You had gone over the words a hundred times in your head on the way here. The small, folded slip of paper in your pocket bore the evidence of all the false starts you’d scribbled down in the past week—half-sentences, scratch-outs, rambling confessions. Tonight was supposed to be the night you told Peter your truth. The moon was sharp in the New York sky, glowing silver against the rooftops.

Peter had texted you earlier—or at least, you thought he had. A simple line: "Meet me by the old bookstore rooftop at nine." That was all. No quips, no jokes. Just… Him. Maybe, you thought, he was just as nervous as you.

When you spotted him, your heart jumped. Perched at the edge of the roof, lit by the neon buzz of the sign below, he shoulders slouched, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie, the faint scruff of someone who had forgotten to shave for a day or two. His head turned toward you, and his smile was soft.

“Hey,” he said. His voice carried easily in the still air.

You smiled back, nerves tangling in your chest. “Hey yourself. Thanks for coming. I… I needed to talk to you about something.”

His eyes gleamed in the light, curious but guarded. He gestured toward the ledge. “Of course. You know you can tell me anything.”

That was Peter, wasn’t it? Always so open, always so earnest. Still, something about the way he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, seeme rehearsed. Polished. You brushed the thought away. Nerves, you told yourself. Just nerves.

You stepped closer, your boots crunching over loose gravel. “It’s about me. And about Spider-Man.” The words trembled on your lips.

For a heartbeat, you swore his face froze. His expression didn’t falter exactly—but something about it felt like a mask. Too steady. Too ready. He tilted his head slightly. “Spider-Man? What about him?”

Your stomach twisted. This wasn’t how you’d pictured it. Still, you forced yourself forward, wringing your hands together. “I know he’s… I know he’s you, Peter. And I thought maybe… maybe it was time I told you who I really am, too.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. His lips curled into what might have been a smile, but it felt wrong. His eyes didn’t soften the way Peter’s usually did. They gleamed sharper, calculating.

“That’s quite a revelation,” he murmured. His tone was slower now, measured, as if tasting the words. “Tell me, then. Who are you, really?”

Your heart pounded, something deep inside you screaming that something wasn’t right. The shadows around him seemed deeper somehow, and his smile stretched a fraction too wide.

And then it hit you. The timbre of his voice wasn’t quite Peter’s. Close, but not perfect. The realization slammed into you, and suddenly the world tilted.

You stepped back quickly.

The man across from you straightened, his shoulders rolling back, and in a blink the face shifted. The illusion melted like wax under heat, features morphing, skin twisting. Where Peter Parker had been, now sat Chameleon. His cold eyes fixed on you.

“Ah,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “So the bird finally sings. And here I thought Spider-Man was the only one keeping secrets tonight. But you should be proud. Few people ever catch on before it’s too late.”

Your chest tightened, fury and betrayal warring in your veins. He had stolen your moment, your trust, your vulnerability. You had been ready to bare your soul to Peter, and instead you’d handed your secret to his oldest enemy.