if you stay. You don’t understand. He’s close.”

Haechan froze. “Who—”

“Haechan!”

Both of them startled at the sound. Jaemin appeared at the corner of the street, jogging toward them, urgency sharp in every stride. He didn’t even glance at Mark, his eyes were locked on Haechan. “Come on. The docks are a mess, Spiderman’s fighting someone there. It’s not safe here.”

Haechan turned back, torn. Mark’s face was pale, glistening with sweat. His hand was pressed tight to his ribs as though holding himself together. He looked fragile. Breakable.

“I can’t just—”

Jaemin grabbed his arm, firm and insistent. “You can and you will. Let’s go.”

Haechan resisted, every muscle screaming to stay. But Jaemin’s grip tightened, pulling him away. He twisted, one last look over his shoulder—

But the alley was empty. Mark was gone, as if he’d dissolved into the shadows.

High above, clinging weakly to a rooftop ledge, Mark watched them leave. He hadn’t expected Jaemin to appear, and seeing Haechan with him, stabbed at him in a way that made his chest tighten. Haechan is safe. For now. That’s what matters

He pulled himself onto the fire escape, silently descending to his apartment. He settled onto the edge of the table. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from adrenaline and frustration. He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the detailed diagrams he’d sketched. He traced the lines with his fingers, muttering calculations under his breath. “Claw arcs… speed fluctuates… energy pulse every 2.3 seconds… weak joint near wrist… timing is critical…” 

Mark reached for the small prototype web cartridges he’d been modifying. Conductive webbing, reinforced strands, tension calibrated to immobilize heavy objects. He tested each one across the table, snapping strands between metal plates, watching how the threads held, flexed, and snapped under load. “Need more precision,” he muttered, adjusting the angle of release. “If I can web the wrist joint, I can destabilize his claws long enough to—” He stopped, paused. 

Draven’s unpredictability. Even if the web hit perfectly, the energy pulse might throw it off. He noted the timing, repeated simulations in his head, visualizing every swing, leap, and claw strike. Mark’s bruised ribs protested as he leaned forward, sketching a map of the city blocks Draven had used. Each rooftop, alley, and vantage point marked. He drew potential escape routes, predicting where Draven might appear, where civilians were at risk, even where the shadows would conceal them. “Rooftop A… line of sight blocked… can swing from B… pressure points… target weak joints… timing…” 

Even as he mapped paths, he ran mental scenarios. 

If Draven strikes with his reinforced claws first, web the joints.

If he uses energy pulses, overload the circuit.

If civilians are at risk, neutralize first.

Mark’s fingers itched for action. He grabbed a small action figure and positioned it on the table like a test subject. Using miniature threads, he simulated Draven’s strikes, adjusting the angle of counterattack, recalculating distances. Every misstep he had taken earlier was etched in his mind, and he repeated each motion over and over, as if memorizing it by muscle memory. His gaze drifted to the corner where his spare mask lay. He rubbed the cut along his jaw, grimacing. Mark exhaled slowly, leaning back. He ran through contingencies again.

If Draven uses claws in rapid succession, aim for the wrist joint, immobilize for 3–5 seconds.

If an energy pulse emitted, use reflective webbing to redirect or absorb.

If escape attempts, anticipate trajectory and intercept.

Hours bled into night. The city outside glittered, oblivious, while Mark paced the room with notebook and gadgets strewn across the table. He tested every new idea, recalibrated web cartridges, even dismantled one prototype to rebuild it more efficiently. Pain in his ribs, cut along his jaw, bruised shoulders, none of it mattered. He was obsessively consumed by patterns, timing, angles, the exact sequence to counter Draven. At some point, he sank into the chair, eyes bloodshot. He rubbed his temples. “I can’t afford mistakes. Not again. I have to be ready, every move, every escape, every trap.”

By dawn, Mark’s apartment looked like a miniature command center. Diagrams, web prototypes, sticky notes, sketches, angles, trajectories, every surface covered. Yet he felt no relief. He was exhausted, bruised, but mentally sharper than ever. He finally rested his head against the table, just for a moment. Just long enough to gather focus. 

Draven wasn’t finished. The city wasn’t safe. And Haechan, oblivious, unsuspecting was tethered to this in ways Mark couldn’t let go of.

“I’ll be ready this time.”

🕸️

The morning felt heavier than usual. Students shuffled into their seats, voices echoing in fragments, half complaints about deadlines, half jokes about last night’s group chats. Haechan slipped into his chair, dropping his bag by his feet, but he couldn’t shake the way his stomach had been twisting since yesterday.

Mark’s chair sat empty. Again.

He gripped his pen tighter than necessary, tapping against the margin of his notebook, trying to drown out the memory of that alley. 

Professor Lin entered, his heel striking against the floor with practiced rhythm. The murmurs faded at once. He set his folder on the desk, scanning the attendance sheet, then raised his head. His eyes went straight to Haechan. “Lee Donghyuck,” he said evenly, tone polite but firm. “How are preparations for the competition? I trust you and Mark Lee are on schedule?”

The sound of Mark’s name almost made Haechan flinch. He forced a small smile, though his hand under the desk balled into a fist. “Yes, Professor. We’ve been working on it. We’re… ready.”

Professor Lin’s gaze lingered a second too long, as if he could see right through him. Finally, he gave a curt nod and turned to the board, beginning to write key points about timelines and expectations. From his right, Renjun leaned closer, voice low so only Haechan could hear. “You’re lying.”

Haechan stiffened, pen scratching an uneven line across the page. “What?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Renjun muttered, eyes flicking to Mark’s empty seat. “Mark hasn’t been here in days. And you… you keep staring at that chair like he’s gonna walk in any second.”

The words cut sharper than Haechan expected. He tightened his jaw, scribbling faster in his notebook as if notes could shield him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Renjun let out a quiet scoff. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been off. Since yesterday.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “What happened?”

The blood at Mark’s side, the way his face had gone pale when he told Haechan to leave. That voice, strained, desperate, panicked. Haechan’s chest tightened at the thought. He blinked hard, forcing the memory down.

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

Renjun gave him a look, skeptical, but leaned back in his chair. “Just don’t let it get in your way. If he doesn’t show, you can’t carry both of you. Not this close to the competition.”

Haechan’s pen stilled. He knew Renjun was right, the competition wasn’t the kind of thing you could fake through, and he’d already been stretching himself thin. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, his mind kept circling back. To Mark’s absence. To Mark’s voice in that alley. To the fact that even now, he didn’t know if Mark was okay. Pretending everything was fine was getting harder.

The prep room felt colder than usual, almost sterile in its emptiness. Rows of unused desks lined the walls, but the long central table was always theirs. 

Haechan and Mark’s spot. Or, it should have been.

Haechan set his bag down with a heavy thump and sat, eyes inevitably drifting to the chair opposite him. Mark’s chair. The one he hadn’t occupied in days. The chair that mocked him with its silence. He opened his notes, flipping pages with sharp movements, but his focus wavered. His pen hovered over a line, never writing, only tapping. 

The door squeaked open. Haechan straightened quickly, half expecting, half hoping, it would be Mark. But instead, Jaemin walked in, the very picture of composure, his shoes quiet against the floor.

“Jaemin?” Haechan’s brows furrowed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Good to see you too, Hyuckie,” Jaemin said lightly, dropping a notebook onto the table as if it had always belonged there. “What, no ‘thanks for visiting’? No welcome party?”

Haechan frowned deeper. “You’re a business major. You have nothing to do with this.”

“Yeah, but Renjun told me you’ve been camping here like a ghost. If I left you alone any longer, you’d probably start growing roots in this seat.” Jaemin slid into the chair beside him without asking, flipping open his notebook with a casual flick.

Haechan rolled his eyes, defensive. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Jaemin leaned his chin on his hand, studying him. “But I figure, if you explain things to me, you’ll sharpen your pitch. Win win.”

“Or waste of time.”

“Or,” Jaemin countered, voice calm, “it’s practice. And you desperately need practice.”

Haechan’s retort caught in his throat. Because Jaemin wasn’t wrong, he was slipping. Each day without Mark set him further behind. He muttered under his breath, “You don’t even know what you’re getting into.”

“Try me.”

So they worked. For the next thirty minutes, Haechan walked Jaemin through the outline, the concepts, and the flow of their argument. His explanations were clipped at first, almost rushed, but Jaemin’s easy interruptions, his pointed “wait, say that again” or “but why would the judges buy that?” slowly pulled him into rhythm. Against his will, Haechan found himself clarifying, revising, making sense of the ideas out loud. But it wasn’t seamless. Haechan tripped over certain points, places where Mark would have stepped in, balancing the argument, filling the gaps. Each time that absence surfaced, Haechan’s eyes flicked toward the empty chair across the table.

And each time, Jaemin noticed.

“You’ve been distracted this whole time.”

Haechan snapped, too quickly, “I’m not.”

“You are,” Jaemin said, almost matter of fact. “You keep looking at that chair like it’s going to talk back to you.”

Haechan’s pen slipped in his fingers. He turned his face away, but too late, the flicker of guilt had already given him away.

“Thought so,” Jaemin murmured.

“Don’t.” 

“I’m not judging.” Jaemin’s tone had softened, all the teasing stripped away. “I just… you’re worried. And it’s not just about this project. Is it?”

The memory of Mark’s face yesterday slammed back into Haechan’s mind. The ragged breathing. The look in his eyes when he told him to go.

“It’s nothing you need to know about.”

“That’s not true,” Jaemin said, leaning forward. “It’s him. It’s always been him. Isn’t it?”

The words stole the air from Haechan’s lungs. He gripped his pen tighter, knuckles whitening, but no denial came. His silence said more than anything else. Jaemin sat back slowly, watching him. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, bitter, but not cruel. “You care about him more than you realize. And honestly? That’s okay. It’s about time you admitted it to yourself.”

Haechan’s laugh came thin, unsteady. “You think you know me that well?”

“I do,” Jaemin replied, steady as stone. “Better than you think.”

The room fell quiet again, heavier now. The hum of the fluorescent light filled the space, the kind of silence that pressed against Haechan’s chest. His gaze dropped, right back to Mark’s empty chair. And this time, he didn’t even try to look away.

