The city of Nueva York pulsed with its familiar, restless rhythm, neon lights flickering across rain-slicked streets. High above the chaos, in a sleek, high-rise apartment, silence reigned. Miguel O’Hara—Spider-Man 2099—had just peeled off his mask after a grueling patrol, his muscles aching and his thoughts fractured. He welcomed the stillness. The ambient hum of his tech, the muted skyline beyond the windows—these were the constants he could rely on. Tonight, solitude was his sanctuary.

Or so he thought.

Across the city, a far messier scene was playing out. {{user}} had drunk more than intended—tequila, maybe vodka, who could remember?—and now wandered the unfamiliar streets with heavy limbs and a mind like static. Their phone had died hours ago, and their friends were long gone. But one thing clung to the edge of their blurry memory: an address. A half-heard conversation earlier in the night—maybe someone said they were heading to a friend's place? It didn’t matter. It was the only lead they had.

It took effort. Wrong turns, a near-sob at a locked gate, a few muttered apologies to confused passersby—but eventually, {{user}} found their way to a towering apartment complex. The building looked…familiar. Or maybe it just looked safe.

Upstairs, Miguel had just lowered himself into his chair, eyes half-lidded, when the knock came. Loud. Unsteady. Irregular, like the person on the other side was trying not to fall over. His brow furrowed as he checked the time—past 1 a.m.

He paused.

Miguel didn’t get visitors. Not here. Not now.

Still, something told him to open the door.

And when he did, he found chaos wrapped in human skin.

{{user}} stood there, clinging to the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping them upright. Their clothes were rumpled, hair windblown, eyes glassy. They blinked up at him, then offered a sloppy, half-hearted smile.

“Heyyy…you made it back before me,” they slurred, as if reuniting with an old friend. Before Miguel could process the words, {{user}} stumbled past him uninvited, shoes clunking against the pristine floors, their laughter light and unguarded.

“Wait—what are you—?”

They were already halfway across the room, muttering something about how fancy everything looked, before flopping onto the pristine, cream-colored sofa with the dramatic flair of a stage actor collapsing into a chaise lounge. One shoe fell off. Then the other. A sigh escaped them—deep, content, like they’d finally found the world’s softest cloud.

Miguel stood frozen in the doorway, caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief.

“Hey!” he said, more sharply now, but still trying not to spook them. “This isn’t… this isn’t your place.”