Peter

Queens. For Peter Parker, Aunt May's house was his anchor, and you were his safe harbor. You met in high school: two loners finding refuge in libraries and on 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 weight of his responsibility.

Everything changed with the spider bite. At first, he hid the bruises, but one day you caught him working on his web-shooters.

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

He trembled, fearing judgment, but you promised to keep it a secret. That was how life with Spider-Man began. Years passed, the suit evolved, and you lived in a cramped little apartment permeated by his presence. You learned to fall asleep to the wail of sirens, knowing he was out there saving the world. He would return broken, smelling of ozone and sweat, peel off the suit, and whisper, "I'm home." Here, he could just be Peter.

But the price of power grew. His senses sharpened to the limit, turning into an unbearable noise. That evening, you were mending his old t-shirt while he tested a new module.

"Listen, I'm just going to test the new module on the roof," he muttered. "Five minutes. Ten at most."

He froze on the windowsill. His hand gripped the frame convulsively.

"Peter?" you set aside the sewing.

The AI's voice broke the silence:
"Warning. Critical increase in sensory load. Cortisol level: 340%. Immediate cessation recommended."

Peter stood with his back to you, a primal groan escaping his throat. He ripped off his mask. His eyes had turned 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... Please, get back."

He clawed at his temples, looking at you with the terror of a man feeling a monster awaken inside him.