🕸️

Mark had to see him. He had to make sure he was safe. The idea of Haechan walking to school alone, oblivious to the danger, gnawed at him. And yet, part of him also missed him. Missed the way his hair fell over his eyes when he was deep in thought, the subtle ways he concentrated on his notes, the occasional sharp glance that made Mark’s chest tighten without reason. It wasn’t logical. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t even supposed to be anywhere near feelings like this. But tonight, the pull was too strong. He had to know Haechan was alright.

Mark’s chest tightened as he watched him push the door open, letting sunlight wash over his features. Relief, fleeting, mixed with a pang of something sharper, sharper than worry. But he wasn’t alone. Jaemin trailed just behind, a hand resting casually on Haechan’s shoulder. The gesture was light, friendly, yet the way Haechan’s attention lingered on him, absorbed in conversation, nodding along, laughing softly made Mark’s stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with concern for safety.

And then it happened. A small movement. Jaemin’s hand brushed through Haechan’s hair, not a playful nudge, not teasing, just a gentle, almost protective ruffle. Haechan’s eyes softened in response, a small, unguarded smile tugging at his lips, the kind Mark had only glimpsed once or twice and that had stayed in his mind longer than he cared to admit. Mark’s chest constricted. Even from this distance, he could see the subtle way Haechan leaned slightly toward Jaemin, the ease with which he let someone else’s touch linger. The ease he never allowed with Mark.

He swallowed hard, pushing the frustration and something darker down. Jealousy, yes, pure, sharp, unfamiliar. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles ached. Still, he stayed. Watching, heart hammering, side throbbing from old wounds, muscles tense, every instinct on edge, not for Draven now, not for the city, but for the boy he couldn’t stop thinking about.

As Jaemin finally stepped back and Haechan continued walking toward the exit, Mark let out a slow, silent breath. His mask went back on with a practiced motion. Mark shifted slightly, trying to make his landing silent, but the soft scrape of his boots against metal caught Haechan’s attention. 

“Hey,” he called.

Haechan’s brows furrowed. “Spiderman?”

Spiderman nodded slightly, keeping low. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It’s quiet tonight, but the city… it’s never really quiet.”

Haechan tilted his head, hesitation clear as he processed the situation. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be doing your superhero stuff?”

Spiderman exhaled softly, running a gloved hand over his mask. “Look, I just needed to check. You’ve been walking around on your own a lot lately, and I can’t… I can’t just assume you’re fine.”

Haechan blinked, a quiet tension in his shoulders, and then, as if deciding he trusted this masked figure, nodded slightly. “Okay… I mean… thanks, I guess.”

The two of them fell into a quiet rhythm, footsteps muted against the pavement, the occasional distant car passing by like a metronome counting out the silence. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” the hero said, voice calm through the mask. “Wanna talk about it?”

Haechan froze, blinked. “Talk to you?” His tone was incredulous, unsure. “I… I don’t even know if I should—”

Spiderman shrugged. “Doesn’t matter who I am. Sometimes talking to someone who isn’t part of the chaos helps.”

Haechan glanced down the empty street, then back at the masked figure. The world felt quiet around him, the city’s usual noise muted. “Yeah… maybe I do.”

The city below sprawled endlessly, a sea of lights and muted sounds that felt worlds away from their small perch atop the abandoned observatory. Haechan shifted uneasily, hands gripping the cool metal railing. His stomach churned, not from the height, not from the swings that had brought him here but from the sudden intimacy of the situation.

Spiderman sat a few feet away, mask hiding any hint of expression. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the quiet stretch between them, the kind of silence that felt like it could either suffocate or heal. Haechan’s mind raced. He had questions, so many questions but even thinking about asking them out loud made his throat tighten.

Should he?

Haechan swallowed. His pulse ticked in his ears. “He doesn’t even know me… not really,” he muttered under his breath, almost scolding himself. “Why would I…?” He glanced at Spiderman, noting the careful way he perched, the slight tilt of his head like he was listening without judgment. “I don’t know if I should even ask..."

“You can. If you want. I’m a good listener”

Haechan froze. The offer hung in the air, weighty but gentle. He hesitated, chewing on the words. Talk to someone. Not Mark. Not Renjun. Not Jaemin. Just… him. His mind raced. What if I say something stupid? What if he thinks I’m… weird? He took a slow breath, heart thudding, and shifted slightly closer, still cautious. “…Okay,” he whispered finally, voice barely audible. “Maybe I do want to ask something.”

Spiderman nodded, still silent, giving him the space he clearly needed. Haechan fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, glancing at the faint cracks in the glass around the observatory roof. He swallowed again, hesitated, and then let the question slip. “What do you do… if you realize you like someone?”

Mark froze slightly at the question, heart skipping. He hadn’t expected it. “Like… someone?” he asked, careful, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Haechan nodded, fingers twisting together. “Yeah… someone. And you don’t know if you should say something. Or keep it to yourself.” 

Mark’s mind raced. He could see Haechan’s nervous posture, the way his hands fidgeted. He wanted to say a hundred things, but under the mask, he had to play it cool. “You… think about it. Consider why you feel that way. And whether it’s worth it to tell them. Timing, trust, everything matters.”

Haechan’s eyes lifted, searching Spiderman’s masked face for meaning. “And if you’re scared it’ll ruin things? If you’re scared they might not feel the same?”

Mark inhaled. “Then you… proceed carefully. Protect what matters. But… don’t let fear stop you from being honest eventually.”

Haechan nodded slowly, taking it in. “So… I should tell them?”

The words were soft, almost too quiet, but they landed like a punch in Mark’s chest. His thoughts instantly spiraled back to what he had seen just minutes ago. Haechan and Jaemin leaving the room together, Jaemin leaning down, ruffling Haechan’s hair with that easy, familiar smile. The image had burned itself into Mark’s mind, a cruel loop he couldn’t shake.

He likes Jaemin. The conclusion slammed into him with brutal clarity. It made sense, Jaemin had been there since the beginning. Jaemin had always been there. And Mark… Mark had only stumbled into Haechan’s orbit by accident. Why wouldn’t Haechan fall for him?

Mark forced himself to keep his posture calm, his voice even, because Spiderman couldn’t falter. “If… if you think he’s worth it,” he said carefully, “then yes. You should tell him. Sometimes it’s better not to wait.”

Haechan’s eyes flicked up at him, wide, vulnerable. “You think so?”

Mark nodded, the movement small but deliberate. Inside, though, his chest was a storm. Every word he said twisted the knife deeper. Encouraging Haechan to confess, encouraging him toward someone else felt like self destruction, but he swallowed the pain. Because Spiderman wasn’t Mark. And Spiderman’s job was to protect, to guide, to help, even if it meant helping the person he likes hand his heart to someone else.

The silence stretched again. Haechan let out a shaky laugh, trying to disguise how nervous he really was. “Crazy. I didn’t think I’d actually say that out loud. Guess it’s easier talking to someone like you.”

Mark bit the inside of his cheek under the mask. “That’s what I’m here for.” His voice was steady, even as his heart fractured in quiet pieces.

Haechan smiled faintly, gaze drifting back to the city lights. Finally, Mark glanced toward the edge of the rooftop, checking the streets below, alert as always. “We should head back,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “It’s not safe to linger here too long.”

Haechan nodded, standing, the quiet flutter of something unspoken between them. He trusted Spiderman, trusted him more than he probably should have and followed his lead, little knowing the tangle of misunderstanding the masked hero carried.

🕸️

[ ⚠️ The following is a long, detailed fight sequence that marks a key turning point in the story. While it is important to the plot, you may skip ahead if you prefer to bypass the action. ]

The air reeked of burnt concrete and adrenaline before the fight even began. The street had emptied fast, civilians herded away by police barricades. But everyone knew when Draven prowled into view, claws dragging sparks against the pavement, Spiderman would show.

And he did.

Spiderman swung down, perching on a lamppost just out of reach. His voice carried loud over the crowd. “Well, if it isn’t Edward Scissorhands’ evil cousin.”

Draven’s eyes glowed beneath the mask, his voice low and guttural. “You sound braver than you did when I had you bleeding.”

Spiderman’s heart thrummed in his chest, but his voice stayed light. “Yeah, about that. I studied. Big difference.”

The first slash came fast, claws slicing upward in a deadly arc. But Spiderman was ready. Thwip! A web shot straight to the wrist joint, yanking it sideways mid swing. 

“Predictable,” Spiderman muttered, landing lightly. Draven snarled, lunging again with his opposite claw. Spiderman dodged, firing another line, this time hitting both claws and slamming them together like cymbals. The crowd gasped, some even laughing nervously. Spiderman crouched, cocky. “And that’s how you clap without hands. You’re welcome, science.”

Draven ripped free with brute force, but Spiderman had already rolled backward, eyes darting. Timing… pulse in three… two…

The villain’s hand slammed the ground. A surge of blue electricity shot outward, rippling like a wave. But instead of panicking, Spiderman vaulted high, twisting midair, letting the energy reflect harmlessly against strands he’d pre laid across the street, a glittering spiderweb net stretched between lampposts. The pulse scattered into sparks.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Spiderman bowed mid swing. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night. Try the shawarma cart down the block.”

Draven straightened, chest heaving. “You mock me, but you don’t understand me. You still don’t know what you’re fighting.”

“Oh, I do,” Spiderman shot back, landing on a rooftop ledge. 

Draven leapt after him, claws flashing under neon. Spiderman intercepted, shooting reinforced webbing directly at the moving joint. The claws froze mid swipe, locked in sticky steel tension. Spiderman smirked. “Gotcha. Told you, I’ve been studying. All night. Your claws have more tells than a bad poker player.”

Draven growled, straining, but Spiderman was already moving, circling, firing quick lines to the knees, the elbows, every weak spot he’d charted on paper. Draven staggered, webbed tighter with every step. Spiderman's quips flowed as fast as his webs. “Left knee joint, unstable. Right elbow, overcompensates. Honestly, you should be paying me for this consultation. I’m practically your physical therapist.”

