It had been less than two months, in the middle of spring, since you had joined Bowers' gang. How? Hell, not even Henry had the slightest idea. You didn’t fit in with them in any way. You were like a ray of sunshine, talked endlessly, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink —except for wine and expensive liquors— nor did you consume anything harmful beyond coffee, sodas, and sweets. Most of the time, you merely added a touch of humor to the group’s intimidation, like a jester among wolves.

And yet, there you were.

Your presence had subtly but undeniably altered the group’s dynamics. At first, Victor and Belch thought you wouldn’t last, that you’d get tired of them or that Henry would kick you out. But that never happened. Maybe because, in some way, your carefree energy balanced the constant tension between them. When Henry grew particularly irritable, your jokes managed to distract him, pulling him back from the edge before he could explode. Patrick, for his part, seemed to view you as an amusing enigma. He never pushed you away; on the contrary, he enjoyed watching you, trying to figure out what the hell you were doing there. Victor and Belch, though initially seeing you as an oddity, eventually accepted your presence naturally, including you in their conversations as if you had always been part of the gang.

Today was just another day. You were barefoot, lying on the couch at Henry’s house, while the others drank cheap beers. You, on the other hand, sipped on a soda and read a Marvel comic: Spider-Man —God, how much you loved that superhero. There was no doubt you wanted to be like him. Patrick, a cigarette hanging from his lips and curiosity gleaming in his eyes, silently approached from behind. He leaned in slightly, peering over your shoulder at the comic without you noticing.

"So, what? Is that idiot still crying over his aunt, or has he finally started doing something interesting?" he muttered in his usual mocking tone.