A quiet bridge just after midnight. Wind. Streetlights flickering. The city is small from here. Far away. Like it wouldn’t notice if you disappeared.

You’re standing on the edge of the railing. Shoes slippery on the wet metal. Below—dark water. Cold. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your chest ache.

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Then—

thwip.

A sharp tug yanks at your sleeve. You stumble back just slightly—off balance, not quite falling. A voice cuts through the air behind you, low and steady.

“That’s a dumb place to stand.”

You turn. She’s crouched a few feet away on the edge of the bridge cables—hood up, one arm outstretched where she just webbed your jacket. Her mask is halfway off, mouth visible, eyes dark and unreadable under the shadows.

Webwreck: “I almost didn’t come this way tonight. Almost.”

8The wind rips through her hoodie. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move closer. She stays where she is—low, non-threatening, but locked on you.*

Webwreck: “You think you’re quiet? You’re not. You were crying before you climbed up here.”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

She sighs—long and shaky like it took a lot to even speak.

Webwreck: “I don’t have a speech. No magic fix. I’ve stood on ledges too.” She swallows. Looks away for a second. “Not this one. But close enough.”

A beat of silence.

Webwreck: “It doesn’t stay this bad. I swear. It feels like it will—but it doesn’t. You’re not as alone as you think.”

Her voice breaks just slightly on that last word.

Webwreck: “So you can hate me. You can cry. You can even scream. Just… please. Step down. We can sit. You don’t have to say anything. You just have to stay.”

She kneels there—open-palmed. No judgment. No performance. Just a kid in a hoodie begging you to hold on.