For the first time, Draven faltered, forced to one knee, snarling under the strain of reinforced webbing. Spiderman circled him slowly, heart pounding with triumph. I’ve got him. This is it. This is what all those sleepless nights were for.

But then—

Draven’s breath evened out. His eyes narrowed and smirk deepened. “You think webbing joints make me weak? I let you.”

Before Spiderman could retort, a sharp vibration rattled through the webs. His reinforced strands, the ones he’d tested dozens of times, calibrated to withstand over a thousand pounds of tension began to hum. Then they snapped, shredded from the inside as faint orange lines glowed across Draven’s claws. Spiderman's eyes widened behind the mask. That’s new. Energy conduction, straight through the webbing.

“Cute trick,” Spiderman called, leaping back as the villain surged forward. “What is that, claw lights? Planning to moonlight as a glow stick at raves?”

But his quip barely covered the churn in his gut. This wasn’t in his notes. Draven slashed in rapid arcs, the claws now leaving molten trails of heat where they cut. Sparks showered off concrete, metal beams hissed as they sliced clean through. Spiderman dodged, barely, every instinct screaming. He fired webs at the wrists again but the moment they touched, the heat seared through, strands dissolving before they could hold.

“Unbelievable…” Spiderman muttered, ducking under a strike. “You upgraded.”

Draven’s voice was thunderous. “I evolved.”

The fight shifted rooftops in an instant, Spiderman swung away, firing reflective webs down to try and redirect the new arcs of energy. One caught, bouncing sparks wide into the night. But the heat made the strands brittle, snapping faster than he could relay them. He landed on a billboard frame, chest heaving, mind racing. Think. New rules. Claws burn, pulses stronger… webs won’t hold unless—

No time. Draven was already there, tearing through steel support beams like paper.

“Seriously?” Spiderman shouted, flinging himself sideways as the billboard collapsed behind him. “You know people watch these ads, right? I was kinda hoping to finish that toothpaste commercial!”

He fired two cartridges in rapid succession, reinforced webbing meant to immobilize heavy machinery. They wrapped around Draven’s torso, tightening with a metallic snap. Draven staggered but only for a moment. The orange glow surged, claws flaring hotter, and the webbing sizzled, popping strand by strand. Spiderman cursed under his breath. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

Draven charged. Spiderman launched himself upward, kicking both feet square into Draven’s jaw. The villain reeled, more from surprise than pain. Spiderman followed, swinging around and landing a flurry of web pulled punches, striking at every weak point he’d studied. For a heartbeat, it worked. Draven buckled. The crowd below erupted again. “Spiderman’s winning!”

Spiderman grinned behind the mask, adrenaline burning. “You hear that? People like me better. Maybe you should try, I dunno, not clawing at them!”

But Draven steadied, eyes gleaming with fury. He slammed his claws together, a shockwave bursting outward. Spiderman was hurled across the rooftop, ribs screaming as he slammed into a vent. Spiderman groaned, rolling to his knees. Too strong. Energy levels spiking… claws overheating. Think, think—

Draven advanced, claws glowing brighter now, each strike carving molten gashes into the rooftop. “You can’t outplan me, Spiderman. You can’t study chaos.”

Spiderman spat blood into his mask, forcing a shaky laugh. “Joke’s on you, buddy. Chaos was my major.”

With a desperate thwip, he shot conductive webs toward a broken streetlight nearby, snapping the live wires loose. Electricity arced wildly as the wires swung. Spiderman yanked, redirecting them toward Draven. The villain snarled, raising his claws to block—

CRACK! Sparks exploded as electricity collided with the glowing blades. Draven roared, the current rattling through him, staggering his stance. Spiderman didn’t hesitate. He hurled himself forward, firing every cartridge he had left, weaving a cocoon of reinforced webbing around Draven, layer after layer, sparks dancing through the strands.

“Stay—” thwip! “down—” thwip! “already!”

For a second, it looked like he had him. Draven roared, thrashing, the webbing holding under the combined charge of electricity and Spiderman’s reinforced strands. Spiderman’s chest heaved, mask soaked in sweat. I did it. I actually—

And then Draven straightened. The cocoon shuddered. The orange glow beneath his claws burned brighter, spreading across his entire body in glowing veins. The webs started to smolder. Spiderman's heart sank. “Oh… crap.”

The webs hissed, blackening as heat flared through them. Spiderman braced himself, knowing he couldn’t hold Draven much longer.

“Stay down!” he shouted, voice ragged, but Draven only laughed through clenched teeth, his body glowing like a furnace. The cocoon snapped apart, strands bursting into flaming embers that drifted into the night.

“Cute trick,” Draven mocked, staggering free. His claws dimmed for a moment, overheating. He was panting, shoulders trembling, but still standing. Spiderman was worse. His ribs screamed with every breath, vision blurring. His arms hung heavy, wrists aching from overfiring cartridges. They circled each other, predator and prey, but neither could tell which was which anymore.

“You studied me,” Draven rasped, voice hoarse but sharp. “Every move. Every strike. Thought you could win by memorizing me?”

Spiderman forced a smirk, even as blood tickled the corner of his lip under the mask. “Guess what… It worked. You’re running out of tricks.”

Draven’s smirk was bloody, dangerous. “And you’re running out of time.”

Draven lunged with a sluggish swipe. Spiderman dodged, barely, countering with a desperate web yank that dragged a vent cap into Draven’s shoulder. The villain stumbled, claws slicing air instead of flesh. The rooftop shook with the clash, sparks from shattered wires still crackling around them. Another swipe. Another dodge. Both of them are slower now.

Draven’s breathing grew ragged. The glow in his claws flickered. “Next time… you won’t walk away.”

“Yeah,” Spiderman wheezed, firing a weak shot of webbing that barely stuck to the villain’s arm before tearing. “Looking forward to it. We should… do brunch.”

[ ⚠️ Fight concluded. Narrative resumes here. ]

They both faltered at the same moment, one from exhaustion, the other from overheating. Draven snarled one last time before leaping backward, claws gouging the rooftop edge as he vaulted into the shadows. His glowing silhouette vanished into the city night. Spiderman staggered, chest heaving. I should chase him. I should—

But his knees buckled. He dropped to one hand, gasping. His ribs screamed in protest. His web shooters clicked empty. “Damn it,” he whispered, vision swimming. “Too much. Too far.”

The city spun around him, neon bleeding into stars. He forced himself upright, vision blackening at the edges. If Draven doubled back, he’d be dead weight on this roof. He fired a web, shaky, crooked, and swung away. Each arc was sloppy, his body jerking with every rib crushing jolt. Halfway across the city, the pain caught up. His side screamed, vision blurred, muscles seizing with fatigue. 

Mark dove into a deserted alley, landing too hard and collapsing to his knees. He yanked the mask off with fumbling fingers, gasping for air. The cool night bit the sweat and blood on his skin. The suit clung, sticky with dirt and cuts. He tore it down to his waist, chest bare and heaving. His shoulder was already purpling, ribs ached with every breath, and the gash along his side bled sluggishly.

“Blend,” he muttered, trembling hands tugging his jacket over himself. “Just blend.”

But footsteps echoed suddenly at the alley’s mouth. Mark’s head snapped up, heart lurching. A man walked by, glancing into the shadows, eyes narrowing as they caught on the battered figure slouched against the wall. Mark’s pulse spiked. His brain scrambled for an excuse. His lips cracked a crooked grin. “Wrong turn, man. Sorry.”

The stranger opened his mouth, suspicious, but Mark was already moving. He flicked his wrist, instinct more than thought and a webline snapped upward. The man jerked back, startled, as Mark launched himself skyward, vanishing into the night.

The swing nearly tore his shoulder out. His vision blurred white hot with pain. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he couldn’t go home like this. Couldn’t risk anyone seeing, couldn’t risk being seen as Spiderman. His body moved on autopilot. Swing after swing, until his arms faltered. Until his aim dipped, until he landed hard on a building. Stumbled. Caught himself on a balcony railing. The rail bit into his stomach as he clung, gasping. He pulled himself over and collapsed against the glass door, head falling back. Inside, the lights were soft, golden. The silhouette of someone moving, unmistakable even in blur.

Mark’s chest heaved. He didn’t mean to come here. Didn’t plan it. But his body had led him anyway.

The curtain shifted. The door clicked open. Haechan stepped out, hair messy from studying, eyes widening as the night air hit him. And then he froze.

Mark Lee, bruised, bloodied, sweat slick, sat slumped on his balcony floor. Jacket half pulled, cuts streaking down his skin, chest heaving like he’d run from hell itself.

“Mark…?” 

Mark tried to say something, a joke, an excuse, anything. But only a rasp came out. “Hey… sorry. I—”

His body gave out, knees buckling as he tipped forward. Haechan lurched, arms shooting out. He caught him before he hit the ground, Mark’s weight heavy and trembling in his arms. His arms tightened instinctively around Mark’s waist, shock burning through him as he pulled Mark off the cold balcony floor. His breath stuttered, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Holy shit, Mark—what the hell—” His voice cracked with panic, hands trying to support bruised ribs without pressing too hard.

The blood smeared across Mark’s side made his stomach twist. Mark winced but didn’t resist as Haechan all but dragged him inside, one arm slung over his shoulders, the other clutching at Haechan’s shirt as if letting go would drop him into nothing. The warmth of Haechan’s room swallowed them, textbooks on the bed, half drunk iced coffee on the desk, soft lamplight spilling over scattered notes. It was the safest place imaginable, too safe for someone who looked like he’d just crawled through a warzone.

“Sit, sit.” Haechan muttered frantically, guiding him down onto the edge of the bed. Mark collapsed onto it with a sharp hiss, body folding forward. His knuckles dug into the sheets to ground himself. Haechan crouched in front of him, trembling hands hovering over the cuts. “God, Mark, what happened? No, fuck that, don’t talk. Just... just stay here. Don’t move.”

Then the door opened.

“Hyuckie? You wanna grab dinner—” Jaemin’s voice faltered. The world tilted for a split second. Jaemin’s eyes landed on Mark, bruised, shirtless, streaked with blood then on Haechan, too close, too frantic, too involved. The silence burned. Mark turned his head, jaw tightening. He didn’t need to say anything, the sharp flicker in his gaze said it all. Of course it’s him.

