Chapter 2 - CRACKS BEHIND THE DOORThe next morning, New York welcomed Peter with a splitting headache and the gray, unrelenting gloom of a rainy day. He lay stretched out on his narrow cot, eyes glued to the peeling paint of his ceiling.
He had called MJ eleven times. Every single one went straight to voicemail. His last text was a rambling novel of explanations, pleas, and apologies, but the only response was a cold "Read" receipt from two hours ago.
It wasn't until midday that his phone finally buzzed. A brief message from MJ:
“I’ll stop by your apartment tonight at 8:00 PM. We need to talk, Peter.”
Peter's heart skipped a beat. "We need to talk" was never a good sign. Anxiety closed in on him, making the air in his cramped Queens apartment feel suffocatingly thin. Unable to cope with the pressure, Peter threw on his suit and slipped out the window. He needed the biting wind of Manhattan to clear his head.
But distraction is a superhero’s greatest enemy.
While stopping an armed robbery by Hammerhead's gang in a narrow alley on the edge of Hell's Kitchen, Peter failed to notice a sniper stationed on a fire escape. Though his Spider-Sense flared, his preoccupied mind slowed his reflexes by a fraction of a second.
Crack!
The bullet grazed his left flank, tearing through the red-and-blue fabric and leaving a deep, jagged gash. Crimson blood instantly soaked his suit. Gritting his teeth, Peter webbed the sniper and painfully swung away.
He couldn't go to a hospital. And he certainly couldn't let MJ see him like this when she arrived at eight. Peter dragged his agonizing body through his apartment window, collapsing onto the creaking hardwood floor. Exhausted, he pulled off his rain-slicked, blood-soaked mask, gasping in pain.
"Well, look at you. Aren't you a pathetic sight, Little Spider?"
The familiar voice drifted from the shadows of his room. Peter started, trying to push himself up, but the searing pain in his side pinned him down.
From the room's lone, battered armchair, Felicia Hardy stepped into the dim light of his desk lamp. She wasn't in her usual skin-tight leather suit. Instead, she wore an oversized black hoodie (clearly stolen from Peter's closet) paired with form-fitting leather leggings. Her platinum hair was piled in a messy, lazy bun.
"Felicia? How... how did you get in here?" Peter groaned, clutching his bleeding side.
"You really need to fix your window latch. A ten-year-old could break it," Felicia said, kneeling on the floor beside him. As her eyes swept over the blood spilling from his side, her usual playful smirk vanished, replaced by genuine worry. "You got shot? Unbelievable. The hero of New York let some street thugs hurt him?"
"I can handle it. Just go..." Peter tried to push her away, but Felicia firmly caught his wrists.
"Be quiet," she commanded, her voice dropping to a rare, authoritative tone. She opened a small first-aid kit she had retrieved from his bathroom. "Sit still and let me help. Unless you want your little actress girlfriend to find you dead from blood loss?"
Felicia’s touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to her wild persona. Her fingers were warm as she cleaned the blood from his skin. At this distance, Peter could smell her familiar jasmine perfume mixed with the scent of rain.
"Why are you here, Felicia?" Peter asked, his eyes locked onto her delicate face under the dim yellow light.
"I saw you get hit from the rooftop across the street," Felicia whispered, wrapping a bandage around his torso. Her emerald eyes flicked up to meet his. "I couldn't just leave my favorite Spider to bleed out. She... she would never understand where these scars come from, would she, Peter?"
She called him "Peter"—a rarity.
"Felicia, I..."
"She loves the nerdy Peter Parker," Felicia interrupted, leaning in closer. Her warm breath fanned his face. The distance between them shrank to mere inches. "But I... I love the whole you. The man beneath the mask. The danger, the strength, and even this loneliness. We belong to the shadows of this city, Peter. Stop lying to yourself."
Peter's physical exhaustion, combined with his crushing loneliness and the guilt he had carried all day, completely shattered his emotional defenses. Felicia's words acted like a soothing balm on his raw wounds. Her green eyes gleamed like emeralds in the dark, magnetic and irresistible.
Felicia placed a soft hand on his cheek, right where her lipstick mark had been washed away the night before, and slowly leaned down.
Peter didn't pull away. He closed his eyes.
Their lips met. It was a fierce, passionate kiss, tasting of rain, iron, and the thrilling rebellion that defined Black Cat. Felicia wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, making Peter forget the agonizing sting in his side. The world outside dissolved, leaving only the burning warmth between them.
Click.
The lock on the front door turned.
It was a faint sound, but to a superhero with heightened senses, it struck like a thunderbolt.
Peter startled, shoving Felicia back. The door swung open, and Mary Jane stepped into the room, holding her purse. She was still wearing her grey trench coat, damp from the rain, her red hair slightly matted from the cold.
But MJ froze right on the threshold.
The scene before her suspended time in the cramped room: Peter Parker, shirtless and wrapped in blood-stained bandages; his Spider-Man mask discarded on the floor; and Black Cat—Felicia Hardy—sitting on his lap, her hands still resting on his shoulders, her lips red and damp.
MJ's purse slipped from her fingers, thudding onto the floorboards.
"Peter...?" MJ's voice trembled, so quiet it was barely audible. She looked at Peter, then at Felicia, who slowly stood up with a challenging, half-smirk, though her eyes remained cold.
"MJ! No... it's not what you think!" Peter panicked, scrambling to his feet. A sharp jolt from his wound made him stumble, nearly collapsing. He wanted to reach out to her, but his feet felt nailed to the floor.
"So this is how it is..." MJ took a step back, her face turning pale, her eyes filled with a devastating mix of betrayal and sorrow. She didn't scream or cry, which only terrified Peter more. "You didn't make our date... because of her. And now... right here..."
"No! She was just helping me bandage my wound!" Peter pleaded desperately, gesturing to the blood-soaked gauze.
"With a kiss?" MJ let out a bitter, hollow laugh, a single tear finally escaping and tracing down her cheek. "I tried, Peter. I really tried. I tried to accept that you have to save the world. I accepted sharing the man I love with millions of strangers. But I cannot share you with... with a thief."
"Hey, drama queen," Felicia said, crossing her arms, her tone mocking but slightly strained. "You should know your place—"
"Felicia! Shut up!" Peter roared, his voice cracking with pain and remorse.
MJ looked at Peter one last time. Her gaze held no anger, only a vast, empty hollow. She picked up her bag from the floor, turned on her heel, and walked out, leaving the door wide open to the cold draft howling down the hallway.
"MJ! Wait!"
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Peter lunged after her, but his wound ripped open, blood soaking through the fresh bandages. He collapsed right at the threshold of his apartment, helplessly watching MJ's coat disappear around the dark corner of the stairwell.
The room was left with nothing but the rhythmic patter of rain outside and the ragged, desperate breathing of a broken Spider.
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