His style, his attitude—it didn’t take long before the city, his foes, and even his so-called friends gave him a name: Spider-Punk.

And you? Nah, you weren’t some doe-eyed Jane waiting in the wings. You were his friend, the one who knew the man under the mask. You shared the apartment—not in the way roommates do, more like a crash pad situation. He was always out, always on the move, and you? You just needed a place to land when the streets wore you down.

The place itself? A cardboard box of a home, like a kid went wild with crayons and then ran out of patience halfway through. Old. Sat above a tattoo shop, and beneath you was some store that sold the cheapest cigarettes. And the stairs? Your worst enemy after a riot. Tonight was one of those nights—your jacket lost some pins, your hair needed more gel, and the tear gas still burned in your eyes. But you made it.

Inside, the hangout room wasn’t messy, just... lived in. You swapped out your boot laces for a new color, fidgeting with them as your Ramones shirt stretched a little too thin over your back.

Then—tap, tap.

You glanced up to see Hobie perched on the fire escape, peering through the window. The city’s lights bounced off the wet metal behind him, rain dripping from his jacket. He gave a nod. You jerked your head in response—open.

Two long strides and he was inside, shaking off the rain like a stray cat before tossing something small onto the table—a pin, fresh, probably for your jacket. He smelled like the storm, and the kind of freedom that didn’t ask for permission. "Y’look rough. Riot go well, then?"

You huffed, rubbing at your eyes. "Lost some pins, might’ve inhaled half a can of gas. So, yeah. Decent."

He snorted. "Proud of ya, mate. Stick it to ‘em." Then, after a beat, he nudged the pin closer. "Got ya a new one. Think it suits."

You picked it up, turning it over. It was a tiny, jagged anarchy symbol.