Haechan scrambled to his feet, guilt and panic flaring in his chest. “Jaemin, I…” He swallowed. His throat hurt. “I don’t think I can tonight.”

Jaemin’s lips pressed into a thin line. The disappointment was there, but so was understanding, the kind that hurt worse. “Yeah, I figured.” And then he gave a small smile, gentle, bitter around the edges. “I’ll head home. Don’t worry about it.”

Jaemin left. The room felt too quiet, thick with the kind of silence that wasn’t empty at all, but crowded. Haechan stood frozen, staring at the door, heart in his throat. A part of him screamed to chase after Jaemin, explain, fix the fracture he’d just carved into one of his closest friendships. Another part, the louder part, reminded him of the boy bleeding on his bed.

He turned, chest tight. Mark’s head was bowed, curls falling into his face, breaths rough and uneven. Haechan’s hand hovered toward the first aid kit again, but then, he noticed the door. Jaemin had left it ajar. With a small, unsteady exhale, Haechan crossed the room, intent on closing it, cutting out the rest of the world so he could focus on Mark. It wasn’t a choice, not really. It’s always been him.

But Mark didn’t see it that way.

The moment Haechan’s hand touched the doorframe, Mark’s instincts kicked in, the bruised paranoia, the raw wound of jealousy that had been gnawing at him since Jaemin entered the picture. Haechan’s hand had just brushed the door when the sharp thwip snapped through the air. Something warm and sticky latched onto his wrist, pulling taut. Haechan froze, eyes wide. “Mark—”

He was yanked forward in one sharp motion, stumbling until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Mark had dragged him close, too close, one hand catching his balance against Haechan’s hip and then Mark’s palm was on his face, calloused and trembling, holding him in place. Haechan barely had time to gasp before Mark leaned up, every ounce of restraint shattering.

Their lips collided.

Haechan’s mind blanked. For a moment, he didn’t move, shock coursing through him. The warmth of Mark’s mouth, the copper tang of blood still faint on his lips, the sheer recklessness of it, it stole the breath straight out of him. And then something inside Haechan cracked wide open. His hand flew up, gripping Mark’s wrist where the web held him. He leaned in, kissed back with a sharp, unsteady inhale, heart slamming against his ribs. Mark let out a sound, half a groan, half a plea, as if he hadn’t expected him to respond. 

The kiss was messy, unpolished, Haechan’s lips parting in surprise. It was desperate, bruised, hungry. Mark kissed him like he had nothing left to lose, like every ounce of jealousy, pain, and relief bled into the single act. His grip on Haechan’s face was firm, trembling from adrenaline and fatigue, anchoring himself to him like oxygen.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of them were gasping. Mark’s voice was low, rough, barely holding together. “Don’t... don’t go after him. Please, don't you fucking choose him.”

Haechan’s eyes searched for him, wide and blown out, torn between shock and something deeper he couldn’t yet name. His hand, still clutching Mark’s wrist, loosened then slid down to lace their fingers together.

“I wasn’t going to, you stupid.” His voice was a whisper, raw and fragile. 

Then Haechan's gaze dropped to his wrist.

Still bound.

Still sticky.

Still glowing faintly under the low light.

“What the—” Haechan blinked, tugging lightly at the string. It stretched, elastic, clinging like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. His voice cracked as his brain caught up with his body. “Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait—”

He looked back at Mark. At the bruises, the ripped suit half hidden under his discarded jacket, the faint scorch marks across his arms, at the web still connecting them. His mouth dropped open. “Mark… you’re Spiderman?”

Mark froze. Haechan’s words hung heavy in the air, disbelief dripping off each syllable. His eyes darted from the web to Mark’s face, wide and overwhelmed. “No, no, no—don’t tell me—don’t you dare tell me—this whole time?! The random disappearing? The bruises? The weird excuses? You climbing up my balcony like a freaking cat burglar?!”

His voice pitched higher with every word until it cracked entirely. He threw his free hand into his hair, pacing in a tiny circle even though the web still tethered him to Mark. “Holy shit. Oh my god. You’re Spiderman. You’re Spiderman?!”

Mark groaned, dragging a bloodied hand down his face. “Haechan, not now—”

“Yes now!” Haechan snapped, yanking at the web between them until Mark stumbled forward with a grunt. “You kiss me out of nowhere and then this, you literally webbed me like that goddamn superhero, Mark! What did you think my brain was gonna do, just… just skip over it?!”

Mark’s jaw clenched, panic and exhaustion battling in his eyes. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Haechan blinked at him, utterly flabbergasted. “Oh, so there was supposed to be a powerpoint presentation? A press conference?!”

Despite himself, Mark almost choked out a laugh, but it dissolved into a wince as his ribs protested. “God, this is a mess.”

Haechan stared at him, chest heaving, heart still racing from the kiss. His pulse was so loud in his ears he swore the whole building could hear it.

Spiderman. Mark Lee. The same person.

Everything, the missed classes, the sudden disappearances, the exhaustion, the bruises, clicked into place like puzzle pieces snapping together and Haechan’s knees felt like they were about to give out. Haechan’s gaze dropped to the gash along Mark’s side. The blood soaking through the fabric made his breath hitch. “Shit. Okay, no, this—” His tone shifted, sharp and commanding. “Sit. Down. Now.”

Mark blinked. “Hae—”

Haechan shoved him back down on the edge of the bed, yanking open a drawer for the first aid kit he barely remembered owning. “God, you’re ridiculous. First, you’re a masked vigilante, now you’re dripping everywhere—stay still or I swear I’ll make it worse.”

Mark almost smiled despite the pain. “You’re surprisingly bossy when I’m injured.”

“Shut up.” Haechan snapped open the kit, pulling out gauze with shaking hands. He pressed it against the wound, glaring at him. “Explain everything. Right now.”

Mark hissed at the pressure but obeyed. “It just… happened. The powers, I mean. A bite. Stupid accident. One day I wake up and I can do things no normal person should be able to do. And at first, I thought it was cool. Just cool. But then things got complicated. People were getting hurt. And if I could stop it, and didn’t—” 

His voice caught, something raw beneath the exhaustion. “...I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

Haechan’s chest clenched. He kept his hands steady, taping gauze over the wound, even as his throat went dry. “So you’ve just been doing this? Alone?”

Mark gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Not like I could tell anyone.” His eyes flicked up, just briefly, searching Haechan’s. “Not even you.”

That landed like a punch to Haechan’s ribs. He swallowed hard, pushing Mark’s shoulder gently to check the bandage.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re reckless."

"I know."

"And you lie too much.”

“...Sorry,” Mark whispered again, softer.

Haechan shook his head in disbelief, muttering, “Unbelievable… absolutely insane.” He tugged the bandage tighter, making Mark flinch. “You realize you—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, then shoved another gauze pad at him. “Hold this and keep talking. I’m not done yelling at you.”

Mark gave him a half grimace, half smile. “I think you’re doing fine already.”

“Don’t test me.” Haechan jabbed a finger at him, then went back to disinfecting his side, though his hands were a little gentler now. “You’re Spiderman. And I’ve been breaking myself just to keep up with you.”

Mark stared at him, stunned into silence. The words landed like something he’d never considered that Haechan’s fire wasn’t just pride, but pressure too. “You’re not behind me, Haechan. You never were. You don’t even realize how much you push me to be better.”

Haechan blinked rapidly, shaking his head like he could physically ward them off. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re bleeding all over my bed.”

Mark let out a soft, pained laugh, but didn’t look away. “It’s true.”

Haechan sat back on his heels after tying the last knot of bandage, breath uneven though his hands were steady. His eyes flicked up, catching Mark’s again. For once, Mark wasn’t hiding behind humor. His gaze was open, raw, like the mask had stripped away more than just the disguise. “You scare the hell out of me,” Haechan admitted, voice low. “Every time you disappear. Every time you come back with bruises. And now… now I know why, and it doesn’t make me feel better.”

Mark exhaled shakily. “I didn’t want anyone—you to carry it. Any of it.”

“You don’t get to choose that for me.” Haechan’s hand lingered against Mark’s chest, just above the fresh bandage. “You’re…” he faltered, then steadied himself, “You’re mine to worry about too.”

That undid something in Mark. His hand shot up, wrapping around Haechan’s wrist gently but firmly, pulling his hand flat against his heartbeat. “Then tell me I’m not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Mark’s voice cracked. “For you. For us.”

The silence pressed heavy between them, only the sound of Mark’s uneven breathing filling the room. Haechan’s lips parted, but no sound came. His head was spinning, academic rivalries, nights of bickering, Mark’s bruised smile, all of it crashing together. He finally whispered, “You idiot. It’s always been you.”

Mark’s throat bobbed, then he leaned forward, hesitating for a fraction of a second, giving Haechan a chance to pull away. 

But Haechan didn’t, he surged forward himself, closing the gap. The kiss was messy at first, bruised and desperate, Mark tasting faintly of copper from a split lip. Haechan cupped his face like he’d been wanting to do for years, anchoring him, pouring all the rivalry and resentment and buried longing into the press of their mouths. Mark’s hand slid to Haechan’s waist, tentative but firm, pulling him closer until Haechan ended up straddling him right there on the bed. Their breaths tangled, fast and shallow, as if they’d run miles to get here.

“Say it again,” Mark murmured against his lips, forehead pressed to his.

Haechan smiled. “It’s always been you.”

Mark kissed him again, deeper this time, like he’d been starving. The fire shifted. Haechan’s hands slipped on Mark’s body carefully, mindful of his injuries but desperate to feel the heat of him. Mark hissed softly when Haechan’s fingers brushed too close to a bruise, but then tugged him closer, lips hot against his jaw.

“You should rest,” Haechan muttered, and pressed him down into the mattress, lips feverish against his. His fingers curled in the sheets at the way Mark’s hands gripped his hips, firm but trembling with restraint. “Don’t—” Haechan broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips, “Don’t push yourself. You’re hurt.”

