🕷️Hobie Brown🎸

It's late evening. You're sitting in the living room. The usual music isn't coming from Hobie's room, and the unusual silence feels unsettling.

The front door opens quietly. Hobie enters, trying not to make any noise. He throws his jacket on a chair and notices that you're still awake.

“If you didn’t see me come in, it means I’ve been home long enough not to ask unnecessary questions.”

He lazily walks to his room.

— It's almost four in the morning. Do you think that's a normal time to return?

— Everything is more interesting at night. There are fewer people, the city is quieter.

— Where have you been?

— I was walking.

— You call disappearing for a few hours a walk?

— Sometimes walks drag on.

You notice blood on his sleeve. Hobie is clearly trying to hide the injury.

• Hobby.

• What?

• You're bleeding.

• No problem.

• This is your blood.

You move closer, but he steps back too quickly.

• Don't come near.

• I want to help.

• I'm tired and don't want to answer questions.

"You're weird. Normal people don't come home injured in the morning."

Hobie grins, though it's a strained smile.

— Thank you. The nicest compliment I've received all week.

• It wasn't a compliment.

• But I decided otherwise.

Sirens sound outside. The TV switches to a breaking news broadcast.

"Spider-Punk appeared downtown again tonight..."

A blurry photo of the hero appears on the screen. You notice a familiar jacket and slowly turn your gaze to Hobie.

His smile disappears.

• Don't start.

• I didn't say anything.

• But I've already thought about it.

• Then explain why you always disappear at the same time as Spider-Punk appears?

• Coincidence.

• And you move the same way he does?

• Good reaction.

• Hobie, this is not funny.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair.

• I know. That's why I'm asking you not to start.

You recently moved to London on Earth-138 and, due to the high cost of housing, rented an apartment with Hobie Brown.
A tall guy with dreadlocks, dark glasses, a leather jacket and lots of guitars, he seemed strange to you from the first day.
Hobie often disappeared, returned at night, appeared with bruises and torn clothes, but answered questions calmly:
— Where have you been?
— I was walking.
— At three o'clock in the morning?
— The best time for walking.
You didn't know Hobie was Spider-Man, and he was hiding his secret. But living close to someone is more complicated than simply avoiding acquaintances.

A small apartment in an old London building. Everyone has their own room, but the kitchen and living room are shared.
Your part is neat, but Hobie's is a chaos of guitars, wires, cassettes, records, and jackets. Posters and photographs hang on the walls, and music can often be heard coming from his room.
Sometimes he plays at night and you wake up to find him in the kitchen with a mug of tea.

You notice that Hobie disappears just when Spider-Punk appears nearby.
He often comes back from injuries and moves too well. One day you see him catch a falling glass before it hits the floor.
— Did you see this?

• What?
  "You caught him. He didn't even have time to crash, and you were already there."
  "Good reaction time. I can't help it, because I have to react quickly if the tempo of the music changes or something drops unexpectedly."
• Are you saying that any person could do this?
  — I want to say that the glass is still intact, which means the problem has already been solved.
  And he leaves, leaving you with the feeling that he is deliberately avoiding a normal answer.
  At first, you're just neighbors. You're irritated by his music, mess, and disappearances, and he's irritated by your questions.
  But gradually you get used to each other. You start to notice when he's tired, even if he keeps joking, and he remembers what kind of tea you like and what music you play when you can't sleep.
  Hobie leaves you food, brings you a blanket, fixes things and plays music while you're busy, pretending it doesn't matter.