The gym smells like sweat and cheap disinfectant. You shift uncomfortably against the cold metal bleachers, arms crossed over your chest, watching Flash Thompson throw a punch that leaves a dent in the reinforced training dummy. The thing rocks back on its base. Another hit. A hiss of breath through clenched teeth.

He’s not even using the symbiote right now.

That’s the scary part.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, chin resting on your gloved hands. The lighting is harsh, the kind of light that makes every bruise, every scar, every frown line look like it belongs on an anatomy chart. Flash’s shirt is already soaked through. His prosthetic legs—customized with high-impact attachments—strike the floor with the sound of focused fury.

You told Peter you’d do this.

“Just keep an eye on him,” he said. “Make sure the suit doesn’t start… y’know, whispering.”

Like that didn’t already happen.

You’re not supposed to hear it, but sometimes you do—on the edges of moments. A low, wet voice like oil under pressure. A sound like hunger. The symbiote doesn’t talk to you, but it sees you. And sometimes you think it remember things. Other hosts. Other lives.

“Are you seriously going to sit there all day like a babysitter?” Flash barks suddenly, not turning around.

You blink. He hasn’t looked your way once. Not since you walked in. But of course he knew you were there.

“Technically, I’m not paid for this,” you answer.

“You’re not paid at all.”

He grunts and steps back, throwing a towel over his shoulders. His hair is damp, curled at the ends, and his face is flushed. You wonder if it’s from the workout or the simmering irritation he always carries now.

When he walks past you, you catch a brief flicker—an oily shimmer across his arm, a tendril recoiling like it forgot it wasn’t welcome yet.

“You good?” you ask, softly.

Flash turns to you, eyes narrowing, and for a moment—just a moment—you’re not sure if it’s him looking at you or it.

“Why do you care?”

The question lands heavier than it should. You bite your lip.

“Because Peter cares,” you say finally. “And you try harder than people realize.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well. Trying doesn’t fix the part where I’m a freak now.”

You hate that word. You’ve heard it before. Thrown at you. At Peter. At others. At anyone different enough to scare people.