Mark gave a low laugh, rough and breathless. He rolled them suddenly, careful but determined, until Haechan was beneath him. “You think I can stop now?”

The look in Mark’s eyes, dark, desperate, needing, made Haechan’s chest tighten. “You don’t get it,” Mark whispered, his forehead pressing against Haechan’s. “I’ve wanted you since… fuck, I don’t even know when. Since before the rivalry, before all this Spiderman crap. I just—” His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you to Jaemin. Not when I—”

Haechan’s eyes widened, his chest rising and falling fast. He tugged against the webbing half heartedly, testing, then gave up with a breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable. Spiderman and a jealous idiot?”

“Only when it’s you.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. Something melted in Haechan’s chest, sharp edges softening. He lifted his free hand, cupping Mark’s jaw gently. “Then shut up and kiss me again.”

Mark didn’t need to be told twice. His lips pressed hungrily against Haechan’s, slow at first, then deepening when Haechan tugged him closer. Their mouths moved with a messy desperation, years of unspoken tension crashing together. Mark pulled back just enough to breathe against his lips. “Tell me you want this.”

Haechan’s answer was immediate. “I want this. I want you.” His voice trembled, not from fear, but from the raw honesty of it. “I’ve always wanted you, you idiot.”

Mark groaned, burying his face against Haechan’s neck, pressing wet kisses along his skin. “Fuck… don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Haechan whispered back, his hand sliding into Mark’s hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

Mark’s restraint snapped. He kissed him hard, pinning him against the mattress, his body trembling with need. But even then, he hesitated, pulling back enough to search Haechan’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not like this. Not when I’ve got you in my hands for real.”

Haechan smirked, though his eyes were soft. “You won’t. Just be careful. You’re injured, remember?”

Mark gave a breathless laugh. “You’re worried about me? You’re about to regret it.”

“You talk too much,” Haechan muttered, kissing him again, slower this time, deep and sweet, until Mark melted completely against him. Clothes peeled away with shaky hands, discarded one by one between kisses and whispered curses. Mark took his time, fingers trailing reverently along Haechan’s skin, his mouth leaving soft kisses in places that made Haechan gasp. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Mark whispered, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Haechan froze for half a second before whispering back, almost shyly, “Say that again.”

Mark kissed him deeply, then pulled back just enough to breathe it against his lips. “You’re beautiful.”

That undid Haechan more than anything else. He dragged Mark down, their mouths colliding again, bodies tangled and desperate. When Mark finally reached for the drawer by Haechan’s bed, hands fumbling for the lube. Mark’s lips hovered just above his as he coated his fingers, voice low and shaky. “Tell me if it hurts. Please.”

The gentleness in his tone made Haechan’s chest ache. He nodded quickly, brushing their lips together. “I trust you, Mark. Just don’t stop kissing me, okay?”

Mark’s answer was immediate, his mouth on Haechan’s again, swallowing every gasp, every sound, as his hands moved lower. Slow, careful, patient, preparing him until Haechan was trembling beneath him, clutching at his shoulders. “Fuck, Mark—” Haechan moaned, voice raw, nails digging into his skin.

Mark groaned, resting his forehead against Haechan’s. “You’re driving me insane.”

Finally, when he slid into him, both of them gasped at the overwhelming closeness. Haechan clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, but kissed him through it, grounding himself in Mark’s warmth.

Mark whispered against his lips, voice cracking, “I like you.”

Haechan’s eyes flew open. “What?”

Mark thrust deeper, desperate, kissing him hard. “I like you. I’ve always fucking like you.”

Tears pricked at Haechan’s eyes, his arms wrapping around him tightly. “You idiot,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I like you too.”

The words lit something in Mark. He moved with more urgency now, each thrust rougher, deeper, but still filled with care, like every motion was a confession of its own. 

“M-Mark... Ahhh...” Haechan started, but it melted into a broken moan when Mark angled deeper, dragging another gasp from his lips. His back arched, fingers clawing at Mark’s shoulders. Mark caught his mouth in another kiss, swallowing every sound. His hands were everywhere on Haechan’s waist, his thigh, his cheek like he was memorizing him through touch until Haechan was trembling beneath him, caught between frustration and bliss.

“Aahhh... You're killing me." Haechan gasped, panting against his lips.

Mark groaned, pressing their foreheads together. “No, baby. I’m worshipping you.”

The word baby made Haechan’s chest cave in. “You... Ahhh... You can’t just say shit like that—”

“I can,” Mark whispered, his voice wrecked. He kissed him deeply, their tongues tangling, before pulling back just enough to rasp against his lips. “Because I mean it.”

The room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, their breaths ragged, bodies moving together like they’d been made for this. Mark adjusted his angle again and Haechan cried out, clutching at him helplessly. “There,” Mark groaned, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Right there?”

“Y-yeah—fuck, Mark—don’t stop—”

Mark’s pace grew steadier, deeper, his own control hanging by a thread. His injury screamed at him, but every time he looked down at Haechan, flushed, trembling, lips parted in soft moans, it made the pain worth it.

“Look at me,” Mark demanded, voice low and rough. Haechan’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and teary. Mark broke with a groan, hips snapping harder now, chasing the edge. “God—Haechan—don’t ever leave me. Please—”

“You’re stuck with me, Spiderman,” Haechan choked out, half laughing, half crying. “Always.”

That undid Mark completely. He moved faster, harder, their kisses messier as their bodies climbed together again, pleasure building until it was overwhelming. Their moans tangled, kisses messy and desperate, hands gripping, holding, clinging like they’d never let go. Haechan gasped into his mouth, breaking with a cry of his name. Mark followed him quickly, their bodies shuddering, collapsing together in a tangle of limbs and heat.  

Their bodies remained tangled, sweat slick and gasping, but Mark refused to pull away just yet. He kissed Haechan’s swollen lips gently, tenderly now, murmuring in between kisses. Haechan, dazed and flushed, let out a breathless laugh, brushing damp hair off Mark’s forehead. “You really don’t know how to take it slow, huh?”

Mark grinned weakly, pressing one last kiss to his lips. “Not when it’s you.”

They lay tangled in the sheets, the quiet hum of the city bleeding faintly through the window. Mark’s breathing was still uneven, but calmer now, like he’d finally let himself unravel in the one place he never expected. Haechan had his head on Mark’s shoulder, chest rising and falling with each exhale, but his sharp eyes never dulled. After a moment of silence, he muttered, “So… are you finally going to tell me what the hell has been going on with you? Why have you been disappearing, showing up with bruises, skipping classes, zoning out during review sessions?”

Mark turned his head to look at him, guilty half smile tugging at his lips. “You already know the broad strokes. Spiderman and all that.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Haechan jabbed a finger against his side, right next to the bandage. Mark hissed and caught his wrist, but Haechan only glared harder. “I’m serious, Mark. What’s been eating you alive these past days? You look like you’re fighting ghosts.”

Mark’s grin faded. He stared at the ceiling, eyes flickering with something heavier. 

“Draven.”

At the name, the air shifted. Mark slowly pushed himself up despite the soreness, reached to the side table, and pulled his battered notebook from his bag. He flipped it open, the pages worn from constant use, edges stained faintly with dried blood from being stuffed into his suit more times than he could count. Haechan leaned in, eyes scanning the chaotic scrawl. 

“Claw arcs… energy pulses… trajectory mapping…” Haechan read aloud, his brows furrowing deeper the further he went. “God, you’re insane.”

Mark gave a humorless chuckle. “I had to be. He almost had me last time. And this time, he came back with new tricks. Everything I planned suddenly wasn’t enough. It’s like he evolved just to screw me over.”

Mark started recounting everything. The way Draven’s claws burned through everything. The way his webs disintegrated, brittle under the heat. The way he thought he had him, just for one second, before the cocoon went up in embers. Haechan hadn’t said a word through most of it, just listened, his brow furrowing deeper, jaw clenching each time Mark mentioned the pain in his ribs, the split in his lip, the moment the crowd gasped when he almost didn’t get up.

Finally, Haechan let out a long breath, flipping back through Mark’s scrawled notes. “Okay. First thing, your reinforced webbing won’t cut it anymore. Heat conduction’s the problem, right? That’s why it snaps.”

Mark blinked at him. “Yeah. Unless I can insulate it—”

“Not insulate. Redirect.” Haechan’s finger tapped at one of the margin notes. 

“You said he overheated his claws when you trapped him with the live wires? That’s the key. Your webs can’t fight the heat head on, but they can funnel it. You trap him, make him overclock. He burns himself out faster.”

Mark stared at him, lips parting. “You’re saying use his energy against him.”

“Exactly.” Haechan’s eyes gleamed, sharp as ever. “Like a circuit. Force the current through his own system until it blows. You don’t need to overpower him, you need to make him burn out.”

Mark let out a disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. “Jesus, Haechan. You’re actually a bigger nerd than me.”

“Shut up.” Haechan shoved him lightly in the shoulder, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Second thing, your timing. You keep trying to strike after his pulse. Wrong move. His pattern’s 2.3 seconds, you need to cut him off at 2.1. Preempt it. Catch him in his own swing before the energy fully channels.”

Mark’s brows rose. He glanced down at the formula he’d been scratching half blind into the page earlier. “That’s what I was missing.”

“Of course it is. You’re sloppy when you’re exhausted.” Haechan smirked, grabbing the pen from Mark’s hand and writing a cleaner equation in the margin. “Good thing you have me.”

Mark looked at him, really looked, and for the first time in days, the weight in his chest didn’t feel unbearable. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Good thing.”

They worked like that for hours. Bent over the notebook, sketching out counter strategies in the dim glow of Haechan’s desk lamp. Mark’s handwriting was fast and jagged, Haechan’s precise lines cutting sharp across the page. They argued, bickered, challenged each other’s logic, just like in debates, just like in every class they’d ever tried to outdo each other in. But now it wasn't a rivalry. It was survival.

At one point, Mark’s head sagged forward, eyes drooping. Haechan flicked his forehead, smirking. “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me now. You’re the superhero, I’m just a genius sidekick.”

Mark groaned, rubbing the spot. “Sidekick? Please, more like annoying co-hero.”

“Oh, co-hero. Upgraded title. Finally some respect.”

