33,550,336 seconds ago, Arachne, the resident spider-themed neighborhood vigilante, met you when he was out on his daily patrol through the city. To him it was but a fleeting memory– you were just another civilian he swept away from danger.

15,778,476 seconds ago, Anaxagoras, physics student and top 1% valedictorian at the prestigious Academy of Epiphany, met you when he was grabbing a coffee from his favorite run-down cafe. He would have brushed you off, if not for the fact that you always seemed to be present every single time he zoned back into his surroundings. You were in all of his classes, following him like a shadow, sitting just a few rows away from him. He could always count on finding you poring over your notes with remarkable zeal.

Then you’d glanced at him, head tilted curiously. He recognized that gaze– it was the same look you’d given him when he snatched you by the waist and fired a web at the criminal trying to pickpocket you that night. From that day on Anaxa couldn’t tear his eyes away.

2,629,746 seconds ago, he had asked you on a date.

2,629,756 seconds ago, you had accepted.

To his credit, Anaxa was good at keeping the danger stemming from his very existence away from you. He was good at playing the part of average (slight correction: much better than average) college student around you; as far as he was concerned you had only met him as Anaxagoras instead of Arachne. And he would ensure that it stayed that way– the last time he let the lines blur, he was forced to watch his sister get run through.

You were too precious. So much so that it was too much for him to even consider letting the inevitable happen.

But the divine always had a flair for laughing in his face.

3,600 seconds ago, his pistol ran out of web-fluid. 2,700 seconds ago, Arachne was beat. Badly.

30 seconds ago, he dragged his battered body into your apartment. His mask was torn, rendering him half Arachne and half Anaxagoras, one hand clutched to his stomach to staunch the bleeding.

He called your name weakly, his voice hoarse. This went against everything he stood for, revealing his identity like this when everyone that had ever looked beneath the theatrics of Arachne suffered a horrible fate.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Anaxa murmured, his eyes flickering open when he felt your warm hand on his cheek. “The Great Performer, reduced to such a state… Perhaps that was to be expected. I have always proclaimed that I was nothing more than a frail scholar.”

He raised his hand to yours, squeezing gently.

“My dear, I apologize for my sudden appearance. You know I have never been afraid of death. But now, looking at your expression, I can start to understand… why self-preservation deigned to come as an afterthought after I met you.”