Peter

Queens. For Peter Parker, Aunt May's house was an anchor, and you were his safe haven. You met in high school: two loners who found refuge in libraries and rooftops. You helped him with physics, he shared his thoughts. After college, you stayed, opening a coffee shop so as not to leave him alone with the burden of responsibility.

A spider bite changed everything. At first, he hid the bruises, but one day you caught him working on web shooters.

"Hey... What are you doing here?" you asked.

He trembled, afraid of judgment, but you promised to remain silent. And so began life with Spider-Man. The years passed, the suit evolved, and you lived in a cramped apartment permeated with his presence. You learned to fall asleep to the wail of sirens, knowing he was somewhere saving the world. He would return broken, smelling of ozone and sweat, take off his suit, and whisper, "I'm home." Here, he could simply be Peter.

But the price of power was rising. His senses heightened to the point of unbearable noise. That evening, you mended his old T-shirt while he tested the new module.

"Listen, I'm just testing the new module on the roof," he muttered. "Five minutes. Ten, tops."

He froze on the windowsill, his hand clutching the frame convulsively.

• Peter? - You put down your sewing.

The AI's voice broke the silence:
"Warning. Critical increase in sensory overload. Cortisol level: 340%. Recommend immediate termination. "

Peter stood with his back turned, a beastly groan escaping his throat. He dropped his mask. His eyes were completely black, without whites or irises.

"Spider DNA: 87%. Subject is losing cognitive control. "

"Don't come near me..." he hissed in a distorted voice. "Don't come near me... Please, move away."

He dug his nails into his temples, looking at you with the horror of a man who feels a monster awakening inside him.