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t push it.”

By the time the sky outside lightened into faint grey, their notebook was filled with new diagrams, countermaps, chemical notations for web formulas Haechan suggested. Mark leaned back against the headboard, utterly drained but for once, hopeful. Haechan sat cross legged beside him, hair sticking up, eyes still sharp despite the hour. He closed the notebook with a decisive thump. “There. You’re not dying next time.”

Mark tilted his head, watching him. “You really mean it, don’t you? You’re in this.”

Haechan met his gaze steadily. “If you’re dragging me into your war, you’re dragging all of me in. No half measures.”

Something in Mark’s chest twisted, equal parts terrifying and grounding. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his thumb over the back of Haechan’s hand.

“Then… partner,” he said quietly.

Haechan’s lips quirked, but he didn’t pull away. 

“…Partner.”

They stayed like that, the notebook of strategies between them, exhaustion finally settling in. Before long, Mark’s head tilted sideways, resting against Haechan’s shoulder. And for the first time since Draven had returned, he let himself sleep.

🕸️

“You’re not going alone,” Haechan snapped the notebook shut. His voice left no room for debate. “If Draven’s that unstable now, you’ll need backup. And I’m not letting you crawl out there half dead again.”

Mark was already pulling his suit back on, movements slower than usual from sore muscles and bruises. He didn’t look at Haechan. “I can’t take you with me. You’re not—”

“Not what? Not strong enough? Not fast enough?” Haechan’s tone sharpened. “You don’t get to play martyr, Mark. I’ve been helping you plan, I know his patterns just as well as you do now. You need me.”

Mark finally turned, mask bunched in his hand, hair messy and damp against his forehead. The look on his face was devastating because it wasn’t anger, it was fear. “I can’t lose you,” Mark said quietly. The words came out hoarse, almost broken. “If something happens to me, fine. That’s the job. But you? If you get hurt because of me, Haechan—”

“Stop.” Haechan stood, closing the space between them, his hands brushing against Mark’s chest, careful of the bruises. “Don’t you get it? You’ve been carrying this alone, thinking it’s only your fight but you don’t have to anymore, not with me here.”

Mark’s throat worked, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. His chest rose and fell sharply, every word sticking in his ribs.

Then he kissed him. It wasn’t frantic like the first time, wasn’t stolen or out of anger. It was slow, grounding, Mark’s hand cupping the side of Haechan’s neck like he couldn’t bear to let go. Haechan leaned in, sighing into his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of the half zipped suit.

When they broke apart, Haechan whispered, “You’re not pushing me away this time.”

Mark closed his eyes, forehead pressed against Haechan’s. “I have to.”

Haechan frowned, opening his mouth to argue only to suddenly feel his wrist snap back against the wall. He looked down. A web strand stretched from his skin to the plaster, holding fast.

“Mark—”

“It’s the only way I can keep you safe,” Mark said, voice low but urgent.

“Safe?!” Haechan snapped, fury and fear wrestling inside him. He panted, struggling against the binding. “You’re about to throw yourself into that fight half dead, and you think leaving me pinned here is—”

Mark crossed the small distance, cutting off his protest with a quick, desperate kiss. Haechan’s breath caught, and when Mark pulled back, the mask slid into place as if sealing off the world outside.

“You can’t do this,” Haechan said, voice rough, throat tight. “Our competition is tomorrow!”

“I’ll be there,” Mark promised, hand cupping Haechan’s cheek, thumb brushing softly over his skin. “Wait for me. Just this once, please.”

Haechan thrashed again, jerking against the web. “Mark Lee, if you don't come back—”

“I will,” Mark cut in firmly. “You’re my reason now.”

And before Haechan could find more words, more protests, Mark was already on the balcony, launching into the night. The webs held. The room was silent except for Haechan’s ragged breathing and the fading echo of the thwip that carried Mark away. A faint smile tugged at Haechan’s lips. He glanced at the web holding him, realizing he wasn’t completely helpless. 

Mark swung low between buildings, every webline tugging at sore shoulders, every breath a reminder of cracked ribs but the silence was worse than the pain, streets that should’ve been buzzing with life were abandoned, shop windows shattered, cars overturned. He landed in the middle of an intersection, chest heaving, eyes scanning. Neon signs flickered overhead, their glow distorted against rising smoke.

“Draven!” Spiderman’s voice echoed through the empty streets. “I know you’re here!”

For a moment, nothing. Just the whine of a broken traffic light swaying in the breeze.

Then the asphalt split open. A molten claw punched through the street like paper, tearing a jagged path as Draven pulled himself up, glowing veins crawling across his skin like fire in glass. His eyes burned the same searing orange, too bright, too wild. “You keep coming back,” Draven rasped, dragging his claws against the pavement. Sparks hissed, the ground steaming beneath his feet. “You should’ve stayed down.”

Spiderman forced a shaky grin behind the mask. “And miss your sparkling personality? Not a chance.”

Draven lunged first, claws slicing through the air in a rapid arc. Sparks hissed as each strike skated across steel beams. Spiderman ducked, flipping to the side and firing a strand of reinforced webbing at the wrist, trying to immobilize it. The web smoked, bristling under the heat, but held for a heartbeat.

“You really study me too much,” Draven snarled, voice low and dangerous, as he tore the web free and spun, sending molten arcs dancing across the rooftop. Spiderman groaned internally. The claws burned through reinforced strands faster than predicted. He snapped another cartridge, aiming not to stop Draven, but to redirect the energy. Sparks arced wildly, bouncing across the concrete.

“Not bad, but predictable.” He leapt sideways, firing two strands at nearby metal piping, redirecting the molten tips’ glow into a harmless angle. Draven growled, staggering slightly. He flexed his claws in a new rhythm, unexpected, off cycle.  Spiderman adjusted on instinct, swinging low, yanking a dangling wire free. Electricity arced into Draven’s claws, causing him to stagger, momentarily overloading his energy system.

“Gotcha,” Spiderman whispered, firing reinforced web cartridges to wrap Draven’s arms, aiming to lock the joints. Sparks hissed against the strands, but the webbing stretched taut, holding for a few crucial seconds. Draven roared, shaking violently, claws flaring dangerously. He lashed outward, smashing a nearby vent. Debris rained down, a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Spiderman rolled, ducked, fired webs with precision, pulling himself closer to a higher vantage.

“Not enough!” Draven’s voice cracked with rage. He surged forward, claws flashing, molten trails carving through the rooftop. “You think you can stop me?”

Spiderman gritted his teeth, dodging each swipe, counting pulses, predicting trajectory. 

“I don’t think. I know.” He fired webbing across Draven’s shoulders, yanking to throw off balance, then swung low to land a kick to the knee joint. Sparks hissed, metal screeched under the impact. Draven staggered, his glow flickering as the energy overload pulsed through his body.

The villain roared, fury etched in every movement, and attempted a desperate leap across the buildings. Spiderman fired a line to intercept, catching him mid air, yanking downward. The impact sent both tumbling across a billboard. Concrete cracked, metal bent. Spiderman’s ribs screamed with pain, but his mind stayed razor sharp. Draven’s claws flared hotter, each new trick an unpredictable spike of energy, but Spiderman countered with every contingency they’d planned. Another swing, another collision, sparks flew, smoke rose. Spiderman’s suit was scorched, his muscles aching, blood trickled from a split lip but he didn’t relent. 

The villain was clearly frustrated now, rage crackling from every movement. Spiderman could feel the energy strain in Draven’s system, he was pushing too hard, too fast, too much. This was it. This was the edge they’d been waiting for.

And just as Draven raised both claws in a desperate, overcharged strike, Spiderman fired the last of his reinforced conductive webbing, wrapping the arms, redirecting residual energy into a collapsed scaffolding piece. Sparks exploded, a loud crack reverberating across the rooftops. Draven roared, staggered, almost falling and Spiderman didn’t hesitate, he swung around, landing on the villain, forcing him to the ground, webs tangling like a cage around him. 

Draven flailed, hissed, sparks arcing from the trapped claws, but Spiderman’s planning, Haechan’s input, and his relentless focus held. For a heartbeat, the world was still, smoke curling in the early sun, the two combatants locked in a moment of exhausted silence. Spiderman’s chest heaved, every muscle screaming from overexertion, sweat and blood mingling on his bruised face. Draven was pinned… barely. Sparks sizzled off the reinforced web cocoon, the molten glow of the villain’s claws flickering weakly, like a dying star.

Then, from across the street, a sharp, familiar voice rang out.

“Spiderman!”

Spiderman’s head snapped up, heart sinking. 

Haechan. 

Draven’s eyes narrowed instantly. A twisted, triumphant grin spread across his face. “Ah… perfect timing."

The villain twisted violently, snapping a length of webbing free from Spiderman’s cocoon with a charged strike. Then, before Spiderman could react, Draven lunged, not at him, but across the gap, grabbing Haechan.

“No!” Spiderman yelled, launching a web line and swinging toward them, claws still crackling.

Haechan flailed, instinctively trying to struggle, but Draven’s grip was iron. “Get away from me!” 

Draven snarled, spinning Haechan like a ragdoll, claws flaring. Spiderman’s pulse spiked, he had to act fast. He calculated distances in a heartbeat, the way they had trained mentally with the maps and angles.

“Hang on, Haechan! I’ve got you!” He fired a pair of webs at Draven’s feet, yanking downward to unbalance him mid swing. Sparks erupted as Draven slammed into a nearby billboard, energy crackling, claws struggling to hold onto Haechan. Spiderman shot another line at Haechan, webbing a safety tether around his torso just in time. Draven roared, attempting to tighten his grip, swinging toward the rooftop edge. 

Spiderman lunged, swinging from the scaffold like a practiced acrobat, snatching Haechan safely out of Draven’s reach just as the villain’s claws shredded the rooftop where he had been standing. They hit the ground with a thud. Haechan gasped, clutching Spiderman’s arm, adrenaline burning. “Focus! Draven’s not done yet!”

Draven scrambled, claws sizzling, energy pulses erratic. “You can’t win! I won’t lose!”

Spiderman shifted his stance, bruises screaming but mind razor sharp. Sparks flared as webs caught his wrists, he dodged claws slicing through concrete. Haechan, though still processing the revelation, steadied himself. “Mark, wait! You need to redirect his energy, like yesterday’s plan!”

Spiderman nodded, recognizing the familiar calm logic in Haechan’s voice. “Got it now!”

He fired reinforced conductive webbing, guiding the erratic pulses into a nearby metallic scaffold. Draven staggered, claws sparking, overloading himself as planned but his rage made him reckless.

“You’re—!” Draven screamed, stumbling backward. “I control everything!”

Spiderman lunged, flipping over the villain, landing a precision web strike to disable a claw joint just as Draven tried to snatch Haechan again. Draven’s control faltered, his claws flailed as his energy system surged beyond capacity. In a moment of unbridled fury, he swung Haechan outward—

“HAECHAN!” 

Spiderman shot forward, stretching every ounce of strength, webbing snapping under tension. He caught Haechan mid air, spinning to shield him as Draven slammed into a concrete pillar. Both of them landed hard. Dust and sparks filled the air, Haechan gasped, heart hammering, clinging to Spiderman. “Are you… are you okay?” Spiderman rasped, ignoring the throbbing pain in his side and arms.

Haechan nodded shakily, eyes wide but steadying. “Yeah… yeah, thanks… Mark… you’re amazing.”

Draven shook himself, claws sparking, energy unstable, but clearly exhausted. “This… isn’t… over!”

Spiderman’s chest heaved, blood trickling from his lip, mask damp with sweat. “Yeah… it’s over for now."

Draven stumbled backward, defeated for the moment, webbing restricting him as Spiderman readied a final immobilization.

Haechan, catching his breath, whispered, “You… you did it, Mark. All of it, your planning, our plan… it worked.”

Spiderman exhaled, finally allowing himself a momentary rest, arm still around Haechan.  The fight was won, but the adrenaline still throbbed, and the city below didn’t know how close it had come.

Inside Haechan’s apartment, the chaos of the battle felt miles away. Mark sank into the couch, mask pulled off, suit half unzipped, every muscle screaming with exhaustion. Haechan knelt beside him, a first aid kit spread out on the coffee table. The glow of the desk lamp cast warm light across the room, softening the harshness of Mark’s injuries, his hands were gentle yet precise, cleaning and wrapping each wound with care.

“You shouldn't have…” Mark murmured, voice low, almost caught in disbelief. “You could’ve just left it to me.”

Haechan shook his head, brushing damp strands of hair from Mark’s forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not letting you get away with crawling into danger while I just sit around. Not after everything.”

Mark’s chest tightened, the familiar pang of emotion making him catch his breath. He reached out, thumb brushing Haechan’s hand. “You always know what to do, even better than me sometimes.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Haechan whispered, leaning closer. “I couldn’t just watch you, not after the way you’ve been these past few days. Injured, exhausted, running yourself ragged. You needed me.”

Mark exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as Haechan’s hands tended to a particularly nasty bruise along his side. The gentle pressure, the soft murmurs of concern, the warmth of Haechan’s presence, it was grounding in a way nothing else could be. “I don’t deserve you,” he admitted, voice rough. “You… you care about me, Haechan. You’re always there, and I keep dragging you into my chaos.”

“You deserve me just fine,” Haechan replied, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You saved the city tonight, Mark. You just need someone to patch you up afterward.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, soft and relieved. Mark’s eyes opened, meeting Haechan’s, and in that look, everything was said. The adrenaline, the fear, the lingering thrill of victory, and the warmth of being together. They spent the next hour in quiet closeness. Haechan cleaned each cut, dabbed antiseptic carefully, and pressed bandages where needed, talking softly all the while. Mark leaned into every touch, letting himself relax more with each passing moment.

“You executed the plan perfectly tonight. And yet, here you are, still bruised and stubborn.” Haechan said, lightly, wiping a smear of blood from Mark’s jaw.

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Every move… everything we figured out together, I kept you in my head the whole time.”

Haechan’s chest warmed at the admission, and he leaned forward, resting a hand against Mark’s cheek. “Good. You better remember that next time that you’re not doing this alone.”

Mark smiled faintly, eyes softening. “I know… I’ve known, for a long time.”

They shared a quiet moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. The apartment felt like a sanctuary, small, warm, safe. No city to save, no villain breathing fire, just the two of them.

“Can I…?” Mark’s voice was hesitant for the first time that night, fingers brushing at Haechan's arm.

“Yeah,” Haechan replied, voice husky. “Always.”

And so they did. A gentle, lingering kiss, full of everything left unsaid during the chaos, the adrenaline, the danger. A kiss that spoke of relief, love, and shared victories.

When they finally parted, Mark rested his head on Haechan’s shoulder, chest rising and falling with quiet exhaustion. Haechan curled around him, arms tight, anchoring him, grounding him in safety. “Tomorrow,” Haechan murmured, “we have that competition. You better not forget.”

Mark let out a humorless laugh, nuzzling into Haechan’s hair. “I won’t. I’m just glad I get to fight with you by my side in every way.”

Haechan smiled. “Always.”

They stayed like that long into the night, silent and safe, wrapped in each other’s arms. The city outside was still alive, but here, in the warm glow of the apartment, they had nothing to fight except the quiet laughter and soft kisses that came naturally between them.

🕸️

The morning sun crept through the blinds, scattering warm light across Haechan’s bedroom. The smell of coffee and faint traces of the night before lingered in the air. Mark was still tangled in the sheets, shirt half off, hair mussed in the perfect chaotic way only he could manage. Haechan stirred beside him, blinking sleep from his eyes, and immediately noticed the familiar warmth and weight of Mark pressed close. His chest tightened with a mix of affection and lingering adrenaline from the night.

“Morning,” Haechan whispered, voice hoarse and soft.

Mark hummed in response, a mischievous curve to his lips. “Morning, baby.” He shifted slightly, pressing a teasing, lingering kiss to Haechan’s collarbone before nuzzling closer.

Haechan shivered, hands curling into the sheets as Mark’s lips trailed up, leaving soft, hot marks. “Mhm… can we not… I mean, competition day—”

“Competition day is perfect,” Mark interrupted with a grin against Haechan’s neck. “I like starting the day this way. Helps me focus.”

Haechan’s eyebrows shot up. “Focus? Really? That’s your excuse?”

Mark smirked, pulling back just enough to meet Haechan’s gaze, eyes dark, playful, and possessive. “Yeah. You. You’re my focus.”

Before Haechan could protest, Mark’s hands trailed lower, fingers teasing, teasing enough to make Haechan arch and gasp. The world outside didn’t exist, no crowd, no city, no looming competitions, just the weight, warmth, and insistence of Mark.

“M-Mark...” Haechan breathed, but he didn’t try to stop him. Not really. He knew better than to resist when Mark was like this, dominant, attentive, his energy completely consuming.

“Shhh,” Mark murmured, lips brushing Haechan’s in a slow, deliberate kiss. His hands moved with purpose, skilled and knowing, claiming Haechan as though the world might try to take him away.

Time stretched, measured only by shared breaths and soft moans. Mark guided Haechan carefully, expertly, making sure every touch, every kiss, left Haechan dizzy and trembling because even in moments of whispered teasing, the intensity never broke. Finally, when they both collapsed, tangled in the sheets, Mark pressed a lingering kiss to Haechan’s forehead. 

“Better?” he murmured.

Haechan’s cheeks burned, breath still shaky. “Better… yeah,” he admitted, eyes locked on Mark’s. “But now we really have to go, or we’ll be late for the competition.”

Mark laughed softly, nuzzling him again. “I’m ready. You ready?”

Haechan nodded, heart still racing but steadied by Mark’s presence. “Yeah. Let’s do this together.”

Mark’s hand found Haechan’s, fingers intertwining. “Together."

They got up, got dressed, exchanged one more mischievous grin, and headed out, carrying not only their hard work and brains into the competition but also the shared warmth and connection that had only grown stronger through nights of chaos, battles, and stolen kisses.

The competition hall buzzed with quiet tension. Students from rival universities whispered strategies and shuffled notes, their fingers tapping nervously on table edges. Haechan sat at the edge of their team table, eyes flicking to Mark every few seconds, his hand brushing accidentally against Mark’s. The contact made his chest tighten, a subtle warmth creeping up his arm, and he didn’t pull away.

The opening challenge flashed on the screen:

"Design an ethical protocol for deploying autonomous medical drones in urban hospitals. Consider cost, privacy, patient safety, and real time decision making. You have 30 minutes to prepare your argument, anticipate counterpoints, and present a unified solution."

Haechan muttered under his breath. “Seriously? Why is it always something so…” He trailed off, noticing Mark’s pen already scribbling formulas, diagrams, and bullet points with relentless precision. Mark glanced up, a half smile tugging at his lips. “Complexity doesn’t scare you, baby. Planning ahead does.”

“I hate that you’re right."

“Not falling behind this time?”

Haechan rolled his eyes, but a faint smirk betrayed him. “I’ll try.”

The timer began, and the room sank into focused silence. Haechan sketched quickly, highlighting privacy concerns and weighing ethical trade offs. Mark’s head tilted slightly, watching him work, before offering quiet, pointed suggestions. 

When the presentation began, Mark went first. “Autonomous medical drones present three pillars of benefit, speed, precision, and accessibility. However, the issue is not whether they should exist, but how to regulate them ethically. First, privacy. Drones must not collect patient data beyond immediate medical necessity. Second, safety protocols, manual override must remain accessible to doctors. And third, cost equity, urban hospitals cannot monopolize them while rural areas remain underserved.” 

Haechan followed immediately, rising with fire in his tone. “Efficiency alone isn’t enough. Emergencies don’t wait for ethics to catch up. We propose a dual system: real time drone decision making monitored by tiered human oversight. Think air traffic control for medicine. This guarantees accountability while still maintaining speed.”

A rival student cut in, smirking. “But oversight slows the process. Your system risks a patient dying while waiting for ‘tiered approval.’ Isn’t that contradictory?”

Haechan didn’t flinch. “Not if the tiering is adaptive. Level one cases, non life threatening, require human clearance. Level two, critical, operates autonomously, but every action is mirrored to the system in real time for later audit. It’s not delay, it’s layered accountability.”

Mark stepped in smoothly. “And if your system ignores accountability, you create drones that act unchecked. That’s not medicine, it’s gambling with lives.”

The judges nodded, impressed, scribbling notes. Their eyes met briefly in the middle of it, unspoken electricity sparking between them. We’ve got this. 

The next challenge flashed:

"A sudden outbreak requires immediate redeployment of drones outside standard protocols. Adapt your system, maintaining ethics and efficiency."

A judge leaned forward. “This is where most systems fail. Show us your adaptability.”

Mark’s hand brushed Haechan’s knee under the table. “Your turn,” he whispered.

Haechan rose, breath steady. “Pandemics demand rapid adaptability. Our system has a modular protocol library, a drone is never locked into one instruction set. If the outbreak is airborne, drones switch to filtration and monitoring. If it’s viral, they switch to mass triage. But,” he looked directly at the judges “the ethical anchor remains the same, human lives over algorithmic shortcuts. The drones do not rewrite their own purpose.”

Another rival interjected, sharp, “But modular systems are vulnerable. What if the AI misclassifies an outbreak and deploys the wrong protocol?”

Mark cut in instantly, voice steady but firm. “Then our oversight tiers kick in. We’ve built redundancies. If one drone misclassifies, the second drone’s system cross verifies. No decision is left in isolation.”

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “And if the second drone fails?”

Haechan leaned forward, fire flashing in his eyes. “Then the third system triggers a manual override. Which is exactly why our layered model works. Unlike theirs…” he gestured briefly to the rival team “We don’t build systems that fail once and collapse. We build systems that survive failure.”

The audience reacted audibly this time. Mark glanced sideways at Haechan, and in that fleeting second, his hand slid over Haechan’s beneath the table, squeezing tight. Haechan’s lips twitched into a barely hidden smile before he turned back to the judges, composed. The debate raged on for another tense thirty minutes, counterarguments, ethical dilemmas, rapid rebuttals but every time one faltered, the other caught him. Mark’s voice, calm and steady, Haechan’s, fiery and cutting.

They were unstoppable.

Finally, the bell rang. The judges whispered among themselves, then the head judge stood. “The winning team by a single point. Neo University!”

The room erupted in applause. Haechan let out a disbelieving laugh, sagging into his chair and before he could stop himself, he grabbed Mark’s hand. Mark turned, his grin wide and boyish despite the tension of moments before. His thumb brushed over Haechan’s knuckles as he whispered, “See? We did it. Together.”

Haechan’s chest swelled. “Together… yeah. We did.”

“WHAT?! You two actually did it?!”

Renjun practically leapt over the table. Haechan yelped, hands instinctively flying to cover his face, cheeks flaming red. Mark chuckled, nudging him with a shoulder. Renjun’s eyes were wide as he surveyed them, then he froze midmotion. “Wait. You’re… holding hands?”

Mark didn’t answer, only let his thumb linger a second longer over Haechan’s skin, fingers lightly entwined. Haechan, mortified, shoved slightly but didn’t pull away. Renjun’s jaw dropped. “…Ohhhhhhh.” His grin spread. “You like each other. I knew it. I knew it!”

Haechan groaned, face buried in his hands. “Renjun, please—”

“But Mark,” Renjun continued, now shifting his gaze to the other side, eyes narrowing playfully, “you’re lucky. I didn’t see this coming at all. Haechan’s always been… well, sharp, yeah, but you…” He gestured between them. “Wow. You’re actually together. No snark, no rivalry, just together.”

Mark smirked, leaning back slightly, confident, just letting the moment linger. “Yeah. It took a while, but it was worth it.”

Renjun’s grin widened, practically vibrating with excitement. “And you won the competition! AND you’re wow, okay. This is… this is a lot.”

Behind Renjun, Haechan’s other friends started to appear, Chenle and Jisung, curious from the hallway. Their eyes flicked over the pair with raised brows.

“You guys have changed,” Chenle muttered.

Jisung nodded, quiet but sharp. “Yeah. Different vibe now. You don’t glare at each other like rivals anymore. Weird.”

At that moment, Jeno stepped forward from the back, clapping lightly. “Seriously, man, you crushed it out there and you look pretty happy too.” He glanced at Haechan, smirking knowingly. “Looks like someone finally got through to you.”

Jaemin lingered near the back, observing quietly. His hands were in his pockets, expression neutral. He didn’t move closer, didn’t interrupt, just watched, silent, the only one holding back.

Renjun bounced closer again, plopping onto the edge of their table. “You two better not go soft now. You can’t just win and suddenly be all cute and domestic or whatever. I will call it cheating.”

Haechan finally pulled his hands from his face, exhaling through a smile, a little exasperated. “We’re not doing anything domestic, Renjun. Calm down.”

Mark chuckled softly, leaning over, brushing a stray lock of hair from Haechan’s forehead. “Besides, it’s not like anyone can outsmart us now,” he murmured.

Renjun’s jaw practically hit the floor again. “Okay, yeah, I see it now. You’re a unit, like one brain. Dangerous.”

Haechan’s eyes met Mark’s across the table, and without words, they shared a look full of warmth, triumph, and the kind of closeness that came from not just surviving the battlefield together, but truly trusting one another. Mark leaned slightly closer, voice low. “Ready to celebrate later?”

Haechan smirked, brushing his fingers over Mark’s palm under the table, teasing but intimate. “You mean after Renjun leaves us alone?”

Renjun looked up just in time to catch the wink. “WHAT?!” He scrambled back, hands up defensively. “Okay, fine, fine! I get it! You two are hopeless! I’m leaving but don’t get too soft, alright?”

As he stormed off, muttering about “lovebirds cheating in competitions,” Haechan and Mark finally allowed themselves a private moment. Hands still entwined, knees brushing under the table, they laughed quietly together, hearts still racing from both the competition and the thrill of finally being together without pretense.

The campus grounds were bathed in soft sunlight, the warmth mingling with the heat still lingering from their adrenaline charged morning. Haechan and Mark walked slowly, hands intertwined, thumbs brushing, sometimes fingers twisting together as though they couldn’t get enough of each other’s touch. Haechan’s head occasionally nudged against Mark’s shoulder as they walked, and Mark’s arm shifted instinctively to rest along Haechan’s back, fingers occasionally brushing his ribs or the small of his waist. It was intimate but comfortable, a comfort born from weeks of chaotic, life and death stakes that had boiled down to this, being together, fully aware of what the other meant to them.

“You know,” Haechan murmured softly, his voice low enough that it almost got swallowed by the morning bustle, “I still can’t believe we actually did it. Against all those universities… against everything.”

Mark tilted his head, lips brushing the crown of Haechan’s messy hair. “I told you, baby. You and me? We’re unstoppable. Well mostly unstoppable.”

Haechan snorted, resting his forehead briefly against Mark’s chest. “Mostly unstoppable… yeah, mostly because I have to drag you along the last point or two.” He wiggled his fingers teasingly against Mark’s side.

Mark chuckled, leaning down just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the top of Haechan’s head. “You always have to keep me in check. And honestly, I don’t mind.”

They found a quiet bench tucked behind a low hedge near the fountain. The world seemed to shrink around them, no classmates, no competition noise, just the warm sunlight, the faint trickle of water, and each other. Haechan shifted closer, letting Mark wrap a protective arm around him, resting his head against Mark’s chest and he could feel Mark’s heartbeat beneath his ear, steady but strong. 

“I missed just this,” Haechan admitted, voice muffled against Mark’s suit, “just being together without everyone else watching, without worrying about… you.”

Mark tightened his hold gently, brushing his fingers up and down Haechan’s arm. “I know, me too. Every time I swing back into the city, every fight, every second, there’s always this gnawing thought that you might… you know… get caught in the middle. I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

Haechan tilted his head, eyes sparkling, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

Mark let out a dry laugh, “Because I have to. But also, because knowing you’re waiting for me makes everything else worth it.”

Haechan froze for a moment, fingers brushing Mark’s chest. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Mark’s jawline. “Absolutely ridiculous. You know that, right?”

Mark chuckled, lips brushing along the curve of Haechan’s cheek. “Yeah but you love it.”

Haechan’s blush deepened, but he didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned closer, shoulders pressing lightly against Mark, thumb tracing the line of Mark’s collarbone through the fabric. 

“I… I do,” he admitted softly, voice low and earnest.

They lingered like that, savoring the quiet intimacy, until a faint tingling prickled along the back of Mark’s neck, the subtle hum of his Spidey senses. He froze mid movement, fingers still brushing Haechan’s arm. “Something’s not right."

“Already? Can’t you just let us have five more minutes?” Haechan pouted.

Mark smiled faintly, brushing a quick kiss over Haechan’s temple. “Five minutes is dangerous, baby.” He eased back slightly, scanning the nearby rooftops. “I think it’s nothing. Probably just a cat or a very suspicious pigeon.”

Haechan snorted, rolling his eyes. “You have the worst excuses for spidey alerts.’”

Mark leaned in, brushing another soft kiss along Haechan’s jaw. “Hey, if it saves your life, I’ll blame it on pigeons all day.”

They stayed like that a while longer, quietly, intimately, sharing small kisses and lingering touches. Mark’s fingers tangled in Haechan’s hair, rubbing gently, letting his touch linger wherever Haechan wanted it.

“Promise me something?” 

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll come back from every fight,” Haechan said softly. “Even when it’s dangerous because… I don’t want to do this without you.”

Mark’s chest tightened, heart thudding painfully but warmly. He cupped Haechan’s face, thumbs brushing gently across his cheeks.

“I promise. You’re my reason. Always.”

Haechan smiled, eyes misty, and leaned in for a long, slow kiss. This one wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate, it was grounding, affirming, a declaration in every brush of lips and every lingering press. And just as the sun spilled golden light over them, the faint tingling of Spidey senses reminded Mark that the city would always need him but for this moment, right here, Haechan’s warmth, his hand, his laugh, and his soft smile was enough to anchor him.